CUTIE PIE!!!!
I LOVE YOU!!!!!!
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Fall Into Reading Challenge 2009
Can you believe that it's already Fall? I know that's what it says on the calendar, but aside from the much-needed rain, the temperatures have been relentless in Florida. It makes me pine for the cooler weather of when I lived in the northern states. But it lasts a short while when I start to remember my runny nose and the never-ending days of not being able to stay warm. Yuck!
The first day of Fall also means that it's the first day of the Fall Reading Challenge that's sponsored by Katrina at Callapidder Days. I must admit, I "failed miserably" in the Spring Challenge because I ended up missing the ending of the challenge and then not even posting a wrap-up of the books I did manage to finish reading. I had planned on posting a wrap-up over Summer, but time flew by and here we are already at the Fall Challenge--good grief! (Is anyone else experiencing this time warp too?)
While Fall is going to be especially busy with having to work Howl-O-Scream (HOS) again at Busch Gardens, participating in NanoWriMo for the first time, visiting New Orleans for the first time, and planning our school's Poetry Jam amidst all of the "other" school functions, I do plan on taking some time for myself to read a few books between today and December 22, when the Reading Challenge ends.
My list will probably change a bit--depending upon the books I choose to review and the books our teacher book club chooses, but here is my starter list:
Double Cross by James David Jordan--I read Forsaken last year and this is the sequel. I can't wait to find out what happens to Taylor next.
Perfect Piece by Rebeca Seitz--Book 4 in the Sister's Ink series. If you like scrapbooking or know someone who does--this is the series for them. I have my suspicions about what is going to happen in this book based on "incidents" in the other books, so this will be a fun read to find out if I'm right.
No Plot? No Problem! A Low-Stress, High-Velocity Guide to Writing a Novel in 30 Days by Chris Baty--He's the founder of National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo), so I figure he's got to know what he's talking about, right? I was also hoping for some writing inspiration since the creativity fairy has moved on with her knapsack of playful ideas and 50,000 words is colossal! (I haven't written anything even remotely resembling a story since my creative writing class my first semester of college. Even then, the teacher "assigned" us topics, so it wasn't like I came up with the idea from scratch.) In any case, I'm hoping that this book will at least make me feel better about attempting to write something--even if Madison is the only one who ever reads it.
This is my list so far. If you're participating in the Reading Challenge, or even in NaNoWriMo, let me know! I always love to read book lists because there are always wonderful new books to discover and enjoy AND I could always use a writing buddy! Happy Reading!
Sunday, September 20, 2009
FINAL UPDATE ON DAVID
Thank you all for keeping David in your prayers. Our prayers were not answered in the way I had hoped, as David passed away tonight. Please continue to pray for his wife Melissa. I know she's heart-broken. Thank you again for your prayers!
Monday, September 14, 2009
UPDATE ON DAVID
A few days ago I posted about my friend David that was in a coma and the doctors said that he may never come out of it, or he will remain in a vegetative state for the rest of his life. David is only 39 years old and is now being moved to an Assisted Living Facility in the Town-n-Country area of Tampa because he is still unresponsive and can no longer stay in the ICU. (It's about an hour and a half commute in traffic for his wife each day from Brandon.)
My friend Mary, the one who gave up her job so that I could keep mine, is the one who has been in contact with David's wife and keeping me updated. His wife is not doing well at all--now being the person who must be the bread-winner and care-giver in the family, plus visit him when he's so far away. (Mary is also at a loss because David was her go-to person for the tech help she needed since this is her first year as a tech person.)
Please continue to keep them both in your prayers. I know she's completely at wit's end just trying to come to terms with this change in her life--not knowing when/if David will ever "wake up." Please keep David in your prayers as well. I know our God is a big and mighty God who is able to create miracles in our lives and heal the sick. Pray for David and his family to receive an abundance of miracles. Thank you!
My friend Mary, the one who gave up her job so that I could keep mine, is the one who has been in contact with David's wife and keeping me updated. His wife is not doing well at all--now being the person who must be the bread-winner and care-giver in the family, plus visit him when he's so far away. (Mary is also at a loss because David was her go-to person for the tech help she needed since this is her first year as a tech person.)
Please continue to keep them both in your prayers. I know she's completely at wit's end just trying to come to terms with this change in her life--not knowing when/if David will ever "wake up." Please keep David in your prayers as well. I know our God is a big and mighty God who is able to create miracles in our lives and heal the sick. Pray for David and his family to receive an abundance of miracles. Thank you!
Friday, September 11, 2009
Forever Richard by Sue Dent
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!
Today's Wild Card author is:
and the book:
The Writers Cafe Press (January 5, 2009)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Sue Dent hails from Mississippi. She graduated from Mississippi College in 1983. Since graduating she’s sold computers, taught computer classes and has worked as a Technical Specialist IV for the Mississippi Department of Natural Resources.Forever Richard is the second book in the Thirsting for Blood series. The prequel, Never Ceese was short-listed for a Bram Stoker Award and also voted the ACFW’s book club choice for April 2007. Ms Dent is currently working on the third book in the series.
Visit the author's website.
Product Details:
List Price: $14.95
Paperback: 350 pages
Publisher: The Writers Cafe Press (January 5, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1934284033
ISBN-13: 978-1934284032
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
The blazing mid-morning sun laid a haze over the southwestern landscape. José squinted at the distant horizon. “Mirada que está viniendo,” he said. “It’s him.”
The day laborers loitered on corners hoping for work in the fields—backbreaking work that paid little. Not the type of work they wanted but because most of them lived in the country illegally, they hadn’t a lot of choice. The laborers worked long hours for little pay, which was attractive to employers—so attractive they’d risk breaking the law to hire them.
The men had to watch for Border Patrol agents, so they scrutinized every gringo with a careful eye.
José’s buddies squinted in the direction he’d indicated. Raul pushed himself off the wall where they sat. “I thought you saw him leave town—for good.”
“Yeah,” Antonio seconded. “Qué tal? You can’t see good or something? Maybe you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
For several weeks they’d watched this stranger. No one knew when he’d arrived or how long he planned on staying. They did know they wanted him gone. Both a gringo and an outsider—the combination usually meant trouble.
José watched the giant of a man approach. His long black duster billowed; his boots stirred up a dust storm around him. José boldly took a step forward. Raul watched and his lips curled into a smirk. Who did José think he was kidding anyway?
“What you gonna do, hombrecito? The little man gonna take the big man on? He’ll squash you like that little bug.”
José, desperate to earn respect among his peers, ignored the comment and squared his shoulders.
* * *
The small immigrant town of Rio Lobos could have easily been a mirage. Surrounded by dry, flat desert, like the desert he’d spent the past two days walking through, he considered this possibility. Not until he stepped onto solid pavement did he believe otherwise.
Heavy boots marked each step as he moved along. His long duster no longer billowed but flapped freely. He’d tucked his left sleeve into a front coat pocket to prevent it from blowing about but with no left arm inside, the sleeve hung slack.
In town, he stepped onto a sidewalk. Worn and beaten by the elements, sections of it were in dire need of repair—the curbs, crumbling chunks of concrete. The entire town needed a facelift. Colorful pennants, strung about and flapping in the hot, arid breeze did little to disguise this.
The most modern building was the bank. It sat on the adjacent corner and boasted a display below the bank name that alternated time and temperature: 9:47 AM and a scorching 97 degrees. Sweat beaded and rolled down into his thick beard. He scratched at it but stopped short of complaining. After all, the beard had offered his face some protection against the stark rays of the blazing desert sun. Yet, a curse for the one responsible for his present condition was never far from his lips.
Blasted werewolf! If it hadn’t been for the creature, he wouldn’t have to worry about hair that grew twice as fast as normal. The bite wasn’t the only thing to worry about when battling a werewolf.
His stomach growled. Two days had passed since he’d eaten anything. The five young migrant workers on the corner watched him arrive and stared belligerently as he drew near. One of the five took an aggressive step forward. The stranger slowed when he saw the young worker but walked on by. No one followed.
La Tienda sat next to the laundromat. The tantalizing aroma of authentic Mexican cuisine lured him across the street.
Those standing around the entrance scattered. Startled patrons inside moved as far away as possible as he stood between them and the door. Mothers gathered their small children. The young lady who worked the counter wore a nametag, Maria. She stifled a scream and backed up against the wall. Someone hissed the word gringo and he understood.
“Aye, gringo,” he said, his Scottish accent strong. “I get that. I’m different. But I don’t want any trouble.”
Trapped in bodies that wanted to run, a dozen pairs of eyes watched him go about his business. Careful not to make any sudden moves and frighten the patrons further, he walked slowly to the counter and gathered up foil-wrapped burritos from beneath a heat lamp. One by one, he placed them in a deep pocket of his coat.
“See,” he told them. “I just want to eat . . . and now I’m going to pay.” He reached into his pocket for cash but had to guess at what he owed. Maria wasn’t talking. He laid down a ten, grabbed a styrofoam cup and filled it with coffee, then headed to a group of tables and chairs near the back of the store and sat. A mass exodus followed as anxious patrons darted out. Maria disappeared into the back.
A ceiling fan warbled overhead and kept the hot air circulating. He set his coffee down and took the burritos from his pocket. He devoured the first one in no time. After a few more bites of another, he could finally think about more than his next meal—like the events of the previous evening.
Tobias had eluded him for years, but he hadn’t given up looking. The werewolf had information and he was desperate to hear it. After nearly a century of traipsing across continents—Europe, Asia and now North America—he’d finally found him.
Tobias knelt and drank from a stream, his shirt beside him. The moon’s glow heightened the appearance of well-defined muscle. Tobias could easily overtake him. He had to move with care.
He took a cautious step closer, pushed the fabric of his duster back giving him easy access to the pistol-grip sawed-off shotgun holstered on his thigh.
Tobias tensed; he sniffed the air—his cupped hands froze in mid-drink. His head turned a sliver to stare at the abstract reflection in the stream. The stranger drew his weapon and in one fluid motion Tobias stood and turned. Eyes black and narrowed, his nose wrinkled at the odor of silver.
“Aye, did ye think I’d come unprepared?” When Tobias didn’t answer he asked, “Do ye speak English, lad?”
Tobias tilted his head, his thick brows furrowed in confusion. Maybe his accent confused, so he worked to tame it before speaking again. This time Tobias nodded.
“Then tell me why ye have run from me all these years.” He kept the shotgun level. “All I ever wanted was to ask some questions.” Why had Tobias let me sneak up on him tonight? Maybe it’s a trap? He pressed the gun barrel against the chest of the werewolf. “Ye don’t have friends around waiting to pick me off, do ye? If so, then ye should know—I’ll kill ye first.”
The breath of the werewolf turned to vapor in the cooler night air. “Tobias alone.” Stilted werewolf English, but still English. “Tobias wait for you. Tobias need—help. Help Tobias.”
Stunned eyes stared back. “Help Tobias? Away with ye! Why should I help when ye have been running from me for so long?”
Tobias glanced over his shoulder and found the moon where it hung, crescent in shape. “Tobias forget.”
“Tobias forget?” He followed Tobias’s gaze then nodded. “Ahh, Tobias forget—forgotten how to become the wolf. Ye have gone too long without transforming.” They never saw the danger until it was too late. “Yet ye remember ye need the moon, don’t ye . . . to draw the blood up, to get things going.”
Tobias turned back to face him. “You help Tobias remember more.”
As a subtle reminder, he shoved the gun barrel against Tobias’ chest. “Tell me what I want to know. Besides, what makes ye think I can help?” He could help, of course. But he didn’t give this information away freely. He didn’t need every werewolf who’d forgotten tracking him down.
“You help Gideon.”
His expression fell. “Great. Gideon shared.” Even after he promised that he wouldn’t.
“Help Tobias like you help Gideon.”
His eyes narrowed. “Aye, but first, ye pay my price. Tell me. You know the werewolf Joachim. Ye ran with his pack. What became of him? Where is he now?”
“Joachim? Joachim is no more.”
The words hit him hard. All these years of waiting, hoping—it couldn’t be true. “Ye lie!” he growled. He had to be. He moved in closer to Tobias and forced the end of the gun under his chin. “Ye’ll tell me the truth or I’ll blow your head clean off!”
“Tobias show you.”
“All right.” He brought the gun back down to chest level and allowed Tobias to put an open palm to his forehead.
The first image: two wolves thrashing it out, teeth bared and bloodied, eyes blazing with intent. It ended when one of the wolves went down and she rushed forward. He gasped and Tobias removed his hand.
“She killed Joachim,” Tobias spat out. “She the reason he is no more.”
“Ye will not speak of her like that. Ye won’t!”
“Joachim is no more because of her! He fight Zade for her.”
“Where is she now? Ye have to know.”
Tobias reached into a pocket, took out a trinket on a thin chain and held it up.
A lump formed in his throat; moisture played in the corner of each eye. “Where’d ye get that, lad? Where in the world did ye get that?”
“Tobias take it from Joachim.”
He batted back the moisture to regain some composure. “Doesn’t prove anything. Ye still haven’t told me where she is or if she is.”
“Hold tight. If she is, you know. If she isn’t, you know too.”
He considered this. “Aye, but I’ll need my hand for that and I canna say I trust ye enough to holster my weapon. But—” he said, “if ye hold the locket—maybe that will work.”
Tobias placed his left palm back to the stranger’s forehead and held the trinket tight in his other hand.
Images flashed. A castle, a feeling. “Aye, I see her. She’s alive.” He furrowed his brow. “. . . sort of.” Tobias took his hand away. “Now put that necklace in my breast pocket.”
“You help Tobias?” the werewolf replied.
“Aye, of course.” After all, that was the deal. He couldn’t use the information himself. He wasn’t cursed. But, having the information and the ability to share it—on occasion there had been a definite advantage to that.
He’d have to holster the shotgun to free up his hand to initiate the action. “This is going to be bit tricky,” he admitted, not certain he wanted to risk putting his weapon away and give up the advantage. But Tobias seemed ready to cooperate. He put his apprehension aside and slid the gun back into its holster.
With his hand on Tobias’ forehead, the flow of information could begin. Several attempts to get things going ended in failure. What was wrong?
“Ye block me. I canna help if ye block me.”
With no more coercion than that, Tobias let his mental guard down.
“Aye, that’s better.” He’d helped several other werewolves remember the way. Some took the information quickly. Some didn’t. Often he could help speed things up by focusing. He closed his eyes but they shot back open when he felt sharp claws dig into his wrist. Tobias had already begun the transformation.
“Aahh!” He fought the instinct to pull away. Tobias could take his only arm if he wasn’t careful. The pressure increased. “For the love of God,” he exclaimed.
Tobias stiffened and his hand jerked before he fell backwards onto the ground. The stranger ratcheted his shotgun from his holster. “Aye. That’d be a word ye canna tolerate.”
On the ground, Tobias continued the rapid transformation—the human form faded further until the new looked at home on all fours. Soon, it sprinted off into the woods.
“Good riddance,” he yelled out after him, “you ungrateful beast.”
* * *
The migrant workers still loitered. The same young man who’d shown aggression the first time moved directly in his path.
When he angled to go around, the guy matched him step for step. Dark intimidating eyes met his. “I don’t want any trouble,” he said. “I just want to get by.” He searched the young man’s face for any sign of compromise.
“You gotta pay to get by, gringo.”
That word again. “I can’t give ye what I don’t have.”
A quick look over his shoulder to the others and the young man tensed his forearms. “Well, you better come up with something or you’ll have to deal with us, right, muchachos?”
Arms crossed, they nodded.
“All right,” he said. “I do have one thing.” He reached into a pocket and drew out his hand, closed. Slowly, he opened it to reveal—nothing. In another instant, his palm covered the young man’s forehead and the ringleader sank to the ground, unconscious.
The others backed away. “¡Él lo mató!” he heard one say before they all broke and ran.
“Nay,” he yelled after them. “He’s not hurt. It’s not what ye think.”
It was pointless to explain further. They’d disappeared around the corner. He sighed deep and pulled the young man along by an arm. He left him to rest under the shade of an awning.
* * *
On the outskirts of town sat the Alamo Plaza Apartments, remnants of a not-so-successful motel chain that dared defy the odds. No traveler would stop here now, only locals. You could pay by the week or ten dollars an hour, maximum two. His third prepaid week at the motel. He headed straight back to his unit.
When the stranger saw another tenant leafing through mail, he quickened his pace. He was expecting something. Perhaps it had arrived. The mail had come, but no package waited. A notice stuck to his door, the “Attempted Delivery” box marked. Tomorrow the post office would try again. He pushed past disappointment and went inside. Calling the post office did little good. The mail truck with his package was still out making deliveries and wouldn’t return until after the post office closed.
He removed his duster and let it fall across a chair near the door. He placed his shotgun on a table next to the unmade bed and lay down. Two days of walking through the desert had taken its toll. He needed to rest.
Sleep came easily enough. He recalled waking up once to find the room dark. The sun had set. The next time he awoke, it was morning, 9:45 according to the digital clock on the small bedside table. He sat up and rubbed the back of his neck. He felt rested but antsy. How would he kill time until his package came? A long shower helped, as did shaving his thick beard. But he still had at least an hour.
He settled onto the end of his bed, television remote in hand, and began channel surfing. Jeopardy. He stopped to watch. The category: Famous Wars.
The unyielding presence of this single Highland regiment caused the Russians to abandon their intention of taking Balaclava.
The contestants jumped all around the correct response. “What is the Charge of the Light Brigade?” one said. “Who fought the Crimean War?” another chimed in. The third contestant merely shrugged.
His deep-set eyes misted over in remembrance. “Aye, the thin red line—what was the thin red line.”
The thunder of hooves, the smell of death, he remembered it all. To die like they did. That would be an honor. Yet dying wasn’t an option for him. Neither was aging in a timely manner. It had something to do with the battle he had with that werewolf. He did age, though much more slowly—about a year for every fifty he’d lived, but death never came. He’d been run clean through during the battle at Balaclava, an injury that left more than a few men dead where they fell. Not something he understood—in fact, quite frustrating. He switched the television off to avoid further memories.
A solid thump against his door and then a knock. “Aye. I’m here,” he said jumping to his feet. A short sprint to the door and—no one there. He looked down to see a package at his feet.
He checked the box and brought it inside. The postage showed it had come all the way from New Delhi, India. He carefully opened it. The seller had done such a fine job of packing that it took him more than a minute to reveal the knife inside.
Its pitted blade and wooden handle reinforced with bone plates attested its authenticity. He ran his fingers over the traces of Aramaic and Hebrew inscription. “Aye,” came his breathless whisper. This had to be it, the knife of the Aqedah, the very one used by Abraham on Mount Moriah. The one he’d been searching for. He’d combed sacred parchments for any mention of the knife past Abraham, looked around at Djebel Thebeyr, where a granite block, purportedly split in two by the touch of this knife, drew tourists. Still the knife had eluded him . . . until now.
“Finally.” He stared at what he held in reverent awe.
“Finally I can end this madness.”
The day laborers loitered on corners hoping for work in the fields—backbreaking work that paid little. Not the type of work they wanted but because most of them lived in the country illegally, they hadn’t a lot of choice. The laborers worked long hours for little pay, which was attractive to employers—so attractive they’d risk breaking the law to hire them.
The men had to watch for Border Patrol agents, so they scrutinized every gringo with a careful eye.
José’s buddies squinted in the direction he’d indicated. Raul pushed himself off the wall where they sat. “I thought you saw him leave town—for good.”
“Yeah,” Antonio seconded. “Qué tal? You can’t see good or something? Maybe you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
For several weeks they’d watched this stranger. No one knew when he’d arrived or how long he planned on staying. They did know they wanted him gone. Both a gringo and an outsider—the combination usually meant trouble.
José watched the giant of a man approach. His long black duster billowed; his boots stirred up a dust storm around him. José boldly took a step forward. Raul watched and his lips curled into a smirk. Who did José think he was kidding anyway?
“What you gonna do, hombrecito? The little man gonna take the big man on? He’ll squash you like that little bug.”
José, desperate to earn respect among his peers, ignored the comment and squared his shoulders.
* * *
The small immigrant town of Rio Lobos could have easily been a mirage. Surrounded by dry, flat desert, like the desert he’d spent the past two days walking through, he considered this possibility. Not until he stepped onto solid pavement did he believe otherwise.
Heavy boots marked each step as he moved along. His long duster no longer billowed but flapped freely. He’d tucked his left sleeve into a front coat pocket to prevent it from blowing about but with no left arm inside, the sleeve hung slack.
In town, he stepped onto a sidewalk. Worn and beaten by the elements, sections of it were in dire need of repair—the curbs, crumbling chunks of concrete. The entire town needed a facelift. Colorful pennants, strung about and flapping in the hot, arid breeze did little to disguise this.
The most modern building was the bank. It sat on the adjacent corner and boasted a display below the bank name that alternated time and temperature: 9:47 AM and a scorching 97 degrees. Sweat beaded and rolled down into his thick beard. He scratched at it but stopped short of complaining. After all, the beard had offered his face some protection against the stark rays of the blazing desert sun. Yet, a curse for the one responsible for his present condition was never far from his lips.
Blasted werewolf! If it hadn’t been for the creature, he wouldn’t have to worry about hair that grew twice as fast as normal. The bite wasn’t the only thing to worry about when battling a werewolf.
His stomach growled. Two days had passed since he’d eaten anything. The five young migrant workers on the corner watched him arrive and stared belligerently as he drew near. One of the five took an aggressive step forward. The stranger slowed when he saw the young worker but walked on by. No one followed.
La Tienda sat next to the laundromat. The tantalizing aroma of authentic Mexican cuisine lured him across the street.
Those standing around the entrance scattered. Startled patrons inside moved as far away as possible as he stood between them and the door. Mothers gathered their small children. The young lady who worked the counter wore a nametag, Maria. She stifled a scream and backed up against the wall. Someone hissed the word gringo and he understood.
“Aye, gringo,” he said, his Scottish accent strong. “I get that. I’m different. But I don’t want any trouble.”
Trapped in bodies that wanted to run, a dozen pairs of eyes watched him go about his business. Careful not to make any sudden moves and frighten the patrons further, he walked slowly to the counter and gathered up foil-wrapped burritos from beneath a heat lamp. One by one, he placed them in a deep pocket of his coat.
“See,” he told them. “I just want to eat . . . and now I’m going to pay.” He reached into his pocket for cash but had to guess at what he owed. Maria wasn’t talking. He laid down a ten, grabbed a styrofoam cup and filled it with coffee, then headed to a group of tables and chairs near the back of the store and sat. A mass exodus followed as anxious patrons darted out. Maria disappeared into the back.
A ceiling fan warbled overhead and kept the hot air circulating. He set his coffee down and took the burritos from his pocket. He devoured the first one in no time. After a few more bites of another, he could finally think about more than his next meal—like the events of the previous evening.
Tobias had eluded him for years, but he hadn’t given up looking. The werewolf had information and he was desperate to hear it. After nearly a century of traipsing across continents—Europe, Asia and now North America—he’d finally found him.
Tobias knelt and drank from a stream, his shirt beside him. The moon’s glow heightened the appearance of well-defined muscle. Tobias could easily overtake him. He had to move with care.
He took a cautious step closer, pushed the fabric of his duster back giving him easy access to the pistol-grip sawed-off shotgun holstered on his thigh.
Tobias tensed; he sniffed the air—his cupped hands froze in mid-drink. His head turned a sliver to stare at the abstract reflection in the stream. The stranger drew his weapon and in one fluid motion Tobias stood and turned. Eyes black and narrowed, his nose wrinkled at the odor of silver.
“Aye, did ye think I’d come unprepared?” When Tobias didn’t answer he asked, “Do ye speak English, lad?”
Tobias tilted his head, his thick brows furrowed in confusion. Maybe his accent confused, so he worked to tame it before speaking again. This time Tobias nodded.
“Then tell me why ye have run from me all these years.” He kept the shotgun level. “All I ever wanted was to ask some questions.” Why had Tobias let me sneak up on him tonight? Maybe it’s a trap? He pressed the gun barrel against the chest of the werewolf. “Ye don’t have friends around waiting to pick me off, do ye? If so, then ye should know—I’ll kill ye first.”
The breath of the werewolf turned to vapor in the cooler night air. “Tobias alone.” Stilted werewolf English, but still English. “Tobias wait for you. Tobias need—help. Help Tobias.”
Stunned eyes stared back. “Help Tobias? Away with ye! Why should I help when ye have been running from me for so long?”
Tobias glanced over his shoulder and found the moon where it hung, crescent in shape. “Tobias forget.”
“Tobias forget?” He followed Tobias’s gaze then nodded. “Ahh, Tobias forget—forgotten how to become the wolf. Ye have gone too long without transforming.” They never saw the danger until it was too late. “Yet ye remember ye need the moon, don’t ye . . . to draw the blood up, to get things going.”
Tobias turned back to face him. “You help Tobias remember more.”
As a subtle reminder, he shoved the gun barrel against Tobias’ chest. “Tell me what I want to know. Besides, what makes ye think I can help?” He could help, of course. But he didn’t give this information away freely. He didn’t need every werewolf who’d forgotten tracking him down.
“You help Gideon.”
His expression fell. “Great. Gideon shared.” Even after he promised that he wouldn’t.
“Help Tobias like you help Gideon.”
His eyes narrowed. “Aye, but first, ye pay my price. Tell me. You know the werewolf Joachim. Ye ran with his pack. What became of him? Where is he now?”
“Joachim? Joachim is no more.”
The words hit him hard. All these years of waiting, hoping—it couldn’t be true. “Ye lie!” he growled. He had to be. He moved in closer to Tobias and forced the end of the gun under his chin. “Ye’ll tell me the truth or I’ll blow your head clean off!”
“Tobias show you.”
“All right.” He brought the gun back down to chest level and allowed Tobias to put an open palm to his forehead.
The first image: two wolves thrashing it out, teeth bared and bloodied, eyes blazing with intent. It ended when one of the wolves went down and she rushed forward. He gasped and Tobias removed his hand.
“She killed Joachim,” Tobias spat out. “She the reason he is no more.”
“Ye will not speak of her like that. Ye won’t!”
“Joachim is no more because of her! He fight Zade for her.”
“Where is she now? Ye have to know.”
Tobias reached into a pocket, took out a trinket on a thin chain and held it up.
A lump formed in his throat; moisture played in the corner of each eye. “Where’d ye get that, lad? Where in the world did ye get that?”
“Tobias take it from Joachim.”
He batted back the moisture to regain some composure. “Doesn’t prove anything. Ye still haven’t told me where she is or if she is.”
“Hold tight. If she is, you know. If she isn’t, you know too.”
He considered this. “Aye, but I’ll need my hand for that and I canna say I trust ye enough to holster my weapon. But—” he said, “if ye hold the locket—maybe that will work.”
Tobias placed his left palm back to the stranger’s forehead and held the trinket tight in his other hand.
Images flashed. A castle, a feeling. “Aye, I see her. She’s alive.” He furrowed his brow. “. . . sort of.” Tobias took his hand away. “Now put that necklace in my breast pocket.”
“You help Tobias?” the werewolf replied.
“Aye, of course.” After all, that was the deal. He couldn’t use the information himself. He wasn’t cursed. But, having the information and the ability to share it—on occasion there had been a definite advantage to that.
He’d have to holster the shotgun to free up his hand to initiate the action. “This is going to be bit tricky,” he admitted, not certain he wanted to risk putting his weapon away and give up the advantage. But Tobias seemed ready to cooperate. He put his apprehension aside and slid the gun back into its holster.
With his hand on Tobias’ forehead, the flow of information could begin. Several attempts to get things going ended in failure. What was wrong?
“Ye block me. I canna help if ye block me.”
With no more coercion than that, Tobias let his mental guard down.
“Aye, that’s better.” He’d helped several other werewolves remember the way. Some took the information quickly. Some didn’t. Often he could help speed things up by focusing. He closed his eyes but they shot back open when he felt sharp claws dig into his wrist. Tobias had already begun the transformation.
“Aahh!” He fought the instinct to pull away. Tobias could take his only arm if he wasn’t careful. The pressure increased. “For the love of God,” he exclaimed.
Tobias stiffened and his hand jerked before he fell backwards onto the ground. The stranger ratcheted his shotgun from his holster. “Aye. That’d be a word ye canna tolerate.”
On the ground, Tobias continued the rapid transformation—the human form faded further until the new looked at home on all fours. Soon, it sprinted off into the woods.
“Good riddance,” he yelled out after him, “you ungrateful beast.”
* * *
The migrant workers still loitered. The same young man who’d shown aggression the first time moved directly in his path.
When he angled to go around, the guy matched him step for step. Dark intimidating eyes met his. “I don’t want any trouble,” he said. “I just want to get by.” He searched the young man’s face for any sign of compromise.
“You gotta pay to get by, gringo.”
That word again. “I can’t give ye what I don’t have.”
A quick look over his shoulder to the others and the young man tensed his forearms. “Well, you better come up with something or you’ll have to deal with us, right, muchachos?”
Arms crossed, they nodded.
“All right,” he said. “I do have one thing.” He reached into a pocket and drew out his hand, closed. Slowly, he opened it to reveal—nothing. In another instant, his palm covered the young man’s forehead and the ringleader sank to the ground, unconscious.
The others backed away. “¡Él lo mató!” he heard one say before they all broke and ran.
“Nay,” he yelled after them. “He’s not hurt. It’s not what ye think.”
It was pointless to explain further. They’d disappeared around the corner. He sighed deep and pulled the young man along by an arm. He left him to rest under the shade of an awning.
* * *
On the outskirts of town sat the Alamo Plaza Apartments, remnants of a not-so-successful motel chain that dared defy the odds. No traveler would stop here now, only locals. You could pay by the week or ten dollars an hour, maximum two. His third prepaid week at the motel. He headed straight back to his unit.
When the stranger saw another tenant leafing through mail, he quickened his pace. He was expecting something. Perhaps it had arrived. The mail had come, but no package waited. A notice stuck to his door, the “Attempted Delivery” box marked. Tomorrow the post office would try again. He pushed past disappointment and went inside. Calling the post office did little good. The mail truck with his package was still out making deliveries and wouldn’t return until after the post office closed.
He removed his duster and let it fall across a chair near the door. He placed his shotgun on a table next to the unmade bed and lay down. Two days of walking through the desert had taken its toll. He needed to rest.
Sleep came easily enough. He recalled waking up once to find the room dark. The sun had set. The next time he awoke, it was morning, 9:45 according to the digital clock on the small bedside table. He sat up and rubbed the back of his neck. He felt rested but antsy. How would he kill time until his package came? A long shower helped, as did shaving his thick beard. But he still had at least an hour.
He settled onto the end of his bed, television remote in hand, and began channel surfing. Jeopardy. He stopped to watch. The category: Famous Wars.
The unyielding presence of this single Highland regiment caused the Russians to abandon their intention of taking Balaclava.
The contestants jumped all around the correct response. “What is the Charge of the Light Brigade?” one said. “Who fought the Crimean War?” another chimed in. The third contestant merely shrugged.
His deep-set eyes misted over in remembrance. “Aye, the thin red line—what was the thin red line.”
The thunder of hooves, the smell of death, he remembered it all. To die like they did. That would be an honor. Yet dying wasn’t an option for him. Neither was aging in a timely manner. It had something to do with the battle he had with that werewolf. He did age, though much more slowly—about a year for every fifty he’d lived, but death never came. He’d been run clean through during the battle at Balaclava, an injury that left more than a few men dead where they fell. Not something he understood—in fact, quite frustrating. He switched the television off to avoid further memories.
A solid thump against his door and then a knock. “Aye. I’m here,” he said jumping to his feet. A short sprint to the door and—no one there. He looked down to see a package at his feet.
He checked the box and brought it inside. The postage showed it had come all the way from New Delhi, India. He carefully opened it. The seller had done such a fine job of packing that it took him more than a minute to reveal the knife inside.
Its pitted blade and wooden handle reinforced with bone plates attested its authenticity. He ran his fingers over the traces of Aramaic and Hebrew inscription. “Aye,” came his breathless whisper. This had to be it, the knife of the Aqedah, the very one used by Abraham on Mount Moriah. The one he’d been searching for. He’d combed sacred parchments for any mention of the knife past Abraham, looked around at Djebel Thebeyr, where a granite block, purportedly split in two by the touch of this knife, drew tourists. Still the knife had eluded him . . . until now.
“Finally.” He stared at what he held in reverent awe.
“Finally I can end this madness.”
Dynamic Uno here: Forever Richard is the sequel to Never Ceese by Sue Dent. Given my fascination with vampires, I was pleasantly surprised to find this book in my mailbox a few weeks ago. Let me tell you--the action begins on page one!
Richard and Ceese decided to return to their home in England to help a now cursed Josh. Rodney and Cassie join the group as they get ready to hop across the pond. However, what the group doesn't know is that a huge surprise awaits their arrival in the form of two old "friends." After reeling from the "surprise," the group must also deal with hungry new vampires, Zade's attempts at kidnapping Ceese and re-cursing her, as well as thwart the person who is helping Zade appear "normal." Can they help Josh or will he remain cursed forever? Who is helping Zade and why won't Zade just go away? Who are the surprise visitors and why are they in England? You'll have to read Forever Richard to find out! (Although you'll most definitely want to read Never Ceese first or you will not have a clue about what's happening and why.)
It's really hard to let you know about all of the events that take place without giving away the storyline, but let's just say that the ending leaves you wondering (yet again) what's going to happen next? I've enjoyed reading this series because the characters have grown along with the storyline. They almost feel like neighbors. (Although I'm very glad they're not. Madison might end up missing one day.) If you're interested in how Christianity ties in with vampires and werewolves--look no further. I think you'll really enjoy this series by Sue Dent.
Let me know what you think! Happy reading!
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
URGENT--PRAYER NEEDED!
David Corey, one of the Technology Specialists at a local high school here in Tampa, contracted Swine Flu a few weeks ago and ended up in ICU at Brandon Hospital. Due to his large size, he was unable to breathe on his own, so the doctors induced a coma to help him rest while he battled the flu. Unfortunately, we didn’t have all of the information and things were much worse than what we were told. Apparently, David started coming out of the coma and ripped the IVs and tubes out before slipping back into a coma. The doctors have told his wife that he will probably never recover and come out of the coma—that he would be in a vegetative state for the rest of his life and require permanent care.
Please pray for David and his wife. David is one of the most generous and helpful men that you will ever meet. He is always willing to help out our school when we had technical questions, and in turn we were able to help him at his school when he needed input. Please pray that David comes out of the coma and gains full recovery.
Pray for his wife. I can only imagine the anguish and pain she must be suffering at hearing that her husband is “gone.” Pray that she has a loving support system and is able to make the decisions that are needed for their situation.
I’m sure there are other prayers that are needed right now for both of them, but if you could pray for them and pass this information along to others in your prayer chains, I would really appreciate it.
Thank you!!!
Please pray for David and his wife. David is one of the most generous and helpful men that you will ever meet. He is always willing to help out our school when we had technical questions, and in turn we were able to help him at his school when he needed input. Please pray that David comes out of the coma and gains full recovery.
Pray for his wife. I can only imagine the anguish and pain she must be suffering at hearing that her husband is “gone.” Pray that she has a loving support system and is able to make the decisions that are needed for their situation.
I’m sure there are other prayers that are needed right now for both of them, but if you could pray for them and pass this information along to others in your prayer chains, I would really appreciate it.
Thank you!!!
Monday, September 7, 2009
Never the Bride by Rene Gutteridge and Cheryl McKay
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!
Today's Wild Card authors are:
Cheryl McKay
AND
AND
and the book:
WaterBrook Press (June 2, 2009)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Cheryl McKay is the co-author (with Frank Peretti) of the Wild and Wacky, Totally True Bible Stories series, which has sold nearly 200,000 copies, and the screenwriter of the award-winning film The Ultimate Gift.Visit the author's website.
Rene Gutteridge has published thirteen novels including Ghost Writer, My Life as a Doormat, the Boo Series, the Occupational Hazards Series, and the Storm Series. Together, McKay and Gutteridge are the authors of The Ultimate Gift, a novelization based on the feature film and popular book by the same title.
Visit the author's website.
Product Details:
List Price: $13.99
Paperback: 320 pages
Publisher: WaterBrook Press (June 2, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0307444988
ISBN-13: 978-0307444981
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
You don’t know me yet, so there is no reason you should care that I’m stuck on a highway with a blowout. But maybe we can relate to each other. Maybe you can understand that when I say, “Everything goes my way,” I’m being sarcastic. Not that I’m usually dependent on such a primitive form of communication. I’m actually not very cynical at all. I’m more of a glass-half-full-of-vitamin-infused-water person. Sometimes I even believe that if I dream something, or at least journal it, it will happen. But today, at eight forty-five in the morning, as the sun bakes me like a cod against the blacktop of the Pacific Coast Highway, I’m feeling a bit sarcastic.
It’s February but hotter than normal, which means a long, hot California summer is ahead—the kind that seems to bring out the beauty in blondes and the sweat glands in brunettes. I am a brunette. Not at all troubled by it. I don’t even have my hair highlighted. I own my brunetteness and always have, even when Sun-In was all the rage. And it can’t be overstated that chlorine doesn’t turn my medium chestnut hair green. Actually, it’s the copper, not the chlorine, that turns hair green—but that’s a useless trivia fact I try to save for speed dating.
I’m squatting next to my flat tire, examining the small rip. Holding my hair back and off my neck with one hand, I stand and look up and down the road, hoping to appear mildly distressed. Inside, I’ll admit it, I’m feeling moderately hysterical. My boss flips out when I’m late. It wouldn’t matter if my appendix burst, he doesn’t want to hear excuses. I wish he were the kind of guy who would just turn red in the face and yell, like Clark Kent’s newspaper boss. But no. He likes to lecture as if he’s an intellectual, except he’s weird and redundant and cliché, so it’s painful and boring.
A few cars zoom by, and I suddenly realize this could be my moment. Part of me says not to be ridiculous, because this kind of thing happens only on shows with a ZIP code or county name in the title. But still, you can’t help wondering, hoping, that maybe this is the moment when your life will change. When you meet your soul mate.
Like I said, I enjoy my glass/life half full.
Even as an optimist, I see no harm in being a little aggressive to achieve my goals. So with my free hand, I do a little wave, throw a little smile, and attempt to lock eyes with people going fifty miles an hour.
And then I see him. He’s in a red convertible, the top down, the black sunglasses shiny and tight against his tan skin. He’s wearing pink silk the way only a man with a good, measured amount of confidence can. At least that’s the way I see it from where I’m standing.
As he gets closer, his head turns and he notices me. I do a little wave, flirtatious with a slight hint of unintentional taxi hailing. I decide to smile widely, because he is going fast and I might look blurry. He smiles back. My hand falls to my side. I step back, lean against my car, and try to make my conservative business suit seem flattering. There’s nothing I can do about my upper lip sweating except hope my sweat proof department-store makeup is holding up its end of the bargain better than my blowout-proof tire did.
He seems to be slowing down.
Live in the moment, I instruct myself. Don’t think about what I should say or what I could say. Just let it roll, Jessie, let it roll. Don’t over think it.
This thought repeats itself when the convertible zooms by. I think he actually accelerated.
So.
My makeup is failing, along with whatever charm I thought I had. I just can’t imagine what kind of guy wouldn’t stop and help a woman.
Maybe I’d have more hits if I were elderly.
I do what I have to do. What I know how to do. I change my own stupid tire. Yes, I can, and have been able to since I was eighteen. I can also change my own oil but don’t because then I appear capable of taking care of myself. And I’m really not. Practically, yes, I can take care of myself. I make decent money. I drive myself home from root canals. I open cans without a can opener. I’m able to survive for three days in the forest without food or water, and I never lost sleep over Y2K.
But I’m talking about something different. I’m talking about being taken care of in an emotional way. Maybe it’s a genetic problem. I don’t know. Somehow I became a hopeless romantic. A friend tried the exorcism equivalent of purging me of this demon when she made me watch The War of the Roses two times in a row, all under the guise of a girls’ night, complete with popcorn and fuzzy slippers.
That didn’t cure me.
I want to be married. I hate being alone.
I lift the blown-out tire and throw it in my trunk, slamming it closed. My skin looks like condensation off a plastic cup. I can’t believe nobody has stopped. Not even a creepy guy. I stand there trying to breathe, trying to get a hold of my anger. I’m going to be late, I’m going to be sweaty, and I’m on the side of a highway alone.
“You need some help?”
I whirl around because I realize that I’ve just been hoping that even a creepy guy would stop, and since my world works in a way that Only my negative thoughts seem to come to pass, you can see why the glass-half-full is so important.
The morning sun blinds me, and all I see is a silhouette. The voice is deep, kind of mature.
“Well, I did need some help,” I say, fully aware that acting cute is not going to undo the sweat rings that have actually burst through three layers of fabric, so I don’t bother. I dramatically gesture to my car and try a smile. “But as you can see, I don’t now.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. But thank you very much,” I say, for stopping after I’m completely finished. I trudge back to my car and start the air conditioner. Glancing back in my rearview mirror, I study the silhouette. He sort of has the same shape as the guy in my dream last night. My night-mare. It was actually a dream after my nightmare, where you feel awake but you’re not. It wasn’t the nocturnal version of Chainsaw Massacre, but it did involve taffeta.
He doesn’t wave. He doesn’t move. He just stands there, exactly like the guy in my dream. It’s very déjà vu–like and I lock my doors. I put my blinker on, pull onto the highway, and leave him behind, driving below the speed limit on my flimsy spare tire all the way to work.
I work at Coston Real Estate. We’re squeezed between a wireless store and a Pizza Hut. We stand out a little because of our two huge dark wood doors, ten feet tall and adorned with silver handles.
I push open one of the doors and walk in. Mine is the front desk. It’s tall, almost Berlin Wall–like. People have to peer over it to see me, and I look very small on the other side. When I’m sitting, I can barely see over the top of it.
I walk toward the break room, past nine square cubicles, all tan and otherwise colorless. Even the carpet is tan. On my left are the real offices with walls.
Nicole, inside her cubicle, sees me. “What happened to you?”
We’ve been good friends ever since I started working here, ten years ago. She’s African American, two years younger than I am. She has that kind of expression I wish I could wear. Her eyebrows slant upward toward each other, like a bridge that’s opening to let a boat through. It’s part You’re weird and part I’m worried. She has sass and I love it. She’s working her way up to senior agent and is one of Mr. Coston’s favorites, but I don’t hold that against her.
I don’t answer because I’m busy staring at her new eight-by-ten framed family picture. It’s very Picture People: white background, casual body language, all four wearing identical polo’s and jeans. I love that kind of husband, who will wear matching clothes with his family. They’re so adorable.
“Jessie, seriously girl, you okay? You’ve got black smeared across
your forehead.”
I tear my eyes away from the photo. “Blowout on the highway.”
The eyebrow bridge is lowered, and she chuckles. “Honey, you look like you changed your own tire.”
I put my forehead against the edge of her cube wall. “I did.”
“Oh. Wow. I wish I knew how to change a tire.”
“No, you don’t. Trust me.”
She reaches under her desk and pulls out a neatly wrapped gift. “For you.”
I smile. I love gifts. I drop my things and tear it open even though I already know what it is. “Nicole, it’s beautiful!” It’s a leather-bound journal with gold embossed lettering and heavy lined paper inside. “What’s the occasion?”
“It’s February. I know how much this month…Well, it tends to be a long month for you, that’s all.” She points to the spine of it. “It sort of reminds me of the one I brought you back from Italy four years ago. Remember?”
“Yes, it does.”
“So, my friend, happy February. May this month bring you—”
“Love.” From my bag, I pull out a folder and slap it on her desk.
“What is this?” She says it like a mom who has just been handed a disappointing report card.
“Just look.”
Carefully, like something might jump out and insult her, she opens the folder. She picks up three glossy photos of several potential loves of my life.
“They’re hot, aren’t they?” I ask.
“Too hot,” she says.
“There’s no such thing as too hot.”
“Suspiciously too hot, like an airbrush might be involved.”
I grab the photos from her and turn them around for her to see. With my finger, I underline each of their names: Cute Bootsie Boo, Suave One You Want, One Of A Kind Man.
“Jessie Cute Bootsie Boo. Mmm. Doesn’t have a good ring to it.”
“It’s their instant message names, Nicole.”
“Yes. And that makes it better?”
I sigh. “You have got to get into the twenty-first century, you know. This is the best way to meet a guy.”
“You can tell a lot about a man by what he names himself.” She looks up at me and shakes her head. “Seriously. You set up a date with one of these and they’ll show up with a beer gut, a walker, or a rap sheet.”
“None of them rap.”
Nicole stands, grabs my arm with one hand and my stuff with the other, and whisks me to my desk. She nearly pushes me into my chair and drops everything in front of me.
“Chill out,” I say as she walks away. “This service guarantees background checks. But if you happen to end up needing a restraining order, they’ll pay for it.”
Nicole gasps and whirls around.
“I’m kidding.” But I have her attention now. I lean back in my chair, looking at the ceiling as my hands feel the leather on my new journal. “This’ll be the year, Nicole.”
“You say that every year. Especially in February, which is why I got you the--”
I snap forward. “But I’ve never taken control like this before. Three online match sites, one dating service. They find what you want or your money back.”
Nicole walks back toward me and leans over the counter. “I didn’t realize QVC sold dates. If you order in the next ten minutes, do you get two for the price of one, plus an eight-piece Tupperware set?” She reaches for my chocolate bowl.
I scowl at her but lift the bowl up so she can reach it. “What do you know about it? You got married right out of college.”
“Don’t remind me.” She carefully unwraps her candy and takes a mini-bite.
“You never even had to try.” I grab a piece of dark chocolate out of my candy bowl and get the whole thing in my mouth before she takes another bite of hers.
Nicole shrugs and leans against the counter. “Sometimes you just gotta leave these things up to fate.” She goes back to nibbling on her chocolate.
I swirl my hands in the air. “Fate, God, the universe. They’ve all been asleep on the job of setting up a love story for me.” I stand up. “No. I am going to make this happen myself.”
Nicole doesn’t look up from her candy. “Do you even know what it means to be married? To be chained to another person for the rest of your life? To pick up socks and wash underwear and care for a grown man like he’s just popped out of infancy? Huh?”
I glare at her even though she’s got eyes only for her candy. “It’s got to be better than being alone. Or being a bridesmaid eleven times.”
She bites her lip and finally glances at me. “But you know how…you kind of need everything to be a certain way.”
I nudge my stapler so it isn’t perfectly perpendicular to my sticky notes, just to show her I’m able to handle disorder. I try not to stare at it because now it’s really bugging me. “Are you saying I’m a control freak?”
“With OCD tendencies. You can’t expect everything to be exactly how you want it if you want to live through a marriage.”
I stand and start walking slowly toward the bathroom. “I know what ‘compromise’ means.”
Nicole follows. “Then why do you get mad when I have to check with my husband before we go out? That’s what marriage is. You can’t even poop without someone else knowing.”
I glance at her to see if she’s serious. She is. Part of me wants to tell her about my dream last night. I always tell her about my dreams. But she’s really pooping on my parade today. We get to her desk and she sits down. I walk on.
I have these dreams. I’m talking nocturnal, not journal. Yeah, I dream in my journal. I admit it. I’ve written in one since I was fourteen, when I found a strange delight every time I drew a heart with a boy’s name attached in squiggly letters.
But back to my nightmare. It started with me in a wedding dress. That’s not the nightmare. That part was actually cool because I was in a dress I designed in my journal when I was twenty-two.
The march was playing. I love the “Bridal March.” Nothing can replace it. I cringe every time I hear a country song or bagpipes or something. My wedding, it’s got to be traditional.
I was making my way down the aisle, rhythmically elegant, one foot in front of the other. My shoulders were thrown back, my chin lifted, and my bouquet held right at my waist. I once saw a bride carry her bouquet all the way down the aisle holding it at her chest. I shudder just talking about it.
The train fluttered behind me, like it’s weightless or maybe there’s an ocean breeze not too far away. It was long, bright white, and caused people to nod their approval.
I smiled.
Then the “Bridal March” stopped, halting like a scratched record. I looked up to find another bride in my place, wearing my dress, standing next to my guy. I couldn’t see what he looked like; he was facing the pastor. But the bride, she looked back at me with menacing eyes, overdone with teal eye shadow and fake lashes.
I screamed. I couldn’t help it. I closed my eyes and screamed again. When I opened them, I could hardly believe what I was looking at. A church full of people, looking at her. And what was I doing? Standing next to her in a bridesmaid dress.
Gasping, I looked down. Hot pink! With dyed-to-match shoes! I glanced next to me and covered my mouth. It was me again, standing next to me, in green. Dyed footwear.
And there I was again, standing next to my lime self, this time in canary yellow. On and on it goes. I counted ten of me before I woke up, gasping for air, clutching myself to make sure I was wearing cotton pajamas.
“Thank God,” I said, but as I looked up, I saw a man in my room. He was backlit against my window, like the moon was shining in on him, but I don’t think the moon was out. A scream started forming in my throat, but I recognized that he was not in a stance that indicated he was going to stab me to death. There was no knife. Nothing but an easy, casual lean against my windowsill. Truly, no less scary.
The scream arrived as I clamored for my lamp. I yanked the string three or four times before it turned on, but when it did, the man was gone.
I realize I am standing in the middle of the hallway near Nicole’s desk. She is gabbing on the phone but looking at me funny. I go to the coat closet next to the bathroom. I always, always keep a spare change of clothes at work, just in case I have to do something like change my tire. Or someone else’s. It’s happened. I take out my least favorite suit, which is why I keep it here. It’s lilac with a boxy neckline that makes me feel like I should be a nanny. I head toward the bathroom.
“Stone, get me the ad copy for the new Hope Ranch listings.”
This is my boss, Mr. Coston, dragging me back to reality. He pops his head out the door as I pass by but yells at me like I’m down the hall. I don’t think he even remembers my first name.
“Already on your desk, sir,” I say.
He’s in his sixties, with a loud but raspy voice and shiny silver hair that tops a permanent look of disappointment. “What happened to you?”
“Blown tire.” I hold up my suit. “I was just going to change.”
“Fine. Then get me a latte. Lighten up on the sugar, will you?”
“Right,” I mumble as he disappears. “Lighten up on life, will you?”
I’m the office equivalent of a bat boy. I’m the coffee girl. It’s this one thing that sort of drives me crazy about my job. I do a lot of important things, but when I have to run get coffee, I feel like I’m falling down the rungs of the occupational ladder. It makes me wonder. If I had a job I could get passionate about, would I be so desperate for a husband? I could drown myself in work rather than my dreams.
Well, either way, I’m drowning, and that’s never good.
After I change and decide I really, really dislike the color lilac, I grab my purse and head for the neighborhood Starbucks. It’s five blocks away and I like that. It gives me time to walk and think on such things as to why Mr. Coston has been married for thirty-four years, the exact number of years I haven’t been married. He doesn’t mention his wife much and doesn’t even have a picture of her in his office. He doesn’t wear a wedding band, and when he does take a vacation, it’s with his buddies to golf resorts.
It just seems like the world could better balance itself out, that’s all.
I’m nearly to Starbucks. People are leaving with their white and green cups of bliss. The putrid smell of coffee will soon replace the putrid smell of old rainwater evaporating underneath the sun. I’m not a coffee fan. I’m high strung. The feeling everyone wants by drinking coffee I have naturally, just like my chestnut hair.
I’m about to open the door, and then I see him, in all his glory.
It’s February but hotter than normal, which means a long, hot California summer is ahead—the kind that seems to bring out the beauty in blondes and the sweat glands in brunettes. I am a brunette. Not at all troubled by it. I don’t even have my hair highlighted. I own my brunetteness and always have, even when Sun-In was all the rage. And it can’t be overstated that chlorine doesn’t turn my medium chestnut hair green. Actually, it’s the copper, not the chlorine, that turns hair green—but that’s a useless trivia fact I try to save for speed dating.
I’m squatting next to my flat tire, examining the small rip. Holding my hair back and off my neck with one hand, I stand and look up and down the road, hoping to appear mildly distressed. Inside, I’ll admit it, I’m feeling moderately hysterical. My boss flips out when I’m late. It wouldn’t matter if my appendix burst, he doesn’t want to hear excuses. I wish he were the kind of guy who would just turn red in the face and yell, like Clark Kent’s newspaper boss. But no. He likes to lecture as if he’s an intellectual, except he’s weird and redundant and cliché, so it’s painful and boring.
A few cars zoom by, and I suddenly realize this could be my moment. Part of me says not to be ridiculous, because this kind of thing happens only on shows with a ZIP code or county name in the title. But still, you can’t help wondering, hoping, that maybe this is the moment when your life will change. When you meet your soul mate.
Like I said, I enjoy my glass/life half full.
Even as an optimist, I see no harm in being a little aggressive to achieve my goals. So with my free hand, I do a little wave, throw a little smile, and attempt to lock eyes with people going fifty miles an hour.
And then I see him. He’s in a red convertible, the top down, the black sunglasses shiny and tight against his tan skin. He’s wearing pink silk the way only a man with a good, measured amount of confidence can. At least that’s the way I see it from where I’m standing.
As he gets closer, his head turns and he notices me. I do a little wave, flirtatious with a slight hint of unintentional taxi hailing. I decide to smile widely, because he is going fast and I might look blurry. He smiles back. My hand falls to my side. I step back, lean against my car, and try to make my conservative business suit seem flattering. There’s nothing I can do about my upper lip sweating except hope my sweat proof department-store makeup is holding up its end of the bargain better than my blowout-proof tire did.
He seems to be slowing down.
Live in the moment, I instruct myself. Don’t think about what I should say or what I could say. Just let it roll, Jessie, let it roll. Don’t over think it.
This thought repeats itself when the convertible zooms by. I think he actually accelerated.
So.
My makeup is failing, along with whatever charm I thought I had. I just can’t imagine what kind of guy wouldn’t stop and help a woman.
Maybe I’d have more hits if I were elderly.
I do what I have to do. What I know how to do. I change my own stupid tire. Yes, I can, and have been able to since I was eighteen. I can also change my own oil but don’t because then I appear capable of taking care of myself. And I’m really not. Practically, yes, I can take care of myself. I make decent money. I drive myself home from root canals. I open cans without a can opener. I’m able to survive for three days in the forest without food or water, and I never lost sleep over Y2K.
But I’m talking about something different. I’m talking about being taken care of in an emotional way. Maybe it’s a genetic problem. I don’t know. Somehow I became a hopeless romantic. A friend tried the exorcism equivalent of purging me of this demon when she made me watch The War of the Roses two times in a row, all under the guise of a girls’ night, complete with popcorn and fuzzy slippers.
That didn’t cure me.
I want to be married. I hate being alone.
I lift the blown-out tire and throw it in my trunk, slamming it closed. My skin looks like condensation off a plastic cup. I can’t believe nobody has stopped. Not even a creepy guy. I stand there trying to breathe, trying to get a hold of my anger. I’m going to be late, I’m going to be sweaty, and I’m on the side of a highway alone.
“You need some help?”
I whirl around because I realize that I’ve just been hoping that even a creepy guy would stop, and since my world works in a way that Only my negative thoughts seem to come to pass, you can see why the glass-half-full is so important.
The morning sun blinds me, and all I see is a silhouette. The voice is deep, kind of mature.
“Well, I did need some help,” I say, fully aware that acting cute is not going to undo the sweat rings that have actually burst through three layers of fabric, so I don’t bother. I dramatically gesture to my car and try a smile. “But as you can see, I don’t now.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. But thank you very much,” I say, for stopping after I’m completely finished. I trudge back to my car and start the air conditioner. Glancing back in my rearview mirror, I study the silhouette. He sort of has the same shape as the guy in my dream last night. My night-mare. It was actually a dream after my nightmare, where you feel awake but you’re not. It wasn’t the nocturnal version of Chainsaw Massacre, but it did involve taffeta.
He doesn’t wave. He doesn’t move. He just stands there, exactly like the guy in my dream. It’s very déjà vu–like and I lock my doors. I put my blinker on, pull onto the highway, and leave him behind, driving below the speed limit on my flimsy spare tire all the way to work.
I work at Coston Real Estate. We’re squeezed between a wireless store and a Pizza Hut. We stand out a little because of our two huge dark wood doors, ten feet tall and adorned with silver handles.
I push open one of the doors and walk in. Mine is the front desk. It’s tall, almost Berlin Wall–like. People have to peer over it to see me, and I look very small on the other side. When I’m sitting, I can barely see over the top of it.
I walk toward the break room, past nine square cubicles, all tan and otherwise colorless. Even the carpet is tan. On my left are the real offices with walls.
Nicole, inside her cubicle, sees me. “What happened to you?”
We’ve been good friends ever since I started working here, ten years ago. She’s African American, two years younger than I am. She has that kind of expression I wish I could wear. Her eyebrows slant upward toward each other, like a bridge that’s opening to let a boat through. It’s part You’re weird and part I’m worried. She has sass and I love it. She’s working her way up to senior agent and is one of Mr. Coston’s favorites, but I don’t hold that against her.
I don’t answer because I’m busy staring at her new eight-by-ten framed family picture. It’s very Picture People: white background, casual body language, all four wearing identical polo’s and jeans. I love that kind of husband, who will wear matching clothes with his family. They’re so adorable.
“Jessie, seriously girl, you okay? You’ve got black smeared across
your forehead.”
I tear my eyes away from the photo. “Blowout on the highway.”
The eyebrow bridge is lowered, and she chuckles. “Honey, you look like you changed your own tire.”
I put my forehead against the edge of her cube wall. “I did.”
“Oh. Wow. I wish I knew how to change a tire.”
“No, you don’t. Trust me.”
She reaches under her desk and pulls out a neatly wrapped gift. “For you.”
I smile. I love gifts. I drop my things and tear it open even though I already know what it is. “Nicole, it’s beautiful!” It’s a leather-bound journal with gold embossed lettering and heavy lined paper inside. “What’s the occasion?”
“It’s February. I know how much this month…Well, it tends to be a long month for you, that’s all.” She points to the spine of it. “It sort of reminds me of the one I brought you back from Italy four years ago. Remember?”
“Yes, it does.”
“So, my friend, happy February. May this month bring you—”
“Love.” From my bag, I pull out a folder and slap it on her desk.
“What is this?” She says it like a mom who has just been handed a disappointing report card.
“Just look.”
Carefully, like something might jump out and insult her, she opens the folder. She picks up three glossy photos of several potential loves of my life.
“They’re hot, aren’t they?” I ask.
“Too hot,” she says.
“There’s no such thing as too hot.”
“Suspiciously too hot, like an airbrush might be involved.”
I grab the photos from her and turn them around for her to see. With my finger, I underline each of their names: Cute Bootsie Boo, Suave One You Want, One Of A Kind Man.
“Jessie Cute Bootsie Boo. Mmm. Doesn’t have a good ring to it.”
“It’s their instant message names, Nicole.”
“Yes. And that makes it better?”
I sigh. “You have got to get into the twenty-first century, you know. This is the best way to meet a guy.”
“You can tell a lot about a man by what he names himself.” She looks up at me and shakes her head. “Seriously. You set up a date with one of these and they’ll show up with a beer gut, a walker, or a rap sheet.”
“None of them rap.”
Nicole stands, grabs my arm with one hand and my stuff with the other, and whisks me to my desk. She nearly pushes me into my chair and drops everything in front of me.
“Chill out,” I say as she walks away. “This service guarantees background checks. But if you happen to end up needing a restraining order, they’ll pay for it.”
Nicole gasps and whirls around.
“I’m kidding.” But I have her attention now. I lean back in my chair, looking at the ceiling as my hands feel the leather on my new journal. “This’ll be the year, Nicole.”
“You say that every year. Especially in February, which is why I got you the--”
I snap forward. “But I’ve never taken control like this before. Three online match sites, one dating service. They find what you want or your money back.”
Nicole walks back toward me and leans over the counter. “I didn’t realize QVC sold dates. If you order in the next ten minutes, do you get two for the price of one, plus an eight-piece Tupperware set?” She reaches for my chocolate bowl.
I scowl at her but lift the bowl up so she can reach it. “What do you know about it? You got married right out of college.”
“Don’t remind me.” She carefully unwraps her candy and takes a mini-bite.
“You never even had to try.” I grab a piece of dark chocolate out of my candy bowl and get the whole thing in my mouth before she takes another bite of hers.
Nicole shrugs and leans against the counter. “Sometimes you just gotta leave these things up to fate.” She goes back to nibbling on her chocolate.
I swirl my hands in the air. “Fate, God, the universe. They’ve all been asleep on the job of setting up a love story for me.” I stand up. “No. I am going to make this happen myself.”
Nicole doesn’t look up from her candy. “Do you even know what it means to be married? To be chained to another person for the rest of your life? To pick up socks and wash underwear and care for a grown man like he’s just popped out of infancy? Huh?”
I glare at her even though she’s got eyes only for her candy. “It’s got to be better than being alone. Or being a bridesmaid eleven times.”
She bites her lip and finally glances at me. “But you know how…you kind of need everything to be a certain way.”
I nudge my stapler so it isn’t perfectly perpendicular to my sticky notes, just to show her I’m able to handle disorder. I try not to stare at it because now it’s really bugging me. “Are you saying I’m a control freak?”
“With OCD tendencies. You can’t expect everything to be exactly how you want it if you want to live through a marriage.”
I stand and start walking slowly toward the bathroom. “I know what ‘compromise’ means.”
Nicole follows. “Then why do you get mad when I have to check with my husband before we go out? That’s what marriage is. You can’t even poop without someone else knowing.”
I glance at her to see if she’s serious. She is. Part of me wants to tell her about my dream last night. I always tell her about my dreams. But she’s really pooping on my parade today. We get to her desk and she sits down. I walk on.
I have these dreams. I’m talking nocturnal, not journal. Yeah, I dream in my journal. I admit it. I’ve written in one since I was fourteen, when I found a strange delight every time I drew a heart with a boy’s name attached in squiggly letters.
But back to my nightmare. It started with me in a wedding dress. That’s not the nightmare. That part was actually cool because I was in a dress I designed in my journal when I was twenty-two.
The march was playing. I love the “Bridal March.” Nothing can replace it. I cringe every time I hear a country song or bagpipes or something. My wedding, it’s got to be traditional.
I was making my way down the aisle, rhythmically elegant, one foot in front of the other. My shoulders were thrown back, my chin lifted, and my bouquet held right at my waist. I once saw a bride carry her bouquet all the way down the aisle holding it at her chest. I shudder just talking about it.
The train fluttered behind me, like it’s weightless or maybe there’s an ocean breeze not too far away. It was long, bright white, and caused people to nod their approval.
I smiled.
Then the “Bridal March” stopped, halting like a scratched record. I looked up to find another bride in my place, wearing my dress, standing next to my guy. I couldn’t see what he looked like; he was facing the pastor. But the bride, she looked back at me with menacing eyes, overdone with teal eye shadow and fake lashes.
I screamed. I couldn’t help it. I closed my eyes and screamed again. When I opened them, I could hardly believe what I was looking at. A church full of people, looking at her. And what was I doing? Standing next to her in a bridesmaid dress.
Gasping, I looked down. Hot pink! With dyed-to-match shoes! I glanced next to me and covered my mouth. It was me again, standing next to me, in green. Dyed footwear.
And there I was again, standing next to my lime self, this time in canary yellow. On and on it goes. I counted ten of me before I woke up, gasping for air, clutching myself to make sure I was wearing cotton pajamas.
“Thank God,” I said, but as I looked up, I saw a man in my room. He was backlit against my window, like the moon was shining in on him, but I don’t think the moon was out. A scream started forming in my throat, but I recognized that he was not in a stance that indicated he was going to stab me to death. There was no knife. Nothing but an easy, casual lean against my windowsill. Truly, no less scary.
The scream arrived as I clamored for my lamp. I yanked the string three or four times before it turned on, but when it did, the man was gone.
I realize I am standing in the middle of the hallway near Nicole’s desk. She is gabbing on the phone but looking at me funny. I go to the coat closet next to the bathroom. I always, always keep a spare change of clothes at work, just in case I have to do something like change my tire. Or someone else’s. It’s happened. I take out my least favorite suit, which is why I keep it here. It’s lilac with a boxy neckline that makes me feel like I should be a nanny. I head toward the bathroom.
“Stone, get me the ad copy for the new Hope Ranch listings.”
This is my boss, Mr. Coston, dragging me back to reality. He pops his head out the door as I pass by but yells at me like I’m down the hall. I don’t think he even remembers my first name.
“Already on your desk, sir,” I say.
He’s in his sixties, with a loud but raspy voice and shiny silver hair that tops a permanent look of disappointment. “What happened to you?”
“Blown tire.” I hold up my suit. “I was just going to change.”
“Fine. Then get me a latte. Lighten up on the sugar, will you?”
“Right,” I mumble as he disappears. “Lighten up on life, will you?”
I’m the office equivalent of a bat boy. I’m the coffee girl. It’s this one thing that sort of drives me crazy about my job. I do a lot of important things, but when I have to run get coffee, I feel like I’m falling down the rungs of the occupational ladder. It makes me wonder. If I had a job I could get passionate about, would I be so desperate for a husband? I could drown myself in work rather than my dreams.
Well, either way, I’m drowning, and that’s never good.
After I change and decide I really, really dislike the color lilac, I grab my purse and head for the neighborhood Starbucks. It’s five blocks away and I like that. It gives me time to walk and think on such things as to why Mr. Coston has been married for thirty-four years, the exact number of years I haven’t been married. He doesn’t mention his wife much and doesn’t even have a picture of her in his office. He doesn’t wear a wedding band, and when he does take a vacation, it’s with his buddies to golf resorts.
It just seems like the world could better balance itself out, that’s all.
I’m nearly to Starbucks. People are leaving with their white and green cups of bliss. The putrid smell of coffee will soon replace the putrid smell of old rainwater evaporating underneath the sun. I’m not a coffee fan. I’m high strung. The feeling everyone wants by drinking coffee I have naturally, just like my chestnut hair.
I’m about to open the door, and then I see him, in all his glory.
Dynamic Uno here: Boy can I relate to this book--with the exception of stalkers, quitting my job to start my own business, and trying to get a boyfriend. (Well, maybe not the last one. After all, I am still single and in my 30's.) In any case, I LOVED this book. I started reading it right before I had to go back to work and I don't think I've laughed quite so hard in awhile.
Jessie Stone is our lovable and formerly stable heroine and she has actually kept a journal (109 journals to be exact) since she was about 9 years old. A hopeless romantic, she has penned many (over 1200) ways that her "man" should propose to her. The only problem, there's no "man" in the picture. Thus the speed dating incident on Valentine's Day which ended in disaster. Or did it? A unique "stalker" shows up and wants to change Jessie's life forever--that is, if she's willing to give up her purple feathered journaling pen.
Join Jessie, and a host of other characters like her drama queen sister Brooklyn (boy can I relate to that one!), her best married friend Nicole (most of mine are married too), her best and totally hot boy "friend" Blake (whom Jessie is madly in love with), Blake's mother and co-shop owner Malia, and the unique stalker that seems to be following Jessie more and more.
Seriously, aside from the dating part, Jessie and I could be almost twins. I loved reading about her life and how she decided to "lose control" much to the shock of many of her friends and former boss. (If only I could be that brave.) The humor had me laughing out loud, much to sleeping Madison's (the cat) chagrin. If you want a book that will lift your spirits and have you reaching for the chocolate (hopefully you're not allergic like Jessie), this is the book for you. Even if you're not single--the details of Jessie's life and her pining for her best friend will leave you laughing and reminiscing about your single days. Go get this book. It's worth it. Let me know what you think. Happy Reading!
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