At the Cafe and Other Stories

At The Cafe

I’m so happy to bring you these seven tiny tales of love and mystery. I hope they make you smile!

Special introductory price – 99 cents!
Kindle | Nook | Kobo

At the CafeThe place of their meeting, would it also be the place where they said goodbye forever?

Accidental DeathGary had figured out a way to kill his wife and not get caught.

Murder, Sweet MurderThere was a body on the floor of the coffee shop. Casey’s day was starting out all wrong.

The Pleasure of RefusingThat night in the rain, she almost ignored him.

My Funny ValentineIt could turn out to be the most important day in his life.

The Bell Tower ManThe children’s teacher is missing. Was she taken by the Bell Tower Man?

Sweet InspirationAmanda had to get out of the office. She needed stimulation. Motivation. Inspiration.

Available now on: Kindle | Nook | Kobo Coming soon in paperback!

This Kind of Silence Can Speak

River 1a

The view from our deck.

Recently I was lucky enough to go away for a weekend with two of my best writing buddies. During that weekend I found a renewed appreciation for peace and quiet: that lovely void where the only sounds are the characters in my head, and the dancing of fingers on a keyboard. During the day-to-day madness of a hectic life, it can be difficult to find that quiet place and time where the words flow smoothly. I found this passage from Beryl Markham, a personal heroine of mine (among other accomplishments, she was a writer, aviatrix and she survived being attacked by a lion – quite a lady!). I like to read it when I need to find that moment of silence.

River 2

Another river view.

There is the silence that comes with morning in a forest, and this is different from the silence of a sleeping city. There is silence after a rainstorm, and before a rainstorm, and these are not the same. There is the silence of emptiness, the silence of fear, the silence of doubt.

There is a certain silence that can emanate from a lifeless object as from a chair lately used, or from a piano with old dust upon its keys, or from anything that has answered to the need of a man, for pleasure or for work. This kind of silence can speak. Its voice may be melancholy, but it is not always so; for the chair may have been left by a laughing child or the last notes of the piano may have been raucous and gay. Whatever the mood or the circumstance, the essence of its quality may linger in the silence that follows.

It is a soundless echo.

-Beryl Markham

What do you do when you need to find your moment of silence?

Sometimes the Only Thing We Can Do is the Next Thing

stepping stone bridgeLast week I made an unpleasant discovery: a project which I thought had been finished was not finished. And moreover, it had to be finalized by the end of the month. In another state. With notarized signatures. And I wasn’t even sure that I had been given the correct information by the person who was supposed to know. Yargh.

Stress reared its ugly head. I admit, I spent some time feeling sorry for myself, doing my own personal inner-sulk-and-brood routine. And then, from out of nowhere, a little voice whispered in my ear: “Sometimes, the only thing you can do is the next thing.” So I pulled my chin up off the floor and did the next thing that needed doing; and the next, until everything that I could personally do had been done, and the rest was up to someone else. After that, I took my family out to dinner and we enjoyed ourselves. Within twenty-four hours, the project was completed – for real this time (huzzah!) – and I was left to ponder: “Do the next thing.” Where had I heard that before?

It took some searching, but I finally found the answer on a blog called Ann’s Open Door, which has the following poem posted in its sidebar. If the religious aspect doesn’t speak to you, feel free to set it aside. We all believe differently. The poem is too good not to share, and I hope you love it as much as I do!

Do the Next Thing

From an old English parsonage, down by the sea
There came in the twilight a message to me;
Its quaint Saxon legend, deeply engraven,
Hath, as it seems to me, teaching from Heaven.
And on through the hours the quiet words ring
Like a low inspiration – “Do the next thing.”

Many a questioning, many a fear,
Many a doubt hath its quieting here.
Moment by moment, let down from Heaven,
Time, opportunity, guidance, are given.
Fear not tomorrows, Child of the King,
Trust them with Jesus, “Do the next thing.”

Do it immediately; do it with prayer;
Do it reliantly, casting all care;
Do it with reverence, tracing His Hand
Who placed it before thee with earnest command.
Stayed on Omnipotence, same ’neath His wing,
Leave all resultings, “Do the next thing.”

Looking to Jesus, ever serener,
(Working or suffering) be thy demeanor,
In His dear presence, the rest of His calm,
The light of His countenance be thy psalm,
Strong in His faithfulness, praise and sing,
Then, as he beckons thee “Do the next thing.”

- Author Unknown

Persistence is a Virtue (Word of the Year, 2013)

A year ago, at the beginning of 2012, I decided to adopt the annual tradition of picking a word of the year. Yes, it’s true, I copied this from a friend of mine. But like the poet says, if you’re going to steal, steal smart! Picking a word to focus on for the year is fun, and sometimes challenging. How can we summarize the hopes, dreams and plans for the next twelve months?

Fortunately, this year’s word came easily: Persist. It’s not a particularly glamorous word; it’s not lyrical or poetic. There’s even something a little annoying about the way it sounds. But let’s be honest: life itself is rarely glamorous or poetic; and it’s often annoying! Plus, I like this word. Always have.

climb-a-mountain

As we’re tooling down the highway of life, the universe loves to put up roadblocks: money or job trouble, loss of family or friends, health concerns, and even just the countless pesky inconveniences we encounter every day. But when you’re headed in a good direction, you’ve got to keep going. Climb over, navigate around, push through. Continue steadfastly in your course. Persist.

“Nothing in the world can take the place of persistence. Talent will not; nothing is more common than unsuccessful men with talent. Genius will not; unrewarded genius is almost a proverb. Education will not; the world is full of educated derelicts. Persistence and determination alone are omnipotent. The slogan Press On! has solved and always will solve the problems of the human race.” – Calvin Coolidge

And so that’s the word that will define my year 2013. Do you have a word for the year?

Guest blogging today on Romance University

lips_THEME-320x250What? Me, a Professor? Okay not really. But I am a guest blogger today on Romance University. My post, How to Write Sex Scenes If You’re a Prude Like Me, is up and running! Hope you’ll stop by and say hello.

Next Tuesday, January 22, I will officially re-start my own weekly blog with a post about the word that will define 2013 for me. See you then!

“Nobody trips over mountains…

“Nobody trips over mountains. It is the small pebble that causes you to stumble. Pass all the pebbles in your path and you will find you have crossed the mountain.” – Author Unknown

My First Post with the Rockville 8

Okay, it’s true: I haven’t worked on my own blog in a dog’s age (whatever that means). But I haven’t been completely idle! Today I am proud to announce that I’m officially a member of the wonderful Rockville 8 blog.

R8 header My debut post, One Writer’s Tale of Self Publishing and Free Giveaways is now live and ready for readin’! The post shares the results of my free giveaways with Amazon’s KDP Select program, and it also talks about promotion. Whether you’re already a fan of the lovely Rockville 8, or if this is the first you’ve heard of them, I hope you’ll stop by and say hello.

Two Exciting Announcements! And yes, I’m planning to revive my own blog later this month! I’m looking forward to getting back in the groove and re-joining the writing parade! I’ll keep you posted on my progress (pun totally intended).

Have a great week!

A Spirited Season anthology

Looking for some holiday spirit? Our new anthology is available now!

Buy today: Kindle | Nook | Kobo

A Spirited Season
Holiday Tales with a Paranormal Flair

What’s a holiday without a little spirit? I’m thrilled to join authors Karen Cantwell and Laura Lucas for half a dozen comical, fun, and warm-hearted Christmas tales. Soccer mom, Barbara Marr, is visited by the Ghost of Christmas Scary in “A Christmas Peril.” Delaney Pearce isn’t looking for a magic genie, but she finds one in “Make My Wish Come True.” An antique ornament brings two lonely souls together in “Two Turtledoves.”  A jealous husband gets an unexpected surprise when attempting witchcraft to solve his marital problems in “Squawkin’ Around the Christmas Tree.” Something just isn’t right when the lights go out during Kendall Rhodes’ Christmas Eve party in “Jingle Spells.” A rough-around-the-edges cell tower repairman discovers love in the least likely place in “O Christmas Tree.”

All profits from the sales of A Spirited Season go to Children’s Miracle Network Hospitals, because everyone deserves a miracle.

Get your copy and join the fun! Available on: Kindle | Nook | Kobo

Excerpts from Misha’s stories:

Two Turtledoves

“Seek and ye shall find,” the old woman said, stopping Mae in her tracks.

Mae turned and peered at the woman through the cold Christmas Eve drizzle. It was mid-afternoon and the temperature was in the low forties. Already the day held the dim gray light of an afternoon that was impatient to turn into evening. Christmas decorations, bright and self-consciously merry, lined the walkways and lit up windows. Last-minute shoppers hustled their frantic, but jolly way down the sidewalk, not sparing the old woman a second glance. Until five seconds ago, Mae had been one of them. Now she wiggled her fingers, adjusted the grip on her shopping bags, and willed the return of her holiday spirit.

“I’m sorry?” she asked politely, her breath making a puff of fog in the air.

The woman smiled. The expression showed itself only in the crinkling of her eyes because she was draped, head to toe, in layers of fabric. The coats, shawls, and scarfs were old and faded, almost colorless against the painted brick wall behind her. To most eyes, she would have looked like a homeless person, but as Mae took in the regal bearing of her scarf-encased head and the uprightness of her shoulders, Mae thought that the woman looked more like an Eskimo empress than someone living on the streets.

In response to Mae’s question, the empress gestured to her left. “You’d be surprised at what you’d see if you just open your eyes and look.”

Mae followed the gesture with her eyes. The woman was pointing to a glass door discreetly tucked into the wall of a venerable old Georgetown building. The door had no sign, except for the word Gifts inscribed in gold script.

»»««

O Christmas Tree

Tomorrow was Christmas, and the twins would be up early to open their presents. Penelope shook her head resolutely, got up from the kitchen table, and rinsed out her mug. She was going back to bed, and she would get a good night’s rest. She wasn’t going to let some jerk interfere with her much-needed sleep.

As she set the mug in the dish rack, the room went from dark and shadowy to bright and vivid. She gasped and turned, thinking that someone had tiptoed in and flipped the light switch. But there was no one there. She looked at the ceiling. The overhead light was still off.

Slowly, she rotated back to the window over the sink, reaching out to pull back the flimsy curtain so she could peer outside. Her eyes widened and she gasped again, this time with delighted astonishment.

Shining down from the woods was a star, as bright as day and twice as beautiful. A smile exploded over her face. “Jacob! Jennifer!” she called excitedly. “Get up! You have to see this.”

The three of them threw on their coats, pulled on boots, and ran into the woods, Penelope now heedless of her own warnings to stay away. She thought she knew what — and who — she would find, but she didn’t dare hope.

»»««

Available on: Kindle | Nook | Kobo

Homesong

Finalist for the 2010 Bronte Prize for Romantic Fiction!

In a small town, everyone knows everything about everybody. Or do they?

For twenty years, Kate Doyle has been haunted by the night when she was forced to flee from her tiny Virginia home town and abandon her childhood sweetheart, Reed Fitzgerald. So when Kate, now in her mid-30s, escapes her unhappy life in Washington, DC and takes a much-needed vacation, the last thing she expects is to be reunited with Reed. Now, under the warm clear Caribbean sun, amid ancient churches and pink flamingos, Kate and Reed seek to revive the love that they thought was gone forever.

But will small-town secrets ruin their last chance for happiness? Woven into the modern tale of Kate and Reed are the tales of those who came before them. Their mothers: teenagers in the chaotic 1960s, best friends who are in love with the same man although only one of them knows it. Reed’s grandmother: already a bitter old woman by the 1930s, she would do anything to carry on the family name…and would drive away anyone who came between her and her grandson. And even the founder of the town: in 1865, what guilty secret drove one man to bring his two daughters across the ocean from Ireland and settle in the dark Virginia hills?

At its heart, Homesong is the story of a small town: its lies and truths, its beginnings and endings. It’s about proud secrets, unrestrained joy, and the old adage that you may leave your home, but it never really leaves you.

Coming soon in paperback, Nook and Kobo!
Read an excerpt:

Prologue

 Everything about the little house said dead and gone.

It stood, empty and alone, at the intersection of two old dirt roads. Scraggly bushes had grown up over the peeling walls, poking their way inside through broken windowpanes. The skeletal remains of an old vegetable garden jutted long bony fingers out of the brown scrap of yard by the front door, and the house’s shingled sides had been spray-painted with graffiti. But that too had turned brown, as if even the vandals had moved on to greener pastures.

Reed sat silently in his car, biting his thumb as he looked out at the place where he had grown up. Cicadas, stirred by the heavy heat of the early August morning, whirred their drowsing song in the tall grass by the side of the road. The sun hadn’t even crested the far hills yet, and already the inside of his ancient yellow VW felt like an oven. Sweat gathered along his hairline to drip down his neck, sticking his shirt to the small of his back.

It was strange to think that he hadn’t laid eyes on the place in almost a year. He had been born in that house, as had generations of Fitzgeralds before him. His grandmother Read the full post »

Still Waters

Still Waters coverA tragic death… A disturbing photo that can’t be explained… A woman drowning in an ocean of secrets…

In 1950s Virginia, Jenna Appleton seems to have found the life she’s always wanted. But underneath the shallow gleam of her bright suburban world, murky truths are waiting to surface.

On the morning that her husband dies in a tragic accident, Jenna finds a shocking photo of him in the arms of a beautiful woman. And before she can ask him about it, he’s gone forever.

Five years later, Jenna has buried her questions and remade her life. But the reappearance of an old love stirs up guilty questions, and she realizes that some secrets aren’t meant to be kept. The deeper she dives for answers, the darker the water gets. How will she find happiness for herself and her family, when every move she makes toward the strange and awful truth seems to lead her right back to her own home shores?

Buy now on Kindle!
Coming soon in paperback, Nook and Kobo!

Read an excerpt:

“You’re not the only one who regrets the things that were said the other day.” Jenna spoke softly for fear that her words would carry on the night air. She and Adam had reached the end of the drive and were turning right to walk down Lee Street. Jenna wasn’t altogether sure she should be taking this walk, but Adam was right: they needed to clear the air.

Crickets sang shrilly in the tall, sweet-smelling grass that grew along the railroad tracks. Beneath the leafy trees, the street was shadowed, making it hard to see where they were going. But Adam walked through the dark with confidence, and she tried to match his self-assurance step for step as she continued speaking. “I shudder when I think of the way I went after you. It was just the surprise of seeing you that did it. It caught me off-guard.”

“I know. I wish Kitty had told you that I was coming. Otherwise I would have called you myself.”

“It’s not Kitty’s fault. It’s mine.”

Adam stopped walking. “How do you figure that?”

“I should have answered your letters.” Jenna twisted her hands together. “I don’t know if I could have told you the truth about Christopher — I’m not that brave — but at least I should have had the nerve to tell you that I was engaged. After our night together, you had every right to expect me to wait for you.”

The silence stretched again. Jenna couldn’t make out Adam’s features, but she could sense him waiting, thinking. At last he started forward again, and she kept pace. “I don’t have any right to expect anything from you,” he said at length. “And you’re braver than you give yourself credit for.”

In spite of herself, Jenna found herself warming at Adam’s words of praise. She bit her lip and mentally shored up her earlier resolution: she had to define her position, to herself as well as Adam.

She said the first thing that came to mind. “How’s your Latin?”

Adam laughed. “What?”

“When I was younger, I used to sometimes get confused between the words ‘fidelity’ and ‘integrity.’ But then Lucien explained to me that ‘fidelity’ comes from Latin word fidelitas, which means faithful. And ‘integrity’ comes from the Latin word integritas, which means whole. That’s when I finally understood that in order to have integrity, one must maintain wholeness, the fullness of self. Do you know what I mean?”

“Not entirely,” Adam confessed.

A flush of frustration shot through her. She had never been any good at explaining herself. “I mean that life has many parts to it, and integrity is all about seeing how those parts of life fit together, and then maintaining it as a whole.” She heard the words come out of her mouth, and she knew she was making a garbled mess out of her metaphor. “Does that make any sense?”

“You’re saying that for you to keep your integrity, you need to maintain the life that you’ve made for yourself, and not let anything break it apart.” Adam’s voice was neutral.

“Exactly,” Jenna said gratefully. Adam always seemed to know what she meant to say. “Sometimes I feel like my life is a crystal ball: strong and solid, but full of hairline cracks. I have to be strong and hold it just right in both my hands, or the cracks will widen and the whole thing will fall apart.”

“And with you holding your world together so carefully, you’re not sure how I can fit in.”

“Well, it sounds pretty cold and awful when you say it like that, but you’re right as usual. I don’t know how you can fit in — or if you can at all, for that matter.”

He digested that with characteristic silence. “I understand.”

“Do you?” This time it was Jenna who stopped. They faced each other in the murky light. “I wish you could explain it to me, then. Because I seem to be in a complete mess about you.”

Hope flickered in his face, and she knew that she should have kept that last statement to herself.

“That’s encouraging,” was all he said.

She shook her head emphatically. “No, it’s not. At least, it wasn’t meant to be.”

Jenna looked up and down the empty street. Adam caught the meaning behind the gesture. Another metaphor. “Do we keep going forward, or do we go back?” He pointed up the street. “It’s dark up that way, and there’s no telling what we’ll find. Back that way” — he pointed the opposite direction, towards Bill and Kitty’s house — “we know the road. Me, you, Bud — we’ve been over it a million times, and it never really changes. Maybe it’s time we walked forward into the dark, to see what else might be out there.”

Jenna’s voice was hard. “After all these years of running, I would’ve thought you’d know what’s out there.” Memories glinted in the darkness: The silver badge of the kind officer who had knocked on her door one morning and told her that her husband had died. An old photo, showing the man she had loved embracing another woman and a child. A hole dug in the ground for Bud’s coffin, like the hole in her heart, filling up with pain. “It’s just more road, Adam. It’s just more road. I’m sick of the unknown. All I want now is to raise my son in peace.”

Tears threatened behind her eyes, and she summoned her anger to push them away. “You can go on exploring your dark paths if you want to. But I’m going this way.” She turned and started back towards Bill and Kitty’s house. Her words floated over her shoulder in the darkness. “I’m going back to my family. I’m going home.”

Adam watched her walk away. Her slender figure cut through the night like a sword, until she was swallowed up by shadows. Eventually he started after her, his footsteps slow and resigned. He had ruined the moment. Again.

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