Books, Reviews, Short Stories, Authors, Publicity, a little poetry, music to complement...and other stuff including politics, about life... "Books, Cats: Life is Sweet..."
Manouchka ignored him. She leaned on my arm. Somehow, it felt Biblical, like she was weary and in need of shelter. Which she wasn’t going to get anytime soon.
I screamed. It happened so fast. I’d never seen anyone use a gun, except my dad fooling around with a BB gun in our back yard, and now Stan dropped to his knees before he caught himself on his hands, gurgling. Behind him, the blonde woman and her husband ducked into triage and slammed the door behind them. Suddenly, only me, Stan and the gunwoman stood in the hallway. “Call 911!” I yelled in the general direction of the nursing station, ignoring the gunwoman. The triage nurse had probably seen or heard enough to call for help, but it never hurt to sound the alarm. Meanwhile, I’d focus on the A, B, C’s of resuscitation. Especially the airway and breathing. My eyes fixed on the bloody hole in Stan’s back, below the point of his left scapula. Probably too far from the midline to cut his spinal cord, but right in “the box” where shrapnel could pierce a heart or lung or both, depending on the trajectory. Stan dropped on to his stomach, still breathing, so his heart probably hadn’t been hit. I have zero experience with gunshot wounds, but they say that after a heart attack, if you have myocardial rupture, and the heart bursts open, the person dies in a few beats. He’d already made it past that. I fell on my knees beside Stan, who was barely sucking air into his lungs. Did he have a pneumothorax? The hole in his chest could still kill him within minutes. My first instinct was to turn him on his back, because that’s how patients always roll into the emerg on a stretcher, face up. Also, the exit wound in front of his chest would gape more than the relatively neat hole in back. I stopped and grabbed the stethoscope hung around the back of my neck. Even with Stan face-down, I could listen to his breath sounds. “Don’t touch him,” said the burqa woman. I looked up. She trained her gun on my face. My hands stilled, slowly relinquishing the navy rubber tube of my stethoscope. It wasn’t that I’d forgotten her, but I had a higher calling here. I lifted both palms in the air. “Look. I’m a doctor. He’s a doctor.”
“I need Casey Assim,” the woman said. Her voice had descended into growl territory. It took me a second to process that. Casey. That was the name the ward clerk had buzzed us about in Manouchka’s room. So Casey Assim must be a patient, a new one who hadn’t made it on the whiteboard yet. The one Stan had been on his way to deliver? Stan tried to cough. He choked instead. The breath rattled in his lungs before he boosted himself on to his hands and started crawling on his hands and knees toward the open doorway. Toward the case room. Or the closed triage door. Or the nursing station. Any way you sliced it, civilization. He knew where to go. His brain was still clicking. He had the strength to crawl. Should I try and distract the burqa woman? Maybe try and wrestle the gun away from her? But that was an insane Hollywood move. And also, I couldn’t help noticing that Stan was deserting me while this woman held us at gunpoint. I could distract her for the few crucial seconds while Stan got away, but I wouldn’t jump her. I heard a nurse scream from further down the hallway. She tried to stifle it, which made it sound even worse. From my view, at least thirty feet away, I could tell that they’d sealed all four case room doors, but the nursing station was an open desk area. The counter might protect you a little, but not the open table. Maybe the staff would run toward the OR and back out the other side of the U, toward the ward. But could the patients run that fast? The overhead paging system blared, “Code Black, Fourth Floor. Code Noir, quatrième étage.” Then someone pulled the fire alarm. The high-pitched bell made my ears cringe. “Is Casey the person you’re looking for?” I asked, raising my voice above the alarm. My arms quivered in the air. “I—” The burqa woman looked down at Stan crawling and shot him in the back of the head. The sound of the bullet echoed through the hallway. His body flopped on the floor. Blood coursed from the back of his skull. I couldn’t make a sound. I’d met murderers before. But they’d never killed anyone in front of me. This was like an execution. And what had Stan done? He hadn’t broken patient confidentiality. He’d done the “right thing.” Now he was probably dead. I didn’t want to die. I really didn’t want to die. I gazed down the case room hall, now empty of obvious human habitat, although I knew the triage room must be packed like Sonic dance club on the night of a full moon, and at least three out of four women labouring in the case room hadn’t made a break for freedom. It was only me and the burqa murderer now. The fire alarm shrieked overhead, a piercing scream that made my jaw ache and my arms tremble. This couldn’t be happening. Oh, yes, it could. I’d survived enough tight situations to know that real life could surpass any nightmare. They call me the detective doctor. But it’s one thing to try and figure out any wrongdoing after the fact. It’s quite another to have someone a) pull out a gun, and b) shoot your senior resident in front of you.
“How may I help you?” I said, trying to sound civil, like this was normal. Like I wasn’t about to get whumped. I thought of my main man, Ryan. My first runner-up, Tucker, who made my toes curl. My little brother, Kevin. My parents. My grandmothers. I love you. I’m sorry I never told you enough. The burqa woman detoured to grab me from behind, her body a solid presence behind mine while she drilled the muzzle of the gun against my right temple. The muzzle was still cool after shooting Stan. She’s right-handed, I noticed with the back part of my brain. Maybe it would make a difference, maybe it wouldn’t. But my shocked brain insisted on memorizing facts like this and noticing that she smelled like beer, tangy sweat, and something unpleasantly familiar. “Get me Casey Assim,” she said. “Now.”
“I can get you Casey Assim,” I said, since at this point, I would have promised both my grandmothers. Not that I’d actually deliver them to this madwoman. But I’d lie up and down Main Street if it would buy me a few seconds. All was fair in love and at gunpoint. “They brought her in,” said the killer. “She’s in labour. It’s her due date. I know it’s her.” Faulty logic, but my shoulders jerked as my hindbrain calculated, That’s a man’s voice. This is a man, not a woman. A man dressed in a burqa. He was crazier than I thought. I was deader than I thought. “Okay,” I said. “Get me to her room, or I’ll kill you, too.” He wasn’t that much taller than me. Maybe five foot eight, but stocky, like a wrestler, with wide shoulders and firmly planted feet. And did I mention that gun? “No problem,” I said, an expression my dad hates. He says, There’s always a problem. Why would you say there’s no problem? He had a point, especially when I was nose to nose (okay, back of head to nose) with Mr. Death. Dad. I’m sorry. I love you. I felt Mr. Death jerk his head toward the doorway. He knew that was the main entrance to the case room. He knew how to get there, but he wanted me to lead him, like a little Dr. Gandhi, while he kept the gun trained on my temple, the thinnest area of my skull. He wanted me to play hostage. Part of me thought, No. Run. If only I’d run in the first place, when my subconscious brain must have recognized that the way he moved and the breadth of his shoulders didn’t jibe with a pregnant woman. Now it was too late to run. The emergency department and hospital front desk had security guards. Obstetrics had nothing. I must have glanced or somehow turned left, toward the elevator, because the bastard cocked his gun, and I felt as well as heard the hammer shift. I don’t know guns, but I’ve seen enough TV shows to figure out what’s fatal. I froze in place like an Arctic hare dropped in downtown Tokyo. I’ve actually listened to a podcast about what to do when an active shooter enters a hospital. Running is your best option. But running with a bullet in your brain? Not possible. Without taking my eyes off the gun, I took a step toward the doorway. Toward triage. “That’s it, bitch,” Bastard whispered. I gestured at Stan’s unmoving body, which lay five feet away from us, blocking the doorway. I could smell Stan’s blood. I have a strong stomach, but I had to hold my breath and not-think, not-think, not-think if I was going to survive even the next few minutes. Bastard didn’t answer, except to keep his gun pressed against my cranium. I walked. I walked with Bastard’s body cemented against my back. Have you ever had an unwanted guy grind behind you on the dance floor? Like that, times a billion. I had to glance down as I/we stepped over Stan’s body, carefully picking my way to avoid his sprawled arms and the ever-widening pool of blood. Stan’s yarmulke clung to his curly hair a centimetre above the bullet hole. I scanned the green felt for dots of blood and possibly brains. Then my eyes slid south. Was it possible that I glimpsed the pale, folded surface of cerebral cortex under the film of blood dripping from the entry site? No. Probably my imagination. I clung to the fact that his religious symbol remained intact. Maybe he and I would, too. I sent a brief prayer toward Stan and any available deity: Please. People have survived gunshot wounds to the head. I’ve never seen it, but I remembered a neurosurgery resident explaining to me, in detail, how a high-velocity bullet could hit a non-critical area of the brain and come out the other side, necessitating surgery, ICU, and a lot of rehab, but not a one-way ticket upstairs/downstairs. The bullet had hit Stan in the occiput, so bye-bye occipital lobe. But I thought it was higher up than brainstem, which would have spelled instant death. So it was possible, if not probable, that he might pull through. But the longer he lay on the ground, the lower his chances of any meaningful recovery. At least by drawing the gunman away from Stan, I was allowing the emergency crew to make its way toward him. On the other hand, it meant I was drawing the gunman toward a bunch of defenseless pregnant women. I might have yelled for them to run, but the fire alarm was doing all the screaming for me. The sound invaded my head, made it hard to think anything except Shut up. My body walked anyway, with the diaphragm of my stethoscope banging a drum beat against my chest. I held my hands up in the air, both to calm down the gunman and so that anyone looking at me would immediately compute that something was wrong. Flee. Now. The case room hallway looked deserted. It didn’t feel empty, though. First door on the right. Triage. I imagined all those exhausted pregnant women and men, plus the triage nurse, holding their breath and barring the door. I walked a little faster, hoping that Bastard wouldn’t pause and knock on that door. He didn’t. Now we’d reached the nursing station on our left. The long, white counter hung with tinsel, which the elderly ward clerk usually sat behind, answering the phone with her crystal-studded acrylic nails, and which I stood in front of to write my charts or answer my pages: empty. Behind the counter, the communal wooden table and small alcove, where the nurses sat to chart and to watch the fetal monitors mounted to the wall, under Christmas balls dangling from the ceiling: empty. Everyone had taken off. Or was at least out of sight, for the moment. Bastard exhaled. I tensed. He could easily yell,
“Bring me Casey, or I’ll kill this chink!” And then, if no one answered, he’d shoot me out of spite. The alarm screeched on. Overhead, the hospital operator intoned, “Code Black, Fourth Floor. Code Noir, quatrième étage.” Bastard’s left hand relaxed on my shoulder while he held the gun to my right temple. Was he letting down his guard? I could try to break away from him now. But which way should I run? Back toward the elevators and Stan? He’d shoot me before I got ten paces. Around the hallway’s U-shape to the OR and then the ward rooms? Much, much farther. And at least fifty feet of hallway, where I could get shot. Under the desk, so I could hole up like a mouse before he executed me? So many bad choices, so little time. The only thing I didn’t consider was running for a case room or triage. He’d whack me, then take potshots at anyone and everyone else in the room. But he didn’t want me. He wanted Casey Assim.
I was now facing the first case room door. Obviously, all he heard was Casey’s name and nothing else. He was like a missile locked on detonate. “Get her out of there. Or get me in. I don’t care. She’s gonna have my baby.” He placed the gun at the back of my head now, which made me think of Stan. Stan. Dead Stan. Don’t think that way. He might still make it. Come on. At close range, I finally recognized that insistent stink emanating from Bastard’s pores as marijuana. Lovely. I forced myself to speak in a low, well-enunciated voice. “She’s not there. Let me call the operator. I’ll find you Casey.” He pushed the gun a little harder against my occiput. “Open. That. Door.” I stared at the edging etched into the white wood of the first case room door. If he shot me, could the bullet drive right through the wood and hit Manouchka or June too? My hand dipped toward the metal door handle, but a sound caught my ear. Not just any sound. A whistle. On our right, echoing off the empty hospital corridor walls. Someone whistling in the midst of blood and terror. It was as startling as if a bluebird had launched itself above our heads in this hospital hall of horror, singing a tale of joyful spring in mid-November. I knew that whistle. My nails cut into my palms to stop myself from yelling. My breath rasped in my throat, and I know this sounds strange, but my nipples hardened. I even recognized the song, “What a Day for a Daydream.” It was the stupidest, most inappropriate song for this scenario, and that would have told me the whistler’s identity even if I’d been blindfolded and gagged. It was one man I didn’t want trapped with me. I wanted to scream, Run, Tucker...
~~~
I normally enjoy medical novels, and this was no different in my response to the story. However, it is certainly not an easy book to read! Who can imagine what it would be like to have a man dressed in a burqa, easily look like a pregnant woman, and walk into the maternity ward, only to have it be the beginning of a very long nightmare. One where a medical resident had already been shot and when he began to crawl, was shot again in the head... Not something you ever want to encounter...
This book immediately made me think about another book by Dr. Charles C. Anderson, The First to Say No, which is about women in emergency rooms... Dr. Anderson took on a mission to make changes which would allow women to file legal action against those who attacked them while they were working... He took his cause all the way to Washington. Do a search on his name for more information covered here at BRH.
The book is written in first person with Hope Sze a doctor who is thinking about which woman will be her next patient, on routine shift, when an individual walks in and starts demanding attention. The salvation of reading the book is that Dr. Sze shares all of her thoughts and words as she faces what happened that long day... The author uses her thoughts in such a way that readers are sometimes laughing, sometimes frightened, and sometimes angry--the reality of each scene cannot help but be read as a "What if" type of unbelievable scenario which each rader will automatic consider from the reader's point of view.
After trying to find the man's girlfriend, he becomes so enraged that, when one woman, who is pregnant, is discovered in her room--and not his girlfriend, he starts acting purely from his rage, including considering taking out his "needs" on Hope Sze, the doctor... That is mainly brought about by her attempts to keep the woman in labour safe and away from abuse, or worse, by the gunman...
Compelling, a page-turner that you can't stop reading, while also wondering, along with the hostages, why nobody is there helping to solve the problem, other than the Two doctors, One killer, and One Woman in labour... Makes you wonder why a doctor would choose a maternity ward for a a book... But I have to recognize the brilliance of these three people as they deal with a madman with a gun! If you like medical thrillers, you might want to start with the first book in this series to gain more background on how Hope has two men in love with her...and her thinking she should be able to keep both of them... Yes, there's always a little romance in the mix when the writer is a female, right?! LOL
“Never live your life according to the idiots’ rules. Because they’ll drag you down to their level, they’ll win, and you’ll have a damned awful time in the process.”
When a red pickup pulled up outside, she got quickly to her feet and told herself not to act like an idiot. They don’t know you, she reminded herself. To them, you’re just a stranger who knows nothing about them, about Amy or the town. The thought made her smile. The man who stepped out of the car wasn’t Andy; she was certain of that. There was something tense and reluctant in his movements that didn’t tally at all with the warm voice on the phone or with the descriptions in Amy’s letters. “Tom,” he said. “Sara,” she replied automatically, blinking at him in confusion. There was a web of fine laughter lines around his eyes, but he wasn’t smiling. His eyes were the same deep grayish-green color as the sea in November, and they were radiating about as much warmth. His body language exuded distance and irritation. She didn’t know what she could have done to make him dislike her already, but there was no doubt about it. Dislike her he did. For a moment, her world was thrown off-kilter, just like it had been with Jimmie Coogan Street. Only by a few degrees—enough to make everything seem distorted and unreliable, but not enough that she could put her finger on exactly what had changed. He was dressed in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, which made her gray pants seem ridiculously inappropriate. She was no longer under any illusion that her pants made her legs look in any way elegant. They were back to their usual, scrawny selves, and she was back to being utterly plain. This has happened before, Sara, she told herself. If you were stupid enough to think that things would change just because Amy’s youngsters were involved, then it’s your own fault. Mascara! You idiot. She found a certain consolation in that, or she was used to it, at least. “Andy asked me to give you a ride,” Tom said, as though it was, in some way, her fault. “I could’ve walked.” “Sure.” She thought about turning around and heading back inside. She didn’t think she would be able to cope if Andy turned out to be this unfriendly too. But Tom had already opened the car door, and now he gave her arm a gentle boost to help her up into the seat. “So you’re Sara,” he eventually said. He sounded tired, but apparently he still believed in trying to make polite conversation. Small talk was not something Sara excelled at. She couldn’t think of anything to say, so she stayed silent. Without realizing it, she was clutching her jacket pocket, where she had shoved a paperback just to be on the safe side. She didn’t think she could really take it out, even though Tom obviously had no desire to talk to her. People were strange like that. They could be completely uninterested in you, but the moment you picked up a book, you were the one being rude. As soon as they turned out of the little lane that led to Amy’s house, the cornfields appeared again. She couldn’t decide whether they were protective or threatening. “Sara who likes reading.” For a second, she wondered if he could read her mind. “You’ve got a book hidden in your pocket.” He was sounding more and more dismissive. “People are better in books,” she muttered. She said it so quietly she didn’t think he could have heard her, but when she stole a glance at him, she thought she could see one of his eyebrows twitch. “Don’t you agree?” she asked defensively. “No,” he said. She knew that most people would disagree with her. “But they’re so much more fun and interesting and…” Friendly, she thought. “Safer?” “That too.” She actually laughed. But then he seemed to lose interest again, both in the conversation and her. “But they’re not real,” he said, as though that would put an end to the discussion. Real. What was so great about reality? Amy was dead, and Sara was stuck here in a car with a man who clearly disliked her. With books, she could be whoever she wanted, wherever she wanted. She could be tough, beautiful, charming; she could come up with the perfect line at the perfect moment, and she could…experience things. Real things. Things that happened to real people. In books, people were charming and friendly, and life followed certain set patterns. If a person dreamed of doing something, then you could be almost certain that, by the end of the book, they would almost certainly be doing that very thing. And they would find someone to do it with. In the real world, you could be almost certain that person would end up doing absolutely anything other than what they had dreamed of. “They’re meant to be better than reality,” she said. “Bigger, funnier, more beautiful, more tragic, more romantic.” “So in other words, not realistic at all,” said Tom. He made it sound as though she had been talking about some romantic schoolgirl fantasy about heroes and heroines and true love. “When they’re realistic, they’re more realistic than life. If it’s a story about a meaningless, gray, normal day, then it’ll be much more meaningless and gray than our own gray, meaningless days.” Sara thought he seemed to be struggling not to laugh. But then his smile vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. “The books you got Amy to order arrived two days before her funeral,” he said, and with that, the conversation was definitely over. Just at the same moment, Sara was feeling selfish enough to think, So where are they, then? Her thirteen books wouldn’t last long at all. Especially if she continued going through them at the rate she had been. • • • The Square was a large, bulky building surrounded by empty parking spaces. Twenty minutes outside of town, it rose in lonely majesty above the asphalt. Tom stopped the car and looked around as though he too was seeing the bar for the first time. Then he shook his head and opened the door for her. “Maybe I should warn you about Andy and Carl,” he said. “They’re…well, they’re together. Everyone’s very understanding. We don’t talk about it.” “I know,” she said. Tom raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. There were only two other customers in the entire bar. One appeared to be sleeping, and the other, with a John Deere cap on, was eating nonstop from a bowl of peanuts. Sara hadn’t realized that people in the United States actually wore hats that advertised tractors, but when she turned around to comment enthusiastically, Tom looked so unimpressed she decided now wasn’t the right time. He gestured for her to keep going and followed her over to the bar. She climbed carefully up onto one of the bar stools, and he pulled out the one next to her and sat down in a single relaxed movement. When he caught sight of Andy, Tom smiled the first real, genuine smile she had seen from him. It made him look younger. Andy didn’t look at all like she had imagined from Amy’s letters. The only similarity was the boyish glint in his eye, which somehow suggested he still expected life to be full of adventure. He grinned at her as though he was sure they would get along, a grin that was impossible to resist. Then he looked back and forth between Tom and Sara in a way which made her cheeks burn and Tom straighten his stool so he ended up farther away from her. “Welcome to the Square,” said Andy. “A piece of history, a constant source of alcohol, a gathering point in Broken Wheel long before I was here.” He gestured around him. Sara blinked. “I only took over”—he looked questioningly at Tom—“seven years ago? Can it really have been that long? When Abe departed this life. By then, he’d become worryingly obsessed with female country musicians.” Sara felt increasingly relaxed the more obvious it became that she wasn’t expected to take part in the conversation. Andy seemed to be doing fine on his own. He leaned forward across the bar. “His wife left him. And it wasn’t Cash or Williams or Nelson he turned to for comfort but Dolly, Emmylou, Patsy, Loretta, and Tammy. For five years, their lovesick, miserable voices put a downer on things here in the Square, right until the Dixie Chicks put a stop to all that.” “Oh, for God’s sake, Andy.” Tom had clearly heard this story one too many times...
~~~
In this age of world-wide communication, we meet two women of different ages who became friends through letters... Sara lives in Sweden and Amy lives in Iowa. Their mutual interest was books and they discussed various books during each of their letters to each other... Amy did not share her actual health issues but spent all of her time sharing with Sara her love of her home town, Broken Wheel... So much so that Sara had become so interested, and, as well, needing to break from the tedium of her life as an assistant in a bookstore, that when Amy invited her to visit and they talked about it, Sara had decided to grab the adventure that she would never have, at least she thought, if she didn't take this opportunity...
Everything in the planning stage went well, except that, on the day that Sara was to arrive, most of the town was empty as they were attending the funeral and burial...of Amy!
But Amy had many friends and was a revered member of this little community. So much so, that all of the leading business owners and town leaders had known that Sara was coming. Soon, that entire group would take on the role of greeting, meeting and doing as much as possible to ensur Sara did not feel that she was caught in an impossible situation and think she must immediately return home...
Everybody agreed that she would stay in Amy's home just as was planned... And every place that Sara would visit, she was not charged for food or drinks, just as it would have been while visiting with her friend. Everybody knew that Sara's letters had become an important part of Amy's last months before she died. And never saying a word to Sara about the real situation of her health.
Sara was even more of a fanatic reader than I've ever been. She carried books and brought one out, moving into the story no matter where she was... Sara was an introvert and had never found it easy to participate in small talk... She found it hard to be in a home where there was only the belongings of her friend, Amy, knowing that she had only her memories of her letters since they would never meet...
But when Sara got brave enough, or one of the hosts or appointd drivers came to her door to drive her to anywhere she wanted to go, she began to see Broken Wheel as it was in the present. Things that had been described to be sure to see by Amy was no longer as she had been told. Many of the storefronts were boarded up or the glass windows broken, even a street no longer had appeal as had been described... Amy had been sharing of the town she once lived in...
Still, Sara soon found peace and quiet when she allowed herself to explore Amy's home and discovered a major library that was full of more books than she could read in a lifetime! So she was able to enjoy being able to choose any book that claimed her attention and, when finished, move on to a new one immediately. But, Sara began to feel that she could not continue to live in a home without paying rent or accept food without paying for it. She began to feel guilty and ill at ease as to what she could do to starting paying her way...
Sara found she was enjoying meeting the people who were still in this "almost" ghost town. But it did bother her when she would walk down the main street and see a group of men standing on the corner watching her. Not in a bad way, but, she realized, in a way that she began to realize that this little town was barely making it... Many had left when land was sold to grow corn as the major product, so that the entire community was shut off from sight as miles of nothing but growing corn engulfed the town...
Sara began to take walks from Amy's home into town and noticed a building that drew her attention... It started her thinking. Wouldn't that make a wonderful cozy booknook... Once she knew how she could do it, she started asking how to get approval to open a shop... And, as they say, that was the beginning...
Maybe this shop had her attention because its windowpanes were still intact or because it didn’t seem to have been treated quite as badly as the others. It was dirty, but only with two, maybe three years’ worth of dust. “When did this shop close?” she asked George as soon as he came out. She leaned in toward the window and rubbed a circle to look through. There was a counter in the middle of the space and a couple of shelves against the walls. Two chairs had been left behind, and both seemed to be in one piece. The lighting consisted of a lone naked bulb, and though the sun was managing to make it through the dirt on the windows, it was hard to tell what color the walls and few furnishings were. “Amy’s?” he asked. “This is Amy’s shop?” Was, she thought, but he didn’t seem to notice that she’d used the wrong tense. “Yeah,” he said as he fiddled with his car keys. He looked around as though he was worried someone might hear them. “Her husband bought it. It was never much of a success while he was alive, but I guess it kept him away from her for a couple of hours a day at least.” The expression on his face was uncharacteristically grim. “She closed it as soon as he died. Not a day too soon.” It wasn’t clear whether George meant the shop closing or Amy’s husband dying. “When was that?” “Almost fifteen years ago, but she kept on cleaning it. I don’t really know why. I don’t think she thought she’d be renting it out. She stopped, of course, when…when she got worse.” Sara could just picture Amy cleaning her dead husband’s shop year after year. Neat and tidy. “What kind of shop was it, when it was open?” George looked even more disapproving. “A hardware store.” Then he said nothing more about it. He drove her home in silence. • • • That evening, Sara sat in the kitchen enjoying the first warm meal she had made for herself since arriving. She had one of Amy’s books wedged beneath the edge of her plate so that she could eat and read at the same time. The warm food gave Sara renewed courage. She didn’t even bother to go around and switch on all the lights before it got dark. The light in the kitchen was the only one she needed. She was starting to feel like she might manage, like she might get her reading holiday, her stories and her adventure, after all. She had told people at home she was going to Broken Wheel to get away for a while, to have a real holiday, to read and to meet Amy, but that hadn’t been the whole truth. She had wanted to experience something…big. To be able to say to people, though she didn’t quite know who, that she had once spent two whole months in a small town in America. “Amy,” she said, “did you know that over three hundred thousand new books are published in the United States every year? And now here I am.” Regardless of how it all turned out, she would have done something for once. Two hours later, she had spread Amy’s books out on every available surface and was sitting contentedly in one of the rocking chairs on the porch, a forgotten cup of coffee by her side. She had three books on her lap but wasn’t reading any of them. She was listening to the sounds of the evening breeze playing in the old house. Somehow, her discovery of Amy’s books had changed the atmosphere of the place. It was as though it had become Amy’s once again, and Sara her guest. The constant noises had made her nervous those first few days, but now they were a comforting addition to her evening. The branches rapping at the window upstairs made her feel less alone, like the tree and the window were keeping her company. The rattling pipes, the constantly creaking wood—it seemed like something was still present in the house, as though it would never be completely empty, even once she had gone back home.
~~~
Sara's quiet, but friendly interaction was compelling. Soon volunteers and furnishings were donated... But when it was done and opened, nobody came, except to say hello or bring her a tea or coffee from next store...
Until one day, two young boys stopped in front of the shop. Sara was sitting in an armchair reading. She didn't notice the boys, so they kept watching her, wondering how long she would sit there reading without stopping... Soon other neighbors came to see what was going on and stood there watching...
But that afternoon, she was sitting in one of the armchairs, and her reading caused two of the town’s children to pause outside the window. They were on their way home from the school bus and in no hurry at all to start their homework. From the street, Sara looked like part of the window display. The name of the bookshop was painted on the window, and she was sitting directly beneath the welcoming yellow letters that spelled out the words Oak Tree Bookstore in a broad arc. Her hair fell like a curtain around her face as she sat curled up with a book in her lap, an enormous pile of books on the table next to her. Her long, slender fingers were turning the pages so quickly that the two boys wondered how she had time to read them. It made them stay standing there. At first, they had stopped only in the hope that she would nod to them or shoo them away, but now an hour had passed and she hadn’t even noticed that they were there. When George appeared, the younger boy was amusing himself by making a face at Sara, his nose pressed against the window. Even that didn’t lead to any obscenities or a weary request for them to leave. Strange. “What’re you up to?” George asked. He was slightly overprotective when it came to Sara. “We’re seeing how long she can read in one go,” said the elder. “She hasn’t even noticed us,” said the younger. George leaned forward and peered in through the window, curious despite his better nature. “How long have you been standing here?” “An hour.” “And she hasn’t looked up once?” “Nope.” The younger joined in. “Even though I’ve been making faces.” George frowned at him and moved back from the window, in case Sara looked up at that moment and thought he was part of the whole thing. “We’re gonna stand here till she looks up,” the younger said confidently. “We’re gonna time her. Right, Steven?” His big brother nodded. “I’m going to anyway. Go home if you want.” He said it in that nonchalant tone big brothers resort to when they know their younger siblings are going to copy them anyway. If they had known that Sara had just settled down with Douglas Coupland’s All Families Are Psychotic, they might have chosen a different day for their experiment. A day when she was reading a weighty biography, for example, or something else that made breaks seem more necessary. As things stood, she just kept reading. Every now and then she laughed or smiled to herself. Their group grew steadily as the afternoon wore on. By the time Jen and her husband came by, ten people were standing there. Her husband had decided to go with her to visit the tourist his wife was always talking about, and she had graciously taken him along to do so. She wasn’t the slightest bit amused to find a crowd blocking her way into the shop. Once the children had told her everything, she threatened to ruin the entire thing by going inside and telling Sara. “It’s not good manners,” Jen said. Whether she meant standing outside, watching Sara like she was a circus animal, or preventing her from going into the shop was unclear. George agreed, but he couldn’t help suspecting that Jen’s disappointment stemmed partly from the fact that she hadn’t come up with the idea herself. Her husband announced that he intended to stand there and watch too. Jen, on the other hand, still seemed prepared to march in and alert Sara. She loved her husband, of course, but that wasn’t the same as letting him decide what she should do. She put a hand on the door. “Wouldn’t this be something to put in the newsletter?” her husband asked. Jen paused. She stood for a few indecisive seconds before turning around to go and fetch her camera from the house. “Wait here,” she said. “Don’t go anywhere. If Sara looks up while I’m gone, stand here till I get back. I mean, just let me get my camera and we can always take a posed picture.” But when she got back, everyone was still there, and Sara was still reading. Jen immediately took a photo of Sara sitting in the window with her book. “Who the hell wants to watch someone reading?” Grace asked from the doorway of her diner. She had lit a cigarette, but it was more an excuse to see what everyone was up to. “What else is there to do?” asked Steven. “That’s true, I suppose,” Grace admitted after a moment. “You’re gonna need food,” she said. “Help me carry the grill out from the backyard and I’ll cook you all hamburgers.” As she was getting everything she needed ready, she realized that while food was good, it would be even better with beer. She made a quick call to Andy, who came straight over with Carl, some crates of beer, and their regular customers. • • • Tom saw the crowd of people before he saw the bookstore, since the group gathered in front of it had, by that point, completely hidden the shop from view. He had been on the way home from work when he saw everyone. For a moment he was determined to drive straight past them, but he suddenly found himself stopping and parking his car without really having made a conscious decision to do so. He could feel the tension from work lessening with each step he took toward the shop, and that bothered him. For some reason, he seemed to relax when he was around Sara. He had felt it the first time they were in the car together, when she had demonstrated so clearly that she wasn’t expecting anything of him. It had actually seemed more like she wanted him to just leave her alone. And later, when they had been sitting outside Amy’s house, he had felt an almost physical sensation of peace. He hadn’t been thinking about work or about John or about anything else that should have been on his mind. That was what made Sara’s company so unsettling. He swore he wouldn’t make the same mistake again this evening. He would just go over and see what was going on. Nothing more. Five minutes, tops. There was something subdued about the scene. Everyone seemed to be straining to whisper. Andy sought him out as he reached the edge of the group, giving him a beer and taking him to the front. It was already dark, but the light from Amy’s shop was spilling out onto the street. Sara was curled up in an armchair holding a book, her eyes fixed on it. She turned the page. At one point, she pushed a strand of hair from her eyes. It felt strangely private, seeing her read. Like watching her when she sleeps, he thought. She was so obviously unaware of their presence. At least there were no tears this time. Thankfully. Beside him, Andy was whispering loudly. Tom caught fragments of it, but he wasn’t really listening. “Reading…” “Been waiting here since this afternoon…” “Changed the book but didn’t look up…” “Got a sandwich with the book still in her hand…” Sara smiled. Her expression was so comical that Tom found he was intrigued despite himself. Her face was open and expressive when she thought no one was watching, warm and friendly and disturbing to his peace of mind. She had never smiled at him like that. Maybe you need a book to coax that kind of smile out of her, he thought, even though he had never bothered trying to make her smile. Maybe I’ll actually try it sometime, he found himself thinking. He forced himself to look away. Next to him, Andy was still talking. “Shouldn’t you be at the Square?” Tom asked him. Andy laughed. “No point. It’s all happening here tonight. Grace called us, so we packed a couple crates of beer, closed up, and came over. Everyone’s here tonight.” “Why…?” “To watch Sara read, obviously.” Andy explained the backstory. “Incredible, right? She started a new book two hours ago, but she’s barely looked up. Like a relay, you know?” Tom shook his head. Sara continued to read. • • • Until she didn’t. She read the last line, smiled as though at an old friend, and closed the book. She unfurled her legs and stretched. When she finally saw the crowd outside, she stood up suddenly and went confusedly out to them.
“My friends!” Steven shouted when she stepped through the door. “That was exactly five hours and thirty-seven minutes.” Sparse applause broke out. The smell of charcoal, grilled meat, and beer filled the air, and empty beer bottles littered the ground. There was a spontaneous party atmosphere to the whole thing, and people began talking more loudly now that they no longer had to worry about Sara hearing them. Sara blushed and blinked at them. She had never been good at being the center of attention. • • • It happens occasionally. Certain groups seem to exist only to make one person, the one we are meant to see, appear more clearly. It rarely happens like it does in movies, where rooms filled with people unconsciously part to give the heroine a glimpse of the hero, or the other way around. And yet for some people, there are similar moments of insight when they turn to a group of people and instead see only one. For Sara, it was when she stepped out of the bookshop that evening and found herself faced with betting and crowds and beer and hamburgers. It was that evening when, for several confused moments, all she saw was Tom. Someone had thrust a beer into her hand and she drank it gratefully while Grace and Jen talked away next to her. “For God’s sake, woman, don’t you have anything better to do with your time than read?” Grace asked. “What were you reading? Can I have some book tips for the newsletter?” Jen asked. Her camera flashed before Sara had a chance to reply. It was as though all previous thoughts of avoiding Tom had vanished. She was acutely aware of exactly where he was the entire time. As though quietly murmuring radar, placed high in her chest, was keeping track of where he was standing and who he was with. She wanted both to avoid him and for him to come over to her. Every time she saw him talking to someone else—and he seemed to be determined to talk to everyone except her—she found herself thinking that he should be talking to her instead, standing next to her, smiling at her.
~~~
This is clearly a character-driven drama. In addition to the main character, we watch as a number of those that have lived in Broken Wheel all of their lives, find themselves involved in rethinking--and acting--upon their lives as they have lived it. Issues of sexuality, race, religion, divorce, and more wind up being explored as the town of Broken Wheel becomes more loving and kind as they come together... Especially several love stories including for Sara!
The ending is, simply, a communal love reaction to what residents had seen since the "tourist" came to town and brought her love of books and the wonderful stories to be found when a book is found for each of the residents... Heartwarming and joyous!
Was there a Miss Marple Anonymous meeting I could go to?
Gored of the Rings - “Are you sticking around for the Grand Opening?” “What Grand Opening? She waved her hand. “The mystery store next door.” I studied my fingernails in order to avoid her gaze. “I don’t think so. I sort of have things to do.” Ruth smiled at me. She smiled so seldom that I took a step back. “What?” “’Things to do’? Those things wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain artist and the axe in his face?” I put my hand down and studied my shoes. “No. Of course not.” “Okay, girl. Play it that way. I won’t rat you out. Holy crap, what the hell is that?” I turned around to see what had gotten Ruth’s attention. I watched through the window as two topless women with enormous breasts walked past on the sidewalk, each holding signs with Moo! written on them. “Not more naked people,” Ruth moaned. “I’m sick and tired of naked people. Have you noticed that this town attracts crazies? We had a long hiatus there for a while, but axes, alligators, sex dolls, and boobs have infiltrated Cannes. We’re back to crazy town, Gladie.” “You forgot about Robinson Bucks,” I said. “You’re right. Here. Take a second piece of cream cheese coffee cake. I think we’re going to need more fortification these days.” I took the free cake, but I no longer craved enormous quantities of food, for some reason. Gathering my to-go cup and cake, I left Tea Time to visit Lucy. Outside, a crowd had gathered around the topless women, who were standing in front of the mystery store. A velvet curtain hung between them, hiding the store, itself. I assumed it would be removed for the Grand Opening. The crowd waited for the big reveal, their appetites whetted—I assumed—by the topless women reveal. I didn’t want to wait for the Grand Opening of Moo!, but the crowd had boxed my car in, and I was stuck. The topless women started to sing “Old Macdonald had a Farm,” and when they got to the moo-moo part, the curtains opened. “What is it?” I heard someone ask in the crowd. The front of the store was all pane glass windows and a sign above it said, “Moo!” And the O’s in the sign looked like boobs. I got curious, too. Lots of shops had tried to open next to Tea Time, but never a boob shop. If that’s what it was. The door opened, and a tiny woman in a fitted lavender suit and gobs of makeup came out. She adjusted her hair-sprayed brown hair and cleared her throat. She reminded me of Effie Trinket in The Hunger Games. “What is four-hundred-times the price of crude oil?” she called to the crowd. “Plutonium!” someone answered. “God!” another guessed. “My Aunt Fanny’s macaroni and cheese!” another ventured, and there was a roar of laughter from the crowd. “Wrong!” the woman called out at the top of her voice. “Breast milk. That’s right. Breast milk. Breast milk is not just for babies, anymore.” Oh, geez. If this was going where I thought it was going, Spencer was definitely going to blame me for the influx of weird into his beloved town. The crowd’s laughter had stopped suddenly after the woman’s comment about breast milk. “What did that woman say?” I heard someone in the crowd ask after a minute. “I think my hearing aid is on the blink,” someone else commented. “These days, breast milk is fortifying the greatest athletes of our time,” the woman continued. There were a few ew’s and gross’s uttered in the group, but it was mostly stunned silence around me. I wondered what the mayor was going to think about this. If he was against U.S. currency because it led to chicken crime, I couldn’t imagine what his take on breast milk for sale would be. On second thought, the mayor was a man, so he would probably be all in, concerning women with enormous hooters. “Breast milk has all your necessary nutrition, and it’s delicious,” the woman continued with her sales pitch. “And it comes in a designer package.” The big-boobed women posed, jutting their jugs out for everyone to see. Not that anyone could miss them. “I don’t know how to feel about this,” I heard a familiar voice say. I turned to find Bridget standing behind me. She pushed her glasses up on the bridge of her nose. “I feel like supporting women in however they want to use their bodies.” Bridget was the sweetest person I had ever known. She had a huge heart, and when she wasn’t bookkeeping or taking care of her son, she was trying to get justice for one cause or another. I gave her a hug. “It’s a quandary,” I agreed. “Please come in for our Grand Opening,” the little Hunger Games woman called out. “We’re offering free samples for our first-time customers.” There was a long, awkward silence from the crowd. All heads turned from the left to the right, like they were watching a tennis match, but I assumed they were all watching to see who among them would dare get a free sample. Then, as if an alarm went off, the crowd surged forward toward the break milk store. Bridget rocked from side to side, but stayed next to me. “On one hand, I should support a woman-run business,” she told me. “On the other hand…” “On the other hand, ew gross?” I finished for her. “I’m on my way to see Lucy. Do you want to go with me?” “I’m going to stay here for a little while and determine if I need to get my sandwich board out of the trunk of my car and protest.” With the crowd now in Moo!, I could finally reach my car. Taking a deep breath, I opened the car door and reminded myself what I intended to do. As far as I was concerned, Pablo Cohn had been murdered. And I was bound and determined to find out who did it. Finally after three years, I was back on the case.
~~~
As soon as I saw the series title, I figured it was going to be cozy mysteries...but the more, I read, I had to think it was a new genre just for this series. Because I soon realized that these books were just Crazy (Fun) mysteries! Seriously, for someone like myself who has limited response to humor as it is often used, I found I was unable to ignore the constant bombardment of silly, sometimes outlandish things being discussed or requested from clients so that I soon was covered with enjoyment--and it was because of the Gladie Hex which the author surely placed on this particular series...LOL
So, here's the first example... "Hands Up," The chicken yelled! So our main character, Gladie Burger, was in line waiting for her turn with the pharmacist, when a chicken came to rob the pharmacy. Everybody started to talk, worrying about getting their own meds. Soon even the mayor attempted to speak... And that's when Gladie got involved... You see the mayor was not well liked... And Gladie immediately wondered if the chicken might kill him and then she could work to solve whodunit... Yes, Goldie was the amateur detective in this series, but you might call her somewhat of a fanatic, because they've had a dry spell of murders in town and she had started to crave lots of food as a substitute, like many do...
The chicken wiped at his mask with the back of his wing. It was a very dry day, and I bet he was broiling in his costume. I chuckled at the thought of the chicken broiling...
In fact, it seemed like Gladie had many thoughts that seemed to be cruel or "darkly funny?." But all the chicken wanted was drugs... But Gladie was almost positive she knew who wore that costume for another job other than theft!???
In the meantime, Zelda, Gladie's grandmother, who was a professional matchmaker, had decided to expand that business into wedding coordinating and decided Gladie could handle that part of the business. Gladie knew she hadn't a clue how to do that, especially when her first client came to call... The wedding involved an axe room, the couple riding to the wedding on a longhorn bull and wound up with a murder during the reception...
But there was also a cold case discovery right across from Goldie's home where a new neighbor was replacing the swimming pool and found a skull, which, of course, led to a search for the body and another whodunit...
Didn't I say this was a crazy mystery?! Because, of course, people did get murdered... Which leads me to the final main character--the police chief, Spencer... Who is a "hunk." that every woman in town swoons over... especially his wife, Gladie...
But, sadly, the alligator, who is an endangered species, is not thrilled to have Spencer trying to prevent him from roaming everywhere to find something good to eat...which happened to be apple pies... Yeah, that kind of crazy...
***
Slay Misty For Me
“Hey, Fred. Have you seen The Invisible Brain?” I asked him. “He didn’t show up, and the crowd thinks it’s because the robot vacuums got him and took him to the aliens after getting a message in dictionaries that were funded by drugs in coffins,” he said. “At least that’s what I heard.” “You can’t cure stupid,” Ruth commented and waved her Louisville Slugger at someone who tried to get into Tea Time. “The chief told me to come down here for crowd control, but there’s too much crowd to control. It’s worse than the Walley’s after-Easter chocolate sale,” Fred moaned. “Walley’s has an after-Easter chocolate sale?” I asked. “When is that, exactly?” Ruth gave me a pointed look, and I turned away from her. “I called Remington to help, but he was still at the autopsy when I called,” Fred continued, forgetting about the chocolate sale. “What autopsy?” I asked. “Misty’s autopsy?” “Yep, but I’m not allowed to tell you. The chief says I’ll have to do the graveyard shift for a month if I mention it to you,” Fred says. “That’s good, Fred. You stick to your guns,” Lucy told him. “Which part didn’t he want Gladie to know about?” “The part about the marshmallows,” Fred said. “He doesn’t want the Underwear Girl to know that the victim didn’t have any marshmallows in her stomach.” “You mean she didn’t actually eat the marshmallows?” Lucy asked Fred. “The tox results said she had an allergic reaction to gelatin, but it looks like she didn’t eat them, so she didn’t commit suicide. The gelatin got into her system some other way.” “So, the marshmallows were there for show?” I asked. “Huh?” he asked and blinked at me as if he had forgotten that I was there. “I think so. I heard something about the killer making it look like she killed herself with marshmallows. I’m allergic to mold, so I’m afraid of blue cheese dressing.” “Everyone, I heard that Walley’s has some robot vacuums in stock!” someone from the crowd yelled. “Let’s get ‘em!” someone else yelled. “Uh-oh,” Fred said. “I wonder if I have to stop them.” There was a police siren, and then the police department showed up en masse. “Finally,” Ruth grumbled. “I pay taxes, you know. I shouldn’t have to defend my property with a baseball bat.” Visibly relieved to have backup, Fred returned to the crowd. “That fink Spencer lied to me,” I complained to Lucy. “He told me flat out that Misty committed suicide. But the marshmallows were for show. No wonder her mouth was crammed with them. Nobody eats marshmallows like that. The killer stuffed her mouth with them to put me off track. She was murdered; she didn’t kill herself. At least that’s probably what happened.” Lucy gave my back a little rub. “Of course Misty was murdered, darlin’. You don’t stumble on suicides. You stumble on murders. You’re a murder magnet, remember. So, let’s get a move on and find out whodunit.”
Gladie was working on final touches for the next wedding which was to be held in the local funeral home. No, that was only a small part of the strange details... It would be a small wedding. The groom was handling all of the arrangements. The bride was to show up for the wedding, having not talked to, seen, or done anything else other than agreeing to marry the man. Then when the groom showed up with a cape, Gladie wasn't sure exactly what might happen! Other than we do know that a murder took place that night...
Seriously, the weirdness of conspiracy theories was wild, along with so many crazy events that just kept happening, that readers will consider the murders as a minor "part" in the overall humor of this crazy series. In fact, I can't even remember whodunit, but I sure remember all of the strange people who are living in this small town where, it seems, weird people seem to find their way to Cannes, California, where a couple thousand people live...You can bet I'll not be one of them...LOL
All I can say is that, I did keep reading straight through... Was it the unbelievable crazy things that occurred on each page...You bet... I can read a good mystery any time, but finding a crazy cozy mystery? That's a very unique experience... One that I enjoyed for, one time only... But, remember, I'm not a fan of humor for the sake of humor... Like I said, Gladie Hexed me... for this double duo of madness... Unbelievable!
When actor Derek Dixon stepped away from a $400,000 contract and filed a $260 million lawsuit against Tyler Perry, he wasn’t just naming harm—he was disrupting a frequency. Beneath the public outrage and clickbait headlines, Dixon’s story hits a syncopated note: one that fractures the polished choreography of Black Hollywood power and whispers the cost of quiet survival.
As a creative committed to rhythm as a metaphor for memory and resistance, I hear Dixon’s disclosure not as scandal, but as improvisation—an urgent solo interrupting the institutional groove.
🌀 The Gratitude Economy
In Black creative spaces, reverence is currency. You’re told to be grateful. To stay loyal. To keep quiet. Perry—an architect of opportunity for marginalized voices—has long been seen as untouchable. But Dixon’s story complicates that mythology. It reminds us that representation without accountability can recreate the very systems we hoped to escape.
When dreams are dangled in exchange for silence, the question becomes: Who owns your narrative?
🎶 Syncopated Truth
Jazz taught us that silence has sound. Dixon’s lawsuit, like a rest in a score, forces attention where none was intended. It calls us to consider:
Whose careers are contingent on coercion? What pilots go unsold because of silent contracts? How many creatives carry trauma disguised as opportunity? This rhythm isn’t linear. It’s fractured. It’s memory improvising against oppression.
🌱 Reclaiming the Tempo
Dixon’s choice to speak echoes a truth I hold dear: dignity is worth more than destiny. Whether his claims prevail in court is beside the point. His refusal to stay muted, to harmonize with abuse, already bends the arc.
As artists, we must ask: Are we creating legacies or protecting legacies built on silence?
Syncopated Truth dares us to remember what others bury. Dixon’s act of rhythm interruption belongs in the canon of cultural reckoning. Let us not rush to a resolution. Let us listen to what’s been syncopated all along. For me, it’s not about guilt or innocence, it’s about a deep dive into the industry, into the relationship between the movie mogul and the cast of characters who make the movies come alive.
~~~
Insofar as possible, I try to keep up with writers whose words I value--that I want to read...
But so much is going on these days. I can't keep up...
Still, when I got an email on this Substack post, I knew exactly what Michael was saying and I agree...
It's bad enough when our president is doing everything he can to rid America of DEI citizens.But when millionnaires have forgotten that it is the people who provide most of the talent, the work effort, the ethic of a dedicated individual, and it is forgotten, ignored, or thrown away, then we must speak out...
Do follow my friend on his new initiative! And let him know what you think...
Guest Blogger, Harold Michael Harvey
Author - Do a search in right column to discover his books... Or go directly to browse and buy...
It was exactly seven o’clock when the junior orchestra filed onto the stage to stand next to their seats. The audience applauded, and the teens took a bow. Wearing a shimmering black gown, and her hair swept up in a loose, braided bun, Mila Guseva looked stunning. She acknowledged the orchestra with a nod as she passed, bowed for the audience, and then took the podium. Lifting her baton, she gestured for the orchestra to sit down. The audience settled, and the sanctuary was quiet. After a pause, Fiona saw the woman take in a deep breath, encouraging her ensemble to do the same. The teens followed suit. Then, with a lift of Mila’s baton, they readied their instruments, and on her cue, the sanctuary filled with boisterous music. The concert had gone on for about an hour when Madison stepped away from her chair to play a mazurka in A minor by Chopin, while Tanner Plumb quietly accompanied her on a grand piano, stage left. Like Fiona, the audience was mesmerized, while Mila stood at the podium with her hands clasped at her chest in obvious pride.
Fiona was happy that her personal schedule allowed her to attend her cousin's concert to be held at St. Georges Cathedral in Pittsburgh, PA, where Madison would have a solo! And it was just as wonderful as everybody had hoped for! But...before the audience had even begun to leave, the conductor was found...dead...
And Madison, had found her!
Madison had become very impressed with her conductor and was happy that she would be at tonight's concert, even thought she had not been practicing with them for two weeks. Madison had brought her a bouquet of flowers to present in thanks and congratulations for the concert; however, there seemed to be so many interruptions behind the scenes, that she found herself roaming to the far location where the conductor had wanted to have her dressing room, quite often... And, the last time, she, unfortunately, was the one who found her lying on the floor--dead! And, at least once, she was threatened!
Of course Fiona had to become involved to protect her cousin... And that was quite easy since Nathan, the homicide cop assigned to the case was also Fiona's husband! Who, obviously, soon began to take on and lead the interviews of all those who had been attending the concert--allowing most of the audience to immediately leave after getting their names...
There was at least one major participant within the orchestra's group who had been seen arguing with Mila as soon as she showed up, dressed to kill, some might say, to lead that night after she had been gone for weeks during which the major practices had occurred... But there was not much that could tie anybody to the crime... Still... the concert had been held in a local church and Nathan soon headed to talk to Father Dan...
“Looks like it’s back to St. George’s,” Nathan muttered to himself, as he started the SUV and shoved it into reverse. It was late in the day when Nathan pulled into the parking lot alongside St. George’s Cathedral. Several cars were in the lot, so he made his way to a side entrance and pulled on the door. It opened, and once inside, he could hear a piano playing and women’s voices singing out joyfully. Choir practice. Good. If nothing else, the ladies could tell him where to find Father Dan. He followed the melodious voices to the sanctuary where Maddy’s concert had taken place on Thursday evening. He thought it strange for choir practice to be held on a Saturday, yet with the concert on Thursday and the church being off limits to everyone except police, because of the murder, what other options did the choir have? Nathan made his way down the aisle and stood quietly, waiting for a break in the music. When the hymn ended, one woman nodded in his direction, and the choir director turned. “Can I help you?” she asked. “Yes, I’m looking for Father Dan. Is he around this evening?” The woman’s eyes roamed the sanctuary. “He was here a little while ago. He was listening to our rehearsal. I’m sure he’s in the church somewhere. Maybe his office.” The woman pointed to the doors at the top of the sanctuary. “It’s through the narthex and to the left you’ll find a hallway. It’s down there. Or he could be holding confessions—” “Yes, I know where the confessionals are located. Thanks very much. You sound great,” he said. The ladies smiled, and he turned to find Father Dan’s office. He wasn’t there. Nathan made his way to the alcove that housed the confessionals. Not there either. It was a huge church. Nathan was at a loss as to where to search. He explored hallway after hallway, looking into rooms, and a small chapel with tall stained-glass windows. The building was like an old castle with hallways, rooms, and secret passageways. Nathan explored the church for well over twenty minutes. Still, he could not find the cleric. He found himself in the hallway near the confessionals, and the staircase that led downstairs to the Sunday school rooms. He couldn’t imagine why Father Dan would be down there, but it was worth a try. Otherwise, he had two choices remaining: wait until tomorrow, or visit with the father at the rectory. Nathan descended the stairs. The long, winding hallway was very dim. He turned right toward the rooms where all the action had taken place on Thursday evening—this area was still cordoned off. Maybe Father Dan had decided to survey the room to make sure the police hadn’t done any damage during their investigation. Of course, there could be another reason he was down here. His footsteps echoing through the corridor, Nathan paused to peek into the room where the members of the orchestra had been. The room was dark and quiet. No Father Dan.
He continued along the passageway. His long shadow stretched out along the wall before him, sweeping over the framed photographs of former priests. Nathan had to agree with Madison. Creepy. Up ahead, Nathan could see a light. He hesitated. Sure enough, the beam was shining into the hallway from the room where Mila Guseva had died. Nathan proceeded forward, stepped onto the threshold, and found Father Dan plainly in the throes of a search. Bent over, the priest moved slowly along the walls, scrutinizing the carpet. He stopped, picked something up, and then flicked it away, seemingly disappointed not to find what he was looking for. “I hope our cleaning service did a good job after the crime scene was cleared for cleanup,” Nathan said. Father Dan jerked upward, and with wide-eyes he swung around to face Nathan. Visibly trying to reunite with his composure, he ran his fingers through his thick, white mane. His smile was forced, artificial. He smoothed his hands over his black suit jacket, and he sounded a little out of breath when he spoke. “Yes, they did a wonderful job. Not that there was a lot of blood. I mean, I was told there wasn’t any blood. Ms. Guseva was poisoned, wasn’t she? That’s what I heard; she was poisoned.” A gentle lift tugged at the corners of Nathan’s lips. “Yes. Ms. Guseva was poisoned, but we still send someone in to clean. With the fingerprint powder and the way the CSIs move things about, we don’t like to leave a mess.” Glancing around the room while casually stepping inside, Nathan dug into his jacket to pull out several wrapped candies. He held them out toward the priest in the palm of his hand. “Bite-size Snickers? I use them for a pick-me-up. Long hours. The chocolate helps.” Father Dan waved a dismissive hand. Nathan dropped the extras back into his pocket and then picked at the candy wrapper. “Did you find what you were looking for, Father?” “What makes you think I was looking for something?” “I thought it was obvious you were looking for something. Care to tell me what it was?” Nathan pressed. Father Dan appeared lost for words. “Maybe a bead or a pendant from your rosary? The one that your great grandmother gave you? The one that broke Thursday afternoon? The one with apricot agate beads?” He popped the chocolate into his mouth. “My CSI unit found a pendant from a rosary in here. It has your fingerprint on it, Father. But you said you never met Mila Guseva. Would you like to retract that statement?” Father Dan blew out a regretful breath. “I apologize for lying to you, Detective Landry. I hope you and God can forgive me for that.” He swallowed hard. “The truth is, I did talk to Mila Guseva Thursday evening before the concert.” “Why?” Nathan asked. He watched Father Dan’s face twist in indecisiveness. “Please don’t worry about the confidence of the confessional, Father. I’ve talked with Mike. I know all about the affair, and I know he’s been in confession with you, many times about it. That said, I think you can speak freely about your visit with Ms. Guseva.” “I didn’t kill Ms. Guseva, Detective,” Father Dan stated. “Seems no one did. And yet, she was murdered,” Nathan pointed out. Father Dan scrubbed his forehead with the pads of his fingers. “Yes. The Lanes are in crisis and have been for quite some time. I’ve been counseling Diana. Grief counseling. I’ve encouraged Mike to do the same, and it wouldn’t be a bad idea for Madison as well. When he told me about the affair, I reminded him that adultery is a sin against God. Still, Mike continued the affair. When I heard the concert was coming to St. George’s, and when I found out Ms. Guseva was here, I decided to appeal to her, in hopes she would back away from the relationship.” “When did you speak with Ms. Guseva?” “You have to understand, Detective—” “Please tell me when you spoke to Mila Guseva,” Nathan gently insisted. Father Dan drew a deep breath...
“Detective Landry…” Pressing the send button, Nathan swung around. “Yes, Father Dan?” Father Dan quickened his stride toward him. He was visibly out of breath, as if he rushed to catch up with Nathan. He took a moment to catch his breath. “At the risk of sounding crazy, I wanted to tell you that when I ducked into that Sunday school room, I had the strangest feeling that I was not alone. I didn’t see anyone, but I could feel their presence. It may have been my imagination, but I thought it was worth mentioning.” “No, Father, that doesn’t sound crazy at all. I’ve heard that before,” Nathan replied. “Thank you, Detective Landry,” Father Dan said. With that, he slowly headed back to the church. Nathan dialed his cell phone. “Sam Gil…” “Hey, Sam, I need your team to go back to St. George’s first thing in the morning. I’ve got a Sunday school room that I want you to rip apart.” “Why?” “Because I don’t believe in ghosts…not in this case anyway,” Nathan said.
~~~
Nathan was not surprised when Father Dan shared that he felt like there was somebody else there at times but he'd looked around and nobody was there. Madison had already told him that she'd felt the same way... In an old building could there be hidden panels or other means of moving around? Nathan knew just one thing, he didn't believe in ghosts and his investigation moved forward without trying to find any long-dead ghosts...
This was one of my favorites from McDonald. It's fun, somewhat complicated, and, yet, if you allow your mind to think of "who" could be guilty, you just might figure it out before Homicide Detective Nathan Landry... Even if you don't get it totally right, LOL! Enjoy!
The freedom. She felt the faintest hitch in her soul.
Nicole pushed the accelerator further down as her car climbed the hill. She had Vivaldi on the stereo, the windows open and her car headed in the direction of the ranch and Hayes’s boys. The highway made a curve, then topped a rise, and Nicole’s breath left her. The valley spread out below her, a vast expanse of space yawning for miles, then undulating toward green hills and giving way to imperious mountains, their peaks capped with snow, blinding white against a blue, blue sky. Despite her hurry to get to the ranch, she slowed down, taking it all in. The space, the emptiness. The freedom. She felt the faintest hitch in her soul. She was a city girl, but somehow this country called to her. Yesterday she’d almost got lost on her way to the ranch because she kept looking around, taking in the view. She took in a deep breath and let the space and quiet ease into her soul. Yesterday, after seeing the boys, she’d come back to a raft of emails all dealing with the foundation banquet she and her assistant had been planning. Nicole first sent a quick update to her father, then waded into the work, dealing with whatever came out of them until two. This morning she’d gotten up early and finished up. Then, still tired, she’d grabbed a nap, only she forgot to set her alarm. Now she was an hour and a half late for her meeting with the boys. The ringing of her cell phone made her jump. She blew out a frustrated sigh, glanced at the caller ID and forced a smile. “What did the lawyer say?” her father asked. Sam Williams may have been ill, but he hadn’t lost his capacity of getting straight to the point. “The usual lawyer stuff,” Nicole said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear that the wind coming into the car had pulled free from her ponytail. “Things are going to take time. She needs to verify Hayes’s will. Wait for the DNA test. Nothing definite yet.” “How are the boys?” “I wish you could see them in person. They’re so cute.” The sight of them pushing the oversized broom in their uncle’s shop yesterday made her smile. She had snapped a picture of them and sent it to her father for an update. “They’re such little cowboys.” Her father didn’t say anything to that, and Nicole guessed it was the wrong response. “I’ll try to call from the ranch today,” Nicole said. “See if you can talk to them.” “The new school year starts in three months,” her father said as Nicole turned onto the road leading to the ranch. “I’m looking into schools for them.” As Sam spoke, Nicole’s thoughts slipped back to Kip’s comment about putting the boys on the bus and his obvious regret. At least he wouldn’t have to deal with that come September. “I’m getting to a bad area, and I’ll be losing reception. I’ll try to call you from the ranch.” “If I was feeling better, I’d be there…” The rest of her father’s words were cut off when Nicole’s car dropped into the valley.
As Nicole turned onto the ranch’s driveway, she felt another clutch of frustration at Kip Cosgrove’s insistence that she visit the boys only at the ranch. How was she supposed to get to know her nephews in two and a half hours under his watchful eye? But as she came around the corner, her frustration gave way to anticipation at the thought of seeing the boys again. As Nicole parked her car beside Kip’s huge pickup she got out of the car, looked around, but didn’t see anyone. She walked to the house and knocked on the door. Nothing. Where was everybody? She lifted her hand to knock again when she saw a note on the door addressed to her. “In the field. Moving bales. Mom sleeping.” The words were hastily scribbled on a small piece of paper and stuck to the door with a piece of masking tape. Nicole blew out a sigh. Which field? How was she supposed to find them? She could almost hear the clock ticking down the precious seconds on her visit. She paused, listening, then heard a tractor. Thankfully, it sounded like it was coming closer. She jogged across the yard, past the chuck wagons. As she ran around a corner of the barn, a tractor lurched into view pulling a wagon loaded up with hay. Smoke billowed from the stack and the engine roared, a deafening sound in the once-stillness. The sun reflected off the glass of the closed-in cab of the tractor, but as it came closer, Nicole saw Kip driving and Justin and Tristan standing behind the seat. With a squeal of brakes, the tractor came to a halt beside her and Kip opened the side door. “You’re late,” he yelled over the noise of the tractor’s engine. Like she needed him to tell her that. “Yes. Sorry.” What else could she say? Justin leaned over Kip’s shoulder and waved at her. “Hey, Ms. Williams,” he shouted. Ms. Williams? What happened to Auntie Nicole? Nicole just smiled and waved; quite sure Kip had something to do with the change. She walked to the tractor, raising her arms to take the boys out. “Hey, Tristan. You boys helping Mr. Cosgrove?” Two could play that game. Tristan gave her a puzzled look. Nicole could tell that Kip understood exactly what she was doing. “We just have to unload these bales.” Kip closed the door before she came any closer and before the boys could get out. He put the tractor in gear and drove away. She was left to trail behind the swaying wagon, fuming as bits of hay swirled around her face. With each step her anger at his pettiness grew. He was depriving her of valuable time with her own nephews so he could prove a point. She easily kept up with the tractor and followed it to where she assumed he was going to pile up these bales. But neither he nor the boys got out of the tractor. Somehow, he unhitched the wagon from inside, turned the tractor around and started to unload the bales. One at a time. She was reduced to watching as the clock ticked away precious minutes of her visiting time. Kip reminded her of her biological father and how he used to make her wait in the motel room while he busied himself with who knew what in his truck while her aunt fumed. Older, buried emotions slipped to the fore. As she had done the first few years at Sam and Norah’s, she fought them down. She was here and she had a job to do for her father. That was all she had to focus on. She waited until the last bale was unloaded and then she marched over to the tractor before Kip could decide he had to go for another load and leave her behind. But just as she reached the tractor, Kip shut it off and the door opened. “You finally came,” Tristan called out. The “finally” added to her burden of guilt, and she gave them a quick smile. “Yes, I’m sorry I was late,” she said as Kip lifted Tristan up and over the seat. “Got busy with work?” he asked as she reached up to take Tristan from him. “Forgot to set my alarm,” was her terse reply as she set Tristan down on the ground. He didn’t need to know that to some degree he was right, and she was surprised that he had guessed, at least partially, why she was late. He made a show of looking at his watch. “You city people keep crazy hours.” “I was working late and grabbed a nap,” she said, trying not to rise to his goading. “So, you were working.” “I have to do something while I’m waiting around for my appointed visiting times,” she snapped.
“Justin, honey, tell Mr. Cosgrove that he’s working on a Saturday too and we’re wasting time here.” Justin frowned, then laughed. “He is Uncle Kip,” the little boy said with a grin. “He is many things,” Nicole returned, her gaze still on Kip. His eyes narrowed as if he caught the inference but wasn’t sure what to do with it. Instead of saying anything, he handed Justin down to her. “I’m taking the boys to see the puppies. Is that okay?” she asked. “Just stay away from the horses. I’m going back for another load of hay,” he said, his voice brusque. “Make sure you keep the boys away from the tractor too when I come back.” Before she could think of a suitable reply, he had closed the door and started up the tractor again. She bit her anger back, took a breath to calm herself, then looked down at the boys. No sense in letting them know how angry she was with their uncle. “Let’s go,” the boys said, dragging her by the hand toward the barn. “But Uncle Kip said we should check on Grandma.” “Of course. We’ll first go see your grandmother and then we’ll go see the puppies,” Nicole said. They ran across the yard ahead of her, laughing and leaping like two young colts. Nicole smiled at the picture of utter freedom. When Nicole and the boys got to the house, Mary was watching television. She brightened when the boys came into the living room. “Hey, there, my boys. Do you want to watch a movie with me?” she asked. Nicole was about to protest. “Can we watch Robin Hood?” Justin asked before she could speak. “I’ll go get it,” Tristan said. Nicole stifled a beat of disappointment. She’d hoped to spend her time with the boys alone, just the three of them. She had looked forward to being outside with them, walking around the ranch, not sitting inside a stuffy house watching television. But Mary was their grandmother, and she was simply the outsider, so she said nothing. The boys popped the movie in and settled on the couch to watch. Nicole sat with them for a bit but got fidgety. She’d never enjoyed watching television like her sister did. She had preferred reading and doing crafts. “Do you mind if I tidy up?” she said to Mary. “You don’t have to do our work,” Mary protested, pushing herself up as if to get up out of her wheelchair. “I don’t mind. I’m not much of a television person, and I don’t mind, really. You sit with the boys, and I’ll wander around here.” Though she had grown up with a housekeeper, years of living in foster homes had given Nicole a measure of independence, and she had always kept her own room neat and later, she did her own laundry. So, Nicole tidied and cleaned, washed dishes and did another load of laundry while the boys sat mindlessly in front of the television. What a shame, she thought, wishing she had enough authority to turn off the television and make them come outside. Finally, the movie was over, and Nicole came into the living room. “I think we should go outside now.” “I’ll have a nap,” Mary said. She smiled at the boys. “Now don’t go and tell your Uncle Kip.” She winked at them, and they giggled. Then she glanced at Nicole. “Kip doesn’t let them watch television during the day.” If she’d known that, Nicole thought, she wouldn’t have let them. But she didn’t know the politics and the hierarchy of this particular household, though she was learning. She turned to the boys. “Now you’ll have to show me where those puppies are,” she said. They each took one of her hands and as she looked down at their upraised faces a wave of love washed over her. It surprised her and, if she were honest, frightened her. Each time she saw them it was as if one more hook was attached to her heart. The pain of letting go could be too much. But that wouldn’t happen, she reminded herself, holding even more tightly to their hands. The boys were Hayes’s and were never Scott’s, no matter what Kip might believe. She and her father had the law on their side. They stepped outside and Nicole inhaled the fresh, pure air. It was so wonderful to be outdoors.
“I want to see the horses,” Justin said as they stepped off the porch. “Your uncle said it wasn’t allowed.” And there was no way she was running afoul of Kip while on his ranch. “If we’re real careful, it will be okay.” “Not on your life,” Nicole said firmly. Justin sighed. “That’s what Uncle Kip always says too.” One more thing we have in common, Nicole thought with a sense of irony. “So where are these puppies?” she asked. “They’re in the barn.” As they walked, the boys, mostly Justin, brought her up to date on what Uncle Kip had done this morning—first he cut himself shaving, then he listened to the market report and made breakfast, then he tried to get Gramma to do her exercises. What their grandmother had done—sat and watched television. What Isabelle had done—slept in and got into trouble with Uncle Kip. “Auntie Isabelle is fun. Uncle Kip says she has to grow up, but she’s pretty big already.” Nicole suspected that Uncle Kip had his hands full with his sister. Isabelle needed a firm hand and guidance. Something, she suspected, Kip was at a loss to enforce. Justin pulled open the large, heavy barn door, then he stopped and held his finger to his lips. “I better go in first because we don’t want to scare the mommy dog,” he whispered. “I’ll call you when you can come in.” He walked slowly into the barn and Tristan seemed content to stay behind with Nicole. The only sound breaking the stillness was the shuffle of Justin’s feet on the barn floor and the song of a few birds that Nicole couldn’t identify. She listened, and the quiet pressed down on her ears. The silence spread out everywhere, huge and overwhelming. For the briefest moment, icy fingers of panic gripped her heart. They were far away from the nearest road, the nearest town. All alone. Then she looked down at Tristan, smiling shyly up at her. She watched Justin creeping into the dusty barn. They were completely relaxed here, at home and at peace. “And a little child shall lead them.” The familiar passage drifted into her mind, and she puzzled it over, wondering where it had come from. Then she remembered. It was from the Bible. Her mother used to read the Bible to her and Hayes.
“You hold my hand almost as tight as Uncle Kip does when we’re in Calgary,” Tristan whispered. Nicole started. “I’m sorry,” she said, loosening her grip. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.” He smiled up at her. “That’s okay. Uncle Kip always says he holds tight because he never wants to let us go. That makes me feel good.” Nicole’s heart faltered at his words. Of course the boys would be attached to Kip Cosgrove and he to them. This was the only life the boys had known. But they weren’t Cosgroves, she reminded herself. They were Williamses, despite what Kip may claim. Yet as she followed Justin into the dusky coolness of the barn, she felt her own misgivings come to the fore. Her own memories of being moved from home to home. But she never returned to her biological home, like these boys were going to. She could never go back to where the people she lived with were related to her by blood, but these boys could. She would give them the true family she’d never had and in doing so, maybe, just maybe— Her thoughts were cut off by the ringing of her cell phone. It was her father. “Hey, Father,” she whispered, following Tristan into the dusty pen. The floor was strewn with straw and Justin was crouched in the corner, his behind stuck in the air as he reached under a pile of lumber. “Can you talk?” “Yes. I’m with the boys.” “I want to talk to them. Now.” Nicole hesitated. This was the first time she’d been alone with the boys since she’d met them. She hadn’t had an opportunity to let them know that not only did they have another aunt, but they also had a grandfather. She highly doubted Kip Cosgrove let them know either. “I haven’t explained everything to them yet—” “You’re telling me they don’t know about me?” Her father’s gruff voice created a storm of guilt in Nicole. “I haven’t found the right time to tell them,” she whispered. Justin wriggled backwards then turned around with a triumphant grin. He held up a squirming, mewling puppy. The little creature was a bundle of brown and black fur with a shiny button nose. “I got one,” he squealed. Nicole knelt, still holding the phone as Justin brought the puppy over to her. “You want to hold it?” he asked.
“That’s one of them, isn’t it?” her father asked. He broke into a fit of coughing, a sure sign to Nicole that he was upset. “I need to talk to them. Please, let me talk to them.” It was the please that was her undoing. She couldn’t remember her father saying those words more than a dozen times in her life. “Just give me a few seconds,” she whispered to her father. “I need to explain the situation.” She smiled at Justin and held out her hand. “Yes, I’d love to hold it,” she said. “Why don’t you hold my phone for me, and I’ll take the puppy?” Justin managed to release his grip on the puppy and take the phone. Nicole gathered the warm, silky bundle in her arms, her heart melting at the sight of its chocolate-brown eyes staring soulfully up at her. She crouched down in the straw covering the floor of the pen, preferring not to think what might be living in it. “He likes you,” Tristan said as she settled down. “Who are you talking to?” Justin asked, looking at her phone. “Why don’t you come and sit by me,” she said, keeping her voice low and quiet. “I have something to tell you.” Curious, Justin knelt in front of her, still holding the phone, Tristan cuddled beside her. She stroked the puppy and looked from one pair of trusting eyes to the other. “You know that you had a mommy, right?” “We don’t know where our mommy is,” Justin said. “She ranned away.” Nicole pressed back an angry reply. Their lack of knowledge wasn’t their fault. “Your mommy didn’t run away,” she said. “Your mommy loved you both very much, and your mommy had a father who loved her very much too. That father is your grandfather.” “Our grandpa is dead,” Justin said. “Uncle Kip told us.” “Now you know that you have another grandfather,” Nicole said. “And he’s alive and he lives in Toronto.” “You mean like Paul and Liam and Kirsten and Leah and Emily and Jenna from Auntie Doreen? They have a grandpa,” Tristan squealed. “Uncle Alex’s daddy.” “That’s right.” “Where is our other grandfather?” Justin asked. “I was talking to him on the phone you’re holding,” Nicole said, tilting her head toward the phone Justin clutched. “You can talk to him if you want.” Justin frowned. “Uncle Kip lets me pretend to talk on his phone,” he said. “You don’t have to pretend,” Nicole said gently. “Now I’ll hit a button and put it on speakerphone so we can all hear all of us talk.” She tapped her phone, then held it out. “Justin, say hello to your grandfather.” Justin lifted his shoulders, suddenly self-conscious. “Are you my grandpa? This is Justin.” “Yes, I am. How are you?” Justin frowned, then said, “I’m fine. How are you?” She heard a faint cough, then her father replied that he was fine. “Where are you?” Tristan asked. “I live in Toronto and I would really like to see you.” Too late, Nicole realized she should have done this on FaceTime. Then the boys could have seen their grandfather and he could have seen them. One step at a time, she reminded herself. Nicole let Justin chatter on about the puppies and hauling hay. Her father made a few responses, but he didn’t have to say much around Justin. “Father, this is Tristan. He wants to say hi,” Nicole said, taking the phone away from Justin. Tristan was more reserved, but soon he was giving out information as freely as his brother. The phone distorted her father’s voice but it wasn’t hard to hear the joy in it. Joy she hadn’t heard in her father’s voice since Hayes left home.
“Hey there, did you guys find the puppies?” Nicole jumped, startling the puppy, then she craned her neck backwards to see Kip standing in the doorway. What was he doing? Checking up on her? “What are you doing with Ms. Williams’s phone?” Kip asked, frowning at Tristan. Tristan looked up, his smile dropping away as soon as he saw his Uncle Kip. “We’re talking to our grandpa,” Justin announced. “He said we are going to stay with him. In Toronto. Can we go, Uncle Kip? Can we?” Nicole’s heart dropped when she saw the thunderous expression cross Kip’s face. “I think you should give the phone back to Ms. Williams, then go back to the house.” “I want to talk to my other grandfather some more,” Justin whined. “Tristan, please give the phone back to Ms. Williams and go with Justin to the house.” Nicole glanced at the little boy who was obviously listening to something her father was saying. Tristan looked from Kip to Nicole, confusion on his features. “Don’t go,” she heard her father say. “Don’t listen to him.” She had to put poor Tristan out of his misery. “I’ll take the phone, sweetie,” she said, holding her hand out. “No. Nicole. I need to talk to them.” “Sorry, Father,” she said quietly. She turned the phone off speaker, then walked away from Kip. “The boys have to go.” “Those boys shouldn’t be there,” her father said. “They should be here with me.” “I know, but not everything is settled yet.” Her father started coughing again, then got his breath. “I’m phoning that lawyer first thing Monday morning. We shouldn’t have to wait for these DNA tests. We know Hayes was their mother.” Nicole glanced over her shoulder at Kip standing in the doorway of the barn watching the boys walk to the house. Obviously, he was sticking around to talk to her. “We have to move slowly on this,” she said to her father. “Those boys have to come back to their home,” he said quietly. “You of all people know why Hayes’s boys need to come back.” As always, his words held a subtext of obligation that was never spoken directly but always hinted at. “Of course I do,” she replied. “I have to go.” As she said goodbye, she felt a moment of sympathy for her father, all alone back home. She couldn’t help comparing his lonely situation to Mary Cosgrove’s. Mary had one daughter with six grandchildren, and she had another daughter and son and two more grandchildren under her roof. The boys weren’t Cosgrove’s. It was as if she had to drum that information into her mind. If she didn’t, then she would start to feel sorry for Mary. And for Kip. She pocketed her phone and turned to face Kip.
“Why did you do that?” he demanded. Any sympathy she might have felt for the man was brushed away in the icy blast of his question. “If you’re thinking I deliberately brought the boys out here so they could talk to my father on the phone, you’re mistaken. He just happened to call while I was out here.” “And you just happened to let the boys talk to him.” “May I remind you that he’s their grandfather?” “That hasn’t been proven beyond a doubt.” “You were willing to let me visit them based on this doubt.” Kip’s eyes narrowed and she knew she had gone too far. “Only because my lawyer told me I should. No other reason.” Nicole knew Kip had not let her willingly onto the farm. She was here on suffrage only. “Regardless of how you see the situation, the man I just spoke to is Hayes’s father—” “And he was never part of the agreement.” Kip took a step closer, and it was all Nicole could do to keep her cool. “You’re not to let the boys talk to your father again without talking to me about it,” he warned, his voice lowering to a growl. “Those poor kids lost their father six months ago, and they don’t need to have any more confusion in their lives.” Nicole struggled to hold his steely gaze. “Finding out that they have a maternal grandfather can hardly be confusing to any child. In fact, many people would see it as a blessing.” That last comment came out before she could stop it, as did the tiny hitch in her voice. She hoped he would put it down to her anger rather than the fact that she had found herself jealous of these boys. Jealous of Kip. He had family that had no strings attached. A mother who doted on him and a sister who, despite her rebellious ways, still cared for him. He didn’t have to try to earn his mother’s love. Try to atone for what he did. Kip’s mouth settled into a grim line, and she felt as if she scored the tiniest point. “That may be, but at the same time I’m their uncle and guardian and responsible for their well-being. Anything you do with them gets run by me. The boys are my priority, not you, or your father.” Nicole bit back a retort, realizing that to some degree he was right. Much as it bothered her, she couldn’t argue with him. Kip shoved his hand through his hair and released a heavy sigh. “I’ve got too much happening right now. I can’t give the boys the explanations they will need if you start complicating their lives.” Nicole held his gaze and for a moment despite her anger with him, sympathy stirred in her soul. Sympathy and something more profound. Respect, even. Regardless of whatever claim Nicole may have, this man was putting the welfare of Justin and Tristan, boys that were not his children, before everything else. Even though his guardianship put them at odds, at the same time she respected what he was doing. She thought of how easily her biological father seemed to give her up. How happy her aunt had been when Social Services came to take her away for good. Despite her aunt’s antagonism, Nicole had wished that she could stay, but her aunt wanted her gone. Those boys don’t know how good they had it. In fact, Nicole was jealous that they had this strong, tough man on their side. A man who had made sacrifices for his nephews. A man who was willing to fight for them. What would have happened in her earlier life if she’d had the same kind of advocate? If she’d had someone who was willing to go to the mat for her welfare? What if she’d had someone like Kip on her side? “I’d like you to leave now,” Kip said quietly. Nicole opened her mouth to protest. “It’s past five,” Kip said. “Of course,” was all she said, knowing that regardless of how righteous she thought her cause was, she had overstepped by not at least consulting him. “I’ll be back tomorrow then.” Kip just nodded. Nicole got up and walked past him, then got into her car. As she drove off, she could see him in her rearview mirror watching her. He could watch and glower all he wanted. She wasn’t letting him intimidate her. She had rights and she was going to exercise them regardless of what he thought of her.
~~~
Two people struggling within their own lives to try to find a life that was better, more meaningful--and hopefully with a personal life of love and connection. These two are caught up in family dynamics that are not only placing pressure on each, but which they are obligated to respond to based upon family... Both have a guilty conscience for their own part in tragedies that occurred for which they feel they were at fault. But none of that is important as the book begins.
Nicole is the director of a foundation which her adopted father started in memory of his wife. They have recently received news that a daughter who had left home many years ago, had died and the police had tracked down her family to report their loss. It was only at that time they learned that she had twin sons... Nicole has been charged to find out where those boys were and bring them home...
She discovers that they live on a farm and also learned that her sister's husband had taken the boys home. But that the boys' father has also died within the last 6 months and his brother has been granted custody as the boys' guardian.
Nicole fell in love with her nephews as soon as they met and began working with lawyers to have them returned to her family--their grandfather. But, let's stop a minute and learn that their grandfather is a rich man who tends to think of how people meet his own personal needs as opposed to what was good for those involved in any given situation. As time goes by, Nicole begins to question what was right for the children as opposed to whose blood-line would control their lives...
And, of course, Nicole and Kip, the boys' guardian slowly began to care about each other as well--perhaps even more than what was going on with the boys...
This heartwarming story spends time on the farm where the boys, who are now 5, have lived since they were just babies. It is clear to readers that they are very happy there and feel safe and secure... Nicole began to see the benefits and watched as the family depended on Kip, maybe too much so... She began to be the person she really was and moved in to help the family respond to the work that had built up since the boys' father had died.
Nicole wound up having to agree to see the boys only at the farm and at set times... Then one day she wanted an earlier time and Kip immediately said no, that they would be in church at that time... But she was welcome to join them there...
She wasn’t so sure she wanted to take the boys away from this home. Or Kip. She brushed the second thoughts aside. She was letting her emotions interfere with what she knew was right. Hayes had wanted her parents to take care of her boys. What Nicole thought of the situation had nothing to do with that. The music started up and everyone stood. The leader announced the song they were going to sing and words flashed up on a screen in the front of the church. The song had a catchy tune and soon she was singing along, surprised to find herself enjoying the music. The song segued into another, quieter song.
The words to this song were familiar to her. It was an older hymn, and the combination of music drew up pictures of Hayes and her parents standing in church together. The memories created an unwelcome thickness in her throat. She stopped singing, pulling back from the emotions and the memories. By the time she had everything under control the song, thankfully, was ended. They were greeted by a minister who welcomed them all and led them in prayer, followed by another song.
As they went through the service, Nicole’s self-control returned. Besides, she was distracted enough keeping the boys from fidgeting too much or talking too loudly. “You boys have to be a little quieter,” she whispered as they sat down after another song. Justin sighed. “Uncle Kip always says that too.”
And just as the closing song was finishing and she turned to get the boys ready to leave, Kip's sister hurried up and invited her to join the family at her home for a meal... Nicole was being pulled in further and further, and she agreed once she learned that Kip had asked his sister to invite her...
Well, you can obviously guess how this book ends, but you will still be surprised by just how the author closes out the legal battle and the family dynamics! I was pleasantly surprised and grateful... Kip and Nicole were God's gift to each other, don't you think? Highly Recommended...
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