San Antonio has been on my bucket list for some time. My brother lives in Texas, and during one of my visits to him, the subject of San Antonio came up. He and his wife love the place and thought it would be fun to show me around this charming city on one of my future visits. Somehow that never happened, but it still got onto my bucket list. (Check my Pinterest page)

I’ve also never been to RWA Nationals before so that’s a first, too. I’m not afraid of crowds or new places and people I’ve never met, but I admit to being a little nervous about making the most of this experience. To date, I’ve been drawn more to the laid back, small and informal conferences, and while I’m keeping an open mind, I’ll probably still feel that way when I get back. Casts of thousands and rubbing shoulders with famous people don’t impress me as much as spending time with a few sincere and interesting people. But you never know…

Nationals better live up to at least some of the hype considering what it’s costing me to go. I am looking forward to meeting some lovely people I’ve only known through email and Facebook. I’m also looking forward to seeing my own editor again – it’s been a couple years since I last saw her face to face, and back then she wasn’t my editor. I’ve reviewed the schedule and some of the workshops sound really interesting so I’ve got my trusty pencil and notebook (I’m a little old fashioned that way – always did take copious notes by hand and haven’t transferred that to electronic gadgets yet.) I’m sure I’ll come home with new ideas, new inspiration and new energy – that’s always been an aftermath of a conference. I hope I’ll also come home with some great take-aways and a few wonderful new friends. And that’s not even counting the books!

I also spent a tad more for my hotel room so I can see the Riverwalk from my own little balcony. Pictures of it have piqued my interest, and I’m eager to walk along the lovely paved walkways, poking into shops, perhaps stopping for a bite to eat at one of the many food emporiums.  Since history is one of my passions, I’m taking time to visit the Alamo as well. It’s just a short walk from both the convention center and my hotel. If I had wheels, I might visit some of the other missions in the area, but for now the Alamo will have to do.

However my trip turns out, I’ll be back here next week checking in to give you the highlights and share a few photos from my not-so-barefoot trip to San Antonio. And also to share some good news about an upcoming deal on my book, FALLING FOR ZOE.

Sunsets are stunning                        The lake is serene                            quiet places everywhere 

There’s a lot to love about my island. It’s peaceful and beautiful. There are gorgeous sunsets at night and great swimming in the daytime. Duff, of course, loves the swimming part best. He doesn’t have to wait for me to take him to the beach – he can just take himself in swimming any time the spirit moves him. I have a wonderful little pea pod – a double ended boat designed originally in Maine for harvesting lobster pots. It rows like a dream and we can go out for a trip around the islands any time we like. It’s even got a set of sails and we can sail her when the wind is right.

Duff loves to swim                            The "cottage"                                    Julie on the swing 

My parents bought this little island when I was eleven. We camped on it for two years before my father built the “temporary cottage” that was supposed to be the precursor for the main event, a snug and comfortable summer home with heating and plumbing and plenty of room for everyone. But that was before he got his first New Hampshire real estate tax bill. In the years since, the building codes have changed and building anything bigger would take greasing some palms somewhere to get variances for the setback regulations. Eventually my Dad did add a small porch along the front and a tiny kitchen on the back corner, but the camp itself is still one room, fourteen feet square with bunks up one wall to sleep five. Six if you count the couch.

There a lot of great memories made over the years. My Sweet Sixteen birthday party was held here and I got to invite the boy I had a crush on at the time. We’ve had countless wedding showers, baby showers and birthday parties. Early on, my mother’s side of the family held an annual Clan Day and all her siblings, their kids and friends came together for a day-long event and many of these were held here at the island. But as kids grew and had their own agendas that family tradition died off and a new one began that we call Mutt’s Nuts. My kids and their kids, my sister-in-law and her kids and all their kids come for an entire week of family fun. 

Mutt's Nuts (earlier years)            The Hammock hangout                  Me and Natalie under the canopy

You’re asking where we all sleep, I’m sure, and there’s the rub. The camp is still only fourteen feet square, a dimension dictated by the size of the tent that it was originally built as a platform for. We still have to haul drinking water and use a single outhouse, and six beds don’t cut it. So, every family has their own tent, or tents. It’s like an encampment with tents popping up everywhere. My son-in-law has the biggest and most elaborate set up so we call that site Chateau DeVost. Some families with older kids have two or three tents to house them all. We’ve got a big picnic area we shelter under a temporary carport so we can all sit down to eat together rain or shine. We can also play games there or make puzzles.

Julie at the well                              Philip and Jack                                Jacqui can't decide what next

We’ve got Sammy’s Beach, a lovely little sandy beach in a shallow cove that’s perfect for the littlest among us, and we have a float in deep water for the rest of the swimmers. My grandkids love the place and the sense of freedom it gives them. Away from lives governed by electronic gadgets and television, they’ve discovered the joys of fort building and nature. And every night there’s a campfire. Smore’s of course! And a comfortable camaraderie that only sitting around a campfire can create.

We’re always here in the summer, but we’ve taken to celebrating all the holidays. This year it will be Easter and there will be a massive egg hunt. We had Halloween two years back when all the kidlets got dressed up and went trick or treating at all the tents in tent city. Maybe next year will be Christmas.

Pirate party                                         Lynn & Theresa                                    Philip in the bucket

      Faerie Party                         Halloween

So the memories continue to be made and it’s still a fun place to come. BUT…

For the last six years, since I sold my Maine home and moved to St Augustine, I’ve come here for several weeks in the summer. My first year was for three months. It had to be the coldest June on record in New Hampshire and I shivered every night even in my LLBean winter weight sleeping bag. Since then, I’ve come only after the 4^th of July and leave before the end of August. But I’m finding it harder and harder to appreciate “roughing it.”  No hot showers, hauling all my drinking water, a short hike every time I need to use the bathroom, living out of a suitcase, sleeping on an air mattress in a tent, lousy to no cell service and on and off again internet, (no TV either but that’s not really much of a loss for me) and the utter isolation are getting to me. Not to mention that getting on and off the island requires a trip by boat and a hike up Cardiac Hill to where the car gets parked.

Sammy's Beach            Summer Digs                The Thunder House      Dining al fresco

I hate to admit it, but I’m beginning to think I might be getting too old for this. A friend of mine said his idea of roughing it is a 3 star hotel and I’m beginning to agree. Maybe next year I’ll find myself a snug little cottage to rent for most of my New England stay and only come camping for the week the whole gang is here. I can hear the chorus calling me a fuddy duddy now, but it just might be worth it.

As I scrolled through dozens of celebration photos and articles about our National birthday holiday on FB, and read the items in the local paper as diverse as one about how my home town has once again made a “best” list, this time for July 4^th Fun, to a lengthy ad by a religious group with quotes from important men in our past, it occurred to me that for far too many, it’s only lip service.

I cannot claim that I have done much of anything to preserve what our forefathers created for us, even though I treasure the gift of freedom and independence. I fly my flag, I vote, I pray, and I support our soldiers, but I’ve never personally put anything on the line for the freedoms I enjoy. One blog I read pointed out that independence means NOT BEING DEPENDENT. That thought gave me pause. I collect Social Security. Does that make me dependent? Because I collect it, I also have a subsidy for my medical insurance - although I do still pay a monthly premium considerably in excess of any I ever paid while working. So, just how independent am I? Could or would I give up both should it become necessary to claim my independence?

Then there are my freedoms. Yes, I live in a country where I can read what is called the “free” press, but I’ve lived long enough and am well read enough to know that the press, the media so many in this country rely on for much of their news and understanding, is slanted so far in one direction it’s a wonder it doesn’t topple over on its face. So, I don’t rely on our media alone to figure out what’s going on in my world or my country. Perhaps that makes me a little independent. Thankfully, today there’s the internet where I can learn what’s going on from all points of view, everywhere in the world. Makes understanding things more balanced, but at the same time more frightening when I realize how many others around me do believe everything they read in our papers or see on TV.

I am, thankfully, allowed to worship as I wish, but even that is apparently not a guarantee. If you happen to be in the military, there are those who would like to make it unlawful for the military to allow prayer and even to remove the chaplain corps from our military completely. And there have been alarming reports of powerful people in our government making sure that Muslims are guaranteed their right to pray while at the same time curtailing the rights of Christians. I have no argument with the former, but I am dismayed by the latter. Our government, our entire Nation even, was founded on the right to choose how we pray, where and when and to whom. Why should a small percentage of those who choose NOT to believe be allowed to tell me that I have to sneak off to some private place to do so lest I offend them? I am offended by the very notion that I am not free to worship as I wish. If we as a nation are not offended by this encroachment then we will surely lose our right to freedom of religion because those who wage this war want us to be a nation free FROM religion.

I own a gun, but there are restrictions on where I can take it. I have an income (separate from Social Security) but there are limits on how I can use it and on how much I can keep. I am free to travel, but should I wish to do so by air, I must remove my shoes. let my body be scanned and leave my trusty Swiss Army knife at home. There are lots of freedoms that were once enjoyed without limit in this country that are slowly but surely being curtailed, taxed or legislated away.

It occurs to me to wonder what such men as John Adams or George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Thomas Paine and so many others who we so often quote when discussing freedom and independence would think of the country we have become today. Among other things, they based our government on the sure knowledge that a moral Christian constituency was a given, and yet every vestige of morality and faith has been systematically removed from our schools and public life. I think they would be appalled.

Years ago, late on a hot summer night in our Nation’s capital, my daughter and I came upon a simple fountain made up of three columns of water gushing out of the ground. If there was a dedication plaque, it was dark and we didn’t see it, but it was still hot, even at midnight, and we were drawn to the cool water rushing into the night air. At first we just cuffed handfuls of water at each other, but soon we were daring each other to leap over the columns of water, and eventually we were thoroughly soaked, laughing, happy and feeling very free. At one point, I glanced up and noticed a police officer standing beside his cruiser watching us. Perhaps we weren’t supposed to be there playing in the water like that, but I’ll never know because that man decided to let freedom ring that night.

If the officer had come down and curtailed our fun, we’d have humbly, and drippingly, climbed into our car and gone back to our lodgings. But what else are we prepared to give up should someone in power decide we don’t have the freedom to choose what we wish to do? Our president is fond of drawing lines in the sand and warning others not to cross them, then retreating from the line the first time it’s challenged. Is that what we as a nation have become? Drawers of lines in the sand, giving lip service to what we believe, yet willing to back down at the first sign of dissent? It’s a difficult question and one I think we all need to ask ourselves.

How much is freedom and independence worth to you? What are you willing to sacrifice to keep the liberty you have been blessed with? Would you be willing to risk your home, your reputation and even your life? That's what our forefathers, who defied the king of England risked. Or how about your freedom if you decided that civil disobedience was the only answer to oppression or misguided policy? Our men and women in the military risk their lives every day in places were violence is a way of life to project the American ideal in a world where life means little and religion has been perverted to gain power. What is freedom and independence worth to you?

     It's my birthday and the years keep adding up. I remember the year I turned fifty. The closest of my friends were eager to present me with black balloons and shower me with bits of shiny confetti that said, “Over the Hill.” But I had an answer for them.

“Today is the first day of the second half of my life!”

The second HALF was important to me. For one thing, my grandmother lived to be a hundred and two and I aimed to match her. But more importantly, I had a huge bucket list of things that I wanted to do and I was eager to get started. Fifty was a good place to start. My baby had gone off to college and I’d moved to my new home by the sea in Maine. I had a new and interesting job with a fantastic boss, who is still my friend today, even though I’ve retired now. I look back on that birthday today and it seems like a lot more years than it’s been. But then, I’ve been to a lot more places than even I’d dreamed was possible and done some really neat things.

I took up skydiving, which is probably the most outrageous and exciting thing on my bucket list. What an incredible thing to really fly with the air rushing past, tipping, turning and flipping. Then you pull the ripcord and suddenly the world is silent except for the soft flutter of your parchute. You can see for miles and it’s fantastic. Better than looking out an airplane window, even a small plane with big windows. How I love that canopy ride back to earth. The feeling of freedom is amazing.

I swam with the Whales                       snorkeled over coral reefs                      and climbed Mt. Tafahi 

Then I joined the Peace Corps. That adventure took me to the other side of the world to a culture and climate very different from anything I’d ever known. I lived with a Tongan family for two years, taught English to beautiful brown-eyed children and  made a whole raft of new friends. While I was there, I swam with whales and crawled through lava tubes, climbed an extinct volcano mountain, and bobbed in a warm volcano fed spa of very green water. I dove into Mariner’s Cave and snorkeled over fantastic colored coral reefs, camped on a South Pacific beach and sailed on water so blue it made me catch my breath.

found a new family in Tonga                        taught ESL                                and explored a lava tube

When I left Tonga, I traveled home the long way. In New Zealand I hiked over a glacier and into ice caves, rode in a helicopter and took a train ride through the alps. In Syndey Australia, I climbed the bridge, met a wallaby and visited the Opera House. Two of my children traveled to meet me in Thailand and during our week there we had a James Bond experience, running through a busy market from a tuk tuk driver who didn’t want to lose his fare. We fed monkeys and fish, rode elephants and rafts and participated in Song kran, the Thai New Year where NO one stays dry. In Vietnam, I toured the Hanoi Hilton, Khe San, the Mekong River and the tunnels of Chu Chi and got the “Other” side of the story of the American War. But I also took a train ride down the coast from Hanoi to Saigon, stopping in Hue, Hoi An, and Nga Trang, visiting thousands-of-years-old ruins and temples, cruising on the Perfume River, and I swam in the South China Sea where once our soldiers went for R&R. In Saigon, I had lunch at the Rex Hotel before flying on to Singapore. From there, I visited friends in Marseille, France and was treated to a week long jaunt of castles, quaint villages, churches and pubs and the beautiful coast. And then I was home again.

Hiking the glacier, exploring ice caves    Syndey, Australia                            Singapore, Singapore

Hoi An - my favorite Vietnam city        Royal Hue                                        South China Sea in Nha Trang

SongKran - no one stays dry              Provance, France                             Provance, France  

In the years since then, I’ve acquired ten new grandchildren and moved again, this time to St Augustine, Florida. I’ve become a published author and begun a new career. I’ve spent New Year’s Eve in places like Paris France and Times Square. I’ve dressed as a colonial Spanish lady and worked in a taberna circa 1740. I’ve made dozens of new friends and discovered dozens of new historic sites, but I’m just getting started on that bucket list. So, this year is number sixty-eight, but who’s counting? I’ve still got a lot of places to see yet, new friends I haven’t met and books that still need writing.   What's on your BUCKET LIST?

                                                        Me and MacDuff with Win and Max and Katie

 “Dogs are not our whole life, but they make our lives whole.”  ― Roger A. Caras

My friend called this morning while I was working my way through a list of things I needed to get done in preparation for my annual sojourn in New England. And suddenly there was something a whole lot more important to do than refilling prescriptions and making appointments to have the car serviced. Win had had to put her beloved Labrador retriever, Max, to rest today.

There are lots of losses more heartbreaking than losing a much-loved pet and I’ve experienced too many of them, so I know. But somehow when that joy-filled, unconditional-loving, welcoming presence in one’s life is not longer there, the hole left behind is incredibly big. We know going into the relationship that our pets’ lifespans are far shorter and we will lose them one day, but still we welcome them into our lives and our hearts. And we are so much richer for it. Saying goodbye is hard, but to never have experienced that kind of unstinting, tail-wagging devotion is unthinkable (for me at least and for my friend Win.)

A dog doesn’t care how rich or poor you are, if you’re having a bad hair day or have just had a total make-over. They are not impressed with how important you might be in your world – to them you are the world. They accept you just as you are, joyful to play whenever you’re up for it, willing to be a quiet companion when you can’t. If you’re excited, then so are they. If you’re sad, they offer their silent assurances with a nudge or a lick. When you’re lonely, they curl up close by to keep you company. They love you without judgment and that’s rare in this world we live in where standards are everywhere and judgment is swift and often uncompromising.

But now sweet, lovable Max is gone.

MacDuff went with me to pay our respects and he offered his usual body-wriggling, so-glad-we-met greeting. But he was far more philosophical, easily diverted by new scents that needed checking out once he’d taken a good sniff of the blanket Max had rested on and realized he was no longer there. For me – not so much. I know my friend will go home tonight to a house where there is no Max to greet her at the door with a happy wag and a look of eager expectation in his brown eyes. He won’t be there to join her for a walk around the neighborhood, or ask to be helped onto her bed to curl up nearby when she sleeps. Or in this case, lays awake remembering Max as a puppy. Remembering his joy at the beach, swimming and frolicking with his doggy friends, or all those many days and nights of just being there, a faithful, loving companion. 

“Dogs leave paw prints on our lives and our souls, which are as unique as fingerprints in every way.” ― Ashly Lorenzana

RIP – Max

You will be missed.

A friend of mine shot me an email the other day, “can we meet for lunch? I’ve got someone I want you to meet.”

I confess my initial reaction was reluctance. I’d just gotten the first round of edits back from my editor and was busy going through them, adding stuff she wanted, fixing things that needed fixing. I also have a new contract for a book I haven’t even started writing that I’m busy doing research for and trying to plot. I have a lady who has asked for my help critiquing an entire manuscript before she submits it to an editor who expressed an interest in her story pitch. And another lady who is one of my critique partners who wants me to look at her “Stuff!”  In short, there is more work to keep me glued to my computer than usual and I was more inclined to stay home and plough my way through it. But Win is a very good friend and on top of her wanting to introduce me to someone, the last time I saw her was at a funeral and we haven’t talked, really talked, in months. So, I said yes.

At some point, lunch turned into supper, but that was okay. Better, in fact, than interrupting the middle of my day. So off I went last night to meet Win and her friend. I really need an attitude adjustment. Meeting new people is always an adventure and there is always something to be taken away, savored, remembered, learned or treasured. Marguerite was something of an exception though. She was all that and more. Win had told me she was an interesting lady, that she had lived an interesting life. Win was understating it. I think we closed the restaurant – I know we were still talking when the bus boy was hovering around our table wanting to clear it. And the rest of the tables were empty and already set up for the following day.

Can you imagine being born in Spain before the Spanish Revolution and escaping as a child to France? Then later escaping France when Hitler rampaged across Europe? And yet again from Cuba after Castro came to power? This lady had done all of that and more. Her story could have kept me entranced for at least another week of dinners and more.  She’s curious about finding someone to ghostwrite her life story and I’m going to try to help her find such a person. But in the meantime, I’m reminded:

Meeting new people is always and adventure – one I should never hesitate to accept. Life is way too short and there are worlds out there to explore. It’s the people you meet who can bring some of those worlds to your door.

Thank you Win for shooting me that invitation and thank you Marguerite for sharing some of the colorful stories of your life. You are an amazing woman and I’m glad I met you. 

Vickie King, author of the fantastic new series The Braddocks has stopped by this morning to share some interesting tidbits about the unique little town of Corrigan that you won’t find in Carly’s Rule or Dusty’s Fate, and perhaps something about herself as well.

Welcome Vickie, it’s nice to have you visiting my virtual beach bungalow this morning. You must be pretty excited about the release of book #2 in the Braddocks series. I got to wondering about this town called Corrigan. I know there’s a lake there and a delightful pastry shop along with beautiful old homes. Tell us a little more about Corrigan and the people we might meet there.

Thank you, Skye. I’m happy to be here. Yes, I was extremely excited to see the release of Dusty’s Fate.

Corrigan is bits and pieces of different towns where I’ve visited and even lived. It’s a place where I would want to live. The older sections of Corrigan are truly neighborhoods. It’s where families have known their neighbors for years. Their children have gone to school together from kindergarten to graduation. Families get together to have cook outs. But the lake has been a draw, so Corrigan is growing. There are also a few newer housing developments and more businesses.

---

Luke Donovan returned in Carly’s Rule, hired by the historical society to restore an old building in town as well as work the old Thaxton House for his friend. What’s the history of Corrigan? Are there any historical sites I might want to visit - in my imagination of course?

Yes, there is a small castle built in the late 1800’s. There’s a story behind this, but you’ll have to wait until Landon’s story comes out to find out the history.

Are the Thaxton House and Brian Thaxton going to be featured in a future book? Carly and Luke bought the Thaxton house and renovated it. At this point, Brian doesn’t come back into the story, but you never know.

---

We all met Dusty in Carly’s Rule and I am so glad to finally have a chance to read his story. Tell us a little about Dusty (and the lady he’s going to fall in love with.)

Since his wife died, Dusty has lost his way. He took too many risks. He’s tired of his family hovering over him, as if they feared his grief would propel him off the deep end at any moment.

Julianna “Jules” Donovan is definitely a loner and fiercely independent. As a foster kid, she used to want a family, but she’s had enough families to last a lifetime. So she is not waiting on some Prince Charming to come along. Unlike her mother, Jules will do anything to protect her child.

Anything else you’d like to share either about yourself, Carly’s Rule, Dusty’s Fate or book number 3 – is there a title yet?

Book #3 is about Landon and Roxie. The working title is Landon’s Hope. Of course, that could always change.

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For everyone who’s read Carly’s Rule – is Carly ever going to recreate that cookie recipe? 

She will if I can ever find the recipe. LOL. You see, that recipe truly exists. My mom used to make it when I was a little girl. If we find the recipe, I’ll definitely post it.

Perhaps you’d like to share a teaser with us here and a link so we can hop right on over and buy the whole book once our interest has been piqued.

Skye, thank so much for having me. Your blog is sensational, and I think that being able to write in front of a window that overlooks the beach is amazing. Although I’d probably be one of those people who does more gazing out the window at that beautiful scenery than writing.  

Actually, Vickie, I do a fair amount of daydreaming looking out that window, but some of that can be productive if I'm plotting things in my head. The bigger distraction is that I live on the corner where everyone in my nieghborhood goes by to get to the beach. And they always wave and if the window is open, say Hi. My dog, sociable being that he is, insists on not only himself going out to greet them, but I have to go out to greet them with him. He keeps nudging my wrist until I give up trying to type and get up to go out with him and be sociable.

If anyone would like to read a teaser, here is a bit of the first chapter. I’m also including the link to the book on Amazon. It’s available in print or e-book. Thanks for allowing me to share this. Below are also links to my facebook page and blog.

Link to Dusty’s Fate on Amazon:  http://tinyurl.com/ofubxbn

Facebook page:  http://tinyurl.com/jvkn37b

Blog:  http://vickielking.blogspot.com/

West Virginia Private Investigator, Dusty Braddock, takes a job to put some distance between him and his hovering family, who believe he’s on a downhill path to disaster. Three years ago,  Dusty's wife and unborn child were killed in car accident. He hadn’t been behind the wheel, but he believed he'd killed his wife and the baby growing inside her as surely as if he had been. The guilt consumes him and festers in his heart.

Foster system survivor Jules Donovan wants to find a guardian for her son, to assure a stable family life for him should anything happen to her. The likeliest candidate is a man who may be her brother. Getting to know this man and his family is Jules' priority, but could leave her vulnerable if a DNA test proves they are not, after all, related.

Dusty's family is connected to Jules' efforts, and the case puts him in the middle of her problematic life. Yet, he can’t seem to walk away from her or her son.

Jules wants to belong to someone. No one has ever truly cared about her, or said I love you. Now, the only man who ever made her feel like she belongs wants more than she can give. But can she ever go back to her normal life if trusting him proves to be a mistake? 

Chapter 1

When looking for a missing person, experience had taught Dusty Braddock to be prepared for anything, but nothing could have prepared him for the woman standing in the doorway of the garage apartment.

Something about those vivid blue eyes windowed an old soul, or maybe she could actually see into his soul, into the blackness of the guilt that would be forever anchored there.  Nauseated that his own blame never strayed far from his mind, he scrambled internally to put his thoughts together.

“Julianna Donovan?” Between two fingers, he held up the beige business card he’d picked up at The Artist’s Mall in Scottsdale where she sold her pottery.

He saw the moment the young woman in the loose-fitting khaki shorts and clay-smudged tee shirt recognized it as hers. She had to be asking herself how he’d gotten her home address, when only her name, web address, and phone number were listed on the card. As a private investigator, her physical address had been the easy part for him.

She stared at him as if she were memorizing his features in case she had to identify him in a lineup or describe him to a sketch artist.  “That’s me.  But customers aren’t allowed at my workshop, and I don’t sell any pottery out of here . . . ever.”

Yeah, well, he wasn’t all that friggin’ excited to be here either, but he had a job to do.

“If you need something special made, place your order through the website, through the Artist’s Mall, or call the number on the card.”  The woman took a single step back from the doorway.

The motion released a waft of blessed coolness from inside that teased his skin, which had been heated by the blazing Arizona sun.  He glimpsed the potter’s wheel behind her, evidence that the ground floor of the two-story garage unit served as a workroom.

“About that,” he blurted out quickly for fear she might close the door in his face and secretly wishing she would so he could get on with his life.  “This is too important for a phone call.”  He pulled one of his own business cards from his shirt pocket and then handed it to her.

She took it, regarded it warily and frowned.  “A private investigator?”

“I’ve been hired to find Betsy Donovan.  You’re her daughter, right?”

Her eyes widened, big and round like the deer back home in West Virginia, when headlights spellbound them in the dark.  Within seconds, the initial surprise drained from her eyes, leaving a guardedness that bordered on defiance.

“Betsy Donovan gave birth to me, but she’s been dead for years.  Why are you looking for her?  If she had old debts—”

“I know she passed away.  I’m sorry about that.”  He had a copy of the death certificate in his messenger bag.  “This isn’t about money, though.”

“Then, what?”

“My client hired me to find his mother, Betsy Donovan.”

On a sigh that appeared to be born more of relief than frustration, some of the tension drained from her face, putting a little more natural color into her high cheeks, enhancing that earthy, scrubbed clean look about her.  Her lips curved in a slightly crooked tilt, and for the first time, he noticed the resemblance to his brother-in-law, Luke.  Dusty’s stomach twitched.  Not just any twitch, but that old, familiar, sit-up-and-pay-attention hitch he’d always gotten when he was on the right track.  He hadn’t experienced it in a long time.

“Has to be a different Donovan.  I don’t have any siblings, Mister . . . .”  She looked at his card again.  “Mr. Braddock.”

“Dusty will do.”  Sensing more than seeing her withdrawing from the conversation, he glanced behind him at the old-fashioned glider on the open breezeway that connected the garage apartment to the house next door.  He motioned toward the seat.  “Maybe we could sit for a minute.”  He hated to do business under the unspoken threat of a door about to be shut in his face.

“Why?  Your Betsy Donovan wasn’t my mother.  Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

How he wished he could excuse her and be on his way, but since he’d accepted this case mainly to get away from his family’s hovering, he only had himself to blame.  “Give me two minutes, and then I’ll go.”

She sighed, looked over her shoulder.  He got a glimpse of the dark braid that fell down her back to her waist.  Then she stepped out pulling the door nearly closed, yet never taking her hand from the doorknob.  Guess he had his two minutes.

“Years ago, my client’s mother left a six-year-marriage and a five-year-old son behind in Texas.  The son hired me to find out what happened to his mother.”  Dusty couldn’t fault his brother-in-law, Luke, for wanting that closure.  At least someone in the family would be able to put their past to rest.

“Well, there you go.  The woman who gave birth to me wouldn’t have stayed with the same man for six months, much less six years.  Now, please—”

“I’ve followed the trail of my client’s mother from Texas to Arizona.  Was your mother born in Texas?  If she had lived, would she have been forty-eight years old this year?”

Her eyes widened, but only for a few seconds.

With the exception of the rattle and hum from the ancient air conditioner poking out of the window only a few feet from him and releasing a constant drip, the seconds rode out in silence.

Her shoulders sagged a little.  “Let me make this easy for you.  My mother was an alcoholic.  She stole, turned tricks, and did whatever she could to get booze.  She never had a normal life with a husband and a son.  You have the wrong person."

No love lost between this mother and daughter.  “I don’t think so.  I think you’re the right Julianna Donovan.  It’s possible you and my client, Luke Donovan, share the same mother.”  Without an actual DNA test, Dusty had only his research and gut instincts to go on.

“Think about it,” Dusty continued.  “How many Betsy Donovans born in Texas nearly forty-eight years ago had a daughter named Julianna?”  No coincidences.  “I’ve done my research, and all the pieces fit.  I have a copy of your mother’s death certificate, and it lists she had two live births.  I also know that after Betsy’s death, her daughter, Julianna, grew up in foster care.  Were you in foster care?”

“Yes, but . . . .”  As her voice trailed off, he could practically see the woman mentally sorting through the bits of information, taking in the news that she might have a sibling.

Luke had given Dusty enough history that offered the possibility Betsy had been pregnant when she left her marriage.  Julianna could very well be, not just a half-sister to Luke, but a full sister.

When Julianna didn’t comment further, Dusty knew he’d have to carry the conversation.  “Does this change your mind at all about the possibility that we’re talking about the same Betsy Donovan?”

She lifted her chin a notch.  “I think we’re done here.”

Searching his mind to find something she could relate to, he latched onto her stint in foster care, because it meant she’d had no one else.  “I would think you’d like to know if you have relatives.”

“You’d be wrong.”  Her gaze hardened, until her eyes reminded him of the icy blue, prize marbles he’d had as a boy, yet something shadowed there in those eyes, something that tugged at him.

He could kick himself for not getting the name of her foster family, if nothing else than to help with her acceptance of the situation, but he hadn’t been at all sure how far he’d be taking this for Luke.  No matter what she said, his gut told him that since she’d been a foster kid, she’d be hungry for family, regardless of whether her foster years had been a good or a bad experience.

He opened the well-worn leather messenger bag, preferring it to the fussy new briefcase his parents had gotten him last Christmas, and pulled out a manila envelope.  “I’d like to show you some photos of my client and his family.  They were meant for your mother, in the event I had found her.  I won’t take up a lot of your time, but I think it would be a shame not to at least look at them.”

Dusty had asked Luke to gather a few photos.  There weren’t any pictures of Luke’s mother.  He believed his father had destroyed them all.  They’d been gone since Luke was a kid, so Dusty had selected a few of Luke as a boy and several more recent ones.

The woman stared at the envelope.  After some hesitation, she looked up.  “Mr. Braddock, I’m sorry.  I can’t help you or your client.”

“Can’t or won’t?”  What would make her not want to find out for certain if she had relatives?

“It doesn’t really matter, since the result will be the same.  I’m sorry.”  She slipped into the coolness of the workroom and closed the door.  Something intrigued him about that whispery lilt to her voice, and he knew it would stick in his head for a while.

*

With trembling hands, Jules Donovan flipped the lock on the workroom door, and then hurried to the window to look out.  The private investigator crossed the street and got into a dark sedan.

Unsettled, she lifted her hand to cover her mouth.  A brother?  Was it really possible?  If it were true, how could she have gone her whole life without knowing, without her mother mentioning him even once?  It didn’t make sense.

In her early years, she’d wanted a family more than she’d wanted her next meal.  She’d wanted a mother who cared, who gave warm hugs, and who whispered words of comfort at night to keep the boogieman at bay, which usually came in the form of one of her mother’s drunken boyfriends.  It hadn’t taken Jules long to have that dream squashed by reality, and it still made her quake to realize how close she’d come to being violated as a youth.

She kept a microwave in her workroom and went to it now to heat water for a cup of chamomile tea to take away the jitters.  She punched the button for ninety seconds and then leaned against the worktable.

No way could anyone convince Jules that her mother had ever led a normal life with a husband and a child.  Not the woman she knew, the woman who lived out of a bottle and rarely acknowledged her own daughter.  At the absurd idea, Jules nearly laughed.  Nearly.

She made the tea, sipped at it and willed it to calm her, but she couldn’t stop thinking about the visit from the private investigator

Like coarse sandpaper, painful memories of her childhood scratched the surface of her mind.  She didn’t need anyone else in her life.  She had a few good friends, and she had her son.  At the moment, he jabbered in the playpen she kept set up so she could watch him while she worked.  Long ago, she’d put to rest the need for someone to love and comfort her.

Now, that same need, which had lain dormant for years, began to pulse inside her once again, growing with intensity.  She huddled in a corner of the workbench, drew her knees to her chest and prayed for the feeling to go away, just as she’d done so many times as a child.

Her only solace—the safety of her workroom below her cheerful garage apartment sheltered her, instead of her taking refuge in the closet of that tiny, dirty apartment she’d shared with Betsy.

*

Dusty sat in a corner booth of a steakhouse near his hotel and took a pull on the bottle of cold beer.  Even if he couldn’t forget her eyes, the woman he’d met today wasn’t very approachable and not at all receptive to the idea she had a brother.  He could call Luke, give him the news that his mother had died years ago, but that he might have a sister.  No might about it.  He did have a sister. Dusty saw too much likeness and too many similarities for it to be coincidence.  Then he could turn it all over to Luke and let him take it from there.  Case closed.

The right thing to do would be to see this through to the end.  At one time, Dusty would have done exactly that without a second thought.  But that man didn’t exist anymore.  He didn’t want to make the effort to try to convince this woman she had a brother.  If he couldn’t fix his own life, what made him think he could fix anyone else’s?

The old Dusty was dead and buried along with his wife, and it had nothing to do with the grief he should feel for her—the grief that his own family thought rooted his demise over the past three years.  Fearing he might plunge off the deep end at any moment, they watched him too closely.  They thought he was simply going through the grieving process, still mourning the loss of his wife and child.  If only they knew the truth.  Guilt outweighed his grief by far.

How could he properly grieve for a woman whose blood covered his hands?

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Vickie King is from a small town in West Virginia. She transplanted to Florida in 1994, and while she loves living in the sunshine state, now and then she misses watching the seasons go through their changes. If she closes her eyes, she can still imagine herself standing on the deck of their family home, staring out over the hills and valleys that will always be a part of her.

Vickie is previously published in short fiction with both romance and mystery for Woman’s World Magazine. She is a member of Romance Writers of America (RWA) and is active in her local chapter, Ancient City Romance Authors (ACRA), where she is a past president.

Presently, Vickie is working on a third contemporary romance in The Braddocks series. Book One, Carly’s Rule, was released in September 2013. Book Two, Dusty’s Fate was released in May 2014.

On a personal note, Vickie has four grown children, five grandchildren, and a Chihuahua named Bentley. She has the best family and friends anyone could have.

It's been great fun having Vickie over to visit my virtual beach bunaglow with the ocean at our feet. I hope you've enjoyed meeting her and a few of the characters in her books. If you haven't read Carly's Rule - you've missed a really good story.

Check it out: 

I put my baby to bed tonight. I’ve lived with this book far longer than any other book I’ve ever written, and there were times I wondered if I’d ever get to the end. Times when I wondered if I even wanted to. But all those months living with Ben and Meg Cameron and they feel like a part of my life. It will be strange to get up tomorrow morning and not sit down to be with them. If I didn’t have a history trip planned with my granddaughters, I’d probably knock around the house for the next week or so feeling a little lost. But….

Like all children, this one is sure to keep getting up several times before finally calling it quits. As surely as a child wants a drink of water and another hug, there will be edits to tend to. Then, like a child who calls for its parent to come scare away the monsters living under the bed, my editor is sure to find things that need fixing, or even holes big enough to drive a semi through. And the water and the monsters will have to be dealt with. But it won’t be the same. Never again will I be on the same roller coaster ride with Ben and Meg: wondering, hoping, getting anxious, crying or praying for a happy ending.

There are a number of bright spots though to this ending. One will be seeing my new cover for the first time – that’s always exciting, especially considering the brilliant covers this lady designs. Another will be actually holding the book in my hands and seeing it pop up on Amazon. Royalty checks will be nice too, but the brightest spot of all is that this is a series, and it’s one I am thoroughly enjoying. My editor suggested I try writing short stories connected to Tide’s Way and that’s been fun too – creating new characters to people my town, each with fun little stories of their own.

Be sure to check back here now and then, and I’ll keep you posted on the progress of LOVING MEG and the release dates for this book and the short stories. In the mean time, I’m headed back to Tide’s Way to meet the lady that will be the heroine in my new book, the one about Will, who is Ben’s twin brother. Or maybe it will the other brother, Philip, the oldest in the family. Both have a story to tell, and I am as eager as anyone to find out how they are going to end now that Jake and Ben have found their happy ever afters.

So, for tonight – sleep tight and don’t let the monsters get you – or better yet, make friends with them – you just never know what kind of an adventure that might turn out to be!

I often wonder how many different answers I’d get if I asked random people on the street what Memorial Day means for them. Far too often when I contemplate the question, sadness overwhelms me when I consider some of the answers I might get.

When I was a small child, Memorial Day meant a parade, ice cream and visiting the cemetery to put flowers on family graves. Looking back, I remember my mother calling it Decoration Day and that meant decorating graves even though they were just great grandparents and not soldiers who had died in battle. When I got older the day still meant a parade, but by then I was marching with the high school band and sitting on a sunny slope listening to the local dignitaries make speeches. I began to realize that it wasn’t just about decorating graves. But it still wasn’t very personal.

As a young adult, half the men in my generation served in a country few of us knew anything about and the other half were protesting the draft, the war and the unfortunate soldiers who answered the call. What a difference compared to the unity of purpose of the Greatest Generation! My brother was one of those unfortunate young men who had unmentionable things shouted at them and thrown at them when they finally returned stateside, scarred forever by a war we could have won, but didn’t have the political will for. A childhood friend lost his life flying his fighter jet off a carrier in the South China Sea. High school friends died fighting, tending to the wounded and flying helicopters. I finally began to understand what Memorial Day is really all about. Later, when I visited the Vietnam Memorial in Washington DC for the first time my gut-deep reaction to that shiny black wall made it all very personal. 

Today, the advances in medicine and emergency care are saving more and more of our young soldiers, sailors, airmen and Marines from the ultimate sacrifice of war, but there are still far too many who leave grieving parents, heartbroken wives and husbands and children who will never know their fathers or mothers. Today is a day for honoring those who have fallen in defense of an ideal. The ideal of Democracy. The idea of America. And in faithful service to each other.

There will always be parades and grand speeches. There will always be barbeques, beer and friends enjoying an extra day off from work. The beaches and parks will teem with people looking for fun and relaxation. Merchants will grab the opportunity for extra sales. But while your heart is thrumming to the beat of drums as the band marches by, while your mind wanders as the speeches begin to repeat themselves, while you’re pursuing your day in the sun or dickering over the price of a new car, take a moment to remember all those we have lost. Starting with that first brave soul who lost his life facing the might British Army across a village green in Lexington Massachusetts. Remember the sailors who finally trounced the seemingly invincible British Navy in 1812. And the thousands who fought over keeping America whole during the Civil War, the men in the trenches of WWI and the thousands who died in so many far away places in WWII, the men and women of my generation who struggled in Southeast Asia and all the little wars in between. And especially remember those who stepped up to volunteer, both before and after 9/11, giving up so much to defend us against an enemy who would like nothing better than to wipe America off the map.  

Memorial Day is a day of remembrance. Honor those who have fallen in the defense of freedom in every generation. Today, when all the hoopla is over, I’m going to the cemetery alone. I plan to touch the top of each headstone and thank each one for their sacrifice. RIP. God bless you. You are not forgotten. What will you be doing to mark this day?

  Happy Monday. Today at Blogging on the Beach, we have Kathryn Bain visiting us to participate in the Big Easy Writing Process Blog Tour. She is the award winning Author of Beautiful Imperfection, Catch Your Breath, Breathless, Day & Knight and Game of Hearts. Be sure to check them out - all of them will keep you turning pages and wishing there was more when you get to the end. 

And now on to the tour:  

1) What am I working on? Instead of an inspirational mystery or suspense book, I’m working on a book of encouragement for women titled “Holding the Hand of King ((Having the Confidence to Accept God’s Grace and Love). It’s a Bible study for women.

2) How does my work differ from others of its genre? Normally I write fiction and I’m a bit edgier than some Christian authors. I have a tendency to accuse Christians of not following Jesus more than a sweet Christian writer would. Plus I really enjoy killing people in my books.

3) Why do I write what I do? Being a Christian, I feel led to write what I do because of my beliefs.

4) How does my writing process work? I plot most of the story but leave myself room for changes if need be. I write the entire story through, then go back and begin my edits. I hardly have any setting in the manuscript to begin with. Most of what I have is dialogue, action, and of course murder (hehehe). 

If you have any questions for Ms. Bain, be sure to comment below and she will do her best to answer them. 

Next Week, be sure to visit:

Sharon E. Buck is one of those people who can find something funny in almost anything...backing up six feet in a far and getting her elbow stuck in the headrest, gardening in the backyard, screaming because there are snakes trying to crawl up her legs and then realizing it's the drawstrings on her shorts dangling down and gently caressing her kneecaps and thighs...you've got the picture!

and Selena Fulton, who was born in a small town in Indiana and moved to Florida as a teen. Now that their daughter has grown, Selena and her husband are empty-nesters - if you don't count the cat! Selena enjoys camping, morning strolls along the seashore, making jewelry and reading. 

She is a multi published author with new releases coming (She'll post them as soon as the release dates are set.) She belongs to First Coast Romance Writers, Romance Writers of America, and Ancient City Romance Authors. Currently serving as VP of First Coast Romance Writers, she believes in "paying it forward" by working with fellow authors in her critique groups and judging contests.