Thanksgiving: Especially This Year

According to Myren, my bored chauffeur with nowhere to go, this year doesn’t deserve Thanksgiving. He last muttered something about flushing the entirety of 2020 down the toilet.

But I disagree. Life can’t always be a bowl of cherries. How would we have triumphs if we have no struggle? (Myren looks angry right now. Big surprise. Also like he’s about to call the men with straight-jackets to take me away.) Okay, fine, some struggle is good, maybe not over-the-top, struggle after struggle, continuously for an entire year.

Covid. Rampant unemployment. Devastating wildfires. A record-breaking hurricane season. More Covid. Other stuff (such as Tom Brady deserting the New England Patriots, leaving us to a horrible losing season and no shot at playoffs.) (Okay maybe this isn’t in the same category as a pandemic and people’s houses burning down, but football struggles too, in its role to be that little thing in life that helps us to cope with the colossal disasters.)

(BTW, Myren agrees with me wholeheartedly on the football thing. Maybe I need to reconsider my position after all…)

So let’s get onto the good stuff, the stuff we should be thankful for.

Number one in my book is the heroism of all the people fighting these disasters and winning. Like doctors and nurses and all healthcare workers fighting to save people from Covid. Like firefighters and others struggling against the wildfires to save people and their homes from destruction. And like the police and military do all the time by definition of their jobs, risking their lives to protect others.

(Myren wants me to mention all the professional athletes playing their sports and risking infection of Covid with no fans. Not so sure this fits. Myren glowers. But then that’s his natural look, right?)

I’m also thankful for the perserverence and creativity of people. Small businesses struggle and fight to stay afloat, getting creative. In many cases, their customers step up to support them. I spoke with the owner of a local restaurant, The Pasta Loft, who created an outdoor patio dining area for the summer to stay in business, and he told us that his servers were earning three times their normal tips because people wanted to support them. Love the generosity.

This kind of stuff warms me. Makes me thankful.

I’m thankful for all the heroism, perseverence, creativity and generosity in people. Especially this year.

This year, the Authors of Main Street are celebrating heroism, coincidentally, in their annual Christmas anthology, CHRISTMAS HEROES ON MAIN STREET. This set of five fabulous stories is available now.

If You’re Happy and You Know It, Clap Your Hands!

Happy People

Happy People

If you’re over 50—or if you’re currently enrolled in kindergarten—you’ll know the title is from a song. Though whether we’re happy or not may not be  so simple to know. We all clap our hands anyway. Myren, my curmudgeonly chauffeur, says he never clapped his hands in kindergarten when his class sang that song. Big surprise. Myren aside, we all want to be happy.

But how do we know if we’re happy, technically speaking? Well that’s a matter for experts to examine, including Dan Buettner, a National Geographic Fellow and bestselling author on the subject of living long, healthy & happy. I’ve read Buettner’s articles and many others about happiness—took a whole college course in psychology focusing on what makes happiness tick. Myren is rolling his eyes and I’m ignoring him because I’m happy—and sane.

After all that reading and studying, I’ve come up with my personal list. Check it out (everyone except Myren) to see how happy you are.

Top 7 ways you know if you’re happy:

  1. You laugh a lot. Like every day. Multiple times a day. Sounds simple, right? But really think about this one before you answer it for yourself. How often do you laugh? (Also, how often do you cry?)
  2. You like going to work every day. Especially if you’re like me and you don’t have to go anywhere! It’s no surprise that a long commute can be a big negative in people’s lives according to Buettner. It’s also no surprise that liking your job can make you happy.

You don’t even have to like your job if you like the people you work with. In fact, according to Buettner and others, liking your fellow employees and having friends at work is more important than making more money.

I can personally attest to the truth of this! (Myren is suspiciously quiet on the subject of workplace happiness. His mouth is clamped shut. I think he may be asking me for a raise later. But I digress…)

3.  You have a great social network and get together with friends/family often. Everyone agrees about how important the people in your life are to your happiness, right?

4.  You are healthy.

5.  You make a decent living. No need for riches. But just in case, I did buy a Powerball ticket when the jackpot went to $625 million yesterday. It would be a kick to play Santa Claus with all that money. Which brings me to the next tellfor happiness.

6.  You focus on others with acts of kindness, helpfulness, care, donating and/or volunteering. Or maybe you’re there for someone with a shoulder to cry on in a tragedy.

7.  Life Balance. You have the right amount of work, social and sleep—and all those other healthy things like staying active. This is no news for anyone who spends too much time at work, or too much time sitting around. Or not enough time sleeping!

Now that you know, what are you going to do about it?LadySleeping

I’m going to work on getting more sleep!

(And I’m going to give Myren a big hug because he needs it.)

Tell me what you plan to do to improve your happiness.

 

A Highwayman by Kristy Tate is Free Today Only – Pick Your Highwayman Up Now

I got the idea for this book one night while watching a documentary on the Salem Witch trials. There was speculation that the hysteria the Puritan girls experienced was caused by poisoned well water, which made me wonder what other mischief could come from tainted water. The Highwayman Incident wasn’t the only book inspired by a documentary. I also included Gregory Rasputin in my novel Beyond the Pale because of a documentary. I love history. Of course, it’s hard to know the truth of any situation–even when you’re in the thick of it–because it’s so hard to grasp all the perspectives. That’s why it’s so much more fun to write fiction. And the Highwayman Incident was a hoot to write.

Celia Quinn’s business lies in ruins at the hands of Jason West, the latest in a long line of scoundrels. As she seeks to restore her family’s livelihood, Celia stumbles upon lore about the local Witching Well, whose water is said to cause hysteria and psychosis. When a mysterious stranger slips Celia water from the well into her drink, she’s transported to Regency England. Her timeless adventure spans miles and centuries from modern-day New England to Merlin’s Cave in Cornwall, England. Only Jason West can save her.
But Celia and Jason must tread carefully, as what happens in the past can reverberate through the ages. Their lives, hearts and futures are caught in time’s slippery hands.

GET YOUR COPY HERE

Here’s an EXCERPT:

CHAPTER ONE

At any wedding, protocol demands that all attention should be focused on the bride, even if the bride happens to be your sister, and even if your sister designed a horrid dress. But Celia defied conventions and refused to look at Mia. Celia knew her funk bordered on lunacy, but she couldn’t shake it. Not even for her sister’s wedding.
The lone man sharing her table looked familiar, although she couldn’t say why. Like someone she knew from a long time ago—but a faded out version. Gray at his temples, thick head of hair, wrinkles around his eyes—handsome for his age—and yet, something tingled in the back of her mind, trying to tell her something.
Celia sat back with a humph and crossed her arms over her chest. The putrid pink dress had a bunchy bodice, giving her a va va voom that, when she first saw it, made her complain first to Mia and then to her grandmother.
“It’s her wedding,” Grandma Claudette had said. “If she wants you to dress like a cat, you better get used to whiskers.”
And in the interest of peace in the family and not wanting to upset her mom, Celia bit her lip about the dress and vowed that when it was her turn to marry, she would do it on the courthouse steps.
And Mia would have to wear a clown suit.
Complete with a red nose.
She caught the man looking at her. His glance slid away. Celia considered leaving, but where would she go? Join her friends on the dance floor? No, her shoes pinched her toes. The dessert table for more cake? No, her stomach was already churning. A drink from the bar? No, she needed to stay sober. She slumped back in her chair, wishing the stranger would leave or her friends would return.
As if he read her mind, the man pushed away from the table and left.
Perfect. Now she was alone. And this should have made her happy, because she wanted him to leave, but it didn’t. She sighed and used her fork to poke holes in the frosting roses on her slice of cake. The blush pink roses matched her dress, which matched her shoes, which matched the ribbon on the bridesmaid bouquets. Celia smashed the cake and watched the frosting ooze between the fork tines.
Beside her, someone chuckled. Looking up, she saw the man had returned. He carried a goblet and a slice of cake.
“I asked for a piece without icing,” he said as he sat in the chair beside her. He slid the cake toward her. “For you.”
She thought about refusing it, but instead said, “Thank you.”
Without saying a word, he placed the wine flute in front of her. “It’s just water,” he told her.
“Thanks. Too much—”
“Too much sugar makes your teeth hurt.” He finished her sentence with a smile that sent another warning jolt down Celia’s spine.
“How did you know I was going to say that?”
He lifted his shoulder in a shrug. “Just a guess. I could tell that you don’t like frosting by the way you were mutilating that cake.” He offered his hand. “My name is Jason.”
“Celia Quinn.” She put her hand in his, and a zing started in her fingers and spread to her center. She left her hand in his longer than necessary, before pulling away. She couldn’t be attracted to this man. He was older than her dad.
“I know a Jason.” She studied him for a moment before her gaze slid to the other Jason across the room. Dark hair, tall, lean—why were the hot guys the most lethal?
“And you dislike him.”
She met the older Jason’s warm gaze and sniffed. “I didn’t say that.”
“You don’t have to say something for it to be true.” He settled back in his chair. “Just like you didn’t say anything, but I can tell you don’t like your dress.”
Celia blew out a sigh.
“You probably think it’s a poor advertisement for your grandmother’s shop.”
Celia gave a defeated shrug. “It doesn’t matter. The store’s dying anyway.”
“Why do you say that?”
Celia shot the Jason across the room a glance. She hoped her look told him all the things she wished she could say to his face. He lounged against the wall between the wedding arch and an enormous swan ice sculpture. The black suit accentuated his blue eyes and dark hair. Even the hideous pink tie looked good on him. He caught her gaze and lifted his glass, acknowledging her.
She wished she had something other than her bouquet and a dirty look to throw at him.
“Just because you’re losing the lease doesn’t mean you’re losing the business, you know.”
Celia swiveled her attention back to Jason her tablemate and put puzzle pieces together. “Are you related to Jason West?”
“Why would you ask that?”
“You…look like him.”
The older Jason smiled. “I’m not his dad or uncle…”
He was probably too young to be his grandfather, and he couldn’t be his brother. “What do you know about my grandmother’s shop?”
“Delia’s Dressy Occasion? It’s a great shop.”
“It was a great shop.”
“But this dress…” He nodded at the sateen fabric bunched around her like a deflated balloon. “Pepto-Bismol Pink.”
“Mia calls it pearl pink.”
“And you call it putrid.”
She stared at him.
“Maybe not out-loud, but I bet it’s what you think.”
“How would you know that?”
He propped his elbows on the table. “Tell me, what are your plans for the store?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Well, since you lost your lease—”
“I didn’t lose the lease.” Her attention shifted back to the younger Jason. “Someone persuaded my grandmother it was time to leave.” She slumped back in her chair. “We were doing fine.”
“Maybe now you can do better.”
Celia picked up her fork and stabbed at the cake. She thought about joining her friends on the dance floor. Becca and Lacey had both kicked off their shoes. They bounced beneath the sparkly lights. Celia wanted to be happy, too, but she felt like she carried the weight of her grandmother’s store on her shoulders.
“You’re afraid that losing the store is like losing your mom.” The older Jason leaned close. “She’ll be fine.”
“How can you know that? Do you know my mom?”
He nodded.
“You’re a friend of my mom’s?” Celia blinked back a sudden tear.
Jason touched her hand, just briefly, and the tingle returned. “The cancer won’t last. She’ll beat it. She’s strong. Like you.”
“You don’t know me,” Celia said. “You might know my mom, but you don’t know me, and there’s no way you can know my mom is going to be okay.” She stood to leave. Her toes screamed in protest, but she pushed to her feet, ignoring the pain.
Unless. She turned back. “Are you a doctor?”
Jason looked down at the goblet. He picked it up and swirled the water. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m good at that…at offending people.”
The band began a slow song and couples formed. Lacey and Becca both found partners. Mia and Brad danced in the center, directly beneath the disco ball. Lights twinkled across the room. It would have been a perfect day, except for the putrid pink dress, and Jason West.
“Do you know my sister?” Celia considered him. She was sure they hadn’t met.
He nodded. “And the groom. He’s an…old family friend.”
“Are you from Stonington?”
“Not originally, although I lived here for many years.”
She waited for him to elaborate.
“I’m from Darien.”
“Oh. Is that how you know Jason West? He’s from there, too.”
“He’s a good guy, just doing his job.”
Celia couldn’t help it. She made a face.
“I know you don’t think so now, but you should forgive him.”
Celia held up her hand. “I don’t know who you are—”
Squealing cut her off. Becca and Lacey both ran to her side.
“Come on, Cee,” Becca said, taking her hand. “Mia’s going to throw the bouquet!”
Celia let her friends pull her away from the table and lead her across the room. Mia stood on the wide steps, several feet above the clustered bridesmaids and single women in the crowd. Celia’s mom sat in a chair at a table with Claudette, Celia’s grandmother. Both looked tired but happy. Celia edged toward the back, close enough to be a part, but too far to be in danger of actually catching anything.
Mia gave her a wicked smile, turned her back, and flung the bouquet straight at Celia. Flinging up her arms, Celia protected her face from the flying flowers.
People around her cheered, and Celia opened her eyes.
Becca, aloft in Jason West’s arms, clutched the bouquet. Becca wiggled as Jason set her down and turned to face him. Wrapping her arms around his neck, Becca kissed him full on the lips. She held the bouquet in her hand, and it poked above Jason’s head, looking like a large, floral hat.
“I owe you!” Becca said, pushing away from Jason.
He didn’t respond to Becca but met Celia’s gaze.
She felt shaken by him, although she couldn’t say why. She felt as if his look was trying to tell her something. Something he didn’t know how to say.
He’s a good guy. Just doing his job, the older Jason’s words floated back to her.
Becca disentangled herself from Jason and smiled into her bouquet. “I love weddings,” she said to no one in particular. “They’re such a happy beginning.”
Celia’s gaze wandered back to her mom and grandmother. A beginning always comes after an ending, she thought. Celia gave Becca a tight-lipped smile, ignored Jason, and headed back to her table. The older Jason had disappeared, and Celia gratefully sank into her chair. Swirling the wine flute, she watched the water form into a small tidal wave before she took a drink.
And the world turned dark.

CHAPTER TWO

Her body hummed with energy. She found the quiet dark relaxing and rhythmic motion hypnotic and soothing. Crickets chirped and a breeze stirred the trees. Somewhere, an owl called out. The clip-clop of the horses…
Wait.
Horses?
Celia’s eyes popped open. She sat in a carriage. An obese woman draped in satin and furs sat directly in front of her, snoring, her mouth ajar.
Celia’s own mouth dropped open. She sat up and took note. Same putrid pink dress. Same pinchy shoes. But the wedding, Mia, her mom and grandmother? All gone. Replaced by a grotesque snoring thing wearing a satin tent.
She ran her hands first over the velvet seat cushion, then the burnished wood walls, and finally the black, smooth drapes. It all felt real.
But she must be drunk. Or hallucinating. Had she had too much champagne? No. That drink! That Jason person! He must have put something in her water! But it had looked and tasted like water. Celia ran her tongue over her teeth, trying to find an aftertaste, or a hint of something dangerous.
She drew back the curtain and peered into the dark. A brilliant, star-studded sky gazed down on her. No street lights. No lights at all, except for the one bobbing on the front of the carriage. Leaning forward, she craned to see the driver, but saw nothing but a horse’s butt and its swishing tail. As if the animal knew she was watching and he didn’t appreciate her stare, he lifted his tail.
Celia sat back, closed her eyes, and let the cadence sway of the carriage lull her back to sleep. When she woke, she’d be at home in her bed, and she’d never have to wear this dress again.
Crack!
Celia’s eyes flew open. She sat up straight and glanced at the woman across from her. The woman snorted and nestled her double chin into her fur collar. What was that sound? Was the carriage breaking beneath the woman’s weight?
Crack!
Was it gun fire? The carriage lurched, stopping so quickly that the portly lady slid off the seat.
“What the devil?” the woman moaned, righting herself. She gave Celia a narrow-eyed look as if Celia had knocked her off the bench.
Crack!
“Gunshots!” the woman hissed. She pursed her full lips, yanked off an enormous emerald necklace and shoved it at Celia. “Hide this.”
Celia stared stupidly at the jewels. If they were real, she could use them to buy the shop! Wishing she had a pocket, her mind sought options. In her bra? No. The stones were too big and the bodice too tight. Not knowing what else to do, she lifted her skirts and tucked the necklace into the lace garter Mia had insisted all the bridesmaids wear. She patted her skirts back into place just before the door flew open.
“Stand and deliver!” A deep and somewhat familiar voice demanded.
Deliver what? And how could she stand inside of a carriage? Celia crouched on her seat. Slowly, she lifted her head and saw nothing but the silvery end of a gun pointing at her forehead. None of this is real, Celia told herself. It’s the champagne asking her to stand and deliver something.
“Come, come, ladies.” The familiar voice sent a tingle down her back.
The man stepped out of the shadows and his gaze met hers, but not an ounce of recognition glistened in his eyes. She thought she knew him, but since a black mask hid half his face, she couldn’t be sure.
“My lady.” He swept his arms in a low bow.
Celia gave the gun another glance. It looked real enough.
He lifted one eyebrow and the corner of his lips in a slow and lazy smile, but continued to point the gun at her forehead.
She tried not to think about the emeralds pinching her leg. She couldn’t look at them. She couldn’t adjust them. She couldn’t call his attention to them in any way.
His gaze traveled over her horrid dress and stopped at her mid-thigh as if he could see through the layers of sateen and frilly slip to the garter smashing the emeralds against her.
“Are you in need of assistance?” He held out his hand—the one not holding a gun—to help her out of the carriage. Again, that trill of recognition poured over Celia. She knew him. Somehow.
She shook her head, knowing she couldn’t touch him. If she touched him and he was real, tangible, then she would…well, she didn’t know what she would do. Nothing like this had ever happened to her before.
“Are you mute?” he asked, cocking his head. His grin deepened. “Or is my charm rendering you speechless?”
“Have you considered that maybe I’m put off by the gun you’re holding to my head?”
“Ah, so you can speak after all. Pity that. I do love a quiet woman.” He placed his hand on his heart. “Please, my dears, join me.”
But Celia refused to budge, and since her companion cowered behind her, they both stayed in the coach. She stared at his mouth—the only part of his face she could see—other than his eyes. She found both his eyes and lips hypnotizing. Her gaze traveled from one feature to the next, wondering which one she liked the most.
He’s a highwayman! Her inner voice of reason told her. And a figment of your imagination! Those are the best kind of men, she told her reasonable voice.
“I’m sure you understand this is not a social call.” His gaze flicked over Celia and rested on her va va voom bodice. “At least, not entirely, although I do enjoy mixing business and pleasure.”
“Where’s Eddie?” the woman barked over Celia’s shoulder. “What have you done with Eddie?”
As she leaned over Celia, Celia’s foot caught on the door’s lip. She would have tumbled and fell if the highwayman hadn’t shot out his arm to steady her. His hand tightened around her, and in one fluid movement, he lifted her out of the carriage and placed her on the ground.
She felt breathless and warm from his sudden, brief contact. Her breath came in ragged huffs. Not knowing whether she was grateful or disappointed when he stepped away, she hugged herself to keep warm.
A snapping twig drew her attention to three men in the shadows. They stood as silent and watchful as the trees. All three had weapons drawn.
“Where’s Eddie?” the woman barked out again.
“Have you hurt the driver?” Celia asked, with a hiccup catching in her throat.
The highwayman flicked his head toward a cluster of trees. “He’s unharmed, except for, perhaps, his sense of self-worth.”
“What is your name?” the woman whispered.
“My name?” Celia asked, her voice coming out in a surprised squeak.
“Not your name, you goat head! I know your name.”
Celia wondered what her name might be, or her role, or position. Was she a maid? A paid companion? A relation? She shivered, and told herself that she needed to wake. This dream had gone on way too long already. She should have come to as soon as she saw the gun. That’s what normally would have happened. Nightmares typically ended with a major scare.
She tried pinching herself. It hurt, but not enough to wake her.
The woman fixed her attention on the highwayman. “Who are you?”
“Why would he tell you that?” Celia asked, more than a little stung at being called a goat head.
The man chuckled. “You do not need my name, but I do need your valuables.”
Quiet descended, and Celia took note of the clamor of crickets, the hooting owl, and a nearby tumbling river. Country night sounds, usually masked by the roar of constant traffic on the parkway.
“Do you really need them, or do you just want them?” Celia asked.
“What difference should that make?” he asked.
“It makes a very big difference—it’s the difference between greed and—”
He waved his gun in her face, effectively silencing her. “That ring, if you please,” he said to the woman.
Celia watched, wondering what her companion would do.
Slowly, the woman climbed from the coach.
The horses stamped their feet impatiently and shook their reins. For a second, Celia thought about jumping on one and riding away. But then she remembered that she knew nothing about horses, their massive size terrified her, and getting one loose from the carriage might be tricky. Besides, even if it wasn’t real, that gun looked like an actual gun, which meant that the bullet might possibly feel real, and she didn’t like pain—real or imaginary.
The woman drew the ring off her finger. “I have a reticule in the carriage,” she told the man. “If you’d like, I’ll give it to you.”
The man barked a laugh. “Not likely.” He motioned to one of the henchmen, his gaze never leaving the two women. “Search the carriage. Tell me if you find any hidden pistols.”
Celia slid a quick glance at the woman, wondering if she was cunning or just stupid.
The second man passed by. He smelled unwashed and earthy. The woman reached out and shoved Celia into him. “Take her!”
The man stumbled under Celia’s sudden weight, but the highwayman reached out and caught her in his arms. He drew her to him and held her close. She felt safe there, although she knew that she shouldn’t.
“Hold her hostage! Kill her if you must!” The woman clambered into the coach and slammed the door.
Celia fought to breathe. She knew she had to leave, she knew that staying pressed up against the highwayman was stupid. He had his hand on her belly, his fingers splayed across her. He smelled of cloves, and when he spoke, his breath warmed her.
“That was most unkind.” He sounded surprised and disapproving.
The second man scrambled after the woman and flung open the door. Amid the screams, the carriage rocked back and forth.
“I won’t harm you,” the highwayman whispered, his lips brushing against her hair.
Celia glanced at the gun. In the moonlight, it looked very real and very lethal. Almost as devastating as the man holding her in his arms.
He shifted, bringing her in front of him. In one quick moment, he captured her lips.
Celia’s knees buckled. Her thoughts raced back to all those Regency romance novels of her grandmother’s that she had read as a girl. Georgette someone. Hideous, Horrendous, no, Heyer. Yes, that was it. Georgette Heyer. What would Georgette call this? A seduction? A ravishing? Oh my gosh! That was it! She was being ravished by a rake!
Wake up! her mind screamed. No more kissing!
Oh, but it felt so good. So very, very good.
Panic gripped her. Breaking loose, she ripped off his mask.
Jason West stood in a pool of moonlight, gun dangling at his side. Surprise filled his eyes. He touched his lips, clearly dazed. Taking two steps back, his gaze shifted to the dark, shadowy woods. “Forgive me,” he muttered. “I have erred.”
And with those parting words, he turned and disappeared into the dark.
#
Celia lifted her head off the table, dazed. She must have fallen asleep. How embarrassing. She checked the tablecloth to make sure she hadn’t been drooling. It felt dry. What if she had snored? She cast a nervous glance around.
The party continued as if she had never left/slept. She wasn’t sure, but it seemed as if the band was even playing the same song. That wasn’t possible. The dream seemed longer than a few seconds, more than a few minutes even. But no one was looking or staring at her.
Becca was chatting up some guy over by the bar. Lacey had her arms wrapped around someone wearing a purple bow-tie and they moved to the music. Celia twisted and caught the gaze of Jason West.
Flushing, she looked away. Touching her cheeks, she tried to quell the heat flaming her face. So grateful no one, and by no one she meant Jason West, could read her thoughts, Celia slipped off her pinchy shoes and fled.
Later, she would have to try to explain her sudden departure to her mom and sister. But there were some things she would never be able to explain. Or understand.
Like the garter pressing something sharp into her upper thigh.

You Can’t Drive to Martha’s Vineyard

by Stephanie Queen

BIiPad-RevYou can’t drive to Martha’s Vineyard…

That’s exactly why world-weary ex-special ops legend Dane Blaise settled on The Vineyard when he thought he was finished with the soul-wrenching missions and mind-crushing danger. But he wasn’t finished yet. Not when he owed the governor and the governor insisted on partnering him with her…

Shana George.

They came together like magnets, attracted and repelled by turns, and ended up partners in Beachcomber Investigations, a private detective agency. They work from their world-wide headquarters on the tiny island of Martha’s Vineyard off the coast of Massachusetts.

Remote and solitary in the winter, yet the island is a stone’s throw from Boston and bustling with vacationers all summer. Populated with an array of characters from edgy to comic, It’s the perfect spot for a couple who has no idea what they want.

Marthas_Vineyard_Massachusetts51It’s also a perfect getaway spot for a vacation at the beach. (Even if the movie Jaws was filmed at Martha’s Vineyard on State Beach–don’t worry–the shark was a prop.) My favorite beach is Gayhead Beach, also known as Aquinnah Beach, with the cliffs and boulder-strewn sand. It’s away from the hustle and bustle of the islands towns, giving it a remote feel.

 

Here’s an excerpt from Beachcomber Investigations –Book One by Stephanie Queen:

Chapter 1

Shana darted a glance at Dane. He was leaning on the doorjamb, oozing his ridiculous brand of sensuality, all casual and strong. Visits to the hospital had always been nausea-inducing events in her life experience, but this visit had a whole different vibe.

With all her might, Shana resisted crediting Dane with the reality-defying mood she felt standing in the middle of this room, immune to the scent of antiseptics wafting around her.

Instead, she tried ignoring Dane and refocused on Cap—Captain Colin Lynch—lounging againsthis pillows.

Cap wasbandaged and sporting a sling and a grin as if the bullet in his shoulder had been a movie propand he was playing the role of the injured State Police Chief of Martha’s Vineyard—andplaying that role poorly.

“You’re not taking your injuryvery seriously,” she said.

Cap grinned wider. She squelched a long-suffering sigh, because Cap was not one ofher younger brothers. Far from it. He was a hunk of a grown man if she was in the mood for admitting things.

Her gaze slid back to Dane as he moved into the room. He eyed her, giving her that sizzling stare. The wave of desire nearly unbalanced her until her survival instincts kicked in.

Without thinking, her chin rose and she stepped closer to Cap as if he would protect her.

As if Dane Blaise were a monster. But he wasonly a monsterif she considered legendary war heroes who routinely saved lives—including her own—as monsters.

No. Dane was no monster, but he wasa threat to her well-being. Maybe she was being overly dramatic, but she felt as if he were wielding a knife, with the ability to cut her heart out and shred it to pieces if she were to let him.

She needed to get a grip.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

BeachInvest 4Book Box Set NEW REV CoverGiveaway! 

An e-copy of Beachcomber Investigations 4-Book Box Set which includes Beachcomber Investigations and three other books in the series.

Enter to win by leaving a comment—tell me about your favorite getaway spot!

Meet the Characters: Dane & Shana

TheBeachcombers- Twitter-RevisedMeet Dane Blaise & Shana George, partners in Beachcomber Investigations on Martha’s Vineyard and two of my favorite people. This charismatic couple—or non-couple as the case may be—will answer some probing questions to help us get to know them.

Then maybe you can help them decide whether they ought to be a couple—or not. They are NOT having success figuring this out on their own. Here’s the Q&A for our intrepid characters from the world of fiction:

Q: What are your favorite scenes in your book: the action, the dialog or the romance?

DANE: I’ll be the gentleman and let Shana answer first.

SHANA: (scoffs) You’re a prince. That’s what I always say.

DANE: Answer the question, girlie. Honestly. Is it the action, the dialogue or, my favorite, the romance?

SHANA: (eye-roll) You mean your favorite is the sex, not the romance.

DANE: Then you agree—

SHANA: Honestly, my favorite scenes are the action scenes. That’s when I’m in control and in my element and doing what I love and was meant to do. Putting up with on-again, off-again romance with Dane is the hard part. It drives me crazy. But working with him, well, he is the best.

Q:  What do you do for a living?

DANE: Didn’t we say? We’re private investigators. We specialize in big cases—missions—often sent our way by the governor, my old special ops commander.

Q:  What is your greatest fear?

SHANA: This I want to hear—what is it Dane?

DANE: You. I’m afraid of you, Shana.

SHANA: (eye-roll again) You mean you’re afraid of yourself. I’m nothing to you but a pain in the butt except when I’m covering your butt.

DANE: (silence)

SHANA: Okay. I’ll tell you what I’m afraid of—never getting back home to Sydney, Australia, never visiting my Dad’s grave again…

DANE: Heavy.

Q:  What turns you on?

DANE: (looks at Shana)

SHANA: (yet another eye-roll)

Q:  What do you like most about where you live?

DANE: We live on Martha’s Vineyard, an island off the coast of Massachusetts. It’s mostly a summer vacation place, but I like the solitariness of the winter months all the people are gone and it’s you against Mother Nature. The excitement summer crowd… (shrugs) It’s the cleansing ocean air that I need most.

SHANA: What I like most is living where Dane lives.

DANE: (raises one brow)

SHANA: No sense pretending otherwise. Why else would I stay? It’s the heart-hammering excitement of not knowing what will happen next, but knowing surely that something will happen.

DANE: Oh. That. None of that in Sydney or London? None of that with Scotland Yard where you worked when I found you?

SHANA: Where you found me? You didn’t find me.

DANE: Figure of speech, girlie.

SHANA: Don’t call me that in front of—

And that concludes the interview—before they come to blows. Or something else. You can see Dane and Shana in action all through the Beachcomber Investigations series beginning with The Beachcombers which is currently $.99. The newest book in the series, Beachcomber Test is available now.

Do you think Dane & Shana should stay together or fall apart?

Blurb for Beachcomber Test:BeachTest Teaser

The biggest test of Dane’s life comes down to this: Can he give Shana everything she wants from him?
Ex-special ops legend Dane Blaise is staking his life on passing every one of Shana’s tests for him. Desperation to keep her with him made him crazy enough to agree to take a divorce case.
He’d sworn never to take a follow-the-cheating-spouse case since the day they’d started Beachcomber Investigations together.

She was tough and gorgeous, but Shana George never expected much from men romantically speaking. Then again, she never thought she’d quit her dream job at Scotland Yard to work as a private-eye on Martha’s Vineyard. There was no explaining how Dane made her crazy enough to hope. Too many times she came close to leaving. Now she can’t live through another round of dashed hope without leaving for good. This case could be her last.

But Even a simple divorce case turns dangerous for Beachcomber Investigations while Dane & Shana’s resolve to stay together is tested to the end.

Excerpt: 

Chapter 1

It had seemed like a simple case. A case Dane had agreed to take because he would do anything for Shana. Now that he was shamelessly in love with her and in full-on convincing-her-to-stay-with-him mode after he almost lost her on Christmas Day.

Shana didn’t trust him yet. She was in full-on test-the-bastard mode to make sure he was for real.

Her first test had been to suggest a trip to Australia to visit her family. He’d agreed. They’d planned it for the fall. They were coming into spring and summer season so it didn’t make sense to leave now. They would wait for the cold weather to travel down under where it would be warm. She had booked their flight and the tic of uneasiness that Dane felt was almost imperceptible.

Her second test had been to accept a divorce case without asking him. He’d vowed never to take follow-the-cheating-spouse cases and she knew it. The muscle clench between his shoulder blades was mild, so he soldiered through.

Now they would be following some nasty middle-aged man around the island for half the season to work up an irrefutable file on him for the wronged wife so she could work the pre-nup infidelity clause and wring every penny out of the sap—or scum, depending on your view—in the divorce. Dane tried hard not to have any view in the matter.

His view was to pray to hell that the man dropped his pants on his first night on island.

No such luck.

Instead, the poor sap—or scum—got himself killed.

This wasn’t any routine divorce case anymore, but Dane wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

*****

He stood in the small kitchen looking at Shana over his coffee cup. The sun shone through the window and glinted off her golden hair so that she looked like she had sparks flying from her. She wore her usual gorgeous scowl.

“Didn’t you do a background check on our client before you agreed to the case?”

He smiled when she narrowed her eyes at him.

“No.” She stood with her hands on her hips, daring him to shoot her down. That, Dane figured, was test number three.

He nodded and walked past her, brushing a hand over the waves of her long soft mane of hair and inhaling the scent of her.

“Where are you going?”

“To the secure phone.”

“What are you? Batman?” She followed after him. She always followed after him. Almost always.

He laughed.

“I’m calling in Acer.”

“Not that I have anything against Acer, but we don’t need him. We can handle this ourselves.”

She’d gotten the call from Captain Colin Lynch at six that morning about the murder victim. Dane knew it was bad when she came back to bed and wouldn’t tell him what the call was about.

He stopped at his old metal desk, the feature piece in his office, which should have been a living room. Shana had brought in a couch, but he mostly used it for a shelf where he threw all the files, papers, mail, books, and any other paraphernalia that got collected during an investigation. Or any other time. He looked at the pile of crap and took a deep breath. Then he smiled at her like he meant it, because he did.

“I’ll do whatever you want, sugar bun.”

“Stop that.”

“You don’t want me to call you sugar bun?”

“I don’t want you doing whatever I want—”

“Can I quote you on that?”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not. I’m trying to be agreeable.”

“Well, stop. It’ s not you and it’s creeping me out.”

He reached out and pulled her in and held her tight against him. He was hard and she was soft—in all the strategic places—and he let that feeling, of her pressed against him, simmer through his body, hit every nerve, and settle in his head and deep in his soul. She stirred and he reflexively tightened his hold.

“It’s okay, Dane. I’m not going to run out the door if you disagree with me.”

“Of course not. Why would you? I mean, look what you have here.”

He spread his arms. It was half-hearted sarcasm because he wasn’t used to feeling vulnerable, but he’d been feeling a lot of that lately. It was as if he were reliving his teenage years, only inside a forty-year-old body which made the fun parts not nearly as fun.

“I’m looking at who I have.” She sighed deeply and then leaned in and grabbed his lips with her teeth and sucked in, giving him a hair-raising—and other-body-part-raising—kiss. Deep and juicy and thorough.

“You want to go back to bed?” It was a stupid question and he should have grabbed her by the hair and dragged her—figuratively speaking. Maybe another time he would have.

She smiled, moving her hands over his chest. It was a strong, well-muscled chest because in his line of work staying in good shape was a matter of life and death. Evidently even when his line of work was a divorce case.

“Always. I always want you.”

“Then we have something in common—I always want you.”

He moved, holding her in his arms, half dragging her in the direction of the hall to the bedroom. Until she dug in her heels.

“We have a murder case,” she said.  Then she really smiled.

 

 

 

Don’t you love book series?

Box Cover Beach Inv Dark Spine-TransparentIt seems that readers these days are wired for series. The “more is better” way of thinking–and reading–is alive and well. Even Myren, my chauffeur, can’t stop at just one–book that is. (He also has multiple cars, come to think of it. Being a chauffeur and all, I suppose that’s to be expected. I’m not sure if his cars can be called a series… but I digress.)

What’s your favorite series?

My favorite is the Gabriel Allon thriller series by Daniel Silva. Also, my own DSilvaBeachcomber Investigations romantic detective series (Myren is rolling his eyes, but don’t pay attention to him. I’m not.)

It’s all about the characters. When you read a series it’s because you love the characters, find them exciting and fun, find yourself wishing they were real people so you could meet them and be their best friend. (Okay, maybe that last part is just me. After all, my current best friend is Myren, my chauffeur, so you can’t really blame me for wanting a fictional character for a friend, can you.) (Don’t answer that.)

The only thing better than reading a series that you love is writing a series that you love.  Returning to the world and the characters like they’re old friends in a familiar neighborhood, makes the writing easier–though not easy–and all the more enjoyable. That’s what I do and why I do it.

The new upcoming release: Beachcomber Test

Beachcomber Test 3-DBookComing in November will be book 7 in Beachcomber Investigations. Here’s an excerpt from Beachcomber Test.

Chapter1

It seemed like a simple case. A case Dane agreed to take because he would do anything for Shana. Now that he was shamelessly in love with her and in full-on convincing-her-to-stay-with-him mode after he almost lost her on Christmas Day.

She didn’t trust him yet. She was in full-on test-the-bastard mode to make sure he was for real.

Her first test was to suggest a trip to Australia to visit her family. He agreed. They planned it for the fall. They were coming into spring and summer season so it didn’t make sense to leave now. She booked their flight and the tic of uneasiness that Dane felt was almost imperceptible.

Her second test was to accept a divorce case without asking him. He’d vowed never to take follow-the-cheating-spouse cases and she knew it. The muscle clench between his shoulder blades was mild and he soldiered through.

Now they would be following some nasty middle-aged man around the island for half the season to work up an irrefutable file on him for the wronged wife so she could work the pre-nup infidelity clause and wring every penny out of sap–or scum—depending on your view–in the divorce. Dane tried hard not to have any view in the matter.

His view was to pray to hell that the man dropped his pants on his first night on island.

No such luck.

Instead, the poor sap or scum got himself killed first night on the island.

This wasn’t any routine divorce case anymore, but Dane wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or bad thing.

He stood in the small kitchen looking at Shana over his coffee cup. The sun shone through the window and glinted off her golden hair so that she looked like she had sparks flying from her. She wore her usual gorgeous scowl.

“Didn’t you do background on our client before you agreed to the case?”

He smiled when she narrowed her eyes at him.

 “No.” She stood with her hands on her hips daring him to shoot her down. That, Dane figured, was test number three.

Dane nodded and walked past her, brushing a hand over the waves of her long soft mane of hair and inhaling the scent of her.

“Where are you going?”

“To the secure phone.”

“What are you? Batman?” She followed after him. She always followed after him. Almost always.

He laughed.

“I’m calling in Acer.”

“Not that I have anything against Acer, but we don’t need him. We can handle this ourselves.”

She’d gotten the call from Captain Colin Lynch at six that morning about the murder victim. Dane knew it was bad when she came back to bed and wouldn’t tell him what the call was about.

He stopped at his old metal desk that doubled as the feature piece in his office that should have been a living room. Shana had brought in a couch, but he mostly used it for a shelf where he threw all the files, papers, mail, books and any other paraphernalia that got collected during an investigation, or in general. He looked at the pile of crap and took a deep breath. Then he smiled at her like he meant it, because he did.

“I’ll do whatever you want, sugar bun.”

“Stop that.”

“You don’t want me to call you sugar bun?”

“I don’t want you doing whatever I want—“

“Can I quote you—“

“Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not. I’m trying to be agreeable.”

“Well, stop. It’ s not you and it’s creeping me out.”

He reached out and pulled her in and held her tight against him. He was hard and she was soft—in all the strategic places—and he let that feeling of her pressed against him, simmer through his body, hit every nerve and settle in his head and deep in his soul. She stirred and he reflexively tightened his hold.

“It’s okay, Dane. I’m not going to run out the door if you disagree with me.”

“Of course not. Why would you? I mean, look what you have here.”

He spread his arms. It was half-hearted sarcasm because he wasn’t used to feeling vulnerable, but he’d been feeling a lot of that lately. It was as if he were re-living his teen age years only inside a forty-year old body which made the fun parts not nearly as fun.

“I’m looking at who I have.” She sighed deeply and then leaned in and grabbed his lips with her teeth and sucked in, giving him a hair-raising—and other body part raising—kiss. Deep and juicy and thorough.

“You want to go back to bed?” He figured it was a stupid question and he should have grabbed her by the hair and dragged her—figuratively speaking. Maybe another time he would have.

She smiled, moving her hands over his chest. It was a strong well-muscled chest because in his line of work staying in good shape was a matter of life and death. Evidently even when his line of work was a divorce case.

“Always. I always want you.”

“Then we have something in common—I always want you.”

He moved, holding her in his arms, half dragging her in the direction of the hall to the bedroom. Until she dug in her heels.

“We have a murder case,” she said.  Then she really smiled.

You can pre-order Beachcomber Test a the following places:

AMAZON.         B&N.         iBOOKS.         KOBO.

Let me know what your current favorite series is for a chance to win a copy of Beachcomber Investigations 4 Book Set!

Small Town Christmas Baby – An Excerpt

Small Town Christmas Baby Cover Twins Bow-2I’m very excited for the upcoming Authors of Main Street Christmas box set! It’s scheduled to be released in October and we’ll keep you posted. We’ll have over ten novellas about the warmth of Christmas, romance and BABIES!

My story in the anthology is set in the small (quasi) fictional town of Hamlin, New Hampshire. This is the fourth book in my Small Town Romance series.

To give you a taste of what’s to come, here’s an excerpt from Small Town Christmas Baby:

Chapter 1

Lumberjacks adore New Hampshire. Trees grow faster here than Usain Bolt runs the 40-meter sprint. Julie, not being a lumberjack, had little appreciation for the giant trees with their enormous branches overhanging the Stillwater Inn. They’d need to call the tree chopper guy in again and it would cost thousands. Again.

She turned away from the window and vowed there was no way she would ask her husband for the money this time. She’d find it in the Inn’s budget if she had to make beds herself to save money.

Running her hand over her disappointingly small rounded belly, she turned her attention back to the cupcake frosting. One way to get a bunch of cash quick would be to win the Bake-off in Boston next month. She shoved aside the thought of rumblings from Jack about her needing to take care of herself and concentrate on the arrival of their first baby in a few months. Surely she could do two—maybe three or four—things at once. Lots of women did.

But as of today, Julie officially hated cupcakes. It was a shame because she was starving and she was staring at racks filled with all kinds of gems. But even the smell of her fresh-baked specials didn’t tempt her any more. These days she craved chocolate covered potato chips and hot dogs.

As she squeezed the bursts of frosting on the hundred and twelfth cupcake, the back door slammed and she looked up. It had to be Tammy. Only her oldest and best friend slammed the door open like that. It had always been Tam’s way to announce her arrival.

“You’re in time to help me.”

“You must be desperate. You know how I am with cake and icing—“

Julie waved her tube of icing.

“Not with that. I wouldn’t want your drool to contaminate the cake-lets. I need help with something far more important.”

“What the heck could that possibly be?”

Shoving aside the issue of tree-chopping money—because she knew deep down Jack would talk Uncle Billy into letting him pay on the grounds that Jack was part owner of the family Inn now since he was part of the family—she lasered in on the real gut-twister.

“I need to come up with a show-stopper of a Christmas gift for Jack.” She paused a beat while Tammy predictably rolled her eyes.

“Something I can afford on my own.”

* * * *

More to come when the entire set of Christmas Babies on Main Street by the Authors of Main Street will be available in a few short weeks.

In the meantime, look for the cover reveal soon!

SQ Bakes Experimental Banana Bread!

SQMadScientist

SQ: the Mad Scientist Cook 

Call me a mad scientist-cook, but I decided to experiment with a recipe. Myren’s concerns about poisoning and his reference to Arsenic and old Lace not withstanding, I went ahead with my dangerous risky exciting baking experiment.

My Mission: To make Healthy Banana Bread

To accomplish this goal, I needed to change out some of the horrible killer deadly less than stellar ingredients for healthier options. Which ingredients are those, you ask? Flour, for one.

But flour is kind of a key ingredient, you say. (Myren said it. Many times. Loudly.)

I say–no worries. The usual bleached wheat flour can be replaced. I had a couple of options and I said what the heck (making Myren so nervous he threw up his hands and said why don’t I just blow up the kitchen), I’ll use both!

Instead of using 1 3/4 cups of bleached wheat flour, I only used 1 cup and 1/2 cup of coconut flour (yes, you read that right! COCONUT FLOUR) and a 1/4 cup of hazelnut flour (yes, the nut, hazelnut, can be pummeled into flour–but I didn’t do it myself. I bought it at the store. Pricey, but good and floury.)

My next substitution was for the sugar. (Myren moaned like an old Italian lady at a wake when he heard this.) Instead I used a half-and-half mixture of Truvia (a stevia plant based sweetener with virtually no calories) and the usual crap granulated sugar.

For my third and most ridiculous crazy challenging substitution, I had to find a replacement for the dreaded deadly tasty high-fat shortening. I searched around my kitchen for something with healthy fat and the right consistency, briefly skimming over Myren walking around and waving his hands and yelling for me to stop this nonsense. Then my gaze landed on…

An AVACADO!

I used half shortening and half mushed avocado to make up the 1/3 cup of mushy fatty substance I needed for the recipe.

Then I mixed all the ingredients together, baked it for about 45 minutes at 350 degrees and voila! [The banana bread pictured at the right is the authentic deal fresh from the oven.]*

Here’s a list of the recipe’s ingredients:

  • 2-3 ripe bananas
  • 1 3/4 cups flour (wheat, coconut & hazelnut combined)
  • 1/2 cup sugar (half Trivia, half granulated cane sugar)
  • 2 1/4 tsp baking Powder
  • 1/2 tsp salt
  • 1/3 cup half shortening-half avacado
  • 1 tsp vanilla
  • 2 eggs
  • 3/4 cups walnut pieces (or as many nuts as you want) (I used a lot.)

Good Luck and let me know how it goes with your experiment!

*I ate this banana bread and it was delicious and I suffered no ill effects (in spite of Myren’s dire warnings. He refused to try it.)

Cooking with Stephanie Queen

ingredientsgrandmagravy

Don’t go by what Myren, my chauffeur, says about my cooking. I’m no pro, but I have my moments of deliciousness in the kitchen. Especially when I get hungry. Then I can really cook.

I think I got my penchant for cooking and food from my Italian grandmother. She could barely speak English and forget about reading or writing. But she could cook any hoity-toity chef from the best Italian restaurant under the table. I’d put her in any of those TV cooking show competitions and bet my house on her. She was a red-headed spitfire and enjoyed nothing more than cooking for a party of people any time. The main room in her home was the kitchen, second was the dining room. There was no living room or parlor or family room. She didn’t need any room extraneous to cooking and eating.

Myren says it’s about time I got to the cooking and recipe-sharing part of this blog-a-treatise. So here it is. My Grandma’s *heirloom* marinara sauce from the old country–otherwise known as Grandma’s Gravy. Watch me cook it up HERE!

The Recipe

 

Stephanie Queen’s Recipe for Grandma’s Gravy (aka marinara sauce)

Ingredients:

  • 2 28 oz cans Crushed Tomato
  • 1 lg can Tomato Paste
  • 3-4 cloves of Fresh Garlic
  • 4 medium – large bunches of fresh large leaf basil
  • ¼-1 whole Sweet Onion, chopped finely
  • Olive Oil
  • Approx. 1- 1 ½ lbs combined Pork, Sausage and beef (cuts/amounts as preferred, but include some with bone-in)

Instructions:

In large heavy dutch-oven pan, cover the bottom with a generous amount of olive oil and add the meat. Saute on medium heat until lightly brown, turning over 2-3 times. Remove meat from pan and lower heat.

Add chopped onion, chopped garlic and basil. Tear basil before adding. Saute for a few minutes, adding more olive oil. Add tomato paste, stir, saute for a couple of minutes.

Add meat back in. Mix in with tomato paste. Add olive oil and stir to make sure nothing sticks to the bottom of the pan.

Turn heat up to medium and add two cans of crushed tomatoes and one half can of water. Stir this mixture thoroughly.

Cover pan and heat, stirring occasionally, until it begins to bubble. Turn heat down and simmer for 2-7 hours, stirring occasionally.

Myren also suggests wearing an apron. Right now he’s hovering with a big spoon and a bowl of spaghetti waiting for the *gravy*. Time to go.

What’s your favorite *heirloom* recipe? Please share!

 

Get More Readers? A New Year To-Do List

computerToday, I’m going to speak (or technically, write) writer-to-writer (and to heck with Myren, my recalcitrant chauffeur who doesn’t give a twit about the writing life or business—or come to think of it—he doesn’t care much about chauffeuring either. Hmm. But I digress. As usual.) And because I’m a writer and a list junkie, I’m going to share my writing to-do list.

Readers (and others like Myren, although I doubt any of you lovely readers out there are anything like Myren) may or may not be interested in this little peak into the behind-the-scenes of the writing business, and I apologize if not. But look at it this way, it could come in handy if you ever decide to write a book. Or maybe—more likely—it’ll help you decide you were right not to become a writer after all.

It’s not an easy business—and it IS a business.

If you don’t believe me, take a gander at my list of things to do and tell me if it doesn’t smack of production, sales strategy and marketing. Maybe you can relate.

So here’s what writers think about around the New Year when they decide to put their pens down for a minute and contemplate what the heck they’re doing and why and how to do it better—as in how to reach more readers.

SQ’s Must Do List for Writing Success in 2017

  1. Re-Launch backlist books originally published more than 5 years ago, overhauled in style, cover and content.
  2. Write and publish 280,000-300,000 words worth of full-length novels, publishing 90 days apart. That’s four full length novels around 70-75k words each. That’s an average of about 7,000 words a week for 42 weeks.
  3. Have cover specially and professionally designed for these books according to genre best practice.stephanie-queen-postcard
  4. Focus specifically on writing the above-mentioned novels in a series
  5. Make sure book prices are appropriate level for genre and word count
  6. Research ads for effectiveness and run ads likely to break even or better.
  7. Actively work to expand mailing list using targeted services or promotions & commit to sending regular newsletters with valuable, entertaining content.
  8. Study the genre including titles, covers and themes of top sellers, at least once a month. Made adjustments to the above-noted books if appropriate.

Whew.

What’s on YOUR list?