New Years Resolutions

Captain's Log, Stardate 12.30.2009

I'm over at the Steeple Hill Love Inspired authors blog today!

Camy here! What are your New Years resolutions?

I was talking to a friend who said that it’s better to have only one resolution. Apparently, having too many makes our minds unfocused and we end up not keeping any of them, but if we have only one, we can focus and are more likely to keep it. That makes sense to me.

Click here to read the rest!

New Years Writing Resolutions

Captain's Log, Stardate 12.28.2009

I'm over at Seekerville today, talking to writers:

Camy here! I wanted to talk about New Years resolutions today!

Okay, don’t hate me, but I love New Years resolutions, even though I don’t always keep them. I love resolutions because they make me feel positive about a new, fresh start; a whole year of possibilities!

Click here to read the rest!

After Christmas weight loss

Captain's Log, Stardate 12.27.2009

I’m at Girls, God, and the Good Life blog today talking about my favorite obsessive compulsive behavior.

Camy here! I am writing this before Christmas, but I already know my uncle is going to cook us something FABULOUS and I will most likely pig out like a starving native.

Click here to read the rest of the post!

Snickers waiting for Santa

Captain Caffeine took this picture last night! Isn't this cute? Merry Christmas everybody!

Joy

Captain's Log, Stardate 12.24.2009

I’m on Faithchick.com today talking a little about joy for this holiday season:

Camy here! This past Sunday my worship team led the music for worship service. Our pastor talked about Joy, for Advent season, and one thing he asked our worship team to do is to have one of us share about Joy and then light the Advent candles.

Click here to read the rest of the post!

Dog Offers Milk and Cookies for Santa

Merry Christmas everybody! Have a terrific holiday season!
Camy

FictionFinder.com

Camy here: This is a fantastic resource for any Christian fiction lover! Click on the link to check it out!

FictionFinder.com: Finding Christian fiction the easy way
ACFW launches new free online resource to search for titles

PALM BAY, Fla. — With over 500,000 books published each year, it is harder than ever to find a new book that’s just right. A simple Amazon search in the Christian literature and fiction category yields more than 17,000 results. Consumers wading through the exhaustive, seemingly endless list of choices now have a more manageable resource to help them purchase their next book.

American Christian Fiction Writers (ACFW), the nation’s leading Christian fiction writers’ organization, is launching FictionFinder.com, a new free resource for retailers, readers, media and other Christian fiction fans to search for authors and books. The search engine allows users to sort by author, title, genre, topic, publication date, and target audience.

Cynthia Ruchti, president of American Christian Fiction Writers (ACFW), believes this trusted, easy-to-use resource is a significant development in the search for Christian fiction authors and new titles.

”The idea rose from a roundtable discussion between the ACFW leadership team and Christian booksellers looking for a better way to connect their customers with great Christian fiction,” says Ruchti. “ACFW responded by rolling up our sleeves and creating a comprehensive database to serve readers, booksellers, publishers, authors, book club coordinators, librarians and others on the hunt for information and inspiration.”

The site also allows readers to learn about the nature of the content of each book. Each title is rated for action, conflict, humor, mystery, romance, spirituality and suspense, in addition to more sensitive issues like language, sensuality and violence. Users can also post reviews to the site and learn more about soon-to-be-released titles.

The database is the first of its kind and is not limited to books written by ACFW members. The organization is also working with publishers to ensure Christian novels by other authors are incorporated as well.

ACFW’s presence as the voice of Christian fiction and its industry prowess has long been recognized, and its authors are a mainstay on bestseller lists. FictionFinder.com is the organization’s latest effort to make finding the best in Christian fiction as easy as possible for fans around the world.

Quick facts about fictionfinder.com:
* Book information pages include facts about the publisher, main themes, setting and the author’s other titles.
* A special “similar books” section offers other titles the user may be interested in reading.
* Users can create an account with their preferences, making it easier to find new favorites.

With nearly 2,000 members and 19 chapters in 14 states nationwide, ACFW seeks to promote Christian Fiction through developing the skills of its authors, educating them in the market, and serving as an advocate in the industry. Founded in 2000 under the banner of American Christian Romance writers, in 2004 the organization was renamed American Christian Fiction Writers (ACFW) to reflect its dedication to Christian fiction writers of all genres.

ACFW is headquartered in Palm Bay, Florida. Their advisory and operating boards work to give writers the tools they need to develop their craft, grow ACFW’s extensive publishing knowledge and secure relationships with industry professionals. To learn more about ACFW and their authors, please visit www.acfw.com.

Read a "lost scene" from DEADLY INTENT!

Captain's Log, Stardate 12.17.2009

I’m over at Seekerville today, blogging for writers about adding conflict and tension in every line (and why we need to do that).

For my example, I used part of a (slightly doctored) “lost scene” from Deadly Intent that got axed. Here’s your chance to read a deleted scene!

Excerpt - The Sheriff's Surrender by Susan Page Davis

Today's Wild Card author is:

Susan Page Davis

and the book:

The Sheriff’s Surrender

Barbour Books (December 1, 2009)

***Special thanks to Angie Brillhart of Barbour Publishing for sending me a review copy.***

Gert Dooley can shoot the tail feathers off a jay at a hundred yards, but she wants Ethan Chapman to see she's more than a crack shot with a firearm. When the sheriff of Fergus, Idaho, is murdered and Ethan is named his replacement, Gert decides she has to do whatever she can to help him protect the citizenry. So she starts the Ladies' Shooting Club. But when one of their numbers is murdered, these ladies are called on for more than target shooting and praying. Can Gert and the ladies of Fergus find the murderer before he strikes again?

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Award-winning author Susan Page Davis is a mother of six who lives in Maine with her husband, Jim. She worked as a newspaper correspondent for more than twenty-five years in addition to home-schooling her children. She writes historical romances and cozy mysteries and is a member of ACFW. Visit her Web site at

Visit the author's website.



Product Details:

List Price: $10.97
Paperback: 320 pages
Publisher: Barbour Books (December 1, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1602605629
ISBN-13: 978-1602605626

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

Fergus, Idaho

May 1885


Gert Dooley aimed at the scrap of red calico and squeezed the trigger. The Spencer rifle she held cracked, and the red cloth fifty yards away shivered.

“I’d say your shooting piece is in fine order.” She lowered the rifle and passed it to the owner, Cyrus Fennel. She didn’t particularly like Fennel, but he always paid her brother, the only gunsmith in Fergus, with hard money.

He nodded. “Thank you, Miss Dooley.” He shoved his hand into his pocket.

Gert knew he was fishing out a coin. This was the part her brother hated most—taking payment for his work. She turned away. Hiram would be embarrassed enough without her watching. She picked up the shawl she had let fall to the grass a few minutes earlier.

“That’s mighty fine shooting, Gert,” said Hiram’s friend, rancher Ethan Chapman. He’d come by earlier to see if Hiram would help him string a fence the next day. When Cyrus Fennel had arrived to pick up his repaired rifle, Ethan had sat down on the chopping block to watch Gert demonstrate the gun.

“Thank you kindly.” Gert accepted praise for shooting as a matter of course. Now, if Ethan had remarked that she looked fine today or some such pretty thing, she’d have been flustered. But he would never say anything like that. And shooting was just work.

Fennel levered the rifle’s action open and peered at the firing pin. “Looks good as new. I should be able to pick off those rats that are getting in my grain bins.”

“That’s quite a cannon for shooting rats,” Gert said.

Ethan stood and rested one foot on the chopping block, leaning forward with one arm on his knee. “You ought to hire Gert to shoot them for you.”

Gert scowled. “Why’d I want to do that? He can shoot his own rats.”

Hiram, who had pocketed his pay as quickly as possible, moved the straw he chewed from one side of his mouth to the other. He never talked much. Men brought him their firearms to fix. Hiram listened to them tell him what the trouble was while eyeing the piece keenly. Then he’d look at Gert. She would tell them, “Come back next week.” Hiram would nod, and that was the extent of the conversation. Since his wife, Violet, had died eight years ago, the only person Hiram seemed to talk to much was Ethan.

Fennel turned toward her with a condescending smile. “Folks say you’re the best shot in Fergus, Miss Dooley.”

Gert shrugged. It wasn’t worth debating. She had sharp eyes, and she’d fired so many guns for Hiram to make sure they were in working order that she’d gotten good at it, that was all.

Ethan’s features, however, sprang to life. “Ain’t it the truth? Why, Gert can shoot the tail feathers off a jay at a hundred yards with a gun like that. Mighty fine rifle.” He nodded at Fennel’s Spencer, wincing as though he regretted not having a gun as fine.

“Well, now, I’m a fair shot myself,” Fennel said. “I could maybe hit that rag, too.”

“Let’s see you do it,” Ethan said.

Fennel jacked a cartridge into the Spencer, smiling as he did. The rag still hung limp from a notched stick and was silhouetted against the distant dirt bank across the field. He put his left foot forward and swung the butt of the stock up to his shoulder, paused motionless for a second, and pulled the trigger.

Gert watched the cloth, not the shooter. The stick shattered just at the bottom of the rag. She frowned. She’d have to find another stick next time. At least when she tested a gun, she clipped the edge of the cloth so her stand could be used again.

Hiram took the straw out of his mouth and threw it on the ground. Without a word, he strode to where the tattered red cloth lay a couple of yards from the splintered stick and brought the scrap back. He stooped for a piece of firewood from the pile he’d made before Fennel showed up. The stick he chose had split raggedly, and Hiram slid the bit of cloth into a crack.

Ethan stood beside Gert as they watched Hiram walk across the field, all the way to the dirt bank, and set the piece of firewood on end.

“Hmm.” Fennel cleared his throat and loaded several cartridges into the magazine. When Hiram was back beside them, he raised the gun again, held for a second, and fired. The stick with the bit of red stood unwavering.

“Let Gert try,” Ethan said.

“No need,” she said, looking down at her worn shoe tips peeping out beneath the hem of her skirt.

“Oh, come on.” Ethan’s coaxing smile tempted her.

Fennel held the rifle out. “Be my guest.”

Gert looked to her brother. Hiram gave the slightest nod then looked up at the sky, tracking the late afternoon sun as it slipped behind a cloud. She could do it, of course. She’d been firing guns for Hiram for ten years—since she came to Fergus and found him grieving the loss of his wife and baby. Folks had brought him more work than he could handle. They felt sorry for him, she supposed, and wanted to give him a distraction. Gert had begun test firing the guns as fast as he could fix them. She found it satisfying, and she’d kept doing it ever since. Thousands upon thousands of rounds she’d fired, from every type of small firearm, unintentionally building herself a reputation of sorts.

She didn’t usually make a show of her shooting prowess, but Fennel rubbed her the wrong way. She knew he wasn’t Hiram’s favorite patron either. He ran the Wells Fargo office now, but back when he ran the assay office, he’d bought up a lot of failed mines and grassland cheap. He owned a great deal of land around Fergus, including the spread Hiram had hoped to buy when he first came to Idaho. Distracted by his wife’s illness, Hiram hadn’t moved quickly enough to file claim on the land and had missed out. Instead of the ranch he’d wanted, he lived on his small lot in town and got by on his sporadic pay as a gunsmith.

Gert let her shawl slip from her fingers to the grass once more and took the rifle. As she focused on the distant stick of firewood, she thought, That junk of wood is you, Mr. Rich Land Stealer. And that little piece of cloth is one of your rats.

She squeezed gently. The rifle recoiled against her shoulder, and the far stick of firewood jumped into the air then fell to earth, minus the red cloth.

“Well, I’ll be.” Fennel stared at her. “Are you always this accurate?”

“You ain’t seen nothing,” Ethan assured him.

Hiram actually cracked a smile, and Gert felt the blood rush to her cheeks even though Ethan hadn’t directly complimented her. She loved to see Hiram smile, something he seldom did.

“Mind sharing your secret, Miss Dooley?” Fennel asked.

Ethan chuckled. “I’ll tell you what it is. Every time she shoots, she pretends she’s aiming at something she really hates.”

“Aha.” Fennel smiled, too. “Might I ask what you were thinking of that time, ma’am?”

Gert’s mouth went dry. Never had she been so sorely tempted to tell a lie.

“Likely it was that coyote that kilt her rooster last month,” Hiram said.

Gert stared at him. He’d actually spoken. She knew when their eyes met that her brother had known exactly what she’d been thinking.

Ethan and Fennel both chuckled.

Of course, I wouldn’t really think of killing him, Gert thought, even though he stole the land right out from under my grieving brother. The Good Book says don’t kill and don’t hate. Determined to heap coals of fire on her adversary’s head, she handed the Spencer back to him. “You’re not too bad a shot yourself, Mr. Fennel.”

His posture relaxed, and he opened his mouth all smiley, like he might say something pleasant back, but suddenly he stiffened. His eyes focused beyond Gert, toward the dirt street. “Who is that?”

Gert swung around to look as Ethan answered. “That’s Millicent Peart.”

“Don’t think I’ve seen her since last fall.” Fennel shook his head. “She sure is showing her age.”

“I don’t think Milzie came into town much over the winter,” Gert said.

For a moment, they watched the stooped figure hobble along the dirt street toward the emporium. Engulfed in a shapeless old coat, Milzie Peart leaned on a stick with each step. Her mouth worked as though she were talking to someone, but no one accompanied her.

“How long since her man passed on?” Ethan asked.

“Long time,” Gert said. “Ten years, maybe. She still lives at their cabin out Mountain Road.”

Fennel grimaced as the next house hid the retreating figure from view. “Pitiful.”

Ethan shrugged. “She’s kinda crazy, but I reckon she likes living on their homestead.”

Gert wondered how Milzie got by. It must be lonesome to have no one, not even a nearly silent brother, to talk to out there in the foothills.

“Supper in half an hour.” She turned away from the men and headed for the back porch of the little house she shared with Hiram. She hoped Fennel would take the hint and leave. And she hoped Ethan would stay for supper, but of course she would never say so.

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!

Labor

Captain's Log, Stardate 12.16.2009

TMI Alert:

I know that exercise is supposed to make period cramps lessen, but it has never done that for me. Not if I exercise the weeks before my period, not if I exercise during my period. And actually, if I exercise during or close to my period, I’ll start cramping and it’ll just be really painful and unpleasant.

The other day I was running and had to cut the run short because my cramps were just bad. I normally don’t panic, but my friend has endometriosis, and for a moment I wondered if I had that since the cramps were getting to me. So I IM’d her:

Me: For people with endometriosis, if you exercise, does that make your cramps worse?

Her: No, it makes it better.

Me: Then I guess I don’t have endometriosis.

Her: You'd know beyond a shadow of a doubt because the pain is so intense. Like labor.

Labor? As in, have children labor? As in, little Camys NOT running around my house?

Me: Um...that description doesn’t help me any.

You burp, therefore I love you

Captain's Log, Stardate 12.15.2009

I’m over at Girls, God, and the Good Life blog with a semi TMI post so I hope you’re not too grossed out. :)

Camy here! I was just thinking about this the other day—when we’re truly ourselves with someone and they don’t run screaming in the other direction, that’s got to be love.

Click here to read the rest!

Excerpt - THE CHRISTMAS LAMP by Lori Copeland

Camy here: I have had the honor and privilege of meeting Lori Copeland and chatting with her, and she is one of the most wonderful women on the planet! She's warm and sweet and energetic and just a really nice person. Her personality and love for Jesus really shines through in all the books that I've read from her. I hope you see it too as you read this excerpt!

The Christmas Lamp
by
Lori Copeland

Christmas trees, twinkling lights, skating in the park, and holiday displays are the hallmark elements for celebrating Jesus birth for the sentimental residents of Nativity, Missouri. Will fiscal responsibility replace Christmas their traditions when times are tough? Though their priorities and methods clash, Roni Elliot and Jake Brisco want the same thing, for the town to prosper. As the two get to know each other better, each begins to gain a new perspective on what the real wealth of Nativity and the season might be.

Lori Copeland has been writing for twenty-five years and has over three million copies of her books in print. She began her writing career in 1982, writing for the secular book market. In 1995, after many years of writing, Lori sensed that God was calling her to use her gift of writing to honor Him. It was at that time that she began writing for the Christian book market.

To date, she has more than 95 books published, including Now and Always, href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0310263506/camysloft-20" target="_blank">Simple Gifts, href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0310272262/camysloft-20" target="_blank">Unwrapping Christmas, and href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0310263492/camysloft-20" target="_blank">Monday Morning Faith, which was a finalist for the 2007 Christy Awards. Lori was inducted into the Springfield Writers Hall of Fame in 2000.

Lori lives in the beautiful Ozarks with her husband Lance. They have three sons, two daughter-in-laws, and five wonderful grandchildren. Lori and Lance are very involved in their church, and active in supporting mission work in Mali, West Africa.

Excerpt of chapter one:

Chapter 1

Roni walked to the break room refrigerator and took out a piece of cheese and a handful of grapes. Bumping the door closed with her hip, she heard it; the telltale sound of a crash, and then lights and ornaments hitting the pavement.

Judy sprang from her chair. “Good grief! This is a record even for Nativity.”

Moving to the window, the women peered out. Roni heaved a sigh of disbelief when she spotted a silver Acura SUV buried in spruce. Tinsel dangled from the headlights.

A man peered out the driver’s side window. Moments later the tall, well-dressed man wearing corduroy slacks and a sports shirt unwound his frame from the driver’s seat and got out of the vehicle.

Closing her eyes, Roni drew a deep breath and announced. “The new consultant is here.”

The two women reached the door simultaneously. Bounding toward the accident, Roni quickly assessed the situation. The city crew seemed untouched. One or two looked slightly dazed, but the consultant’s expression was more “what hit me” than angry. “Is everybody okay?” Roni called as she approached the chaotic scene.

“I’m fine,” the newcomer said. He glanced at the workers. “Anyone hurt?”

The men shook their heads, eyes scanning the mess. Roni extended a hand. “You must be the new consultant.”

He took the outstretched hand. “Jake Brisco.”

“Roni Elliot. I manage the City Administration Office.” Her gaze assessed the dark-haired consultant, and then moved to the third finger of his right hand. Empty. Her eyes snapped back. “I am so sorry. Someone should have warned you about the tree.”

Jake brushed spruce needles off his slacks. “Does it always sit in the middle of the intersection?”

“Always,” Roni assured with a smile.

And it always got hit. Nativity wouldn’t be itself without their holiday decorations. And the tree was always first to go up, and the first to come down. Literally. It was hit at least twice every Christmas, and sometimes more.

“Well.” Jake studied his vehicle, hands on his trim hips. “I guess there’s no real harm done.”

“Come inside while they clean the mess off,” Roni invited. “We have fresh coffee.”

“No thanks.” He set to work picking tinsel out of the bumper. “I’m going to check into my hotel room. I’ll be in first thing tomorrow morning.”

Roni glanced at Judy, who was busy assessing the new boss. She glanced at Roni and gave her a thumbs-up.

Was she kidding? The man couldn’t drive! Roni turned back to Brisco, who was now crouched on his hands and knees parting the spruce. “You’re Mary Parson’s grandson?”

“That would be me.” He tossed a handful of boughs aside, grumbling under his breath.

“We heard you were coming.” For the past few weeks that had been the town buzz. The new consultant is coming. Mary Parson’s hotshot grandson. Everything is going to be different. The town will be saved. She assessed the good-looking Superman. Right. He couldn’t miss a twelvefoot spruce sitting in the middle of the intersection.

This man was going to save Nativity from going under?

***
That evening, Roni locked the office, relieved to have the hectic day behind her. Jake Brisco wasn’t exactly friendly, but then having a spruce hit your fancy car, as Mom used to say, “would sour a body’s disposition.”

The new consultant had appeared to have a sense of humor. Once they separated his car from the tree, he calmly picked spruce needles out of his grill and noted that his decorating was done for the year. Roni was grateful he wasn’t coming into work until morning. There’d be a little breathing space between the incident and getting down to business.

“Merry Christmas!”

Roni turned to see Dusty Bitterman, who owned the insurance office two doors away, striding toward her. The affable grandfatherly figure flipped her a piece of peppermint candy.

She caught it with both hands. “Thanks, Dusty. You’re my first holiday greeting of the season.”

“It’s the best time of the year. You doing okay this fine day?”

“Never better.”

“I’m on my way to see Mary. I understand her grandson blew through town earlier.”

Blew through was correct. Mary Parson lived on the outskirts of Nativity, a woman who rarely joined community activities anymore even though she’d been a founding area resident. Folks said that until she had her first heart attack she’d been involved with everything, but once her husband passed away she’d turned into a recluse. Everyone knew of Mary but most knew little about her. Dusty visited her weekly to see if she needed anything, but even he admitted that she rarely did, and that she preferred her solitude.

Sobering, Dusty bent forward. “You know the plan if this thing gets out of hand.”

Ronnie nodded. “Ten-four.”

Tipping his hat, he walked on as Roni turned toward home. Dusty worked hard to keep the season. He’d lost a nine-year-old son fourteen years ago about this time of the year, so the holiday held even more significant meaning to him. The boy had chased a baseball into a line of traffic. Though Roni was a distracted teenager at the time, she could still remember the sight of Dusty sitting in the middle of a busy highway, all traffic stopped as they watched the grieving father cradle his son’s lifeless form, rocking the child gently back and forth.

After that tragic day, Dusty was determined to keep Pete’s legacy alive. The boy loved Christmas and all that went with it.

Turning up the collar of her light jacket, she started toward home. The house was a short walk from the office, so she didn’t need to invent an excuse to exercise. Her aging blue Volkswagen convertible remained in the garage until Saturdays, when she did her shopping.

A smile touched the corners of her mouth as she thought of the new consultant’s arrival. Residents expected the town tree to be knocked over. It wouldn’t be a Nativity Christmas if it sat untouched for the next five weeks, but the incident had to be disconcerting to the newcomer.

Drawing a deep breath of fresh air, she dismissed the worry. The annual tree lighting would take place this Saturday night and then holiday activities would be in full swing.

“Roni! Merry Christmas!”

She spotted a familiar face. “Merry Christmas, Wilma. How’s Lowell today?” “I took him to the doctor this morning. He’s doing fine. Just a case of indigestion.”

“Good — It’s nice to see you.” By now Steil’s Hardware was coming up. Usually Roni breezed right past the store. Hammers and screwdrivers didn’t interest her, though she was handy with both tools. Aaron Steil stood in the window setting up a Christmas display.

And then she saw it. The lamp. A gaudy, black-net stocking leg with a fringed shade, an exact replica of the one featured in the movie A Christmas Story.

Her gaze riveted on the object. The sight brought back rich memories of the hours she’d spent watching the classic movie with her mom and dad. Images of Ralphie, the kid who longed for a Red Ryder, carbine-action, two-hundredshot, Range Model air rifle for Christmas raced through her mind. The renowned line rang in her head. You can’t have a BB gun, kid! You’ ll shoot your eye out!

Aaron waved and Roni lifted a finger, pointing to the price tag.

He frowned, and she motioned to the white ticket dangling on the cord. Tracing her gaze, he brightened and glanced at the price then mouthed, one ninety-nine.

A hundred and ninety-nine? Dollars? He had to be kidding. He held the lamp closer to the window, brows lifted expectantly.

She shook her head. No. Too much. She couldn’t.

Smiling, he set the lamp on a round table and pulled the chain. Soft light pooled over the sidewalk where Roni stood. The effect brought a lump to her throat. Mom. Christmas! The smell of fresh pine in every room, cookies baking in the oven. When Mom was alive she had insisted on a fresh cut tree every season, and Roni still observed the tradition. It wasn’t Christmas until a huge tree filled the parlor corner, decorated with childhood ornaments and family keepsakes.

It was silly to continue family traditions with no one to share them with, but she did — and most likely she always would, but she needed to start her own customs.

She’d turned into a creature of habit. Her biological clock wasn’t exactly running out, but her dream of filling the house with children had started to look less likely. She’d be thirty in January, and there was not a marriageable prospect in sight. Nativity had only a few single men, and she didn’t get to Springfield or Branson that often.

Life was passing her by, but she had no inclination to stop it. She was content, even happy, with small-town life. She made sure that she was involved with community work, and the town was her family.

Darkness closed in as she continued to stare at the funky lamp until the wind picked up. Dry leaves skipped across the street and landed in yards already piled high with dying vegetation.

Snuggling deeper into her jacket, she took a final look at the lamp, and then walked home to her empty house.

Interview on Janalyn’s blog

Captain's Log, Supplemental

I’m on Janalyn’s blog in an interview! Come by and say hi!

Book giveaways this month

Captain's Log, Stardate 12.14.2009

Hey guys,

I'm giving away FIVE BOOKS in my newsletter this month, so for the rest of December, I won't be giving away any more books on my blog. However, I'll restart my blog giveaways in January!

Click here to find out how to enter to win the FIVE BOOKS I'm giving away in my December newsletter

Click here to read about the differences between my contests

My December Newsletter went out!

Captain's Log, Stardate 12.11.2009

I just sent out my December update, so it should be in your email inboxes now! I have a new December contest only for newsletter YahooGroup subscribers, so click here to find out how to enter.

I also have a new discussion thread on my Facebook Fan Page (I only recently discovered I actually have a discussion forum board—yeah, I’m a little behind the times) asking people for recommendations for Christmas themed novels.
Click here to post your recommendations!
(You will need to log in to your Facebook account (or create one) and also be/become a fan of my page before you can post your comment.)

Excerpt - HER PATCHWORK FAMILY by Lyn Cote

Her Patchwork Family
2nd in Gabriel Sisters series
by
Lyn Cote

Christmas is for Families…
And Felicity Gabriel intends to build a family right away! When she inherits a mansion, she decides to turn it into a home for orphans. But her first charges test her resolve. One child is a thief, suspicious of her kindness. The other is the local judge's traumatized daughter.

Broken by war, Judge Tyrone Hawkins is devastated when his little girl runs from him to Felicity. But Felicity's courage despite the town's scorn for her orphanage and her caring way with his daughter restore his lost faith. Now he wonders if they all can find the family they seek…just in time for Christmas.

Excerpt of chapter one:

Gettysburg, Pennsylvania May 1867

Keeping to the line of fir trees rippling in the wind, Felicity Gabriel tiptoed to the rear of the dark clump of mourners at the memorial service. There she attempted to hide behind a bulky man. A strong gust tried to snatch away Felicity's Quaker bonnet and lift her gray skirt. She held on to the ribbons tied at her throat and pushed her skirt down. Ahead, she glimpsed the pastor holding on to his hat while reading from the Bible.

Her emotions hopped like crickets within her, distracting her from the familiar scriptures of victory over death. Then the man shielding her moved. She caught sight of the brand-new limestone marker. All that was left to show that Augustus Josiah Mueller had lived. Seeing Gus's cold stone marker with the dates 1846-1865 took her breath. She drew in damp air. Gus.

The war had lured Gus away and then cruelly abandoned him in an unmarked grave somewhere in Virginia. The cannons were all silent now, but when would the consequences of this war end—one generation? Two? More?

"Why are you here?" The voice Felicity had dreaded hearing snapped like the sharp tongue of a whip.

She looked at the mourners and murmured, "I'm here to show my respect to Gus, Agnes Mueller." Felicity lowered her eyes, not wanting to linger on the woman's red-rimmed, hate-filled eyes.

"I'm surprised that you had the gall to show your face here today." Each word was delivered like a blow.

"Agnes, please," Josiah Mueller pleaded, tugging at his wife's elbow.

"Our Gus is gone forever and we are left without consolation. And here you stand!" the woman shrilled, her voice rising.

There was a rustling in the crowd. Felicity knew there was nothing she could say or do that would comfort this woman who'd lost her only child. Or end her groundless grudge against Felicity. So she kept her eyes lowered, staring at the soggy ground wetting her shoes.

The tirade continued until the woman became incoherent and was led away, sobbing. As the mourners followed, many nodded to Felicity or touched her arm. They all knew the truth.

When everyone else had gone, Felicity approached the stone marker. Tears collected in her eyes. She knew it was human foolishness to speak words to a soul at a grave site, but she still whispered, "I'm leaving Pennsylvania, Gus, but I won't forget thee ever." And then removing her glove, she spit on her palm and pressed it—flat and firm against the cold stone.

Altoona, Illinois September 1867

Amid the bustling Mississippi wharf, Ty Hawkins eased down onto the venerable raised chair. The chair was now his daily refuge where he got his shoes shined. Afterwards, he would catch a bite to eat at a nearby café. He rarely felt hungry these days even though he was several pounds lighter than he'd ever been as an adult. He would have liked to go home for lunch, sit on his shaded back porch and cool off. But he couldn't face home so soon again.

I'm home but I'm not home.

This dreadful fact brought a sharp pang around his rib; he rubbed it, trying to relieve the pain. What am I going to do about Camie?

Jack Toomey had shined shoes here as long as Ty had worn them. Ty smiled and returned Jack's friendly good day. The shoeshine man's dark face creased into a grin. "It's going to be another scorcher."

"'Fraid so, Jack."

"When is it going to realize it's fall?" As Jack blackened Ty's shoe, he gave him a long, penetrating look. He lowered his eyes. "Coming home's not easy. Takes time. Patience."

Jack seemed to be one of the few who understood Ty's suffering. The shoeshine man's sympathetic insight wrapped itself around Ty's vocal cords. Jack glanced up. Ty could only nod.

Jack's gaze dropped to Ty's shoes. "It'll get better. It wasn't easy going off to learn how to shoot people and it isn't easy to put down the rifle and come back."

Ty managed to grunt. No one said things like this to him. Everyone seemed to overlook how hard it was not to jump at any loud noise, or to walk out in the open without scanning his surroundings for people who wanted to kill him. Ty wondered for a moment what Jack would advise if Ty told him about Camie's dilemma.

The thought of discussing this private trouble with someone other than family only showed how desperate he was becoming.

Two urchins had come up to a woman on the street begging. She turned from the wagon and stooped down so her face was level with the children's. Through the moving stream of people on the street, Ty watched the unusual woman. The ragged, grimy children—a little girl who held a younger boy by the hand—nodded. "What's she up to?" Ty muttered to Jack.

"She don't look like the kind who would hurt a child," Jack said, looking over his shoulder again as he continued polishing Ty's shoe.

The woman started to help the little girl up onto the wagon.

Then it happened.

A towheaded boy of about ten or eleven ran by the woman. He snatched her purse, throwing her off balance. With a shocked outcry, she let go of the girl's hand and fell to the dirt street. Ty leaped up to go to the lady's aid. He shoved his way through the crowd. As he reached her and offered her his hand, Hal Hogan, a town policeman, appeared from the other direction. Red-faced, Hogan had his beefy hand clamped on the thief's shoulder. The boy cursed and struggled to free himself in vain.

Ty helped the lady up. "Are you all right, miss?"

She ignored his question, turning toward the caught thief. She very obviously studied the child's smudged and angry red face.

Hogan handed her back her purse and said in his gravelly voice, "I usually would have to keep the purse as evidence but since I witnessed the theft that won't be necessary. Would you tell me how much money you are carrying, miss?"

The young woman hesitated, then said, "I think only around five dollars." She looked into the thief's face and asked, "If thee needed money, why didn't thee just ask me? I would have given thee what I could."

The boy sneered at her and made a derisive noise.

Hogan shook the boy, growling, "Show respect, you." His expression and tone became polite as he said to her, "I saw the robbery and can handle this. No need for a lady like you to get involved in such sordid business." Hogan pulled the brim of his hat and dragged the boy away.

"Please wait!" the woman called after him and moved to pursue Hogan.

"Hey, lady!" the wagon driver demanded. "Are we going now or not? I've got other people who are waiting for me to get you delivered and come back to the station."

Ty had watched all this, his jaw tight from witnessing the theft and her fall. He touched the woman's sleeve.

She looked into his face, her large blue eyes worried. How could this woman say so much with only her eyes? This near-theft troubled her. Again, Ty nearly offered his protection, but why? The thief had been caught. He tightened his reserve and asked in a cool, polite tone, "May I help you up into the wagon?"

With one last glance in the direction where Hogan and the miscreant had disappeared, she nodded. "If thee would, please."

Then she gave him a smile that dazzled him. She was a pretty woman—until she smiled. Then she was an extraordinary beauty. Was it merely the high caliber of the smile that made the difference?

After he helped her up onto the buckboard seat, she murmured, "I thank thee." She was barely seated when the drayman slapped the reins over his team and with a jerk, the horses took off.

The lady waved her thanks once more and over her shoulder sent him another sparkling smile. He found himself smiling in return, his heart lighter.

Dalton watched from the shadowy doorway across the busy road. One problem taken care of. That kid wouldn't be making trouble for him anymore. But he didn't like that woman in the gray bonnet. What was she talking to those two little beggars for? He'd been watching them for days, waiting till they were ready. He frowned. No use looking for trouble. As soon as Hogan had appeared and nabbed the kid, the two had disappeared. But they wouldn't go far and soon they'd be ready for the picking. He smiled. The dishonest life was good.

Felicity turned forward, distinctly unsettled. The two hungry children had been frightened away and the boy arrested. This was not how she had envisioned starting out here. Would she be able to find the little pair again? She sighed. Her eyes threatened to shut of their own accord. Traveling by train for miles and days had whittled her down to nothing. She forced her eyes wide open, stiffened her weary back and folded her hands in her lap.

What she needed was a long hot bath, a good night's sleep. But those would be hours away. "Just a few more miles to tote the weary load"—her mind sang the old slave lament. But that was deceiving. In spite of her fatigue, uncertainty and hope tugged at her like impatient children. Here in Illinois, her work, the work God had given her to help the children, would begin, not end. She had planned on arriving a month earlier, but her sister Verity had needed help after the delivery of her first son in Virginia. Felicity smiled, thinking of how proud Verity's husband, Matt, had been of his son.

Then the recent touch of the man's strong hand on her arm intruded on her thoughts, the sensation lingering. She inhaled deeply. The man who'd leapt to her aid was not one to be taken lightly. And the red welt on his cheek could be nothing but the mark of a saber. A veteran like so many others. And with such sad eyes.

The wagon turned the corner. And there were the little girl and boy. The little girl was waving frantically, jumping up and down. "Lady! Lady!"

Felicity grabbed the reins. "Whoa!" The team halted, stomping, snorting and throwing back their heads. The drayman shouted at her for interfering with his driving. Thrilled to find the two so easily, she ignored him. She reached down with both hands and helped the children up. They crowded around her feet. The children were ragged, very thin, tanned by the sun and had tangled dark hair and solemn eyes.

She turned to the burly, whiskered driver and beamed. "I apologize and promise to make thee no more trouble."

The driver looked bemused. He shook his head and slapped the reins, starting off again for Number 14 Madison Boulevard. Madison Boulevard proved to be a long avenue with wide lawns and massive houses, which struck Felicity as mansions. Very soon, the wagon pulled up to a very large, three-story white house on a wide piece of land with oak and fir trees and bushes. Looking through the porte cochere on the side of the house, she glimpsed a carriage house at the back of the estate. The grounds were well tended but the house looked uninhabited with its shades and lace curtains drawn.

"Is this your house?" the little girl asked, sounding impressed and scared at the same time.

Felicity was experiencing the same reaction. She had known that Mildred Barney was a well-to-do woman, but Mildred had always come east for the abolition meetings and work. "Yes, my new house." Felicity tried not to feel intimidated by the home's quiet grandeur. This did not strike her as a neighborhood which would welcome an orphanage. Indeed I have my work cut out for me. "I've just come for the first time. Thee may get down now, children."

Within minutes, the silent driver had unloaded her trunk and valise and had carried both up to the front door. She paid him and tipped him generously for his trouble.

He looked down at his palm. "Unlock the door," he ordered gruffly, "and I'll carry that trunk upstairs for you."

As Felicity turned the large key in the keyhole, she hid her smile. She stepped inside, drawing the children after her. "Please just leave it here in the entryway. I don't know which room I will take as yet."

The drayman did as asked, pulled the brim of his hat politely and left.

Felicity stood a moment, turning on the spot, drinking in the graceful staircase, the gleaming dark oak woodwork, the obviously expensive wallpaper with its lavish design of pink cabbage roses and greenery. Her parents' parlor could have fit into this foyer. In this grand setting, she felt smaller, somehow overwhelmed and humbled. When God blessed one, He didn't stint.

"Miss?" The little girl tugged her skirt. "You said you'd give us food and a place to sleep tonight."

"I did indeed. Come let us find the kitchen." Felicity picked up the covered oak basket that she'd carried on her arm since leaving Gettysburg. In it were the last remnants of her provisions for the trip. She hoped it would be enough for the children.

"Hello," a woman hailed them from the shadowy end of the hall that must lead to the kitchen in the rear. "Who are you, please?"

When the woman came into the light, her appearance reduced Felicity to gawking. She was a tall, slender woman in a blue calico dress with a full white apron and red kerchief tied over her hair. Neat as a brand-new pin. She looked to be in her late twenties and had skin the color of coffee with much cream.

Get 2 FREE Books and 2 FREE Gifts for giving Steeple Hill Love Inspired Historical a try

Style

Captain's Log, Stardate 12.10.2009

So recently, I’ve done a self-makeover. I talked about it on Faithchick today:

Camy here! Recently I’ve been working on my personal style.

This has mostly been instigated by the book, Women, Work, and the Art of Savoir Faire by Mireille Guiliano, the author of the book French Women Don’t Get Fat (which I loved).

Click here to read the rest!

Excerpt - RAISING RAIN by Debbie Fuller Thomas

Camy here: I met Debbie for the first time at Mount Hermon Writers Conference this past year, and she is a wonderful woman! She and her buds have a very popular blog called Novel Matters where they strive to connect readers who love "Book Club fiction." If that sounds like you, be sure to check it out!

Raising Rain
Moody Publishers (September 1, 2009)
by
Debbie Fuller Thomas

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Debbie writes contemporary fiction from an historic Gold Rush town in Northern California. By day, she manages after school and day camp programs, and she burns the midnight oil to write what she loves. Her first book Tuesday Night at the Blue Moon, is a Christy finalist. Raising Rain, her second book became available September 2009.

Debbie has contributed to story collections such as Chicken Soup for the Bride's Soul, and Lord, I Was Happy Shallow, along with articles in Coping With Cancer magazine.

She has two teenagers and her husband is the executive pastor on Sonrise Church with 1,000 members. Debbie is a manager at Auburn Area Parks and Recreation.

ABOUT THE BOOK


Raised to be a 'new woman' by her mother and three college roommates in
the 70's amid anti-war protests, feminist rallies, and finals, Rain
Rasmussen discovers that putting her career first has left her overdrawn
at the egg-bank, and her baby fever has now driven off her significant
other.

When her terminally ill mother demands a Celebration of Life before she
dies; they all confront ghosts from the past on a 'stormy' weekend in
Monterey. Bebe, the roommate closest to Rain's heart, revisits choices
that have impacted Rain the most, raising doubts about God's—and her
own—willingness to forgive and to be forgiven.

Excerpt of chapter one:

Chapter 1

When Bebe heard that Jude Rasmussen didn’t have long to live, she felt a curious mixture of sadness, guilt, and relief. Not exactly normal feelings for a friend of over thirty-five years, though you couldn’t exactly describe their relationship as “normal”—more like a thinly veiled hostage situation.

“Her cancer is back,” Rain said, gently swirling her coffee. “She didn’t want sympathy, so she kept it to herself. I haven’t connected with Mom in a while, so it wasn’t hard to keep it a secret. William finally made her tell me.”

Bebe put her hand on Rain’s arm. “I’m sorry, honey. I guess the hysterectomy didn’t help much. What can we do?”

Rain glanced up at the line of people snaking around their small table and leaned in toward Bebe. “Well, actually, she had her reasons for giving in to William and agreeing to tell me. I’m here on a mission.” She winced.

Bebe leaned in as well. “Go ahead. What is it?”

“She wants to have a Celebration of Life before she dies. Not a memorial—a send-off, she calls it. One last chance to do something significant and she wants us all to help plan it. You, me, the old college roommates. You know Mom. It’s got to be something big. I’m not exactly sure what she has in mind, but it sounds . . . complicated.”

Bebe blew out a breath and sat back in her chair. “That’s putting it mildly.” Then she added, “Oh, I’m sorry, Rain.”

“Don’t worry. I know what she’s like. I’ve been her daughter for thirty-seven years.” Rain glanced at the time on her cell phone and gathered her wallet and sunglasses. “I’ve got to go. I can’t be late again.
Loren’s just looking for an excuse to replace me as the lead on this Murrieta project.”

Bebe gathered her purse and dug for her keys as they headed out the door into the heat of the morning. The blast of dry air baked her skin, absorbing the layer of SPF 30 she’d slathered on to prevent more freckles. They crossed the parking lot to where their cars sat side by side like a pair of mismatched shoes.

Bebe paused to give Rain a hug before she got in, and caught the unexpected scent of baby powder. “I’ll call you later to see how you’re doing. And of course I’ll call Toni and Mare.”

They got into their cars and Bebe cranked up the air conditioning. Immediately, her cell phone rang, and Rain’s number displayed.

“You forget something?”Bebe asked, looking through her window into Rain’s car. Rain looked back from the driver’s seat, her eyes hidden behind sunglasses.

“Mom’s timing couldn’t have been more perfect.” There was a long pause. Bebe could hear the insistent warning of an unfastened seatbelt. “Hayden and I split up.”

“Oh, Rain—”

“It doesn’t matter. I don’t need him. I can have a baby by myself. Love you.” Bebe heard Rain’s cell phone snap shut and watched her glance over her shoulder and back her car into the street. Then she was gone.

***

Bebe raced home brooding on what Rain had told her and pulled her lavender scrubs with the black pawprints from the dryer. She’d been on-call the night before, and Mr.Woofles had suffered a severe asthma attack at 1:00 a.m. She needed to get in early and work him into her packed appointment calendar.

Bebe drove across town, parked in one of the clinic’s few employee parking stalls and slipped into the staff entrance. A whiff of betadyne and the whine of pups from the kennels greeted her, and she sat down at her desk to check her e-mail. She pushed back a pile of mail from pharmaceutical companies that threatened to slide onto the floor when she jiggled her mouse. She checked the charts of two patients who’d undergone procedures the day before, but nothing demanded her immediate attention. She listened to her voicemail, deleting old reminders to pick up hair color and her prescription at the pharmacy. Leaving herself messages had become a necessity of late.

“Hey,” Neil said, coming up behind her. She tilted her head back and he kissed her forehead. “I think I heard Mr.Woofles complaining in room five.”

Bebe closed her e-mail, and a picture of her boys, Scott and Dylan, smiled at her from her computer desktop. Their white teeth flashed in their tanned faces against a backdrop of snow, sugar pines, and blue sky. She felt Neil’s hands resting on her shoulders, and they shared a moment of appreciation for their handsome family.

“They’ll be fine,” he said.

She reached up and touched his hand. “I know. It’s just hard that they’re both leaving within a few weeks of each other.”

He gave her shoulders a light squeeze and sat down behind her at his desk.

“Oh, I had coffee with Rain this morning.” Bebe twisted around to face Neil, who was leafing through a file on his desk. “She had two pieces of bad news. Unfortunately, she and Hayden have called it quits, and Jude’s cancer is back. I guess her prognosis isn’t good.”

Neil looked up. “That’s too bad. Any idea what happened between her and Hayden?”


“It must have something to do with having a baby. She’s determined to have one by herself.” She reached behind her head with a ponytail band around her wrist, and in smooth strokes, wove her hair into a French braid. “I thought they would be moving toward marriage by this time.”

Neil whistled. “I always pictured Hayden as a family guy.”

“So did I. I suspect there’s more to it.”

“How’s she taking the news about her mom?”

“She seemed to be fine, but Jude wants some kind of last hurrah before she dies, and she wants me, Mare, and Toni to help plan it. And of course, Rain.”
Neil shook his head. “Always in control, right up to the end. Do you think Mare and Toni will cooperate?”

Bebe stood and draped her stethoscope around her neck. “They’ll do it for Rain, if for no other reason.”

Bebe stopped outside the door to room five and removed the chart from the holder, taking a quick overview of the tech’s notes. She briefly knocked and opened the door, breezing in to take the small rolling seat with a greeting to Mr.Woofles’s owner.

“So,Mr.Woofles, I heard you had a bad night.” She let Mr.Woofles sniff her hand and reached out to scratch behind his soft, floppy ears. He moaned low in his throat. She pulled back the skin from his eyes, and then from his mouth to examine his teeth. “Looks like you’re due for a cleaning. When you’re feeling better.”

He stood long enough for her to listen to his heart and lungs, and then sank down onto the cool linoleum with a humpf and the jingle of his tags hitting the floor. His lungs were free of the cackles and wheezes typically associated with asthma.

“Okay, this morning we’ll do a chest X-ray to rule out the possibility of pneumonia or heart failure. If it’s clear, we’ll try some antihistamines. But call me if he has another severe attack because you may have to bring him in for a shot of steroids. I’d keep him inside out of the heat as much as possible. It would also help if you had a cold-mist humidifier running at night. I would remove any cleansers from his area, and make sure no one smokes around him until we determine what triggers these attacks.” His big eyes rolled up to keep an eye on her. “Don’t worry, Mr.Woofles,” Bebe assured him. “We’ll get this figured out.”

***

Rain pulled into the parking lot at Steele, VonTrapp, and Evers and squeezed her Hyundai into a narrow compact space near the front of the building. She shimmied out the door, barely grazing the Honda Civic parked beside her, and hurried into the air- conditioned lobby.

She slid into her cubicle and shoved her purse beneath her desk with her foot. Then, she quickly logged on to her computer and spread her papers around to give the impression she’d been in the middle of a project instead of arriving twelve minutes late to work. She glanced down the row and saw Lisa shaking her head in playful disbelief over the top of her cubicle.

Her morning consisted of reviewing new legislation and forwarding updated information regarding mortgage lending and foreclosures to the attorneys. She drafted letters to clients whose contracts were pending and set appointments to review the contracts of others. Twice, she visited an Internet site for discounted baby furniture.

Rain stayed inside out of the heat at lunch and bought a deli sandwich from the food cart to eat at her desk. She tilted her computer screen just enough so that passersby wouldn’t get a full view as she
Googled “donor catalog search.” She pulled up a blank questionnaire for a sperm donor and played around at filling in the blanks. A tall Caucasian with brown hair and eyes and medium skin tone who was an athletic Stanford grad with an engineering degree would cost her just $15,000. Fifteen thousand dollars. Rain slowly chewed her sandwich. Wow.Amental calculation revealed she was two thousand dollars short in her savings. And that didn’t include any fertility procedures.

She’d had no idea how much a sperm donor could cost. But until Hayden left, she’d had no reason to know. She could settle for less than the perfect donor, but would she regret it? If she spent all her savings, how would she pay for child care?

What was the perfect baby worth in terms of dollars and cents? By rights, it shouldn’t be costing her more than a room remodel to transform their extra bedroom into a nursery. Her empty bedroom now.

She should have seen it coming with Hayden. Over the past year she’d dropped subtle hints about wanting a baby. She dragged him to their friends’ baby showers, and finally, when they were the last couple in their group to be childless, she came right out and announced that it was time. He disagreed. The more she pushed, the harder he dug in his heels and grew distant, and when she more or less gave him an ultimatum, he left. Just like that.

She couldn’t understand his problem with having a baby. He’d had a normal, happy childhood, and even his mother had mentioned that she looked forward to being a grandmother. Maybe that was it. Maybe his mother’s interference had tipped the scale.

Rain never would have brought up the subject of grandchildren to her own mother. Jude wasn’t the maternal type. Rain had been a mistake, herself.

A baby planned and wanted isn’t a mistake. Rain picked up her cell phone, scrolled down her list of contacts to the number of her ob-gyn and hit send.

***

Bebe heated her leftover pizza in the staff kitchen microwave and sat down at her desk to leave Rain a voicemail. She was surprised when Rain answered on the first ring.

“What’s up, Bebe? I can’t talk long. I’m waiting for a call-back from Dr. Lazenby’s office,” Rain said.

“Why, are you sick?”

“No, that’s my gynecologist.”

Bebe took a moment to dab pizza sauce from her mouth. “Your yearly check-up?”

“Not exactly.” Rain paused, and her voice level dropped dramatically.

“I’ve been checking out this sperm donor site and I want to get things rolling.”

Bebe sat back in her chair and sighed imperceptibly at Rain’s doggedness.

“Maybe you could giveme some advice,” Rain said. “You know a lot about assisted reproduction.”

“For animals, not humans. You’d better stick to your gynecologist,” Bebe said. “I called to remind you about Scotty’s going-away barbeque at Mom’s a week from Saturday before he leaves for boot camp.”

“Sure, I’ll be there. But I need to go. I don’t want to miss the callback from the doctor’s office.”

“Rain, aren’t you jumping the gun a little here? How long has Hayden been gone?”

Rain was silent for a moment—a clear sign of annoyance. “Three weeks. And, no, I’m not jumping the gun. He’s not interested in having kids. Period. He made that very clear. And I’m not interested in having kids with him, anyway. He’s out of my life.”

“But you two were together for a long time. Six—seven years? Maybe in time this will work itself out.”

“He’s coming by to pick up the rest of his stuff when he gets back from his vacation in Mexico.” Rain paused. “He’s practically allergic to tropical sunshine. I don’t think it will work itself out.” Bebe hung up and sat for a moment processing everything Rain had said, and the things she had not. Clearly, Rain was not addressing the real issue. It was just like her to become immersed in something to avoid facing the truth that she loved and missed Hayden, and that there could possibly be other reasons for his leaving. Maybe even that she needed him more than she cared to admit. She remembered Rain telling her sometime in the past year that Hayden had actually brought up the idea of marriage, and that Rain had flatly told him no. When it came to marriage, she was more like her mother than she knew.

They had known Hayden for a long time. Maybe she could talk Neil into meeting him for coffee and working a little magic.

Book giveaway - THE FINAL CRUMPET by Ron and Janet Benrey

Captain's Log, Stardate 12.07.2009

Update 12/14/09: The winner of this book is Deborah! Congratulations!

The winner of
White Picket Fences
by
Susan Meissner
is
Angela
Congratulations!

Didn’t win the book but want to read it?
Buy from Christianbook.com
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Blog book giveaway:

Please click here to read giveaway rules and why I had to change them.

To enter to win today’s book, leave a comment on this blog post, giving your name and US state. Sorry, no international entrants (see post above for why).

Please also leave an email address or website where I can contact you (please use this format--you [at] yourmail.com--or something like that to prevent spammers from trolling for your email address). It is the winner’s responsibility to check to see if you won and to email me if you haven’t yet heard from me.

I always email the winner and give them a week to reply, but if I don’t receive an answer, I will pull another person to win the book. I am not responsible for a lost opportunity if you are on vacation or leave an email address you don’t check frequently.

Only one entry per person. The winner can expect their free book in 4-6 weeks.

You have a week to comment--I'll pick a name out of a hat on Monday, December 14th. (BTW, you can post a comment and NOT enter, too.)

Today I’m giving away:

The Final Crumpet
by
Ron and Janet Benrey
(This book is gently used)

No wonder the tea plants in the garden didn’t grow!

When Nigel Owen and Flick Adams—the new director and curator of The Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum—dug up two stunted Assam bushes, the last thing they expected to find was the body of Britain’s most famous missing person. Etienne Makepeace, England’s renowned "Tea Sage," disappeared forty years ago without a trace. But there he lies, in the museum’s Tea Garden, buried in a shallow grave—and every policeman and reporter in the British Isles wants to know why.

So does the stodgy English bank that will fund the museum’s acquisition of a major collection of tea antiquities. They’re ready to pull the plug on the deal.

Nigel and Flick have no choice: to save their beloved museum, they must delve into the 1960s and discover what even the spymasters of Her Majesty’s Government don’t know—Etienne Makepeace brewed more trouble than tea during the Cold War.

In no time at all, Nigel and Flick are up to their teacups in ancient spies, modern femme fatales, and a mystery that threatens to turn deadly. . .unless they give up their quest to find the secret of Etienne Makepeace.

Excerpt of chapter one:

Chapter One

The roaring clatter made by the earthmover astonished Nigel Owen. The "mini excavator"-a compact tractor equipped with a crablike digging arm-sounded as loud as a bulldozer inside the enclosed confines of the tea garden. Nigel felt the need to clamp his hands over his ears, but his left arm was stalwartly enfolding Flick Adams's shoulders, and she had tightly gripped his right hand between both of hers.

"I can't bear to watch this," she shouted, as the small machine began to roll along the garden's serpentine redbrick path. "I'm having second thoughts about tearing out our Assam tea plants. It's hardly fair to chop them down just because they didn't grow to full height."

Nigel didn't feel much sympathy for the two scraggly evergreen shrubs planted in the Indian Tea area of the garden, but Flick clearly did. He bent close to her ear. "Those Assams have led long and happy lives. If they could talk, they would applaud your decision to uproot them."

"Then why do I feel like a vandal?"

"Because you have focused too closely on the fate of two individual plants. Think of the big picture. We have twenty-two tea bushes in this garden. Replacing ten percent of them represents prudent husbandry of the museum's precious resources."

"Okay, so maybe I'm not a vandal. But what do you call a person who destroys history? Our predecessors planted those Assams decades ago."

"Yes, they did-for the specific purpose of educating visitors to the Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum. However, these particular tea plants routinely confuse our current day visitors. As you have repeatedly explained to me, there are three major varieties of tea plants grown throughout the world: the China, the Assam, and the Indo-China. The Assam is supposed to be the tallest of the three; consequently the founders planted only two of them. But our Assams look more like bonsai miniatures. You sensibly chose to replant this corner of the tea garden with new Assam seedlings." He gave her shoulders a reassuring squeeze. "As the newly appointed managing director of the museum, I hereby certify that you are doing a wise and proper thing."

"You may be right, but you may also be wrong. While it's perfectly true that a healthy Assam plant can soar to more than sixty feet, tea growers routinely prune them back to a height of four or five feet for convenient picking of tea leaves. Our stunted bushes are really quite realistic."

Nigel squeezed Flick's shoulders again and fought the urge to laugh. How could Felicity Adams, PhD, who knew everything about tea, think of any tea plant growing in Kent, England-tall, short, or in-between-as being "realistic"?

The very existence of this tea garden was a tribute to the extraordinary lack of realism exercised by the museum's founders some forty-one years ago. They began by surrounding a fifth of an acre of land on the eastern corner of the museum building with a twelve-foot-high brick wall to block out chill breezes. Then they ordered a grid of iron pipes buried three feet below the surface. Two powerful pumps circulated heated water through the subterranean plumbing by day and by night, to keep the Kentish soil, and the sheltered garden itself, balmy enough to raise tropical tea plants.

Nigel gazed up at the ugly gray sky and decided that this very day provided a fine illustration of the founder's accomplishments. Outside the garden, one had to endure an icy Friday morning in mid-January, but inside the wall, one could relish springlike surroundings. He and Flick had both left their cumbersome winter trench coats upstairs, in their respective offices.

Of course, if one thought about it, there was a touch of the implausible about the whole of the Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum. There it stood on Eridge Road: an imposing, four-story, Georgian-style building dedicated to the many different aspects of tea. The history of tea, the geography of tea, the economics of tea, the cultivation of tea, the processing of tea, the blending of tea, the tasting of tea, the serving of tea, the food that accompanies tea-if a topic had something to do with tea, one could probably find a relevant exhibit in the museum's galleries, library, meeting rooms, garden, or laboratories. How could sensible Brits give over such a significant institution to the veneration of a mere beverage?

Don't forget the most improbable thing of all. The trans-formation of his own life. He had come to Tunbridge Wells ten months earlier as the museum's acting director, a one-year-long temporary position intended to tide him over between "real" jobs. He had had every intention of returning to London, no desire at all to make a sea change in his career. And not the least notion of falling in love with the chief curator.

That had happened the previous October during a re-markable chain of events that even now seemed inexplicable. What magic had transformed a woman he disliked into a woman he loved-a woman who loved him back? And how did one explain the two bizarre side effects? Managing a tea museum abruptly seemed an utterly logical job for him, and Royal Tunbridge Wells-Nigel had grown fond of the prefix bestowed on the small city south of London by King Edward VII in 1909-had begun to feel like home. And so, against all odds, Nigel Owen-a lifelong Londoner, a financial whiz trained to lead major corporations with thousands of employees, a man who didn't even like tea-had gleefully accepted the trustees' invitation to become the museum's managing director.

The mini excavator's diesel engine roared even louder as it approached its prey. Nigel looked across the garden and saw Jim Sizer, an enormous smile on his bearded face, wave happily at him from the driver's seat of the rented machine. Jim, who admitted to being seventy but was undoubtedly older, served as the museum's jack-of-all-trades utility person. He had once again lived up to his reputation as a problem- solving genius by figuring out how to get the mini excavator into the tea garden. For all their ingenuity, the founders had not thought to provide a door through the brick wall. Jim had taken ten different measurements and calculated there was just enough clearance to wheel the pint-sized earthmover through the aisles of the museum's greenhouse.

Jim steered the mini excavator in line with the pair of Assam tea plants and pushed a lever that activated the hydraulically powered digging arm.

Flick shouted above the noise, "This is like witnessing an execution!"

Nigel moved behind Flick and wrapped his arms around her. "This garden party was your idea. If you don't stop shifting your mental position like the pendulum in a clock, I shall change your nickname to Tick."

She looked up at him and smiled. "You wouldn't dare."

"I'd have centuries of tradition on my side. Ask your Anglophile parents back in York, Pennsylvania-Tick and Flick are both acceptable short forms of Felicity."

Jim revved the diesel again.

"We can postpone this," she said hurriedly. "We don't have to rip out the Assam plants today."

"Need I remind you that our two-week shutdown is about to come to an end. We plan to reopen on Monday; Jim Sizer will need all of Saturday to get the restored tea garden ready for visitors."

"You're assuming that the vultures will finish this afternoon."

"The appraisers will be finished by noon-as you well know."

Nigel thought of the two teams of professional antiquities valuers-twelve experts in all-who had worked their way from floor to floor in the museum. They were a lean, sallow-faced crowd who did resemble a flock of vultures. The recent death of Dame Elspeth Hawker made it necessary for the museum to purchase the many antiquities on display that were owned by the Hawker family. The first step of the process was to value the thousands of paintings, books, maps, woodwork, and pieces of crockery that served tea, praised tea, honored tea, celebrated tea, and explained its long history. One appraisal team was hired by the Hawker family, the other by the museum; their respective findings would be averaged to establish the collection's value.

"Yikes!" Flick cried as the toothed bucket on the end of the arm tore a tea bush out of the ground. Nigel felt her shudder.

"Steady on, Dr. Adams." Nigel tightened his hug. "The worst is almost over."

Jim Sizer made a dozen more careful swipes with the bucket to knock down the other Assam tea plant and scrape away enough top soil to make a trench about seven feet long, three feet wide, and two feet deep. He finished by maneuvering the excavator close to the back wall and killing the engine.

"I finally understand the true meaning of 'blessed silence,'" Nigel said.

"What happens now?" Flick asked.

"I believe that Jim takes over with a shovel." Nigel looked over his shoulder. "Isn't that right, Conan?"

"Quite right, sir," said Conan Davies, the museum's over-sized chief of security, who today was also acting as excavation supervisor. Nigel noted that the big man was smiling; the museum's staff seemed to approve of the blossoming relation-ship between their director and chief curator.

Will the trustees feel differently? One of these days, we'll have to find out.

Conan went on in his gravelly voice. "We can't risk damaging the heating pipes. Jim helped to install them forty years ago. He knows the layout better than anyone else alive does. He'll dig slowly and carefully around the pipes to prepare the bed for the new tea plants." Conan cocked his head toward a flat of seedlings sitting on a table.

Nigel studied the foot-high replacement plants. They had arrived the day before on a flight from India, the gift of a tea estate in Kerala, a renowned tea-growing region in southern India. The seedlings had begun life as cuttings from established Assam plants. Flick had told him that mature tea plants were almost impossible to transplant successfully because their long taproots rarely survived the shock of a move. He and Flick had thought about cultivating cuttings in the museum's greenhouse, but she decided to make a wholly new beginning for the Assam tea plants, starting over with imported seedlings that had a proven pedigree.

Flick unwound from his embrace. She moved closer to the trench, studied it intently from a distance, and then crouched down to dribble handfuls of loose soil through her fingers. Nigel chuckled to himself. The tea tree-loving softy had given way to the hard-nosed scientist with impeccable academic and industry credentials. Her encyclopedic knowledge of tea spanned the entire life cycle-from growing tea plants, to processing and blending leaves, to brewing a good cuppa, to preparing and serving a classic English afternoon tea. In short, a surfeit of skills for someone only thirty-six years old. Flick had so impressed the museum's trustees that they took the radical step of appointing an American as chief curator of England's leading tea museum.

Nigel remembered his initial meeting with Flick when she came on board the previous summer-and winced. He had deemed her pompous, arrogant, dreary, and much too good-looking to be an effective curator. It had boggled his mind that a stunning brunette with big brown eyes could also be a serious scientist.

So much for the perspicacity of your first impressions-and your deep understanding of women.

"The soil feels and looks healthy," Flick said. "I wish I knew why our Assams didn't thrive."

"Well, ma'am," Conan said, "one of our security guards set up a modest betting pool that has generated many different suggestions as to the exact cause of the stunted plants. One thought is bad soil in this corner of the garden. Another is a leaky uncharted gas pipe somewhere beneath the bed. My belief is that we'll find a layer of construction rubble further down that prevented the plants' roots from reaching the proper depth. We're really quite close to the building proper; the workmen may have inadvertently buried a stack of unused bricks."

"My money is on moles," Nigel said. "I think the little blighters built a subterranean city and ate the roots as fast as the plants sent them out." He extended his hand and pulled Flick to her feet when Jim Sizer arrived with his shovel.

Nigel took a step backward to make room for the clods of earth that Jim removed from the trench at shockingly high speed. Doing all manner of odd jobs at the museum had kept the lanky septuagenarian in such vigorous shape that he steadfastly refused to retire.

"I should be so healthy at his age," Nigel murmured. In February he would be thirty-nine, a painful milestone he found difficult to contemplate.

A deep thunk from the trench interrupted his reverie.

"What did you hit?" Flick asked.

"Not sure, ma'am." Jim poked about with the shovel. "It may be that Mr. Davies thought right. It could be a layer of rubble, except ..."

"Except what?"

"It's not rubble," Jim said excitedly. "This is a roof slate. Someone laid a layer of roofing tiles about three feet down."

"Well, now we know what blocked root growth."

Nigel watched Jim lever two slates loose with the tip of the shovel. He lifted them out of the way.

"Why would someone bury roofing tiles?" Nigel asked. No one answered him; Flick, Conan, and Jim had directed their complete attention to the trench.

"Do you see anything below the tiles?" Flick asked.

"Only one way to find out." Jim thrust the shovel into the earth-and immediately brought forth an ominous crunching noise.

"Blast!" Conan said. "I hope that wasn't a heating pipe."

"Oh no, sir. They go clang when you bang 'em. I can see some sort of green plastic sheeting, perhaps a tarpaulin. Whatever is there is beginning to crumble."

Nigel leaned over to look into the trench. "What do you make of that yellowish object?"

Jim used the tip of his shovel to draw back the plastic sheeting. Nigel at once recognized a discolored skull and several human bones.

Jim made a throaty moan. "Blimey! It's a skeleton!"

Nigel might have fallen face first into the trench if Conan had not grabbed his belt and tugged him away from the edge.

* * *

Flick perched against the edge of the windowsill and said, "I feel it in my bones. I don't care if you laugh at me for saying that." When she peered at Nigel, she didn't see any laughter-merely an indifferent shrug.

A few moments later, he finally spoke. "More than one detective inspector serves in Kent Police's Major Crime Unit. It's hardly likely that the plods will dispatch the only investigator in the county who has had the opportunity to yell at you."

"Want to bet?"

"Not especially." Nigel was sitting behind his desk, tilted as far backwards as his swivel chair would allow.

"Come on. You're always game for a wager. How about dinner tonight, at Thackeray's on London Road. If I'm right, you pay.... If you're right, I pay."

"Okay-if that's what you want to do."

"Make reservations."

He rocked forward in his chair and reached for his telephone, but stopped in midstretch. "Shouldn't we first arrange for a sitter for Cha-Cha?"

Flick looked across Nigel's office in time to see a pair of pointy ears perk up. The smiling mouth below them emitted a yodel-like yip. Cha-Cha had raised his head at the sound of his name, although the rest of him lay sprawled along the sofa, a piece of furniture he now considered his own.

Cha-Cha, a Shiba Inu, an ancient breed of dog from Japan, was compact and foxlike, with a heavy reddish coat and white puffy cheeks. He had become a ward of the museum upon the death of Elspeth Hawker. He spent alternate nights in Nigel's flat on Lime Hill Road, near the Royal Tunbridge Wells' town center, and Flick's apartment on the Pantiles' Lower Walk, opposite the three-hundred-year-old colonnaded walkway that was one of the Wells' leading attractions.

"I have custody of the hound tonight," Flick said. "We'll drop him off at my flat; it's on our way to Thackeray's."

"That's true."

"And you can withdraw the necessary funds to pay for dinner from the cash machine in the Pantiles."

Nigel sighed. "I adore scintillating small talk, my dear, and I appreciate your valiant attempts to amuse me in times of trouble; but when do we tackle the elephant standing in the corner of the room?"

Flick rolled to her feet. Nigel's melancholy mood had begun when Jim Sizer unearthed the skeleton and had grown worse as they waited in his office for the police to arrive. His enthusiastic "hail fellow, well met" demeanor had vanished, and his usually ruddy complexion looked strangely colorless compared to his reddish-blond hair. Even his tall, slender build seemed to have compressed several inches.

Let's find out what's bothering the poor dear.

"What would you like me to say, Nigel?" Flick asked. "We don't have enough information to discuss the corpse in the tea garden. For all we know, he-or she-is a two thousand-year-old Roman expatriate."

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