Now that I’m feeling okay, I can laugh at the past two days. I’ll start by stating that my 4 days at a Puerto Vallarta resort was absolutely fabulous. I will never travel again unless it is all-inclusive! What a treat not to have to pay for a thing, figure out pricing, or decide against the fruit plate due to the $12.00 USD cost.

I treated myself to wine, beer, margaritas, Starbucks coffee, as many sweets as I could stuff into my face, Italian dinners, fish tacos to die for, and a great meal at the Mexican restaurant as well.

My goal was to get away from the U.S. political disarray, away from face book, email, texts, telephone and computer, and I managed about 85% of that. It’s difficult not to message your kids and send photos or to ignore a answer messages from my sis. SO I accomplished sitting by the pool, sitting on the beach and sitting in the bar, restaurant or lobby. I went to town once to shop, but overall spent 4 days sitting. Yay!

Everything was fine until mid-morning of my final day. As I was sitting in the lobby looking green and racing to the bana (bathroom) every 15 minutes, my concierge came over and asked if I was well. “No, I told him; I am not!” He looked chagrined and I could tell he was hesitating. He didn’t work for the hotel — on the other hand —. “Did you drink orange juice by any chance?” he asked quietly. “I did this morning,” I replied. He shook his head and I waited. “Ahh,” he said, “well in mexico… well, sometimes … well, about this time of year … we have problems with the orange juice.” I’ve since read that it’s basically because the juices are not pasteurized. There’s a reason we pasteurize in the U.S.

He offered to go to the little shop across the way to get me Lomotil but I managed to go on my own, between bathroom trips. Within an hour I was able to get into the taxi and to get onto the plane for my return flight. It has subsided and I hold no grudges. It happens. In fact it’s no longer just Montezuma’s Revenge, it’s called Travel Sickness. Basically our bodies are only programmed with bacteria we find in our own countries. I’ve been to Mexico about six times. I’ve gotten sick only once before and had eaten in a little out of the way restaurant our last night in Mazatlan. It happens and because I thought to take some left-over Cipro antibiotic, I caught it early.

But — remember — do not drink the O.J. in Mexico, at least this time of year…

So here’s how it starts. A name. A woman on a bridge getting ready to jump.

And then less than two days later, it requires research.

Okay, so if her son dies at 31, how old is she? How old was she when he was born? Because we have to know when she got married and what year she graduated from college. If the son was 3 when they divorced, how long ago was that?

Oh, and does Millbrae, CA have a bridge? If so, how deep is the water? Is this feasible? How many people jump from bridges each year? Golden Gate? San Diego-Coronado? Seattle…

Is it feasible to commute from Millbrae to Cal Tech. Answer: no it is not! It’s over 6 hours away! Good grief. Ok, so probably Berkley. If her ex has moved to San Mateo – how far south is that from Millbrae? Because we have weekly visitation.

Does Cal Tech have an engineering program anyway? Yes. Bio Engineering, Chemical Engineering, regular.

In my last two novels, I spent a lot of time on names. Because my characters were alive from the Oklahoma Land Run through Vietnam and to the present. The names had to be popular names in the year they were born.

You get the picture! Writing is constant research even without adding historical components. It all has to make sense to the reader.

So back to Google search. Today I need to know how they treated gifted children in 1970. I think I know. My career was in education. But that particular year? Better be sure!

Please check out Lynne Harke’s recently published nonfiction book, Under a Desert Sky. Lynne’s use of nature, particularly the Sonoran desert, describes beautifully her struggle with cancer and loss. Although written from a Christian perspective, Lynne’s lyrical expressions of the feelings we all face during hard times, can speak to anyone. Within 18 months, Lynne faced her own diagnosis of breast cancer and then very quickly the diagnosis and death of both her parents. Available on Amazon, Nook, Barnes & Noble, and many Christian bookstores. Please buy a copy for yourself, a friend, or your church library. It is an absolutely beautifully written book full of heart-breaking sadness, fear and struggle but in the end a renewal of faith and hope. A lovely tribute to her mom and dad and a helpful book for us all.

While you’re shopping books, don’t forget that all three of my novels are on sale through next week. 99 cents for e books; $5.99-7.25 for paperbacks. Only on Amazon.

And for those who have been reading my books, don’t forget to take a moment and write a review on my Amazon author page. Be totally honest. It gives Amazon feedback as well as me — I use them for future writing to improve and change!  Thanks so much!

 

Hi, friends, family and followers! I’m putting all three books on sale starting tomorrow 5/5 through 5/12. One week only. E books will be under a dollar! That’s right .99 for e books on Amazon.

Paperbacks will be reduced from $10.99-$12.99 down to $4.99 and $5.99.

If you’ve been holding off because of the price, please give all three a chance. Or purchase one for a wife, sister, daughter or mom as a Mother’s Day gift this year.

Descriptions and reviews are right there on the Amazon site so you choose the one that sounds most interesting to you. Book clubs have loved The House on 4th Street and are now buying its sequel We’ll Find a Way. Timing’s Everything is a romance with a bit of mystery and two romantic interests for a writer in Oxford, England. You’ll love the descriptions of Oxford and the English countryside. (and will she choose either man??)

Thanks for all your support!  Best wishes to All!

p.s. I’m sorry that the sale does not include Nook or your local book stores. If you wish a signed copy, I can provide those at full price with no shipping costs.

Here in Phoenix, we look forward to Easter and we dread the week after. Typically this is when we begin to see high 90 degree temps, and they are saying we’ll be pushing 100 tomorrow but I’m going to pretend they didn’t say that.

I hope you spent the holiday with family and friends and enjoyed a beautiful celebration. We treated ourselves, for the first time in 15 years or more, to a lovely outdoor brunch at a 1900’s historic resort in downtown Chandler, AZ. Weather was a perfect 70 degrees with a typical cloudless blue sky that some days looks like a movie back set. Couldn’t have asked for more in the way of weather or food. Mimosas and great food facing mounds of flowers and flowering vines and the pool in the distance.

I’ll post a picture of our finished project when it’s complete, but my daughter spent the afternoon on her hands and knees on my tile floor painting flowers on canvas drop cloths to make outdoor patio drapes for me. Now that’s love —. They’re going to be so gorgeous and the colors all blend with my patio furniture and pillows. I love them – terra cotta, brick red, gold and light blue designs. This is such a fun project if you’re needing patio drapes! I say “we” and “us” but mostly I stood and gave praise. Ha

My son baked for the first time in his life and with a little coaching, he figured out how to mix ingredients and get a real product out of the oven.

Would love to hear from you about your weekend events. I do miss Easter egg hunts and kite flying, but the neighborhood kids gave out lots of squeals and yelling from the nearby park.

So – no more holidays for a while and my next story (perhaps not a book) is calling me…

Have a blessed week!

 

Deciding to write another novel is very much like deciding to get pregnant for a fourth time. It sounds like a good idea until you realize you’re going to spend nine months with this thing as it morphs into a real book. And that’s just the first draft! The edits can take even longer.

I sat at Starbucks on Friday and began. That’s my process – just start writing a scene and see if it “takes.” I’m in Paris. I think it’s going to be first person point of view. Why am I there? Don’t know yet. I’ve just met a couple in the famous Pere’ Lachaise Cimetiere and we’re looking for the tomb of Moliere within the 110 acre cemetery. Are they going to become part of this story? Probably. Perhaps. What tension filled things are getting ready to happen to me? I almost dread knowing, but it’s necessary of course if you’re going to have a plot.

It crossed my mind this could be a sequel to Timing’s Everything since so many readers hated the decision my protagonist made at the end of that book! Perhaps we are going to find her in Paris this time, instead of Oxford. But I’m really not sure I want to go down that road …

Any ideas or thoughts are welcome at this point. I’m with my big art book mapping out some possible scenes as we speak and will get back to the “writing” later today.

“Do I really want to go through this again?” I ask myself. Seriously? Am I insane?

Because the research and the edits and the marketing are hanging in the future like evil spirits!

My favorite thing is meeting with book clubs like this wonderful group of Fountain Hills women. Discussing and hearing thoughts about characters I created never ceases to amaze me. Thanks, ladies. Hope to see you next year when you return to AZ!

Oh, my … I looked at the bottom right corner of my computer screen – 8:36 AM.  I’d been surfing outdoor draperies for an hour already and still hadn’t made a decision. I tell myself that’s less time than driving from store to store, but by the time I finally purchase some-thing, I’m not sure that’s true.

When I go to a “real” store, I see the quality of the stitching, the weight of the fabric, the number of grommets, the width of the bottom hem (can I put a rod through it to weight it down for monsoons?) Online no matter how much I zoom in, it’s difficult to tell. And is that rust or orange? Does the tan really match my house or would butter be better. Argh! I want to scream.

My search leads me to information about Sunbrella vs. other polyester fabrics. I find out Sunbrella has different products under the label. I find out that you must have an even number of grommets or they don’t hang correctly! That was a new one but once I read the review I totally “got it.”

So now the deal I saw in the catalogue last night looks less appealing. Should I pay more and go to Pottery Barn? I read their description – not really a description at all. So are they better or not? I tell myself, why pay more? Go cheap. But cheap often makes me angry. Cheap looks cheap so often. But paying more doesn’t always mean better quality either.

I read reviews on the product. Great – several 5 stars – this must be a good product. Wait, there’s a 3 and a 1.  The 3 star makes me wonder. Then I realize there are 7 reviews. 7 people out of the hundreds who have bought the product. So what good are reviews?? Really? The same question I ask myself about my own” review pleas” for my novels.

I minimize all six open sites and call it quits. Today, I’m going to dress, get in the car and go shopping!

When I was young, I watched my father take pen and paper to the dining table each Sunday. He wrote to my grandmother in Louisiana once a week. We didn’t use long distance back then unless someone had died or was in dire need. It was simply too expensive for my working class parents.

In college I wrote my mother letter after letter – sometimes daily that first semester of freshman year. I have kept several dozen from the drawer-full my sister and I found when dad sold their last house. They’re funny to me now. So much studying, so much trying too hard, so many boys and so much angst! And I had forgotten that tuition cost $500.00 and my sorority dues were $1.00/month. In one letter I thank my mom for sending “$2.00 and the stamps!” That probably got me through the next two weeks…

Letters – communication by written word. It took time to write letters by hand, and as you read them you not only hear words but even inflection. Was the handwriting big and loopy and at ease or was it pinched tightly in distress? We, too, had emoticons – hearts and x’s and o’s and other original symbols we made up.

Letters can be kept – tied with ribbons, or rubber bands, string or shoe laces. Perhaps our emails are waiting in the “cloud” but somehow I don’t visualize my children ever returning to the cloud to find communications with me during the 21^st century.

I made a decision today without even realizing it until I blinked back tears. I’m going to start writing my adult children every week. Not a text or email or line of emoticons – actual hand written letters. Something tangible they can hold and read in years to come. Who knows what will come up as I write? Not an itemized list of my life, like a diary, but something that made me feel, or important information like – here’s what menopause feels like or here’s you grandpa’s recipe for home-made ice cream.

They will be short because no one wants to read the 6 or 7 pages I wrote weekly to my mom. Apparently they meant a lot to her since she kept a drawer-full and now I get the joy of re-reading them 50 years later.

We say so little in written form these days. Cell phones come with free long distance and unlimited text. Information is spit out in short bursts.

Well, except for me as I send lengthy emails and texts that are so long they separate. LOL. Smiley face.

This will be fun!

 

 

Chapter 1

Karen Johnston stood at the glass-paned double French doors of the bedroom and looked out over the wood deck of her two-story Denver home. The barren trees beyond were black skeletons against the silvered sky. A thin layer of ice from the last snow storm still clung to the capped-rail fence that outlined their large wooded lot, but sunshine was predicted to melt it tomorrow. She pulled her cashmere cardigan tighter. It had been a harsh winter, and it was only February. Just looking at the frozen ground chilled her to the bone.

When her cell phone rang, she grabbed it from the near-by nightstand and glanced at the screen before answering. “Hi, Mark,” she said, a slight lilt in her voice.

She was pleased to hear from him. It had been a couple of months. The first few minutes of their conversations were always stilted. To be expected, she guessed, since her biological father had only recently come into her life. Mark lived in Kansas City, Missouri—a fact she had discovered last July.

“Good to hear your voice,” Mark said.

“You too. How are you?”

“We’re fine,” he said. “Marlene wants to vacation in Colorado this summer, and I wondered how you’d feel about that.” He sounded hesitant. Marlene was Mark’s second wife.

Karen didn’t hesitate. “Mark—that would be great. It would give us a chance to spend some time together. How long will you be staying?—and where?” she asked.

“Well, Marlene is looking at a few places in the mountains, but it isn’t far from Denver, and perhaps you could spend a few days while we’re there.” He sounded cautiously excited now.

“Boulder’s a nice area and close to us. How long will you be able to stay?”

“Month of July, I believe. If that works for you.”

“Absolutely, that’s just great. School is out May 28, and I’m free for the whole summer.”

“I’ll let you know dates and where we decide to settle.”

“Wonderful. Tell Marlene ‘hi’.”

“And Gary for me also, he said. “Talk soon.”

It would be nice to get better acquainted with her dad. Karen had been adopted as an infant and told simply that a young college couple had made the difficult decision to give her the life she deserved. It turned out that her mother, Jennifer, had died during her birth in 1972. The following day, her father placed her in the arms of her adoptive parents. Later that week, Mark had shipped out to Cambodia.

It hadn’t mattered to Karen for thirty-nine years. Her parents, Angela and Richard Johnston, had been wonderful, supportive peo ple. She loved them dearly. But nine months ago, Angela had died—ten years following Richard’s death, leaving Karen wanting to know more about her past.

She heard the sound of the garage door opening, its metal rails screeching from lack of lubricant, then the sound of Gary stomping his boots as he came in through the mud room. He called out for her.“Be right down,” she yelled. Her thoughts about Mark were quickly erased as she realized she’d put nothing out to thaw.

“We’re going out to eat,” she announced as she bounced off the bottom step into the living area and walked into the kitchen where Gary had removed his heavy three-quarter-length coat, scarf, and leather gloves. The clothes lay piled on one of the bar stools at the kitchen counter. The icy boots were puddling in the mud room.

“Oh, babe,” he said, “Really? I just had the longest commute ever. Traffic was backed up for three miles at one point. The snow melt has caused nothing but black ice—we’d be better off if they didn’t plow, I swear.”

Karen walked to him and put her arms around his waist, her head on his chest. He returned the hug and kissed the top of her head. “Well, let me take a warm shower, get on some other clothes and we’ll decide.”

Karen nodded, and he slipped from her embrace and headed upstairs. She shook her head and reached for his pile of winter outerwear and hung them on hooks to dry in the mud room; then walked back to the living room and bent to the fire, added more kindling and poked it back to life.

As she stood before the flames, she glanced at the family photographs on the Red Oak book shelves that surrounded the Colorado flagstone fireplace. Their wedding photo was clearly sixteen years old. They looked so young. Gary’s brown eyes and hair and his dark complexion were a perfect contrast to her pale, blond, blue-eyed German heritage. He stood two inches taller than her 5’6”, but that day her two-inch heels had made them equal in height.

Beside it was a small picture that she had recently framed. She picked it up and smiled. Mark had given her the tiny snapshot of her mother, Jennifer, when they first met last July. After placing it back onto the shelf, she settled into the deep cushioned leather sofa to watch the flames jump and spit as she waited for Gary.

He came back down within ten minutes wearing jeans, a cream colored cable-knit sweater and heavy, warm socks. He took the large over-stuffed chair across from her and sighed deeply.

“Rough day?” she said.

“No more than usual actually, how about you?”

“A typical Friday, I ‘spose,” she said. “Oh, guess who called earlier?” She didn’t wait for him to respond. “Mark is thinking of spending some time in Colorado this summer—with Marlene, of course. What do you think?”

Gary’s face showed his surprise, but he nodded. “Sounds like a nice opportunity.”

Karen sat forward and began to rise as she said, “I thought so too.”

“Where you going?” he asked.

“To put on a warmer sweater and get my coat. I’m starving.”

He groaned, but she knew he’d give in. Since the near-death of their marriage last year, both of them worked hard to please the other these days.

“I’ll drive!” she called back down the stairs.

Karen maneuvered their mid-size BMW cautiously along the slick residential streets; snow piled high on each side of the road where the plows had come through for the tenth time this winter. The houses barely peeked above the drifts—some of which rose as high as the tops of windows. The warm light from inside each home glazed the tops of the snow packs, turning them a golden hue. She hated freeways this time of year, so she took back streets to their favorite Italian bistro.

While they waited for their white pizza with spinach, they shared a salad and drank red wine by the carafe. The bistro had a roaring two-sided fireplace which divided the room and warmed every corner, providing a welcoming and homey feel for the diners.

“Cheers,” Gary said as he touched the lip of his glass to hers. “To the end of the week.”

“Amen to that,” Karen said.

Gary was a partner in one of the largest architectural firms in Denver. Karen taught high school history. Her students were her substitute children, and Gary’s job was his passion.

“Are you counting the days to the end of the year yet?” he teased.

She smiled. She and her best friend, Denise, began ticking off the days as soon as spring semester began. They’d both worked in the district, though at different schools, for fifteen years; not that either would leave education if given the opportunity. Karen loved history and loved teaching it. She worked hard to make the subject come to life for her students and spent hours developing lesson plans and outside research projects that engaged them. And they loved her in return.

“Gosh, how do these years fly by so fast, Gary? I mean, one day these seniors will be married and have kids, and I’ll just keep getting older.” Her voice trailed off.

Gary reached for her hand across the table. “Karen, you’re not even forty—you sound like you’re ninety years old. For heaven sakes, it’s just because you’ve been teaching for so long. Of course they grow up, but believe me it’ll be a few more years before you see them at the mall with their kids.”

“Not really, Gary. Four—maybe six—years of college. They’ll be out in the world already. That’s coming up damned fast. Makes me feel old, that’s all.” She waited as the server cut the first two slices of the pizza he’d just delivered to their table.

Her mind wandered for a moment as she reconsidered what she’d just said. The years were passing quickly. Part of that, she knew, was the fact that if she was ever going to have a baby, it had to be this year. Her gynecologist had told her in November that this was the very last time he’d tell her it was okay to get pregnant. After this, he’d be very reserved about making that recommendation. She’d thought of his remarks often these past few months.

She suddenly realized Gary had been talking to her, possibly for some time, but nothing had registered. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Say that again.”

He laughed. “Not worth it. Suffice it to say this new client is a pain in the ass, period.”

“You say that about most of them, dear.”

“I do not.” He hesitated and looked closely at her face. “Do I? Really? I don’t think so.”

Gary had wined and dined clients the same length of time she’d been teaching, and she knew it had to wear on him, just as dealing with difficult parents wore her down and made it less fun after so long.

He switched the topic quickly. “So I say we go to some very distant, very warm and sandy beach for spring break.”

“Whoa, that came out of nowhere.” She laughed. “But I don’t disagree actually. It’s been so damned cold, and I’m sick of it this year. Let’s do it!”

He reached inside the pocket of his coat that lay on the chair next to him and handed her a few glossy brochures. Cruises. Destination packages. All with lovely blue skies that met lovely blue water and yellow and white striped beach chairs under umbrellas.

“Well, you came well prepared, Mr. Reynolds. Is this a sales pitch?” She grinned.

“Yep, actually it is. Pick one. Mexican Riviera, Grand Caymans, Costa Rica?”

She moved her pointer finger around three times, then pointed to one in the center. Puerto Vallarta. Perfect.

 

***

The house was empty when Karen woke Saturday morning. The coffee was still warm in the pot, the fire had been stoked and Gary’s heavy boots that usually sat by the back door were missing. She glanced in the garage and saw the empty space.

When Gary stomped into the kitchen close to noon, he apologized for being so long. She walked from the sunroom and helped him with his overcoat, slung it over a bar stool, and followed him into the living area.

“It’s okay, honey,” she said. “I was just starting to worry. Where were you?”

He walked toward the fire and sat on the arm of the sofa. “Well, I didn’t mean to be so damned long, but apparently everyone in the metropolitan area decided to book travel today.”

Karen had to laugh. “Well, we’ve all been cooped up for months already with another two to go. Doesn’t surprise me.” She sat down beside him on the couch.

“Anyway, I stopped into the office after I left the travel agency, and of course, an emergency waiting. Doug was already in negotiations with this builder and needed some support to convince the guy his plans would not work.” He shook his head in exasperation. “Sorry.”

“No, no, it’s alright,” she said. “I just worry with the roads. Let me go make some lunch.”

They ate at the kitchen counter, and Gary showed her the travel documents he’d gotten that morning. After a while he glanced to his right— the draperies in the sunroom opened to the snow covered deck. He pointed that direction. “Kind of nice not to see that damned trunk and all those piles of history all over the floor in there.”

Karen laughed. Just then the house phone rang. “I’ll get it.” She grabbed for the cordless and walked toward the living room when she heard Denise’s voice. “What’s up, girlfriend?”

“We’re totally snowed in out here,” Denise said. She and her husband, Ralph, had moved outside the city limits last summer, a move Denise had been thrilled about. Now the distance and unplowed roads were a constant topic of discussion.

“Hey, you wanted to be in the woods,” Karen said, but her voice smiled.

“I know. Don’t remind me. Hey, I have an idea. Ralph and I are thinking about spring break and wondering if you and Gary might like to double date.” She laughed out loud.

“My God, is everyone in Denver planning where they’ll be in March? Gary just got home from the travel agency. How funny!”

“Where are you guys going?” Denise exclaimed.

“Puerto Vallarta. Ever been?”

“Nope, but it sounds like Puerto Heaven to me right now. What would you think about going as couples? I mean, the guys get along and ….”

Karen interrupted her. “Let me talk to Gary. I don’t think he has any romantic intentions, but I don’t know.” She rolled her eyes and smiled. “I think it sounds like fun. I’ll get back to you.”

Karen walked back into the kitchen as Gary finished wiping down the countertop. He looked up and smiled. “Denise?” he asked.

“Yeah, she said they were wanting to get away to some place warm for spring break too. How would you feel if we invited them to join us?”

He hesitated for only a moment. “That’s fine. They seem like fun, and it might be nice to have someone to golf with a couple of times. I know you don’t like to go. Did you girls already plan it?” He grinned.

“No, we did not. I mentioned you had booked the trip; Denise mentioned going together; I said I’d check with you.”

Gary walked to the other side of the counter and put his arms around her. She snuggled into his chest. “Cold, wintry day,” he said. “Wonder what we could do the rest of the afternoon?” She didn’t have to ask what he had in mind; his hands were already skimming her body.

***

The weather in Denver worsened in late February. It was one blizzard after another. Gary barely got the drive shoveled out before the next storm hit. The piles of snow grew higher by the day, and once the plows cleared the street again, they could barely see the roof of their house from the road.

Each week, the students grew more and more restless and off-task. Cabin-fever had set in big time. By March, the teachers joked about having alcohol in the teacher lounge, and the ten-day break was highlighted in yellow on every faculty calendar.

During one conversation with Denise, her friend said, “Hang in there. Two weeks and we’ll be in the warmest, bluest water imaginable.”

“Doesn’t seem possible.”

“Yep, 85 and sunny. No pacific storms in the forecast. We are good to go. Wait till you see the red pantsuit I bought the other day. Strapless, no less. I know … don’t say it.” Denise laughed. “Ralph loved it. Hell, this may be the best marriage therapy around.”

Karen laughed as well. She knew what Denise meant. Maybe there should be a rule when signing your marriage certificate: each year one must take a week-long vacation on a beautiful island, wear little or no clothes, get a beautiful tan, and pretend your husband is the pool boy.