Welcome to Book Readers Heaven! Find Books, Reviews, Short Stories, Authors, Publicity, a little poetry, music to complement...and other stuff including politics, about life... "Books, Cats: Life is Sweet..."
I believe it is important to learn more and more about other people such as we learn about through poets and other creators of historical blessings. May you find a way to learn and you will quickly realize that in all the important ways, we are all the same - God's children...
Donations. ( Art and books) - The Elder- A Tribute / 12.00 / 4.00 shipping
At an odd inflection in Mark’s voice, Coop’s antennas went up. “You sound worried.” “I am. You know how you said in the car you had bad feelings about this assignment? Well, they must be catching. In my opinion, the faster we can make Monica Callahan disappear, the better off everyone will be.” An ominous chill settled over Coop. Never in the three years he’d been paired with Mark on missions could he remember a single occasion when both of them had been unnerved by a job. Bottom line, they needed to get Ms. Callahan out of sight.
Once upon a time, all of this had seemed exotic. But the years had taught him that exotic was often interchangeable with impoverished. That was true here. The merchandise was the only bright spot in the otherwise bleak, dingy setting. As he’d been instructed, David strolled down the street in an unhurried manner—and with surprising calmness. So much for his worry that when the moment arrived, fear would paralyze him. Instead, the opposite had happened. After all, there were far less meaningful ways to leave this world. At least his death, if that was his fate on this cold February day, would be for a noble cause. Both the hostages and Monica would be—
“... Disney World.” As the last two words of the sentence registered, he swung around. A young boy of seven or eight was regarding him with solemn, dark eyes. His face was dirty, his nondescript clothing a mismatch of drab, ill-fitting items—and he held a bamboo cage containing a pigeon. “Repeat.” David said the word in Pashto. The boy shifted from one foot to the other, darting a quick, nervous glance up and down the street, but he didn’t comply with the request. Instead, he pointed to the backpack. “Repeat.” David tried again, switching to Dari. He had to be sure this wasn’t some freak coincidence, simply a young boy who’d been attracted by his Mickey Mouse backpack and was looking for a handout. The boy spoke again in slow, deliberate English. “I would someday like to go to Disney World.” This was it. David’s heart began to pound as he eased the backpack off his shoulder and handed it to the youngster. The boy dropped the pigeon cage, grabbed the backpack with both hands, and wove his way down the street. In seconds he had disappeared. Slowly David backed away from the cage. There was little chance a bomb could be concealed in the delicate mesh of bamboo, but there were plenty of shadowy doorways and tiny lanes where a sniper could be hiding. Now that his package had been delivered, he was expendable—if the informer had used the lure of information as no more than a ruse to generate some easy cash...and eliminate the courier. Nevertheless, he followed the instructions and headed toward his waiting car, looking neither right nor left. It was the longest walk of his life. When he emerged from the market, the embassy car was parked fifty feet away. As he approached it, the driver started to get out, but he waved the man back into the vehicle and slid in, shutting the door behind him. “Let’s get out of here.” “Yes, sir.” The ride back to the embassy was tense and quiet. Not until they pulled into the compound and the gates swung shut behind them did he allow himself to believe his life had been spared. The informant had kept his bargain. So far. Now he could only hope the man would honor the rest of it and supply the information they desperately needed.
* * *
“Ladies and gentlemen, communication isn’t brain surgery, although the tools of the trade can be dangerous. Words, like scalpels, can cut. But so can silence.” Monica waited, giving the audience in the Jefferson Hotel’s ornate ballroom a few seconds to digest that thought. “You know, I must admit I’m not much of a country music fan.” Her gaze swept the audience and she smiled. “But there was a song a few years back that captured my key message today. It was called ‘I Thought You Knew.’ It’s a song about the danger of assumptions, and wishing for a chance to say all the things you thought the other person knew. “‘I Thought You Knew’ happens to be a love song. But the principle is true in all parts of our life. If you remember only one thing from my talk this morning, let it be this: don’t make the mistake of assuming someone knows how you feel—in your professional life or your personal life. Talk the walk. Thank you.”
Thunderous applause filled the room, and three hundred people rose to their feet as one. From his position to the right of the velvet-draped stage, facing the audience, Coop had an excellent view of the enthusiastic response to Monica’s speech. And the ovation was well deserved. For the past forty-five minutes, she’d made everyone in the room think, charmed them into laughter, and touched their hearts. Including his. No question about it. The lady knew her stuff. He exchanged a glance with Mark, who stood at the front of the room on the other side of the stage. His partner gave a subtle thumbs-up. As Monica launched into the Q&A session, fielding questions with consummate skill and a warmth that endeared her to the audience, Coop altered his position slightly to better observe the people approaching the mike positioned in the center aisle, beneath the huge crystal chandelier. They all looked like typical business types. No one exhibited any behavior that tripped a red alert. Everything seemed under control. A visual and audio check with the agents positioned at the exits and in the red-draped alcoves along the sides of the room confirmed that nothing was amiss.
Still, it was a relief to be in the home stretch. Twenty minutes later, as the president of the organization joined Monica on the podium to end the Q&A, Coop and Mark slipped backstage to relieve the agents on duty there. “Wasn’t she great?” The man’s enthusiastic question was met with another round of applause as his voice boomed through the mike. “Talk the Walk will be available for sale in the expo area, so be sure to pick up a copy. Ms. Callahan, thank you again. I know we all learned a lot this morning. Ladies and gentlemen, lunch is now served in the Empire Room.”
As the man shook her hand and she exited into the wings, Coop took the lead escort position while Mark fell in behind her. Once in the food service area, two more agents joined them. They formed a tight circle around Monica while they wove among stainless steel counters and racks of dirty dishes. As they approached the outside fire door where they’d entered, its alarm disengaged for Monica’s appearance, Coop spoke into the mike at his wrist. Listened to the response. Everything was quiet out there. Excellent. “We’re clear. Let’s make this fast.” He pushed through the door. Maintaining their tight circle, they hustled Monica into the waiting SUV, which was book-ended by two nondescript vehicles. He climbed in beside her, and Mark took the front passenger seat.
Only after they were on the road and headed back to her house did he speak. “That was quite a performance.” A flush crept over her cheeks. “Thanks.” “I second that.” Mark angled toward her. “You had them eating out of your hand.” Her color deepened. “You two are good for my ego. You can come to my speaking engagements anytime. Except I hope you can sit in the audience and enjoy the next one.” “I enjoyed this one. Didn’t you, Coop?” “Yes.” “Learn anything?” Coop sent him a “knock it off” look. His partner ignored him. “In case you haven’t noticed, Monica, Coop’s not the most talkative guy. But I found him reading your book at two in the morning on Sunday, so maybe there’s hope for him yet.” “You were reading my book?” Monica’s eyebrows rose as she gave him her full attention. He shifted in his seat. “I was having a hard time staying awake that first night, and I like to read. I found it on your bookshelf. It sounded interesting.” She waited, as if she expected him to say more. When the silence lengthened, Mark rolled his eyes. “It might be nice to comment on the book.” Heat surged on Coop’s neck. “That’s okay.” Monica stepped in. “It’s not everybody’s cup of tea. What sort of books do you like to read?” “Biographies. But I was intrigued by your book. It kept me awake.” Mark snorted and turned back toward the front. “I give up.” The heat crept past his collar. If ever there was a backhanded compliment, that had been it. Before he could think of a way to mitigate his faux pas, Monica reached over and laid her slender fingers on his hand—as he’d done with her yesterday. “It’s okay. I’ll take intrigued. And trust me, considering that a lot of my students use my book to cure insomnia, the fact it kept you awake until the wee hours is a compliment.” He added graciousness to her growing list of attributes. “Don’t you get nervous in front of a big audience like that?” Mark tossed the query over his shoulder as he surveyed the area they were passing through. Monica removed her hand from his, leaving a chill on his skin where welcome warmth had been moments ago. “Not usually. You gain a comfort level with practice. I thought I might have a problem today, given all that’s going on, but I attribute my calmness to you guys. I trust you to keep me safe.” “No pressure there.” Mark’s tone was teasing. But as Coop well knew, he was more than half serious. Rightly so.
Trust was helpful. It induced cooperation. But there was a downside too. When someone trusted you, it added to your burden. Increased your sense of responsibility. Failure became less of an option. Not that he’d needed Monica’s profession of trust to solidify his resolve to keep her safe. That was his job. But in the past three days this mission had become more than that. Because he was coming to care about her far more than the duties of this assignment dictated.
~~~~~~
Still, convincing the White House and the intelligence community that the risk was worth taking had required every nuance of skill he’d developed in his forty years of diplomacy and negotiating. But in the end, he’d succeeded. Tomorrow he would drive into Kabul and follow the informant’s instructions to the letter. And if all went well…if he wasn’t walking into a trap…if the informant followed through on his promise to provide the information…if they could find the hostages before the terrorists grew impatient and killed them…the end of the crisis might be in sight. He paused outside his office door. Took a steadying breath. That was a lot of ifs. But it was the only hope they had of locating the hostages, and he was willing to put his life on the line to rescue them. And to keep his daughter safe.
Since politics has entered our lives in such a strange and sad way, I find myself interested in books related to our government--as it should be! I routinely tape the FBI TV series and watch as it is convenient for me. I enjoy the diversity of characters that comes with an ongoing program that has not been disrupted by what is happening now in the U.S. I was pleased that this book also followed the normalcy that we have been used to for decades prior to 2016...
Against All Odds certainly is a winner for me... It takes readers into the inner lives of both agents and those who are caught in some type of criminal activity that forces action to help those citizens pulled in, often unknowingly. Of course, the characters are created; however, I found Hannon a writer who is well able to bring life to "real people" even if they aren't... Know what I mean? In Against All Odds, there are main characters who are both successful in their lives, while hiding a side of their lives that has long affected their own reality. Isn't that how most of us are? Yet, it takes a special writer to bring these dual-lives of one character or another, and merge their personal stories into something new and exciting... Kudos to Hannon for this special awareness in the stories she provides to all of us!
I found it ironic that I am turning more and more to fictional books so that good over evil is found... In my earlier days of dreaming about heaven, I pictured that stories were developed there for we who are living... NOW, I know that God would never write such hateful tales of the evil desires of, frankly, mostly, men... For He is Indeed a God of Love... And it is We, humans, who have the choice of who we shall be...
We find a father in Against All Odds, who we see within our governments as well. They are the ones that decide in their own minds that they are needed to help a country's people be saved from this or that... Yes, unfortunately, there is such a need. But it is questionable as to how it is to be accomplished... David Callahan served in the government for more than 40 years known mostly for his great ability to negotiate with foreign leaders.
(You know, like Kerry did in negotiating a peace treaty with Iran under President Obama... Yet was torn up by the present president who started a war for no reason...)
Callahan's dedication to that life had resulted in an almost complete separation from his wife and daughter. He was needed he thought. Plus he enjoyed what he was doing so much! But now, right now, the enemy had honed in on that dedication...
“Sir? I think you need to hear this.” At his aide’s terse comment, David Callahan looked up from the security briefing in his hand. Flicked a gaze at the tape recorder and single sheet of paper Salam Farah held as he stood on the threshold of the small office deep inside the fortified U.S. Embassy compound in Kabul, Afghanistan. David lowered the briefing to his desk. “A new message from the terrorists?” “Yes. And another more personal threat.” “I’m not interested in threats directed at me.” David waved the comment aside. “Let our security people worry about them.” “This one is different, sir.” He studied Salam. After forty years in the diplomatic service, most of them spent dealing with volatile situations in the world’s hot spots, he’d learned to trust his instincts about people. And in the two months he’d been back in Afghanistan trying to help stabilize the local government, Salam had earned his respect. His aide wouldn’t raise a red flag unless there was a valid reason. “All right.” David resettled the thin frame of his wire-rimmed glasses and held out his hand. “Let’s see what they have to say.” In silence, Salam set the recorder on the desk, pressed the play button, and passed the sheet of paper to David. As the spoken message was relayed in the language favored by the Taliban, David tuned out the Pashto and scanned the English translation. The warning was similar to those that had come before—convince the country’s struggling fledgling government to release a dozen incarcerated terrorists and pay a twenty-million-dollar ransom, or the three U.S. hostages that had been kidnapped a week ago would die. But as he read the last line, Salam’s concern became clear. The nature of the personal threat had, indeed, changed. If you do not convince the government to meet our demands, your daughter will be our next target. David’s pulse stuttered. “When did this arrive?” “Half an hour ago. It’s been in translation.”
And only then did he realize just how much his daughter really meant to him... And knew that the government's stance was NOT to deal with terrorists who chose to kidnap and seek ransom as a means of gaining control over their perceived enemy, the United States.
But when the reputation of such a man as David Callahan is brought into a new, deadly situation, things can be looked at more logically and plans follow... Readers will watch as several different individuals or groups are involved with getting money out of the capture of American citizens... The complexity can be confusing, mainly because it is difficult to determine who is working for good. Perhaps that was intentional, in order to sustain a sense of suspense, but I confess the plot got away from me and was only able to be followed by keeping track of the two main FBI characters, the team that had been assigned to keep Callahan's daughter safe...
And because Monica Callahan was a fantastically independent woman who had gained her own reputation and stature and refused to immediately act to follow the rules being mandated for her safety. For instance, she made it quite clear that she would be staying in her own home and participating in her usual or already planned schedule of events... And the first one to come up was attending church that Sunday...
The organ swelled for the final song, and Monica reached for the hymnal in the rack on the pew in front of her. This service had been the one normal thing in her life since the FBI invasion yesterday morning. Except for the two tall men seated behind her in the last pew, on the aisle—who weren’t there to praise God, but to protect her. Nor were some of the unfamiliar faces in the congregation pious visitors seeking Sunday worship, either. They were on-duty federal agents. Carrying guns. In church. It was surreal. At a touch on her shoulder, Coop’s instruction as they’d entered the church echoed in her mind. Leave ahead of the crowd. It was time to go. Letting out a slow breath, she replaced the hymnal and angled toward him. He tipped his head toward the aisle as his partner exited the pew. After picking up her coat, she edged out and fell into step behind Mark, Coop close on her heels. As Mark pushed open the door to the vestibule, Coop’s lean fingers closed around her upper arm in a firm but gentle grip, stopping her progress. “Give him a chance to verify everything is secure.” His warm breath feathered across her cheek as he leaned close to speak, a mere whisper away as his body shielded hers from behind while his partner conferred with a couple of dark-suited men and a woman in a black skirt and royal-blue blazer. She started to shrug into her coat, but he took it from her and held it as she slipped her arms into the sleeves. A few seconds later, Mark rejoined them. “We’re clear. The car’s in the portico. Let’s make it quick.” Flanked by the two men, she crossed the marble floor, her heels clicking in rhythm to the soaring notes of “Amazing Grace.” The three people Mark had been talking with spread out in the vestibule as a few members of the congregation wandered out. One of the agents pretended to read the bulletin board. Another checked his watch. The woman riffled through her handbag, as if searching for her keys. Yet it was clear they were all keenly attuned to their surroundings, watching for any indication of trouble. Protecting her. As they approached the exterior door, Mark stepped ahead, lifted his left arm, and spoke softly into the inconspicuous mike at his wrist, his voice feeding into the unobtrusive earpieces all of the agents on duty wore. Or so she’d learned when she’d asked for a briefing on what to expect before they’d left the house this morning. Without slowing his pace, Mark pushed through the door. As he exchanged a few succinct comments with the agent standing on the other side, Coop maintained his grip on her arm. When the agent leaned over to open the door of the SUV parked a few feet away, she found herself being hustled forward and eased into the back seat. Coop slid in beside her and Mark claimed the front passenger seat while the agent took the wheel. Their exit was accomplished with such speed and smoothness that they were pulling out of the parking lot before the organ finished the first verse. “Wow. That was impressive.” Monica drew a deep breath. “I take it you two have been through this drill a few times.” “A few.” Coop glanced over his shoulder as he responded. “Checking for a tail?” Her question was only half in jest. The level of security for this little outing had demonstrated how seriously the threat against her was being taken. Suggesting the danger might be more real than she’d been willing to concede. Shifting his attention to the road ahead, Coop watched as a car pulled out from the curb and took up a position in front of them. “Did he just cut in front of us?” Monica leaned forward, gripping the edge of her seat as her heart tripped into a staccato beat. “Yes.” Coop settled back, his posture relaxed. “But he’s on our side. So is the car behind us. Buckle up.” Monica twisted toward the back window. There was, indeed, a car sticking close. “Did we have an...escort...on the way to church too?” “Yes.” And their return route was just as circuitous as the one they’d taken to church. As Coop had explained when she’d teased them earlier about their navigational skills, it was safer to operate “out of pattern,” as he’d put it. In other words, they were concerned that someone had been watching her long enough to know her habits. That was more than a little disturbing. Trying to stifle a sudden wave of panic, she groped for her seat belt and pulled it out. But as she tried to slide the buckle in, it slipped from her shaky grasp, retracting with a thump that had Mark reaching toward his belt. “Sorry.” Heat surged across her cheeks. “Let me.” Coop released his own belt and leaned across her. His broad shoulder pressed against her as he grasped the buckle and pulled it out, and his fingers brushed her hip when he engaged it. Which played havoc with her respiration. Almost like she was attracted to the tall, dark HRT operator beside her who reeked of masculinity and whose very presence evoked strength and competence. And in other circumstances, she might have been. But as appealing as he was, her response in these circumstances was more likely due to the sudden realization that her situation was a whole lot more perilous than she wanted to admit. Though her knowledge of law enforcement protocols was limited, it was doubtful that elaborate security measures like the ones being taken on her behalf were employed without very good reason. She moistened her lips. Cleared her throat. “I, uh, had no idea a simple visit to church was going to take this much coordination. The security was quite involved, wasn’t it?” Instead of responding, he touched his earpiece. And while he listened to whatever a colleague was saying, she settled back in her seat for the ride home—and tried to untangle the knots in her stomach.
I really enjoyed this story. Kudos to the author for taking on a topic which is right out of history--and the present time period as well. Books for me have become more important as writers create stories that both reflect the reality of life, as well as, ensuring that God, indeed, is right in the middle of all events we all face... I especially enjoyed Coop, who has his own history that had affected his life, and, yet, when he had first seen Monica, he recognized that she was different than any other woman he'd ever met... Readers will enjoy watching their relationship develop and, yes, continue beyond the end of the book...
Highly recommended! I've ordered the next two books for this series...
Harold Michael Harvey, Publisher is pleased to announce
the latest book to be published
by Cascade Publishing Company:
Terry Bushell’s Where in The Hell is Heaven
The press announces its third major release of the
year, solidifying its reputation as a rising home
for
bold, boundary‑pushing new authors.
Cascade House is proud to announce that it has been selected to publish Where in the Hell Is Heaven: Faith Forged Through The Fire, the forthcoming work by author Terry Bushell. A fearless, unflinching exploration of faith, fracture, and the search for spiritual truth. Bushell’s manuscript brings a fresh, provocative voice to contemporary Christian literature.This marks Cascade Publishing House’s third major offering of the year, and the emergence as a go‑to destination for new, creative, and boundary‑pushing authors. With each project, Cascade continues to expand its editorial reach, championing writers whose work challenges assumptions, deepens public conversation, and refuses to settle for easy answers. Publisher Quote — Harold Michael Harvey, Cascade Publishing House
“Terry Bushell’s Where in the Hell Is Heaven is exactly the kind of courageous, truth‑seeking work Cascade was built to champion! It refuses easy answers and speaks directly to readers who are wrestling honestly with their faith and their lived experience. We are honored to bring this powerful voice into the world. With this being our third major release of the year, Cascade Publishing House is rapidly becoming a home for new authors who are unafraid to push boundaries and expand the conversation.”Where in the Hell Is Heaven invites readers into the raw interior of a believer wrestling honestly with God, self, and the contradictions of lived experience. It is a book that does not comfort so much as confront, and in doing so, opens a necessary space for readers who have long felt unseen in traditional faith narratives.
Publication details will be announced in the coming weeks.
Media Contact: Cascade Publishing House hmharvey@haroldmichaelharvey.com
There’s no good place to have a heart attack, but if you must, being in a hospital surrounded by doctors isn’t the worst choice. One minute, I was managing a ceremonial ribbon cutting. The next, the stage was cleared for CPR, a gurney whisked my best friend’s dad off to the Emergency Department, and she chased after it, leaving me staring at the red ribbon sagging like a forgotten Christmas present.
That evening, Bruce’s family was called up to the cardiac ICU, and when I hesitated at the nurses’ station, Mallory gripped my hand and pulled me along. When I retracted my hand and gestured for her to lead the way, Mallory slid her arm through her mother’s as they walked into Bruce’s room. I washed my hands, giving them time without me loitering. They were his family, I was just his daughter’s friend. Bruce’s skin was sallow, gray hair clumpy due to his awful surgical shower cap. He smiled groggily as his wife and daughter leaned down for a hug. Mallory, who normally could joke about anything, forced a tight smile.
“Mr. Clarke, I’m Carla, your overnight nurse,” she greeted as she washed her hands. She recognized me as a fellow staff member, her lips lifting before she pulled a flashlight out of her scrubs pocket to check his pupils. “You gave these women quite a scare. Can you tell me who they are?” I braced myself. Carla was doing her job, trying to check her patient’s cognitive skills and memory while taking his vitals. She couldn’t know how loaded her question was. “The gorgeous one is my wife Helen. Her cute clone is my daughter Mallory. And over there,” his head flopped in my direction. No better time to get an honest opinion than after anesthesia, it’s practically truth serum. “That’s my Grace.” Carla raised a brow before she teased, “She works with me, I thought she was my Grace.” “Nope, you can’t have her, I’ve already got her.” He flipped his left wrist up in a silent request, and I gave his hand a gentle squeeze. Carla’s eyes softened as she watched the tender moment and rested two fingers on his other wrist to take his pulse. “How did you get yourself a Grace, anyway?”
“I don't know how other people get their Graces, but I got mine for Christmas.” After discovering my Christmas plans last year — or more accurately, lack of plans — Mallory had insisted I join her family’s holiday ski trip to their Adirondack cabin. She skied the most difficult black diamond runs effortlessly, gaining a crowd of admirers to flirt with on the lifts, while I stayed with Bruce on the easier blue square trails. I was a nervous wreck. I’d grown up in Plattsburgh, 20 miles north of the ski resort, and I hadn’t been that close to home in seven years. I scanned the mountain, expecting to see members of the church where I’d been raised … or worse, my father or one of my brothers. They’d never skied growing up, but a lot could change in seven years. A person’s whole life could change. “Loosen your grip on your poles, Grace,” Bruce coached. “Alex once dislocated his thumb from gripping too tight, and whined about how redundant it was to ice your hand and put it back in a glove, and I said —“ “I’m sorry, could you — I haven’t talked to my father in years, and you being so … “ I felt bad interrupting, but I couldn’t handle stories about his kids’ perfect childhoods. Not here, not today. Bruce gestured to a heated bench, handing me a granola bar from his coat’s inside pocket. “My dad had a drinking problem. When he died sixteen years ago, Helen and I hadn’t talked to him in eleven years. Every summer, Dad loved taking Alex to the racetrack to bet on horses. One year, he had enough whiskey that he hit the mailbox turning into the driveway. Alexander was unbuckled in the back seat and his forehead got scratched. He was only seven, too excited about showing me their winnings to care, but it was a wake-up call. I had to make a choice: I had to choose my future over my past.” His arm draped along the bench as we watched the ski lift in silence. A father dismounted, leading a little boy to the launching point and ruffling his ski cap before they pressed off.
The granola bar turned to ash on my tongue. “I wasn’t born a girl.” The words escaped, coming out wrong. “I mean, I always have been, I know that now. But I was assigned male at birth, raised as the youngest of four boys. I knew I was different, but we were raised Evangelical, no room for deviating from the Scripture. When I told my father … it didn’t go well.” I held my breath. Thankfully, he didn’t keep me waiting very long. “Well that’s a shame,” Bruce said, and I flinched, “that he didn’t listen.” My mind spun. “It doesn’t bother you?” “What would bother me?” “That I’m transgender?” “Why would that bother me? I believe you are who you say you are,” he shrugged. “You say you’re Grace, so … you’re Grace.”
“Can I add a Grace to my Christmas list?” Carla asked, meeting my eyes again before wrapping a blood pressure cuff around his arm. “There aren’t any Graces in Santa’s workshop. You have to go find your own Grace.” He sang softly, “Have yourself a Merry Little Gracie …” “Completely consensual, of course,” Mallory said. “No Grace-trafficking.” Bruce narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “Is she trying to kidnap our Gracie?” Our Gracie. I bit my lip to restrain my sob. Mallory placed her palm over our interlocked hands. “Don’t worry, Dad. Grace isn’t going anywhere. Nobody can take her from us.” Carla wrote his pulse and blood pressure on the whiteboard. “Vitals look good, but he needs sleep. Visiting hours are over, they restart tomorrow at 10.” I looked imploringly at Carla as she guided Helen and Mallory out of the room. She held up an open palm, giving me five minutes. Mallory batted her eyelashes and mouthed, ‘Can I add a Grace to my Christmas list?‘' Typical. Even in the cardiac ICU, she was still trying to set me up. I rolled my eyes then sent a quick text to Alexander: Visited your dad, charming as ever. It would bolster his spirits to see your face. By the time I clicked send, Bruce had fallen asleep. Pulling the chair closer, I took his outstretched hand and rested my forehead against the back of his palm. If this were my father in the hospital and I approached his bedside, would he hold out his hand to welcome back his outcast child? Or did the parable of the Prodigal Son not apply to daughters? “Please,” I whispered my first prayer in years. “Please don’t let me lose him too.”
As he slept, I thought Bruce’s hand squeezed mine. I dozed off remembering a quiet Sunday afternoon with my grandma: the first time I shared my truth, before I understood the repercussions, dreaming of a time when praying felt as natural as breathing. “Nanna,“ I said, inspecting her jewelry to avoid eye contact and running my sweaty palms over my thighs. “Does God make mistakes?” Her eyes snapped up from her romance novel, Lord of Scoundrels. Daddy says she shouldn’t read those ‘filthy bodice rippers,’ but her stash under the bed was our little secret. “Why do you ask?” “Daddy read this Scripture on Sunday about being knit together as babies.” “Psalm 139.” She identified it easily, reciting with the confidence of a woman whose son was an Evangelical minister: “For You created my inmost being; You knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise You because I am fearfully and wonderfully made.” “Yeah, that one." My voice shook as my fingertips traced a pearl brooch of a butterfly. “Is it true?” “As far as I know,” she said, popping her recliner lever to sit up. “Why?” “Well, at school this week, we had to write about what we want to be when we grow up, and I wrote about wanting to be a mom.” My eyes jolted up at Nanna's sharp inhale to her reflection in the mirror. Her alarmed eyes softened as they took in my panic. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted to be. And the kids, they told me I’d be a dad, but I —“ My face scrunched up to fight back tears. Daddy said I couldn’t cry anymore since I’m seven. Mama didn’t give him the girls he wanted, so he wanted no more tears under his roof. If he saw my puffy face, I knew which Scripture he'd choose: ‘When I was a child, I behaved like a child. When I became a man, I put childish ways behind me.’ Last time he’d recited it, I pointed out that Jesus also said, ‘Unless you become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.’ He reprimanded me for talking back. “Come here,” Nanna prompted sternly. I trudged over with heavy feet and shared my theory: “Maybe since Elijah and I were in Mama’s belly together, God didn’t notice I’m not supposed to be a boy. He wasn’t trying to forget me, but … like when Mary and Joseph got home from vacation and realized they forgot Jesus because they both thought the other one had him?” “You know what I think?” Nanna scruffed my short hair. Her eyes flickered around, landing on her dresser. “I think grown-ups are like butterflies, each uniquely beautiful. But butterflies aren’t born that way, are they?” I shook my head, remembering the tank in my second grade class. “No, they start as caterpillars before they metamorf—um, go into cocoons.” “Right, metamorphosis. Some butterflies don’t change much, they start and finish blue.” Her gentle hand cupped my cheek. “But some caterpillars are different when they grow up.” “Like the monarch,” I murmured, thinking of the yellow and black striped caterpillars. After the green shells — crystal somethings — they emerge bright orange and black. “Like the monarch. Do you know what happens when they’re in their chrysalises?” Nanna leaned closer like she was telling a secret. “They turn into goo. Their entire body, all of their cells …” She made a farting sound and I laughed out loud. “Scientists have studied it, but can’t explain exactly what happens in that chrysalis. Even their best microscopes can’t look inside. Do you know the only one who knows?” “God?” “He decides who each caterpillar will grow up to be. We can’t predict it, we have to rely on His grace for the faith that each will turn out the way they’re meant to. Do you understand?” “I think so.”
“Remember what the Lord said to your namesake, the prophet Jeremiah,” Nanna pressed her forehead to mine. “Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, before you were born I set you apart; For I know the plans I have for you, plans to give you hope and a future.”
~~~~
When I get a free book from BookBub, I choose not to even read what the book is going to be about. It's fun to do since I get surprised every time. I had to laugh, therefore, when the title turned out to be extremely long... Perhaps it was done for purpose? Because, of course, a major issue within the book has been the subject of extreme discrimination during the present period in the United States...
10 years ago
1 day ago
Just one related to Transgender discrimination during 2nd term
And, I wanted to share the following acknowledgment by the author related to her research for the book:
To Sydney Fowler, my sensitivity reader & developmental editor: Thank you for your gentle guidance to make sure Grace’s story was told with care and compassion, while remaining true to lived experiences … and also sharing Ships I’d never imagined.
Growing up, my father said Santa was a distraction from the ‘true’ meaning of Christmas. But there are twenty kids with heart conditions who expect a magical visitor from the North Pole, and this will break up the monotony of echocardiograms and blood tests. For some of them, this will be their last Christmas.” I winced, and she seemed gratified that her message was sinking in. “I was hoping you could put on that charming grin that makes my knees weak and force out a Ho Ho Ho,” she smacked my chest with each Ho, “but if you can’t fake it for sick kids for half an hour, you’re not as much like your dad as I hoped you were.” Her cheeks flushed as red as her velvet cape as she glared through those ugly glasses. I didn’t expect her outburst, but apparently if you mess with a social worker’s kids, it brings out the Mama Bear. Wait a minute. Makes her knees weak? File that away for later.
Within the first few pages, I knew this would be an important book that I would want to spend some time on once finished. After all, during the last decade, we have heard more than we ever thought would be discussed in daily news about just how politics has invaded the personal lives of our citizens... Especially women and non-white men... I knew this would be a must-read recommendation from me, for that very reason... And, that I would want to discuss some of those issues that cause friction between and among people...
Then, when the group, Evangelical Christians, chose to take a stand to support the present president... The scope, breadth, and complexity of our personal sexuality has been hammered from the president as a campaign tool, through to the latest of arguing with the Pope as to who is right or wrong in their opinions... Of course, I must point out that the Pope has been quite consistent with his stand, while the president moves from point to point as a child does to garner support for this game or that... Anybody who reads my blog(s) knows my thoughts on a given issue... as it relates to political involvement/interference. In other words, I believe in the separation of church and state and have explained why... Basically, politics is not the place for disagreement about personal choices and using those disagreements for political gain.
Of course, we are sexual beings and within the business world, we are faced with issues that may surround sex. As a group oversight function however--you know, what I mean, right--Equal Pay for Equal Work, for example, should ensure that sex is not a basis for determining pay. Yet we all know that has been argued for hundreds and thousands of years in one way or another.
Even Jesus got involved... So did the pharisees and any other religion that looks at men and women in a different way as it relates to anything that is used to discriminate or show bias... within a business; and, sometimes personal environment...
In this book, we hone in on the transgender issue. Something that affects a very small number of people, yet, for various reasons, may cause friction within a family. Worse, within a society. I chose to share the most important part of the book related to gender. I think it was beautifully done, don't you think? A young boy, a twin boy, from early in his life had felt that he was meant to be a mom in his future. As he grew older and played with toys that related to his role or that in society, he didn't go toward the fire engines, or other male-oriented toys, he thought about holding a child, being its mother... This would fulfill his goal for the future. So even while he grew and, later, as he thought about working, he chose to become a social worker in order to help other people through their lives... By that time, he had chosen to fulfill what had been a burning need since early in his life. He became Grace...
And, immediately upon sharing with the patriarch, an evangelical pastor, a young member was banned from the family...
Personally, I tend to look at somebody being different physically as a matter of science. When I learn of God's planning for each of us, I think more about the type of person/personality of the individual as opposed to what they will look like or what sex they would be. For instance, since my father was killed in a mine accident while my mother carried me, I've often wondered about what part that had in God's plan for me. Since I would not have a father in my life, would He allow me to choose differently, be a strong independent spirit, with an awareness of the Holy Trinity, might it play in my decisions? You see, often I have realized that, my life has followed the role of a man as opposed to a woman. Certainly events in my early life have influenced some of my decisions... But, it didn't seem to me that, if we had free will, my creation would not spell out exactly my life's path... would be... As I learned along the way, my basic point of view was whether or not, we would ask God into our lives. That he would become a part of us throughout our lives.
Jeremiah certainly didn't have a choice. Having a leader of a religious group certainly led him and his siblings into the church environment. And, of course, the religious life was to be set right from the beginning. But at some point, Jeremiah began to realize that he was different in some ways from his twin brother. Even though they were very close throughout their early lives.
A key point in the book was that Grace had been turned away from that home. She made it on her own--the book doesn't cover too much of that time period. But she did connect and made friends with a girl, who pulled her directly into her home life. A life which, interestingly, had love as a central part, although a religion was not significant, if there at all. In any event, it was clear that, to this family, her being a girl called Grace, was somebody who they had come to love very much...
And then Grace met Mallory's brother, Alex... He had come home for Christmas and because Grace had called him, making him feel very guilty, to immediately come home since his father had a heart attack and, for her, that meant, family should come! Besides he hadn't been home for 7 years--busy man... And soon, Grace had somehow talked him in to being the hospital's Santa Claus--and she was already Mrs. Claus... Yes, that was the beginning, especially after the hospital staff had pointed out the mistletoe hanging after all the children had met with Santa...
Sure, thereafter was mostly a traditional romance novel and was fun to watch their relationship develop. In fact, the book's POV moves between Grace and Alex so readers get to learn of their innermost thoughts as the story moves forward...
The key was, of course, whether bias would be part of that relationship.
Dad hustled for years to make partner in his firm — this firm where we were standing right now, that provided everything that my spoiled little sister wanted. This was the sacrifice required to be successful. My snotty little sister stuck out her chin. “So you can make more money to spend on your fancy condo where you never spend any time, and your Mercedes that you only drive to and from work? So you can become yet another interchangeable straight white man joining the patriarchal lineage of straight white men?” “I don’t have time for a lecture about the patriarchy.”
Indeed, the potential connection with Grace and Alex was more an issue for Mallory, Alex's sister, than for Alex--purely connected to her own thoughts about her brother, LOL... That also included Mallory's father, who immediately took on a protective role as he wanted only the best for Grace, who he had come to love as a member of his family... All or Nothing certainly is the theme for this new series and I loved it!
“Here’s what I don’t understand,” she strode around the desk to push her finger into my chest. “You’re working so damn hard to make a name for yourself, but you’re not living.” “After I make partner —” “— you’ll change the goalpost and keep running full speed until it kills you.” Her bottom lip trembled, but she sucked it in with a quick breath and barreled on. “It scares the shit out of me, Alex, because last week, I watched Dad die."
Folks, this is a special book I consider should be read across the world. It includes religious aspects, while still allowing humor and love to dominate where anger had once been... There are those that have chosen "Pro-life" which turns out to be a political tool to harm... Then once a child is forced to be born, especially when hunger is still a major problem across the world, there is a constant refusal to care fore those hungry who were forced to be born. Those who have specific ideas of either their religious documents, traditions, or just what they personally place first in their lives--like power and riches--over the lives of others... have been using that power to "play god" while our children are always those who are hurt the most... Please don't attempt to deny this. We have seen it more in the last decade and especially for the last few years of madness. Why does this continue year after year, century after century? Indeed, it has now reached the point that even children know that something has changed, if they are old enough, like Grace, to decide that she could no longer follow the damaging life forced upon her by her religious leader and father who chose rules and words rather than love for another... Because isn't that the primary issue for many who still cling to the old ways rather than choosing God's Truth and Love?
Kudos to Bailey Seaborn for beginning this series... She started with a major division that is now in the United States headlines again and again. I'm thrilled that she has both the writing and research skills exhibited in this exciting new type of series and hope she will find the strength to continue even knowing that there will be a few that practice ritual and words to harm rather than help those who need assistance of one thing or another. There is a lot covered in this book that only reading can give you. I hope, though, that I've shared enough to have you begin to really think about all those words that have been taught to you and which now are so openly being used for corruption of even the basic moral laws which are being ignored...
This, then, is a writer who wants you to lighten up and start singing... Choosing Christmas as the time of the book was a fantastic choice, in my opinion. It allows readers to think about the songs in their lives for important celebrations and decide just how those songs of both good and bad times have affected each of us. Me, I'm still learning daily. I guarantee this book will provide the foundation for you, too, to consider changing or firming up your beliefs that loving our neighbors, no matter who they are, shall continue or become a part of your daily thoughts and actions...
But he had something: a presence, an easy authority. Saviour or waste of time and space? More likely the latter, but I would give him a try. Anything was worth trying. I had little to lose.
What happened to the Talan Bray was tragic and terrible, but it shouldn’t stop the work of the lifeboat being recognised.’
He ruled this place. His name was everywhere. The Mr Big of St Branok. His rise had been rapid and astonishing. He had to be hiding something. Had to be.
As I pulled up the hood of my ski jacket, I wondered about the wisdom of my flash decision to bring Danny into the fold while knowing almost nothing about him. A charmer, certainly. And experience warned me that that kind of personality often came with deceit. I should have insisted on seeing a CV. But perhaps I was being too hard on him. Perhaps he would bring a new drive and, God only knew, the Gazette needed something new if it was going to survive. I glanced over at his flaccid features. His collar-length hair, tinged with grey, was plastered flat on his head and rainwater dripped from his fleshy nose. But he had something: a presence, an easy authority. Saviour or waste of time and space? More likely the latter, but I would give him a try. Anything was worth trying. I had little to lose. We turned a corner to see welcoming lights streaming from mullioned windows. Above them, swinging in the gale, was the jaunty sign of a smiling mermaid sitting on a rock. Shelter and alcohol beckoned.
Think trendy. Think gastropub. And then think the complete opposite. It was a traditional locals’ pub – for drink and banter, playing skittles or darts and, on Saturday nights, listening to one of the thrashing local bands. We trooped in, brushing the rain off our coats, to find the lounge bar empty apart from a few fishermen who had given up hope of venturing out even in coastal waters in this weather. It was a day of lost income for them, and they huddled gloomily together in a corner near one of the flashing one-armed bandits. ‘I’ve caught sweet bugger all this week,’ a barrel-chested fisherman was saying. ‘If the luck doesn’t change, I’ll be down the food bank. That’s no way for my family to live.’ A warm, homely light suffused the bar, concealing its tacky interior. The golden glow contrasted sharply with the drab daylight of a grey afternoon in a grimy fishing town. The comforting tang of beer inhabited every corner – apart from the ladies’ toilet, where it was eclipsed by the kick of a powerful disinfectant. Angie, a slip of a girl who worked in the pub when she wasn’t partying at music festivals or visiting her boyfriend in Plymouth, was behind the bar, cleaning glasses. Danny rubbed his hands together. ‘This one’s on me. What can I get you fine people?’ Roy and I opted for pints of Doom Bar and we made small talk about the weather while waiting for our drinks. Danny fixed Angie with the Flanagan smile. ‘What’s the local gargle around here?’ Angie beamed right back while pulling Roy’s pint. ‘If you mean beer, we have our own microbrewery. Try a pint of Wreckers Rebellion. You won’t get anything more local.’ ‘Sounds good. You’re a girl after my own heart,’ he said, before turning to give Roy and myself a wink. I edged closer to the bar to get my drink. ‘Angie, is Joe around? We were hoping to have a quick chat with him.’ ‘He’s out back. I’ll give him a call.’ ‘We’ll be in the snug.’ I led Roy and Danny to a cosy, out of the way spot with soft seating and cushions. We settled at a seat by the window with a view of gritty St Branok Harbour, full of idle fishing boats. A symbol shaped like a three-cornered knot, pinned to a nearby wall, caught Danny’s eye. He pointed to it. ‘I’ve seen similar shapes in Ireland. Didn’t think I’d come across them down here.’ ‘It’s a sign used by Pagans and Celtic Christians known as a Triquetra or Trinity Knot,’ said Roy, who had an encyclopaedic knowledge of most things. ‘The interwoven knot with no beginning and no end stands for a protection that cannot be broken. Cornwall still has strong Pagan and Celtic connections.’ I gazed at it, noticing it for the first time, despite having lingered many an hour in this comfy corner of The Mermaid. Joe Keast appeared a few minutes later with an oily rag in hand, his forehead smeared with sweat and grime. ‘Kate, Roy – you’re drinking early these days. Not that I’m complaining. I could do with the business on a day like this.’ He plonked himself down wearily on a stool. ‘Problems?’ I said. ‘The usual. Pump playing up again. Wreckers Rebellion will be in short supply unless I can get it up and running tonight. We’re down to our last few barrels of the good stuff.’ He rubbed his hands with the oily cloth, which did little to make them cleaner. ‘We wanted to introduce you to Danny Flanagan,’ I said. ‘He’s down here from the London press and will be helping at the Gazette for a while.’ ‘I hear you’re the man in the know in these parts,’ said Danny. The ready grin was back, as was the handshake. Joe took Danny’s proffered hand with a smile of the more cautious, reserved type. The Flanagan smile didn’t work half so well with men. ‘Any friend of Kate’s is a friend of mine. We go back a long way,’ he said, nodding affably at me before squinting at Danny. ‘What brings a city slicker down to our quiet part of the world?’ My thoughts exactly. Danny took a long pull from his pint, which drained half the glass and confirmed my early guess that he liked a pint or three. ‘Oh, writing a few features about the Cornish way of life, land of mystery and magic on the edge of the great ocean and all that. I’ll be looking for somewhere to stay for a few weeks. Any recommendations?’ Joe swept his damp forehead with the sleeve of his grubby sweatshirt. ‘We have a spare room above the pub here, which you’re welcome to stay in for a while. It doesn’t get much use at this time of year, but don’t go expecting en-suite bathrooms and all that. It’s got a good, comfortable bed and a wardrobe. And if you stand on a chair, you can see Tregloss Point in the distance.’ ‘I’ll take it. When can I move in?’ Danny slapped his thighs, which looked thick and muscular. ‘Anytime. Tonight, if you like.’
~~~~~~
One of the wonders of reading is the ability to travel across and around the world! We learn of many peoples and their lives... But, one thing I can tell you is that, for the most part, all people are alike... There are good people trying to bring about change and advancement... While, at the same time, there are always a few who choose the easy way--the criminal way to ensure they both get what they need, but more importantly, what they most desire... Of course, that is the lifeblood of most fictional stories, isn't it? There are so many different variations of this world-wide theme of good versus evil. In many ways, some of us like myself, seek out this type of story, perhaps, to ensure that, mostly, good always ultimately overcomes...
Yet, on a daily basis, the struggle continues in every land where people live... Wild Cornwall is the location of J. H. Mann's story... A mystery built within the livelihoods of a small community where what can be found in the waters surrounding the land. Where lives are sometimes lost in facing the waters as nature takes control... But, also, can be lost. On Purpose. This is such a story...
And it takes place within a business--a small newspaper that is struggling to remain alive to provide needed news and other info to the surrounding area. We find there just a few people. One is a retired newsman, Roy, who found he so enjoyed his work, that he continued into retirement as a jack-of-all-things for the paper where he'd worked for so many years... Then we find our main character, Kate, who was somewhat of a hotshot reporter for a much larger area, but had chosen to look at her own needs and, when the small newspaper became available, she took the plunge and bought it...Now she's constantly fighting to stay financially sound, while one of the villans in the story is a hard-nose banker, of course, who cares nothing about the town citizens and the value of a newspaper to those people... There are two others who work off and on as needed, one a young, hopeful reporter.
For some reason, another newsman comes to town and seeks out the local agency to see if he could find some space there as a home base, and, when needed, could make a little money with articles that might prove of interest to the town....
Image if you would, that this small group of journalists have something very much in common and that will be revealed along the way, as mutual interests pulled the group together. Kate, of course, has just met with the evil banker who threatens her constantly with what he believes the Board will do if she doesn't increase payments... And, it happened to be at a time where the community was about to have a joint recognition of a lifeboat that had resulted in deaths in the community years ago.
Could the newspaper work to build up this recognition and memorial of those who gave their lives trying to save others? Kate started considering what exactly could be done... Gathering background info, research, and talking to those in town who were personally involved...
And that's when the trouble started.
The first to begin was the mother who had lost two sons. During the investigation, their names had been spotlighted and she spoke out in their defense, blaming Kate who was now digging up old news to make new news...
And of course the older ongoing events were to be spotlighted. Like the Shout @ the Devil Festival...
St Branok’s annual Shout at the Devil Festival was looming. It was a colourful, though somewhat macabre, event, in which several hundred locals noisily processed through the streets in gaudy costume, following the time-honoured tradition of chasing away the devil while actually being intent on having a booze up. The festival had pagan origins, its long history dating back many hundreds of years. Heavy drinking in the local pubs invariably culminated in minor late-night disturbances, often resolved without the involvement of the local police. ‘We should make the most of it this year, get some great pictures and use them for a centre-page splash,’ said Danny. His boyish enthusiasm was infectious and made sense. Locals were more likely to buy the Gazette if their friends and relatives appeared in the coverage. The whole editorial team, even young Emily, agreed to give up their Saturday night to report on the event and get pictures. The night of the festival was cold and clear with a glistening three-quarter moon. We gathered early evening at The Mermaid for a warming brandy, provided free by Joe, prior to heading out into the night-time chill. The pub was packed with noisy, animated revellers, but we found a space in a corner. Outside, expectant people lined the streets three or four deep, chewing candy floss or hot dogs. Excited toddlers were perched on the shoulders of mums and dads. With a toss of his head, Danny knocked back the remains of his brandy and then ordered a second for ‘medicinal purposes’. This time, Joe insisted on payment. Duly refreshed, we quit the pub’s warm conviviality. ‘Perfect night for pictures,’ Danny said. He rubbed his hands together as if relishing the prospect of a freezing night under the stars in his thick jumper, corduroy trousers and shabby chic Burberry coat. The buzz and banter of the crowd was quietened by the sound of drums, guitars and pipes. The nipping air shivered from the rhythmic reverberation, amplified by the narrow streets. I slipped through a gap between the onlookers to catch my first glimpse of the St Branok raven leading a long line of swaggering, gyrating figures, their masks, horns, wigs and vivid flowing robes enhanced by the flickering light of burning torches. In contrast to its cavorting followers, the raven progressed steadily and regally, its great beak moving from side to side as it regarded the crowd. There was something menacing and ungodly about the display. It was a window on a world long gone when superstition and fear had ruled people’s lives. Danny was suddenly beside me, shouting into my ear above the noise. His hot breath, infused with the sweet and nutty scent of brandy, warmed the side of my face. ‘This is fantastic. Who’s the raven?’ Our mouths became close as I turned towards him. ‘It’s a secret. A different person is chosen each year, but their identity is never revealed...
Danny, the traveling journalist, is really the bright spot of the book. He's an outgoing fellow who enjoys visiting the pub often and talking with anybody who will share a pint or two... But he brings with him a secret that only he is aware of and he becomes pushy, trying to control the local paper to cover topics that may not be appropriate for the community... Kate begins to monitor his proposals more closely, but at the same time is drawn to this larger-than-life individual who brings a different mood of liveliness wherever he goes... This, then, is the heart of the plot as more and more information comes to them in relation to the lifeboat accident where loved ones were lost to the surrounding waters...
I had a queasy feeling that my decision might come back to haunt us all, that we were being led down a tunnel with the promise of light at the end by a person we hardly knew. Danny remained an enigma.
‘What are you trying to say?’ ‘I’m saying that he knew the Talan Bray was doomed that night and he was determined not to be aboard.’
He’d settled in the snug with his pipe stuck between his lips, puffing gently, the vision of a modern-day Sherlock Holmes. The smoke was warming and comforting. Pipe smoke always reminded me of solid, knowledgeable Roy. He looked at me over the rim of his upraised beer glass. ‘Any sign of Danny?’ ‘No, he’s been out and about a lot. How did you know I was asking about him?’ ‘I guessed you might be.’ He sipped his beer. ‘That tastes good. I’ve been dying for a pint all afternoon.’ He put down his glass neatly on the beer mat. ‘Is Danny planning to come back, do you know?’ I swirled my gin and tonic, the liquid dipping in the centre. ‘I don’t know. I haven’t heard from him since the…’ I searched for the word to diplomatically describe the difficult scene in the office and settled on ‘argument’. There was no point in describing it as anything else. Not to Roy. Twinges of angst and regret shivered through the pit of my stomach every time I thought about it. ‘He hasn’t said he’s not coming back,’ I added, lamely. ‘We could do with the extra pair of hands,’ said Roy. ‘Danny’s made a real difference over the past few weeks. At first, I was sceptical. But you were right to bring him on board, Kate. He’s picked up some very nice stories.’ I nodded. Forced a smile. I didn’t need reminding. The conversation lapsed into silence. Somebody played Scott McKenzie’s ‘San Francisco’ on the jukebox, a record Danny had sometimes chosen. But it was a thin man standing there – certainly not Danny. My morale slipped back to zero. Roy and I usually had no difficulty chatting, and when there was silence between us it was easy and relaxed. But the abrupt departure of Danny – and Roy’s obvious understanding that Danny and I had become more than colleagues – added an edge to any discussion about him. We filled the void by sipping our drinks. Eventually, the conversation started flowing again about something innocuous like the weather. Anything but Danny. The tall, commanding figure of Mike Pedrick strode into the bar with a couple of his trawler skippers – stocky young men in their early thirties, wearing the thick woollen sweaters, yellow oilskins and boots typical of trawlermen fresh from the boats. They were guffawing at a wisecrack Pedrick had muttered out of the side of his mouth. Even in The Mermaid, he acted as if he owned the place. Everybody always laughed at his jokes. Everybody except Joe. The crowd parted like the Red Sea and Pedrick was soon leaning against the bar, attracting Angie’s attention with an upheld, authoritative hand. She hastened over – Pedrick had that effect on people – and, as she was pulling the pints, he treated me to the royal wave. I smiled back faintly, wondering why I’d been honoured by the Pedrick spotlight. Roy and I talked for a little longer and then he said, ‘Marjorie’s expecting me home for dinner. I really must be off. Can I walk you to your car?’ Wonderful, thoughtful Roy, doubly caring and gallant after the alleyway attack. ‘Yes, please. Thanks.’ I swigged the remains of my drink. Before we could stand, Pedrick strolled over and sat on a stool across the table from us, confident he was welcome everywhere. ‘Kate. As it was Thursday, I was hoping I might find you here for a chat.’ He glanced at Roy. ‘Alone.’ My cheeks warmed. Was he really sufficiently interested in my whereabouts to know that I had a celebratory early evening drink at The Mermaid when the latest edition of the Gazette had been sorted? Then again, Pedrick kept tabs on everything in St Branok. And everybody. Roy hesitated meaningfully. ‘I can wait at the bar if you like.’ I beamed an assured expression. I was more than capable of handling the mighty Mike Pedrick by myself. ‘No need to wait, Roy. I’ll be fine. It’s only a short walk to the Landy.’ Roy rose to go. ‘Well, I’ll be off. Night then, Kate. See you in the morning. Night, Mike.’ He disappeared into the crowd, a small, slightly bowed figure. I focused on Pedrick. ‘How can I help, Mike?’ ‘Your advertising girlie has been pushing my businesses to take extra advertising. She’s been saying that the Gazette needs the extra revenue. Is everything okay?’ So, this was more fallout from Brenda shooting her mouth off. I could tell him to mind his own business, but that wouldn’t help me get more advertising. I was careful to exude a positive air. ‘It’s tough but we get by. In fact, things are looking up. More people are reading the Gazette and we’re getting more advertising. I’ve been thinking of increasing to thirty-six pages.’ There was a flash of scepticism in Pedrick’s eyes. ‘Look, Kate, I know how tough running a small local business can be. I’ve been through challenging times myself. Thank God, that was a long time ago. The Gazette is part of the local community. It’d be a disaster if it had to close down.’ Clearly, the rumour mill in St Branok was running at breakneck speed. I sucked the dregs of my gin and tonic, now little more than melted ice with a tang of lemon. Still, it gave me something to do. And time to think. ‘Who’s saying the Gazette is closing down?’ I’d talked to Brenda about times being hard, not possible closure. Perhaps it was merely a case of an astute individual like Pedrick putting two and two together. The miserable state of local newspapers everywhere was hardly a secret. He leaned forward. ‘All I’m saying is, if things are getting desperate, I can help.’ ‘Help? How?’ He locked gazes with me, suddenly intense. ‘Have you ever thought of a partnership? I’d consider making a sizeable investment in return for a majority share. It would wipe out any debts you might have in a stroke. And you’d still be the editor and run the business day to day.’ His dark eyes and the tempting offer on the table gripped me. The constant worry of mounting debt would be gone, leaving the bank to devote its time to torturing other cash-strapped customers. And Gwel Teg – my remote, ramshackle, beautiful cottage – would be safe. I would be able to enjoy my Cornish life, swim happily in the surf, take Rufus for long walks and do some serious veg-growing in my kitchen garden without the nagging fear that the bank was about to pull the rug out from under my feet. But – and this was a massive but – it wouldn’t be my newspaper anymore. I’d become little more than an employee with a minority stake in the business I’d given up London for. ‘Thanks, Mike,’ I said. ‘I appreciate the offer, really I do, but we’re fine. As I say, things are looking up for us right now.’ Pedrick leaned back, still scrutinising me. ‘If you ever need any help, you know where to come.’ ‘Sure, and thanks.’ One of the trawler skippers still hanging around the bar, now on his third pint judging by the empty glasses, called over, ‘Mike, we’ve got something for you to see.’ Pedrick held up a silencing hand. ‘I’m busy.’ He turned back to me. ‘How’s that new star reporter of yours, what’s his name, Lonnie Donegan, getting on? Everybody’s talking about him. He’s asking a lot of questions.’ ‘Yes, that’s what good reporters do,’ I said. ‘Actually, it’s Danny Flanagan. And he’s fine, as far as I know.’ I was tired of Pedrick’s forced bon homie and overbearing presence and it was beginning to show. I wanted him to clear off and get back to his laughing, raucous trawler mates and whatever else he did in his spare time. Pedrick might own most of St Branok, but he didn’t own the Gazette. Yet. He persisted, oblivious, used to deference not resistance. ‘When I say questions, I mean deep, prying questions which are hurting local people and making them angry. He should be careful.’ I bristled. ‘Prying questions about what exactly?’ ‘About the Talan Bray, of course. The press coverage of ten years ago caused a lot of pain. All that speculation about what happened was irresponsible. Now your Danny is wanting to open it all up again.’ ‘He’s not my Danny. He’s his own boss. He’s a freelancer who is helping us out. Nothing more. I can’t tell him what to do... ~~~~~~
This is an intriguing historical mystery based upon the unfortunate sinking of a lifeboat as they were trying to help others. It is indeed a sad memory of, an accident? Or one of deception and murder? Those who search for truth, such as journalists, are prone to dig into the past, and, many times, discover hidden criminal acts have proven to be the cause for many deaths... I find it a curious comparison of today's world, but with a solid time of seeking truth... Not so, when these days we look to the past to pinpoint times when some people enjoyed more power and prestige that seems to have been lost. Now lies, combined with violence, are used to betray Truth for return of what was supposedly lost... Is there ever to be a period when these divergent actions are eliminated? In the meantime, may we continue to work to ensure that indeed good will always overcome evil... This is an excellent merge of history and mystery in a setting where the past is held to for many reasons. Yet it merges with the present when those who suffered loss in the past, are now fighting to seek out what really happened to find not only Truth, but hopefully justice... Do check this one out!
