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Wednesday, January 14, 2009

Nuts & Bolts Interview with Michelle Griep



Nuts and Bolts Q & A

What is your current project? Tell us about it.
I’m taking a vacation from time-travel and visiting the land of cozy mysteries…and this time I’m taking along someone to help carry the luggage. A writer buddy of mine—you may have heard of her, Kelly Klepfer—and I are co-conspirators of Out of the Frying Pan. Shameless but brief blurb: Murder in Paradise whips life into a froth. Zula and Fern Hopkins, sisters-in-law, grudging roommates, and sometimes friends reside in Sunset Paradise retirement community. Their escapades land them in hot water when they attempt to sniff out a murderer. The added ingredient of a handsome, young detective who’d make a fine main-dish for their niece spices up the action even more.

Tell us about your journey to publication. How long had you been writing before you got the call you had a contract, how you heard and what went through your head?
I didn’t actually get a call. It was an e-mail. I’d been a closet-writer since 2000. The first manuscript I wrote is so incredibly horrible, I use it as an example of what-not-to-do in a Creative Writing class I teach. I finished my second manuscript, Gallimore, in 2005. I shopped it around a bit, then edited and re-edited until there was no more red ink in my pen. I sold it to Black Lyon, Spring ’08. I’m pretty sure the stunned disbelief that charged through me fried a few thousand brain cells, but with a little counseling, I’ll be fine.

What mistakes have you made while seeking publication? Or to narrow it down further what’s something you wish you’d known earlier that might have saved you some time/frustration in the publishing business?
I’ve recently had an incredible epiphany—agents and editors are…drum roll please… human. All the palpitations, sweaty palms, and acid reflux I endured when even thinking of talking to an agent or editor was a complete waste of time and Pepto Bismol. Do yourself a favor and take them off the pedestal. They don’t belong there.

What’s the best or worst advice (or both) you’ve heard on writing/publication?
BEST: Get yourself a copy of “Self-Editing for Fiction Writers” by Browne & King
WORST: When you get a rejection, slap on some red lipstick and kiss it good-bye, which is a bad idea unless you use lipliner first…makes the edges much more defined.

Do you have a dream for the future of your writing, something you would love to accomplish?
One day I’d love to be able to have the time to write more than one night a week. Currently, that’s my allotment. I’m happy to have it, but I wouldn’t mind more.

What is your favorite and least favorite part of being a writer?
FAVORITE: Working out my own theological questions and dilemmas in the lives of my characters.
LEAST FAVORITE: Writing a synopsis—I’d rather cough up a hairball.

Parting words? Anything you wish we would’ve asked because you’ve got the perfect answer?
Write for the enjoyment of playing with one of God’s great blessings to us—words. If you’re writing from your heart, and it’s a heart centered on God (not publication), you will glorify your creator. That’s what writing is all about.



Read more about Michelle here.



books

Tuesday, January 13, 2009

Fear Factor by Michelle Griep




Fear Factor

by Michelle Griep

Fear. Not the instant electrical zing roiling your gut, quivering your heart into atrial fibrillation, and leaving the acidic taste in the back of your mouth near your uvula. No. I’m talking the heavy wool kind. Permeating and relentless. The storm cloud type of fear that settles into your bones and sets up house.

As a rookie writer, I lived with that fear. What if I can’t master showing versus telling? What if my plot and structure is a bowl of spaghetti? What if I can’t land an agent? All those doubts compounded into one sickening terror—what if I never get published?

The obvious cure-all was a contract. Signing a contract would mean I’m a for-real author and all those doubts and fears would suffer a quick, painless death.

Wrong.

As soon as my pen left the page and before the ink dried on that first contract, more fears sprang to life. What if no one buys my book? What if I get bad reviews? What if I don’t meet my deadline?

Good thing I started hanging out with Isaiah, or rather, in Isaiah. As usual, when I needed it most, God made a verse jump right off the page, stilling my erratic heartbeat. Isaiah 41:10 says “Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.”

I’m sure glad that promise is in black and white, especially now, facing the daunting task of writing guest blogs. I don’t know how to do that. What if…

Hey, Isaiah!

, shockwave-flash@http://www.youtube.com/v/noshNrksxyM&hl=en&fs=1" href="http://www.youtube.com/v/noshNrksxyM&hl=en&fs=1" id="">

Who is Michelle find out here.



books

Monday, January 12, 2009

Gallimore by Michelle Griep

This week I'm going to do a week long spotlight on Author Michelle Griep and her book Gallimore. This is her first book so she's new on store bookshelves. I hope you all will come back each day as Michelle has provided me with many guest articles and interview questions to post all week. This should be fun. When we are done you'll know who she is and hopefully want to read her book. Let's get started.


Who is Michelle Griep?....
BIO:

Minnesota author, Michelle Griep, has been writing since she first discovered Crayolas and blank wall space. She has homeschooled four children over the past twenty years, and teaches both Civics and Creative Writing for area co-ops. She is a member of the American Christian Fiction Writers. Michelle's debut historical romance, GALLIMORE, was released December 15, 2008.



Book Description:
Jessica Neale’s faith is lost the day of her husband’s death, and with it, her belief in love. In a journey to find peace, she encounters a gentle, green-eyed stranger who leads her to the ruins of the medieval castle, Gallimore.
On his way to battle, Colwyn Haukswyrth, knight of Gallimore, comes face to face with a storm the likes of which he’s never seen, and a woman in the midst of it who claims to live centuries in the future. The Lady Jessica of Neale is an irksome, provoking bit of woman to be sure. And she’s about to turn his beliefs on end.
The product of a family rooted in pain and evil, Colwyn has focused on naught but himself—until Jessica. To a mysterious prophecy stitched on a tapestry, through the invasion of Gallimore itself, Colwyn and Jessica are bound together by a lesson in forgiveness and love—a bond that might be strong enough to survive the grave.

And now for me review:
If you love anything to do with knights and Medieval times then this is the book for you. I can't say that I have read any Medieval time books prior to reading this one. Michelle will make you feel as though you are right there living in that time period.
With a flash of light travel back in time with Jess to the year of 1314 where castels, knights, chivalry, daggers, swords, ravens, and peasants were all a part of life. Jess living in the twentieth century is thrown back in time and becomes a captive of Sir Colwyn only to be turned over to his evil brother, Tarne. Jess finds that she must draw her strength in God whom she left behind after the death of her husband in the twentieth century. She doesn't know which is better being the captive of a knight of cold steel or his brother the pulsating evil. Jess learns what it truly means to be set free from her self-enforced bondage. She learns to stop running and face things head on. Jess and Colwyn learn that visiting the past can be good but leaving the hurts behind and moving on in life is even better.

Characters you will come to love or maybe disdain
Cole - professor of history. He's eccentric so Jess thinks
Sir Colwyn - is never predictable, but a fine trustworthy man who has learned to hid his true self. He is Jess' nemesis so she thinks.
Lord Tarne - is just out right evil and a man much feared; respects no one
Tarline - a servant in the house
Tagg - a stable boy and...... oh I can't tell his other identity you'll just have to read the book and find out. I was much surprised. I wouldn't want to ruin it for you.
and of course there's Jessica known as Jess - fire and brimstone one minute; soft and vulnerable another. Knows how to push Colwyn to extreme ways. She's a nuisance and plague to Colwyn so he thinks. She's persistent and determined.
Plus many more.



Come back the rest of the week more things about Michelle will be revealed.
Schedule for the week:
Monday: Code of Chivalry - guest article by Michelle
Tuesday: Fear Factor - guest article by Michelle Griep and Youtube
Wednesday: Nuts and Bolts Interview
Thursday: Top 5 uses for fictional Raven - guest article by Michelle Griep
Friday: WMDs - guest article by Michelle Griep and Misc. Interview


books

A Code of Civalry for Writers by Michelle Griep



A Code of Chivalry For Writers

by Michelle Griep

Strict codes of conduct dictated the life of a medieval knight. For instance, armored knights raised their visors as they rode past royalty. This gesture not only identified them but showed respect as well. It’s this custom that has evolved into the modern military salute.

Following the code of chivalry, a knight should be brave and fearless in battle but also exhibit cultured qualities showing themselves to be devout, courteous, and generous.

All this to say that if rough and tumble warriors of the past displayed the good sense to behave in a civil manner—aside from the occasional decapitation or two—then today’s writers, aspiring and ordained, should be able to maintain a gracious demeanor as well.

I googled Writers Code of Chivalry and guess what…there isn’t one. Never fear, though. After hanging out with writers for the past decade, I came up with one of my own.

The first rule to take to heart is do not cry as if your tongue has been stapled to the carpet just because you get a tough critique. Yes, it’s painful but get over it. Your mama’s not always going to say nice things about your writing anyway.

Also, it’s an all-around bad idea to stalk an editor. Just say no to this felony even if you think you’ve got some sweet covert operational skills. Trust me on this one, seeing your name on a mugshot is not the same as seeing your name on a cover.

Refrain from excessive blabbering about your characters and plotline. Really, the check-out clerk at the Wal-Mart store does not care if your hero kisses the heroine and saves the world all in the first chapter.

If you’re going to ask other writers to read and comment on your rough drafts, please do the same for them. Hiding behind a deadline to avoid returning the favor is wrong on about forty-three different levels.

Holing up in a room with a computer is fine for short periods of time, but if you exit with cadaver-toned skin and swirling pupils set in blood-shot eyes, then you’ve definitely crossed a boundary. Do not alienate yourself from your family members or the general public at large.

Writers are a quirky lot. Not many others would submit to constant criticism and low wages, but do so as gallantly as possible. After all, maybe five hundred years from now a new military practice will be instituted in honor of an aspect of chivalrous writers behavior.



Find out more about author Michelle Griep here.




books

Children's book - Katie & Kimble: A Ghost Story by Linda Thieman

This book was a delightful read. Any 7-10 year old (third/fourth grader) will find it easy and fun with short chapters. Katie and her family move to a new town because of her mother's job. Katie doesn't have many friends right at first in this new town as in most cases is the problem when kids move. Her dog is a loyal friend that helps her out after she falls into a hole. He summons help. Katie's family is a loving family and her parents are very open to talking things out with Katie. Katie has responsibilities around the house. Kimble is the ghost of a little girl that use to live in the house that Katie and her family move into. Kimble is a friendly ghost much like Casper the friendly Ghost. She helps Katie out and leaves gifts for her. Kimble shares with Katie a secret stairway to the attic and also her secret room that her mother made for her in the attic. Katie and Kimble quickly become friends. Oh, by the way, only small children and animals can see Kimble. Katie's mother never sees her, but she believes she's there for Katie. Thieman also sprinkles in humorous settings. In the book children will learn some Jewish customs. Kimble teaches Katie how to play dreidel. For teachers and homeschoolers there is a web site you can go to and download free classroom activities that go along with the book.


Read Chapters 1-6 free at Katie and Kimble blog















books

Wednesday, January 7, 2009

The Perfect Match by Susan May Warren


This week, the

Christian Fiction Blog Alliance

is introducing

The Perfect Match

(Tyndale House January 1, 2009)

by

Susan May Warren



ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Susan grew up in Wayzata, a suburb of Minneapolis, and became an avid camper from an early age. Her favorite fir-lined spot is the north shore of Minnesota is where she met her husband, honeymooned and dreamed of living.

The north woods easily became the foundation for her first series, The Deep Haven series, based on a little tourist town along the shores of Lake Superior. Her first full-length book, Happily Ever After, became a Christy Award Finalist published in 2004 with Tyndale/Heartquest.

As an award winning author, Susan returned home in 2004, to her native Minnesota after serving for eight years with her husband and four children as missionaries with SEND International in Far East Russia. She now writes full time from Minnesota's north woods and the beautiful town that she always dreamed of living in.

You can sample a chapter of each and every one of Susan's novels, on her website, HERE.


ABOUT THE BOOK

Ellie Karlson is new to Deep Haven. As the town’s interim fire chief, she is determined to lead the local macho fire crew in spite of their misconceptions about her. But when someone begins setting deadly fires, Ellie faces the biggest challenge of her life. Especially when sparks fly with one of the volunteers on her crew: Pastor Dan Matthews. As Ellie battles to do her job and win the respect of her crew, she finds that there is one fire she can’t fight—the one Dan has set in her heart.
(This book is the repackaged edition published in 2004)

If you would like to read the first chapter of The Perfect Match, go HERE.

Awards:

2004 American Christian Fiction Writer's Book of the Year

A Romantic Times Magazine TOP PICK – 4½ stars

Review:

Romantic Times Magazine:
Vibrant characters and vivid language zoom this action-packed romance to the top of the charts. This is a one-sitting read –once you pick it up, you won't want to put it down.




books

Tuesday, January 6, 2009

The American Patriot's Almanac by William J. Bennett and John T.E. Gribb

"Patriotism is more than just flying a flag," says William Bennett, "it's sticking it out through thick or thin (right or wrong.)" What do you know about America? Get to know your country better and love it more with William Bennett's help. This book is any history buff's dream. Good for the homeschooler too. Take a look at America daily with William Bennett's, The American Patriot's Almanac. This is a book of short daily readings of things that happened in America on that given day. It gives account of each day of the year. On a given day there is one main event that Mr. Bennett goes into detail on and then at the end of each day there is a History parade section that gives more events that can be looked up and studied about for those that wish more study. A lot of work and historical information is crammed into this book. It takes you day by day, and month by month through historical events through the year. The pages in this book tell the stories of heroes in uniform. It helps the reader see who we are as Americans. At the end of each month there is also a section of added information such has flag etiquette one month, fifty all-American movies to watch one month, learn about the great seal and what it stands for. The history of the flag and changes one month, and the list goes on. I could go on and on but I won't if you want a quick at your fingers history book this is your book.

It is a hardback book cover and the pages are rough edge to give it that old antique, scrapbook look. Very nicely done and would look nice just laying on the coffee table for quick read.




For more information click here.








books

Monday, January 5, 2009

Wanted by Shelley Shepard Gray


This week, the

Christian Fiction Blog Alliance

is introducing

Wanted

Avon Inspire (January 6, 2009)

by

Shelley Shepard Gray



ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Hidden is Shelley’s first foray into inspirational fiction. Previously, Shelley lived in Texas and Colorado, where she taught school and earned both her bachelors and masters degrees in education. She now lives in southern Ohio where she writes full time. Shelley is an active member of her church. She serves on committees, volunteers in the church office, and is part of the Telecare ministry, which calls homebound members on a regular basis. Shelley looks forward to the opportunity to write novels that showcase her Christian ideals.

This is the second book in the Sisters Of Heart series. The first was Hidden.


ABOUT THE BOOK

Twenty-year-old Katie Brenneman has always quietly fancied Jonathan Lundy. So when the brokenhearted widower asks her to help him take care of his two young girls, Katie knows it will be a trying time-yet she cannot pass up a golden opportunity to get to know this man better.

Just as she's settling into her new life, a message arrives from Katie's past, threatening to expose her darkest secrets. During her Rumspringa, her running-around years, she experimented with activities forbidden in the Amish way of life. Frightened by how far she'd strayed from her values, Katie ran back home, vowing to cut all ties with the outside world. Now her transgressions are coming back to haunt her, just as Jonathan seems willing to welcome her into his heart.

Will the past destroy Katie's chances for love? Or will Katie finally allow herself to accept God's love, forgive her past...and receive everything she's ever wanted?

If you would like to read an excerpt of Chapter 1 of Wanted, go HERE

View My Review here



books

Thursday, January 1, 2009

Havah by Tosca Lee




Win a copy of this book at Cornhusker Acadmey.


It is time to play a Wild Card! Every now and then, a book that I have chosen to read is going to pop up as a FIRST Wild Card Tour. Get dealt into the game! (Just click the button!) Wild Card Tours feature an author and his/her book's FIRST chapter!



You never know when I might play a wild card on you


Today's Wild Card author is:


Tosca Lee

and the book:

Havah: The Story of Eve
NavPress Publishing Group (October 10, 2008)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:


Tosca Lee is the author of the critically acclaimed Demon: A Memoir (2007), a ForeWord Magazine Book of the Year Silver Award winner, American Christian Fiction Writers Book of the Year nominee, and Christy award finalist. Her eagerly-awaited second novel, Havah: The Story of Eve, released October 2008 to high praise, including a starred review from Publishers Weekly.







A sought-after speaker and first runner-up to Mrs. United States 1998, Tosca works as a Senior Consultant for the Gallup Organization. She received her B.A. in English and International Relations from Smith College in Northampton, Massachusetts. She also studied at Oxford University.

In her spare time, Tosca enjoys travel, cooking, history and theology. She currently resides in Nebraska.

Visit the author's website and blog.

Product Details:
List Price: $ 14.99
Paperback: 368 pages
Publisher: NavPress Publishing Group (October 10, 2008)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1600061249
ISBN-13: 978-1600061240

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

Prologue







I have seen paradise and ruin. I have known bliss and terror.







I have walked with God.







And I know that God made the heart the most fragile and resilient of organs, that a lifetime of joy and pain might be encased in one mortal chamber.







I still recall my first moment of consciousness—an awareness I’ve never seen in the eyes of any of my own children at birth: the sheer ignorance and genius of consciousness, when we know nothing and accept everything.







Of course, the memory of that waking moment is fainter now, like the smell of the soil of that garden, like the leaves of the fig tree in Eden after dawn—dew and leaf green. It fades with that sense of something once tasted on the tip of the tongue, savored now in memory, replaced by the taste of something similar but never quite the same.







His breath a lost sough, the scent of earth and leaf mold that was his sweaty skin has faded too quickly. So like an Eden dawn—dew on fig leaves.







His eyes were blue, my Adam’s.







How I celebrated that color, shrouded now in shriveled eyelids—he who was never intended to have even a wrinkle! But even as I bend to smooth his cheek, my hair has become a white waterfall upon his Eden—flesh and loins that gave life to so many.







I think for a moment that I hear the One and that he is weeping. It is the first time I have heard him in so long, and my heart cries out: He is dead! My father, my brother, my love!







I envy the earth that envelopes him. I envy the dust that comes of him and my children who sow and eat of it.







This language of Adam’s—the word that meant merely “man” before it was his name—given him by God himself, is now mine. And this is my love song. I will craft these words into the likeness of the man before I, too, return to the earth of Adam’s bosom.







My story has been told in only the barest of terms. It is time you heard it all. It is my testament to the strength of the heart, which has such capacity for joy, such space for sorrow, like a vessel that fills and fills without bursting.







My seasons are nearly as many as a thousand. So now listen, sons, and hear me, daughters. I, Havah, fashioned by God of Adam say this:







In the beginning, there was God . . .







But for me, there was Adam.



















The Garden



















Chapter 1







A whisper in my ear: Wake!







Blue. A sea awash with nothing but a drifting bit of down, flotsam on an invisible current. I closed my eyes. Light illuminated the thin tissues of my eyelids.







A bird trilled. Near my ear: the percussive buzz of an insect. Overhead, tree boughs stirred in the warming air.







I lay on a soft bed of herbs and grass that tickled my cheek, my shoulders, and the arch of my foot, whispering sibilant secrets up to the trees.







From here, I felt the thrum of the sap in the stem; the pulsing veins of the vine; the beat of my heart in euphony with hundreds more around me; the movement of the earth a thousand miles beneath.







I sighed as one returning to sleep, to retreat to the place I had been before, the realm of silence and bliss—wherever that is.







Wake!







I opened my eyes again upon the milling blue, saw it spliced by the flight of a bird, chevron in the sky.







This time, the voice came not to my ear, but directly to my stirring mind: Wake!







There was amusement in it.







I knew nothing of where or what I was, did not understand the polyphony around me or the wide expanse like a blue eternity before me.







But I woke and knew I was alive.







A rustle, a groan practically in my ear. I twitched at a stirring against my hip. A moment later, a touch drifted across a belly I did not yet know I owned, soft as a leaf skittering along the ground.







A face obscured my vision. I screamed. Not with fear—I was no acquaintance of fear—nor with startlement, because I had been aware of the presence already, but because it was the only statement that came to lips as artless as mine.







The face disappeared and returned, blinking into my own, the blue above captured in twin pools . Then, like a gush of water from a rock, gladness thrilled my heart. But its source was not me.







At last! It came, unspoken—a different source than the voice before—the words thrust jubilantly to the sky: “At last!”







He was up on legs like the trunks of sturdy saplings, beating at the earth with his feet. He thumped his chest and shouted to the sun and clapped his hands. “At last!” he cried, his laughter like warm clay between the toes. He shook his shoulders and stomped the grass, slapping his chest as he shouted again and again. Though I did not understand the utterance, I knew its meaning at once: joy and exultation at something longed for suddenly found.







I tried to mimic his sound; it came out as a squawk and then a panting laugh. Overhead, a lark chattered an extravagant address. I squeaked a shrill reply. The face lowered to mine, and the man’s arms wrapped, womb-tight, around me.







“Flesh of my flesh,” he whispered, hot against my ear. His fingers drifted from my hair to my body, roaming like the goat on the hills of the Sacred Mount. I sighed, expelling the last remnants of that first air from my lungs—the last of the breath in them not drawn by me alone.







He was high-cheeked, this adam, his lower lip dipping down like a folded leaf that drips sweet water to thirsty mouths. His brow was a hawk, soaring above the high cliffs, his eyes blue lusters beneath the fan of his lashes. But it was his mouth that I always came back to, where my eyes liked best to fasten after taking in the shock of those eyes. Shadow ran along his jaw, obsidian dust clinging to the curve of it, drawing my eye to the plush flesh of his lips, again, again, again.







He touched my face and traced my mouth. I bit his finger. He gathered my hands and studied them, turning them over and back. He smelled my hair and lingered at my breasts and gazed curiously at the rest of me. When he was finished, he began all over again, tasting my cheek and the salt of my neck, tracing the instep of my foot with a fingertip.







Finally, he gathered me up, and my vision tilted to involve an altogether new realm: the earth and my brown legs upon it. I clutched at him. I seemed a giant, towering above the earth—a giant as tall as he. My first steps stuttered across the ground as the deer in the hour of its birth, but then I pushed his hands away. My legs, coltish and lean, found their vigor as he urged me, walking far too fast, to keep up. He made for the orchard, and I bolted after him with a surge of strength and another of my squawking sounds. Then we were running—through grasses and over fledgling sloes, the dark wool of my hair flying behind me.







We raced across the valley floor, and my new world blurred around me: hyssop and poppy, anemone, narcissus, and lily. Roses grew on the foothills amidst the caper and myrtle.







A blur beside me: the long-bodied great cat. I slowed, distracted by her fluidity, the smooth curve of her head as she tilted it to my outstretched hand. I fell to the ground, twining my arms around her, fingers sliding along her pelt. Her tongue was rough—unlike the adam’s—and she rumbled as she rolled against me.







Far ahead, the adam called. Overhead, a hawk circled for a closer look. The fallow deer at a nearby stream lifted her head.







The adam called again, wordlessly: longing and exuberance. I got up and began to run, the lioness at my heels. I was fast—nearly as fast as she. Exhilaration rose from my lungs in quick pants—in laughter. Then, with a burst, she was beyond me.







She was gone by the time the adam caught me up in his arms. His hands stroked my back, his lips, my shoulder. I marveled at his skin—how smooth, how very warm it was.







“You are magnificent,” he said, burying his face against me. “Ah, Isha—woman, taken from man!”







I said nothing; although I understood his meaning, I did not know his words. I knew with certainty and no notion of conceit, though, that he was right.







At the river he showed me how he cupped his hands to drink, and then cupped them again for me. I lowered my head and drank as a carp peered baldy from the shallows up at me.







We entered the water. I gasped as it tickled the backs of my knees and hot hairs under my arms, swirling about my waist as though around a staunch rock as our toes skimmed a multitude of pebbles. I wrapped my arm around his shoulders.







“All of this: water,” he said, grunting a little bit as he swam toward the middle of the river where it widened into a broad swath across the valley floor. “Here—the current.”







“Water,” I said, understanding in the moment I spoke it the element in all its forms—from the lake fed by the river to the high springs that flow from the abyss of the Mount. I felt the pull of it as though it had a gravity all its own—as though it could sweep me out to the cold depths of the lake and lull me by the tides of the moon.







From the river I could see the high walls of our cradle: the great southern Mount rising to heaven, and to the north, the foothills that became the long spine of a range that arched toward the great lake to the west.







I knew even then that this was a place set apart from the unseen lands to the north, the alluvial plain to the south, the great waters to the east and far to the west.







It was set apart solely because we dwelt in it.







But we were not alone. I could see them, after a time, even as we left the river and lay upon its banks. I saw them in sidelong glances when I looked at something else: a sunspot caught in the eye, a ripple in the air, a shock of light where there should be only shadow. And so I knew there were other beings, too.







The adam, who studied me, said nothing. We did not know their names.







The first voice I heard urging me to wake had not been the man’s. Now I felt the presence of it near me, closer than the air, than even the adam’s arms around me.







I returned the man’s strange amazement, taken by his smooth, dark skin, the narrowness of his hips, his strange sex. He was warmer than I, as though he had absorbed the heat of the sun, and I laid my cheek against his flat breasts and listened to the changeling beat of his heart. My limbs, so fresh to me, grew heavy. As languor overtook me, I retreated from the sight of my lovely, alien world.







Perhaps in closing my eyes, I would return to the place I had been before.







For the first time since waking, I hoped not.







I slept to the familiar thrum of his heart as insects made sounds like sleepy twitches through the waning day.







When I woke, his cheek was resting against the top of my head. Emotion streamed from his heart, though his lips were silent.







Gratitude.







I am the treasure mined from the rock, the gem prized from the mount.







He stirred only when I did and released me with great reluctance. By then the sun had moved along the length of our valley. My stomach murmured.







He led me to the orchard and fed me the firm flesh of plums, biting carefully around the pits and feeding the pieces to me until juice ran down our chins and bees came to sample it. He kissed my fingers and hands and laid his cheek against my palms.







That evening we lay in a bower of hyssop and rushes—a bower, I realized, that he must have made it on a day before this one.







A day before I existed.







We observed together the changing sky as it cooled gold and russet and purple, finally anointing the clay earth red.







Taken from me. Flesh of my flesh. At last. I heard the timbre of his voice in my head in my last waking moment. Marvel and wonder were upon his lips as he kissed my closing eyes.







I knew then he would do anything for me.







That night I dreamed of blackness. Black, greater than the depths of the river or the great abyss beneath the lake.







From within that nothingness there came a voice that was not a voice, that was neither sound nor word but volition and command and genesis. And from the voice, a word that was no word but the language of power and genesis and fruition.







There! A mote spark—a light first so small as the tip of a pine needle. It exploded past the periphery of my dreaming vision, obliterating the dark. The heavens were vast in an instant, stretching without cease to the edges of eternity.







I careened past new bodies that tugged me in every direction; even the tiniest particles possessed their own gravity. From each of them came the same concert, that symphony of energy and light.







I came to stand upon the earth. It was a great welter of water, the surface of it ablaze with the refracted light of heavens upon heavens. It shook my every fiber, like a string that is plucked and allowed to resonate forever.







I was galvanized, made anew, thrumming that inaugural sound: the yawning of eternity.







Amidst it all came the unmistakable command:







Wake!









books

Thursday, December 25, 2008

Betsy's Return by Wanda Brunstetter


As always Wanda's books are wonderful. This book is historical romance not Amish as many of her books are. Betsy has left Pennsylvania to take a job in NYC. She returns home to Walnutport, PA after her father has some health problems and must resign is pastorate in Walnutport. William Covington, single male, accepts the church in Walnutport just because he wants to get away from Buffalo and all the memories. Will be be able to fill Pastor Nelson's shoes as the congregation thinks they should be filled. Will he be able to gain Betsy trust? or will she just bid her time and return to NYC after her father no longer is in need of her help? I love Wanda's books and she hasn't disappointed me yet. Guess you'll just have to get a copy and find out if a relationship develops or dissolves.



books

Wednesday, December 24, 2008










My focus on family traditions has changed frequently over the years... Read the rest of Irene Brand's family traditions here.



books

Monday, December 22, 2008

my review of One Holy Night


Will One Holy Night make a difference in one anger, bitter man's life? What will it take to bring Frank McRae to forgive those that have done him and those he loved wrong. Frank finds himself bitter and very hateful of any Asian person that comes across his path. He saw alot while fighting in WWII, more than he wishes and the memories seem to be like open wounds in his mind. The atrocities of war; purposeless killing and senseless dying brings Frank to a hatred of any Asian and they don't have to be Japanese. Frank finds his relationship with his son, Mike, not to be the best especially when Mike joins the Army and sent to Viet Nam. Frank, like many others, isn't too sure if this war is justified for the US to be involved in. Things get even worse between father and son when Mike takes a Vietnamese girl to be his wife. Frank tries to bargain with God once his wife has a relates with cancer. If God will heal his wife, Maggie, then he would serve Him. However, God is sovereign and knows what is best even when we think we have it all together. We can shake our fist at God but His existence doesn't depend on what we believe. Finally, it takes a monstrous act on his part for God to get his attention. Will Frank be able to ever see that all things work together for good? Will he be able to truly say as Job, "The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord." This book is a tear jerker in some spots so you may need a tissue handy. I haven't read a tear jerker in a while.

Read author interview here.
Read the first chapter of the book here.


Nov. 9, 2009 I will be hosting an author interview with book giveaway through Virtual tours here
Be sure to return.




books

The Winter of the Candy Cane by Debbie Viguie

Today for fun I thought I'd hightlight Debbie Viguie's book. Unfortunately I didn't get to review this book. However, I have read the first two books in this series and have loved them. My teenage daughter has also read them and loved them. She even put the Winter of the Candy Cane on her Christmas list.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:




Debbie Viguié has been writing for most of her life. She has experimented with poetry and nonfiction, but her true passion lies in writing novels.



She obtained her Bachelor of Arts degree in Creative Writing from UC Davis. While at Davis she met her husband, Scott, at auditions for a play. It was love at first sight.



Debbie and Scott now live on the island of Kauai. When Debbie is not writing and Scott has time off they love to indulge their passion for theme parks.





The Sweet Seasons Novels:



The Summer of Cotton Candy

The Fall of Candy Corn

The Winter of Candy Canes

The Spring of Candy Apples





Visit the author's website.

Read my review here.


AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:





Candace Thompson was once again eye-to-eye with Lloyd Peterson, hiring manager for The Zone theme park. This time, though, she felt far more confident. She had already spent her summer working as a cotton candy vendor, and she had worked one of the mazes for the annual Halloween event. She had even saved the park from saboteurs.



Now she was back, and this time she was interviewing for a job working the Christmas events at the park. Surely after everything she had done for the Scare event, she had nothing to worry about. She tucked a strand of red hair back behind her ear as she gazed intently at the man across from her.



“So you want to work Holly Daze?” he asked.



She nodded. Christmas at The Zone was a big deal, and the park began its official celebrations the day after Thanksgiving.



“You keep hiring on for short bursts of time and then leaving. Do you have some sort of problem committing to things?” he asked, staring hard at her.



She was stunned, but answered, “I don’t have any problem with commitment. I signed on to do specific things, and the jobs ended. That’s not my fault. I didn’t quit.”



“So, you plan on making a habit of this?” he demanded. “Are you going to show up here again in a -couple of months expecting me to give you some kind of job for spring break?”



“No, I — ”



“I know your type,” he said, standing up abruptly. “You’re just a party girl. No commitments . . . no cares . . . just grab some quick cash and get out. You think you can handle Holly Daze? Well, you can’t! You’re weak and a quitter. You’re going to bail on me as soon as your school vacation starts, and then what? Well, let me tell you, missy. You aren’t wanted here. So just pack your bags and get out!”



By the end of his tirade, he was shouting, eyes bulging behind his glasses and tie swinging wildly as he shook his finger under her nose. Candace recoiled, sure that he had finally flipped out. I’m going to end up as a headline: Girl Murdered by Stressed-Out Recruiter, she thought wildly. Well, I’m not going down without a fight! She jumped to her feet and put some distance between her and the wildly wagging finger.



“You need to calm down!” she said, projecting her voice like her drama teacher had taught her. Her voice seemed to boom in the tiny office. “Pull yourself together. You’re a representative of this theme park, and there is no call to insult me. Furthermore, I’m not a quitter. I’ll work for the entire Christmas season. Then the next time I come in here, I’ll expect you to treat me with some respect. Do you even realize what I’ve done for this park so far? Seriously. Take a chill pill.”



She stopped speaking when she realized that he had gone completely quiet. She held her breath, wondering when the next explosion was going to come. Instead, he sat down abruptly and waved her back to her chair.



“Very good. You passed the test,” he said, picking up a pen.



“What test?” she asked, edging her way back into the chair.



“The ultimate test. You’re going to be one of Santa’s elves.”



“Doesn’t Santa, you know, have his own elves?” she asked, still not sure that he was completely in charge of his senses.



“Of course Santa has his own elves. However, when he’s here at The Zone we supply him with courtesy elves so that they can continue making toys at the North Pole,” Mr. Peterson told her.



“So, I’m going to be a courtesy elf?” she asked.



He nodded and handed her a single sheet of paper. “Sign this.”



She took it. “What? Just one thing to sign?” She had expected another huge stack of forms that would leave her hand cramped for hours afterward.



He nodded curtly. “You’re now in our system as a regular seasonal employee. All of your other paperwork transfers.”



“Regular seasonal” sounded like some kind of contradiction to her, but she was still not entirely convinced his outburst had been a test. She scanned it, signed her name, and then handed it back to him.



“Good. Report to wardrobe on Saturday for your costume fitting,” he said.



“Okay, thank you,” she said, standing up and backing toward the door.



“Welcome back, Candy,” he said, smiling faintly.



“Thanks,” she said, before bolting out the door.



As soon as she was outside the building, she whipped out her cell phone and called her friend Josh, a fellow employee of The Zone.



“Well?” he asked when he picked up.



“I think Mr. Peterson has seriously lost it,” she said. “He totally flipped out on me.”



Josh laughed. “Let me guess. You’re going to be an elf.”



“So he was serious? That was some whacked-out test?”



“Yeah. Elves are considered a class-one stress position, and it can get pretty intense.”



“How hard can it be to be an elf?” she asked.



She was rewarded by a burst of laughter on the other end.



“Josh, what is it you’re not telling me?”



He just kept laughing.



“Okay, seriously. You were the one who convinced me to work Holly Daze. I think it’s only fair you tell me whatever it is I need to know.”



“Sorry!” he gasped. She wasn’t sure if he was apologizing or refusing to tell her.



A girl bounced around the corner and slammed into Candace.



“Josh, I’ll call you later,” she said, hanging up.



“Sorry,” Becca apologized.



Becca was one of Candace’s other friends from the park, one who had some sort of bizarre allergy to sugar that made her uncontrollably hyper. Candace looked suspiciously at Becca. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes were glistening, and she was hopping from one foot to the other.



“You didn’t have sugar, did you?” Candace asked, fear ripping through her.



“No! Promise,” Becca said.



“Then what gives?”



“Roger made me laugh really hard,” Becca explained.



Roger had a crush on Becca and had wanted to ask her out since Halloween. It hadn’t happened yet.



“Oh,” was all Candace could think to say.



“So, are you working Holly Daze?” Becca asked.



“Yeah. I’m going to be an elf.”



Suddenly, Becca went completely still, and the smile left her face. “I’m sorry,” she said.



“Why?” Candace asked.



Becca just shook her head. “I’ve gotta get back to the Muffin Mansion. I’ll catch you later.”



She hurried off, and Candace watched her go. Okay, now I know there’s something -people aren’t telling me.



She debated about following Becca and forcing her to spill, but instead she headed for the parking lot where her best friend Tamara was waiting. She walked through the Exploration Zone, one of the several themed areas in the park.



The Zone theme park was created and owned by John

Hanson, a former professional quarterback who believed in healthy competition at work and play. His theme park had several areas, or zones, where -people could compete with each other and themselves at just about anything. Almost everyone who worked at The Zone was called a referee. The exceptions were the costumed characters called mascots. Most of them, including Candace’s boyfriend, Kurt, were to be found in the History Zone. -People visiting the park were called players, and the areas of the park they could reach were called on field. Only refs could go off field.



Candace cut through an off field area to get to the referee parking lot. She waved at a few other -people she recognized from her time spent working there. Finally, she slid into her friend’s waiting car.



“So are you going to be the Christmas queen?” Tamara asked.



“What am I, Lucy VanPelt? There’s no Christmas queen in Charlie Brown’s Christmas play, and there’s no Christmas queen in The Zone,” Candace said.



Tamara fake pouted. “Are you sure? I think I’d make a beautiful Christmas queen.”



Candace laughed. Tamara was gorgeous, rich, and fun. Her whole family practically redefined the word wealthy, and, with her dark hair and olive skin, Tamara was usually the prettiest girl in any room. She didn’t let it go to her head, though. Anybody who knew Tamara would vote for her as Christmas queen.



“Although I think you would, they’re only hiring elves.”



“You’re going to be an elf?” Tamara smirked.



“Hey, it beats being a food cart vendor,” Candace said.



“But you’re so good at it. Cotton candy, candy corn . . . you can sell it all.”



“Thanks, I think. So, what are we doing tonight? Kurt’s going to swing by at six to pick us up.” Just mentioning her boyfriend’s name was enough to make Candace smile. She closed her eyes for just a minute and pictured him as she had first seen him — wearing a Lone Ranger costume. With his charm and piercing blue eyes, she had fallen for him right away.



“You told him my house, right?” Tamara said, interrupting her thoughts.



“Yeah. So, who’s this guy you’re taking?”



Tamara sighed. “Mark.”



“Uh-huh. And?”



“Remember my cousin Tina?”



“Yeah.”



“Well, she broke up with him over the summer, and he’s been all shattered since then. He won’t date other girls; he just mopes over her.”



“Attractive,” Candace said sarcastically.



“Tell me about it. Well, Tina asked me if I could help him get his confidence back and get over her or something.”



“A pity date? Are you kidding me? You want Kurt and I to double date with you on a pity date?”



“You don’t think I’m about to go by myself, do you? No way. That’s the best-friend creed. When you’re happy, I’m happy. When I’m miserable, you have to be too.”



“Great,” Candace said, rolling her eyes. “So, where are we going?”



“That’s the problem. I was thinking dinner, but then we’d have to talk, and frankly, I don’t want to hear him go on about Tina. Then I thought we could see a movie.”



“You wouldn’t have to talk to him,” Candace confirmed.



“Yeah, but what if — ”



“He tries to grab a hand or put his arm around you.”



“Exactly, and I don’t think me giving him a black eye was what Tina had in mind.”



“I guess that also rules out any kind of concert possibilities?” Candace asked wistfully.



“Yup. Sorry.”



“So, what did you come up with?”



“I was thinking . . . theme park?”



“No way. Kurt doesn’t like to spend his downtime there.”



“I thought he took you to that romantic dinner there over the summer.”



“It was the nicest restaurant he knew, and he got an employee discount.”



“Charming,” Tamara said.



“Plus, ever since we got trapped in there overnight, he’s been even more adamant about avoiding it when he’s off work.”



“I can’t believe you two get to be the stuff of urban legend, and you don’t even appreciate it.”



Candace sighed. It was true that she and Kurt had spent one of the most miserable nights of their relationship trapped inside the theme park. Urban legend, though, had since transformed the story so that they were supposedly chased through the park by a psycho killer. It was still embarrassing to have -people point at her and say that she was the one. Around Halloween she had given up trying to correct -people. They were going to believe what they wanted.



“Earth to Candace. Helloooo?”



“Sorry. So, what does that leave us with? Shopping?”



“No need to torture both our dates,” Tamara said.



“Then what?”



“I don’t — miniature golf!” Tamara suddenly shrieked, so loudly that Candace jumped and slammed her head into the roof of the car.



“Tam! Don’t scare me like that.”



“Sorry. Miniature golf. What do you think? Built-in talking points, lots of movement, and zero grabby potential.”



“I like it. I’ll have to borrow one of your jackets though.”



“At least you’ll have an actual excuse this time,” Tamara teased.



A few minutes later they were at Tamara’s house and upstairs raiding her wardrobe. As Tamara considered and discarded a fifth outfit, Candace threw up her hands.



“Maybe if you’d tell me what you’re looking for, I could help.”



“I’m looking for something, you know, nunlike.”



Candace stared at her friend for a moment before she burst out laughing. She fell to the floor, clutching her stomach as tears streamed down her face. Tamara crossed her arms and tapped her foot, and Candace just laughed harder.



“I don’t know why you think that’s so funny. You know I don’t go past kissing.”



“Tam, nuns can’t even do that. And if you’re looking for something that will completely hide your body, then you’re going to have to go to the mall instead of the closet. You don’t own anything that doesn’t say ‘look at me.’ I’m sorry, but it’s true.”



“Really? Maybe we should go to your house. Think I could find what I’m looking for in your closet?”



“Not since I started dating and mom made me throw out all my old camp T-shirts,” Candace said with a grin.



“Then hello, you’ve got no call to laugh.”



Candace stood up, stomach still aching from laughing so hard. “Tam, I’m not criticizing. I’m just telling you, you’re not going to find what you’re looking for.”



Tam reached into the closet. “Oh, yeah, what about this?” she asked, producing jeans and a black turtleneck.



“If you’re going for the secret agent look, it’s a good choice.”



Tamara threw the jeans at her, and Candace ducked.



“I could wear some black pants with this. Would that be too funereal?



“For a pity date? Go for it.”



Candace opted to borrow Tamara’s discarded jeans instead of wearing the skirt she had brought with her. They turned out to be slightly tighter on her than they were on Tam, and she had to admit when she paired them with her red scoop-neck top that she looked really good.



When Kurt arrived a few minutes later, he whistled when he saw her.



“Keep the jeans,” Tamara whispered to her. “Obviously, they work for you.”



Kurt then looked at Tamara and frowned slightly. “Did you just come from a funeral?”



“No, but thank you for thinking so,” Tamara said with a smirk.



“I don’t — ”



Candace put her finger over his lips. “Don’t ask,” she advised him.



He smiled and kissed her finger, which made her giggle.



The doorbell rang again, and Candace turned, eager to see the infamous Mark.



Tamara opened the door, and Candace sucked in her breath. Mark was gorgeous. He had auburn hair, piercing green eyes, and model-perfect features. He was almost as tall as Kurt, and he was stunning in khaki Dockers and a green Polo shirt.



“Hi,” he said, smiling.



Tamara glanced at her and rolled her eyes.



“Hi, Mark.”



Kurt drove, and Candace was quick to slide into the front seat with him, leaving Tamara and Mark to the back. She shook her head. Mark was not her idea of a pity date in any sense of the word. Maybe Tamara would come around if she actually talked to him.



They made it to the miniature golf course and were soon on the green. Candace got a hole in one on the first time up to putt, and Kurt gave her a huge reward kiss.



When they moved on to the next hole, Tamara whispered in her ear, “Thanks a lot. This is supposed to be a no grabby zone. Now Mark will be getting ideas.”



“Tam, you really need to relax a little.”



They made it through the course in record time, and Kurt gave Candace another kiss for winning by one stroke. After turning in their clubs, the guys headed inside to order pizza while Candace and Tamara went to the restroom.



“This date is the worst,” Tamara groaned once they were alone.



“What’s wrong with you? He’s gorgeous.”



“Really? I guess I just can’t see past the Tina mope.”



“What mope? He hasn’t even mentioned her, and he’s done nothing but smile all night. You should totally take him to Winter Formal.”



“No way. This is a one-date-only kind of thing. I’m not taking him to Winter Formal.”



“Fine. Suit yourself. I’m just telling you that if it weren’t for Kurt, I’d be taking him to Winter Formal.”



Tamara laughed.



“As if. There’s no way you’d ask a guy out.”



“I don’t know. You might be surprised.”



“It’s a moot point anyway. I’ll find someone to take.”



“You could always take Josh,” Candace suggested.



“You’re not setting me up with Josh, so just forget it.”



“Fine.”



“Find out for me, though, if Santa needs a Mrs. Claus,” Tamara said.



“You’re going to find some way to be the Christmas queen, aren’t you?” Candace asked.



“Even if I have to marry old Saint Nick.”



They both laughed.











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Have you ever dreamed of having the perfect Christmas? I know I used to. I wanted all my family having a good time together making presents, baking, making candy, finding just the perfect tree, decorating it and the house, cooking special meals and never a cross word spoken. That was why I could relate so well with Nora in One Perfect Day...
Read the rest of Lauraine Snelling's memories here.



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Sunday, December 21, 2008

Before the Season Ends by Linore Rose Burkard



It is time to play a Wild Card! Every now and then, a book that I have chosen to read is going to pop up as a FIRST Wild Card Tour. Get dealt into the game! (Just click the button!) Wild Card Tours feature an author and his/her book's FIRST chapter!

You never know when I might play a wild card on you!





Today's Wild Card author is:


and the book:


Before the Season Ends

Harvest House Publishers (December 1, 2008)


ABOUT THE AUTHOR:


Linore Rose Burkard lives with her husband, five children, and ninety-year-old grandmother in southeastern Ohio. She homeschooled her children for ten years. Raised in New York, she graduated magna cum laude from the City University of New York (Queens College) with a Bachelor of Arts in English literature. Ms. Burkard wrote Before the Season Ends because she could not find a book like it anywhere. "There are Christian books that approach this genre," she says, "but they fall short of being a genuine Regency. I finally gave up looking and wrote the book myself." She has begun four other works of fiction in the category.

Visit the author's website.

Product Details:

List Price: $ 12.99
Paperback: 348 pages
Publisher: Harvest House Publishers (December 1, 2008)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0736925511
ISBN-13: 978-0736925518

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:


Chesterton, Hertfordshire

England

1813

Something would have to be done about Ariana.

All winter Miss Ariana Forsythe, aged nineteen, had been going about the house sighing.

“Mr. Hathaway is my lot in life!”

She spoke as though the prospect of that life was a great burden to bear, but one which she had properly reconciled herself to. When her declarations met with exasperation or reproach from her family—for no one else was convinced Mr. Hathaway, the rector, was her lot—she usually responded in a perplexed manner. Hadn't they understood for an age that her calling was to wed a man of the cloth? Was there another man of God, other than their rector, available to her? No. It only stood to reason, therefore, that Mr. Hathaway was her lot in life. Their cold reception to the thought of the marriage was unfathomable.

When she was seventeen, (a perfectly respectable marrying age) she had romantic hopes about a young and brilliant assistant to the rector, one Mr. Stresham. It was shortly after meeting him, in fact, that she had formed the opinion the Almighty was calling her to marry a man of God. Mr. Stresham even had the approval of her parents. But the man took a situation in another parish without asking Ariana to accompany him as his wife. She was disappointed, but not one to give up easily, continued to speak of “the calling,” waiting in hope for another Mr. Stresham of sorts. But no man came. And now she had reached the conclusion that Mr. Hathaway--Mr. Hathaway, the rector, (approaching the age of sixty!) would have to do.

Her parents, Charles and Julia Forsythe, were sitting in their comfortably furnished morning room, Julia with a cup of tea before her, and Charles with his newspaper. A steady warmth was emanating from the hearth.

“What shall we do about Ariana?” Mrs. Forsythe, being an observant mama, had been growing in her conviction that the situation called for some action.

“What do you suggest, my dear?” Her husband reluctantly folded his paper; he knew his wife wanted a discussion of the matter and that he would get precious little reading done until she had got it.

She held up a folded piece of foolscap: the annual letter from Agatha Bentley, Charles’s sister, asking for Alberta, the eldest Forsythe daughter, for the season in London. It had arrived the day before.

Aunt Bentley was a childless wealthy widow and a hopeless socialite. For the past three years she had written annually to tell her brother and his wife why they ought to let her sponsor their eldest daughter for a London season. She owned a house in Mayfair (could anything be more respectable than that?) and knew a great deal of the big-wigs in society. She had, in fact, that most important of commodities which the Forsythes completely lacked: connexions. And as Charles’s family were her only living relatives, she was prepared--even anxious--to serve as chaperon for her niece.

Much to the lady's frustration, Julia and Charles had annually extinguished her hopes, replying to her letters graciously but with the inevitable, “We cannot countenance a separation from our child at this time,” and so on. Charles was unflinching on this point, never doubting his girls would reap a greater benefit by remaining beneath his own roof. They knew full well, moreover, that Aunt Agatha could not hope, with all her money and connexions to find as suitable a husband for their offspring as was possible right in Chesterton.

Why not? For the profound reason that Aunt Bentley had no religion whatsoever.

And yet, due to the distressing state of affairs with Ariana, Julia wished to consider her latest offer. With the letter waving in her hand she said, “I think we ought to oblige your sister this year. She must be lonely, poor thing, and besides removing Ariana from the parish, a visit to the city could prove beneficial for her education.”

Ariana’s father silently considered the matter. His eldest daughter Alberta was as good as wed, having recently accepted an offer of marriage--to no one’s surprise--from John Norledge. Ariana, his second eldest, had been irksome in regard to the rector, but to pack her off to London? Surely the situation was not so dire as to warrant such a move.

“I think there is nothing else for it,” Mrs. Forsythe said emphatically. “Ariana is determined about Mr. Hathaway and, even though we can forbid her to speak to the man, she will pine and sigh and like as not drive me to distraction!”

Taking a pipe out of his waistcoat pocket (though he never smoked), Mr. Forsythe absently rubbed the polished wood in his fingers.

“I recall other fanciful notions of our daughter’s,” he said finally, “and they slipped away in time. Recall, if you will, when she was above certain her destiny was to be a missionary--to America. That desire faded. She fancies this, she fancies that; soon she will fancy another thing entirely, and we shan’t hear another word about the ‘wonderful rector’ again.”

Mrs. Forsythe’s countenance, still attractive in her forties, became fretful.

“I grant that she has had strong…affections before. But this time, my dear, it is a complicated affection for in this case it is the heart of the ah, affected, which we must consider. It has ideas of its own.”

“Of its own?”

Mrs. Forsythe looked about the room to be certain no one else had entered. The servants were so practiced at coming and going quietly, their presence might not be marked. But no, there was only the two of them. She lowered her voice anyway.

“The rector! I do not think he intends to lose her! What could delight him more than a young, healthy wife who might fill his table with offspring?”

Mr. Forsythe shook his head.”Our rector is not the man to think only of himself; he must agree with us on the obvious unsuitability of the match.”

The rector was Thaddeus Admonicus Hathaway, of the Church in the Village Square. Mr. Hathaway was a good man. His sermons were grounded in sound religion, which meant they were based on orthodox Christian teaching. He was clever, and a popular dinner guest of the gentry, including the Forsythes. If these had not been true of him, Mr. Forsythe might have been as concerned as his wife. Knowing Mr. Hathaway, however, Charles Forsythe did not think a drastic action such as sending his daughter to the bustling metropolis of London, was necessary.

Mrs. Forsythe chose not to argue with her spouse. She would simply commit the matter to prayer. If the Almighty decided that Ariana must be removed to Agatha’s house, then He would make it clear to her husband. In her years of marriage she had discovered that God was the Great Communicator, and she had no right to try and usurp that power. Her part was to pray, sincerely and earnestly.

Mr. Forsythe gave his judgment: “I fear that rather than exerting a godly influence upon her aunt, Ariana would be drawn astray by the ungodliness of London society.”

“Do you doubt her so much, Charles? This infatuation with Mr. Hathaway merely results from her youth, her admiration for his superior learning, and especially,” she said, leaning forward and giving him a meaningful look, “for lack of a young man who has your approval! Have you not frowned upon every male who has approached her in the past? Why, Mr. Hathaway is the first whom you have failed to frighten off and only because he is our rector! 'Tis little wonder a young girl takes a fanciful notion into her head!”

When he made no answer, she added, while adjusting the frilly morning cap on her head, “Mr. Hathaway causes me concern!”

Mr. Forsythe’s countenance was sober. “’Tis my sister who warrants the concern. She will wish to make a match for our daughter--and she will not be content with just any mister I assure you. In addition to which, a girl as pretty as our daughter will undoubtedly attract attention of the wrong sort.”

Julia was flustered for a second, but countered, “Agatha is no threat to our child. We shall say we are sending Ariana to see the sights, take in the museums and so forth. Surely there is no harm in that. A dinner party here or there should not be of concern. And Ariana is too intelligent to allow herself to be foisted upon an unsuitable man for a fortune or title.”

Too intelligent? He thought of the aging minister that no one had had to “foist” her upon. Aloud he merely said, “I shall speak with her tonight. She shall be brought to reason, depend upon it. There will be no need to pack her off to London.”


Read My review here.


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