Lynette Eason Presents A Silent Pursuit (High Stakes) - A Love Inspired Suspense

 

“Stop!” The voice shouted behind her, spurring speed to her already-flying feet. Stop? Not if she wanted to live. Rasping breaths escaped Gina Santino’s throat as her bare feet pounded hard sand. She squinted into the inky darkness and her heart drummed in her ears, drowning out the sound of the waves crashing onto the beach. She could almost imagine the breath of her pursuer on the nape of her neck. A hand reaching out to spin her around… Goose bumps puckered her skin, but fear and adrenaline heated her body; sweat beaded her forehead. The waves pulsed beside her as she stayed near the edge of the water, desperate to stay out of reach of the lights along the upper end of the sand. Multicolored lights announcing the fast-approaching Christmas season were strung from the roof of the public beach–access restroom and briefly illuminated part of her path. Long dark hair whipped into her eyes, blinding her as terror threatened to knock the strength from her legs. Her large antique locket bounced against her throat, matching the frantic beat of her pulse beneath it. How had they found her? She’d been so careful. Yes, she’d left her house in a rush, but she’d driven a crazy route that had her arriving at the beach house two hours later than the direct approach would have. And they’d still found her. Her mind cramped at the possibilities as she flung a frantic look over her shoulder. Was that a shadow? Were they still chasing her? Of course they were. Fear-induced adrenaline added wings to her fleeing bare feet. Oh, Mario, I need you! But Mario, her fiancé, was dead. Killed six months ago when a bomb exploded during a routine army training exercise. Or so she’d been told. Who knew what the real story was? And now she was facing the holidays, Thanksgiving and Christmas, without him. Of course, that was the least of her worries right now. Driftwood crowded her path, and she jumped over another fallen piece of debris that had washed in at high tide. Stumbling, she went to one knee, her momentum propelling her into the sand, rolling her over twice before she could push herself back up. Ignoring her screaming, sand-burned knee and oxygen-deprived lungs, she regained her balance, pumping her legs back up to full speed. She couldn’t keep running, not at this pace. But she sure couldn’t slow down. He—they?—would kill her this time. Please, God. Her eyes darted, desperately seeking a hiding place. Shivers danced on her overheated skin as the freezing wind blew. Up ahead, a light flickered. Someone walking toward her? She skidded to a halt, gasping, panting, sucking in much-needed oxygen; her knee throbbing a reminder that she needed to find a place to hide. The light bobbed closer. Friend or foe? Had they surrounded her? Surely they couldn’t have gotten in front of her. But then she wouldn’t have guessed they would have been able to show up on her doorstep either. What do I do, God? What do I do? The safety of her little cottage lay approximately two miles behind her. Thank goodness she’d taken up running every morning for the last year. If not, she’d never have made it this far. The light flickered, then disappeared. A split-second decision had her making a sharp right to trudge through the softer sand. She didn’t even have a cell phone. But the little diner just up the road would have a phone and she could call for help. If she could get there. A gunshot rang out, and Gina flinched when it hit the ground in front of her. A warning shot. That told her one thing. They wanted her alive. And that scared her more than the thought that they might want her dead. She double-timed her struggle through the sand, praying that whoever was chasing her was having the same problems. Finally, her feet hit asphalt. Another gunshot. She cringed, expecting at any moment to feel the pain of a bullet entering her body. She pressed on. She needed a phone. She needed help. Where was Ian?

Ian Masterson pressed his foot to the gas pedal. He’d promised Gina he’d be there at 9:00 p.m. It was now 11:45 p.m. and the darkness pressed in on his windshield like dirt on top of a coffin. She’d called him yesterday and asked him to meet her at the beach house. He didn’t have to ask for directions. Gina’s cousin, Antonio Santino; her late fiancé, Mario Anthony; and he, Ian Masterson, had been the Three Musketeers. Best friends and fellow U.S. Army Rangers—no three men had a tighter friendship. Until Ian moved away. Then Mario had died and Antonio had flown off to Iraq on a mission. Ian was home for the moment and would be until Gina’s troubles were resolved. But he’d been held up on the way to meet her. He’d had to request emergency personal leave to get out of a last-minute assignment in Pakistan. Fortunately, a buddy with another unit had volunteered to go in his place. Ian owed him big time. Only now he was almost three hours later than he’d said he’d be, and Gina wasn’t answering her phone. He didn’t like the thoughts crowding his mind. Punching her speed dial button one more time, he offered up a prayer on her behalf. Her voice mail clicked on again. He hung up and clenched his teeth. What were you working on, Mario, that’s put Gina in danger? She hadn’t told him much when she’d called yesterday morning asking him to meet her. Just that some men had tried to kill her when she’d walked in on them tearing her house apart in Spartanburg, South Carolina. Now, she’d fled to the coast and trouble had followed her. His gut clenched as he pictured her face. Dark hair, with upturned black eyes that hinted at Asian ancestry somewhere back in the Italian family line. He clearly remembered those eyes, which hid her innermost thoughts but could flash with compassion or laughter at the drop of a hat. The next-to-the-last time he’d seen her had been about eight months ago, when he’d stopped in to see his old commanding officer and had overheard her in the hallway. She’d been moaning about losing weight so she could fit into the wedding dress she wanted. She hadn’t known he was there. He’d left as quietly as he’d arrived. The last time he’d seen her had been at Mario’s funeral. She’d lost the weight. Ian’s fingers clenched the steering wheel. His molars ground together as he remembered Gina’s devastation at the funeral. He’d gone to her and offered her a hug, but her stares were like daggers cutting through him, the accusation clear in her liquid-chocolate eyes. She might as well have shouted the words, “If you’d been here, he wouldn’t have died.” But she didn’t, just hunched her shoulders against her grief and walked away. And caused Ian a fresh bout of crippling pain. Ian had envied Mario for a long time but finally had given up fighting his feelings and had requested a transfer to a different base so he wouldn’t run into the two of them together. Not Not that he begrudged his friend’s happiness; Ian just had a hard time controlling the ache in his heart every time he saw Gina’s smile. The way she tilted her head to the left when she really listened to what you were saying. Or the way she pulled her hair back into a long ponytail that revealed her slender neck. He’d watched her pulse beat there one time and had to leave the restaurant they were in because of his overwhelming feelings for her. He’d done the unthinkable. He’d fallen in love with a committed woman. His best friend’s future wife.

~~~

While I was reading this book by an author I had never read, I began to enjoy how the writer pulled her faith into the book--a book that was very violent... I began to think about the fact that I love this type of good versus evil book, where at least 99% of the time result in the good guys winning. Yay! At first I thought about asking for a book interview, but then found that I found and could share several already available. Even if no book would compare, in storyline, to another...

So, as you have already read above, I share the first scenes in the book... In a few words, Gina Santino is running for her life and she has no idea why. The only conclusion she can make is that it has something to do with her fiancée Mario who had recently died while on the job. In a training accident, supposedly, which Gina has a hard time believing giving his job...

But she had done exactly what Mario had told her to do if something happened to him and she herself got into trouble, she was to call Ian... The thing is that Ian had earlier left their unit of Rangers suddenly and it seemed that everybody was upset that he had abandoned all of them, including Mario. Gina found it hard to trust Ian since nobody had known why he had suddenly transferred. The only thing Gina could do is trust in what Mario had wanted her to do... And Ian, when she had called, said he would immediately come.

Albeit later than he'd said--and Gina was literally on the run!

It had started when she came home and found that her home had been broken into. She had seen a little of what had happened, called the police and immediately left. This will be happening over and over throughout the book, with Ian catching up and immediately taking over to plan how to deal with keeping Gina safe while at the same time working to discover what was happening--and why?

The author takes the opportunity to quickly alert her readers just how bad things are when Ian takes Gina to one of his friends, a judge, who has built an extreme security-controlled home, together with escape methods... And, yes, whoever the group who was chasing Gina, found them and were forced to go on the run again...

Ian started by calling only one of his former friends in the earlier ranger unit, who, with hesitation, did then agree to provide him needed equipment, such an encrypted cell phone, so he could begin to ensure at least a layer of security cover immediately. But even before Ian had left the unit, for purely personal integrity reasons, there has been rumors of a possible mole in the unit... But, thankfully, Gina's family could also offer some assistance, once Ian and Gina had talked about how to keep her family safe, while she continued to be on the run... Finally, Gina called her brother, an FBI Agent and his wife, a homicide detective! 

So, at this point it is appropriate to spotlight that the suspense is kept tight, because of the skill of the writer in creating excellent characters in both good and bad guy roles that simply cannot be assumed to be what will be later discovered... There were a few hints that help me foresee the "possible" who and what will happening...which I appreciated, LOL...

Now, I had to admire how the writer took her faith into account as to how Gina and Ian would be able to work closely and yet hold true to the emotional feelings of each that had resulted in the choice Ian made to break from his unit... In fact, I don't think I've seen another writer do this minute-by-minute thoughtful decisions made by each as two people, both afraid for their lives, are able to... still... come... to... trust! That goes especially for Gina, who still felt a major loss with the death of her fiancée...

I loved it and highly recommend...

GABixlerReviews

News First - An Open Letter to President Trump by Harold Michael Harvey - Spotlighting Gun Violence

 Today's News!

~~~

An Open Letter to President Trump: A Call for Common-Sense Gun Reform

Appealing for Leadership to Protect Americans from Preventable Tragedy

Harold Michael Harvey (Reprinted by Permission of Author)
Aug 28, 2025

The Mother Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church gunman, 

Dylann Roof, Mugshot

Dear President Trump,

I write to you today not only as a concerned citizen but as a person deeply anguished by the seemingly endless cycle of grief and loss that continues to ravage families and communities across our nation. Yesterday’s tragic events in Minnesota have left an indelible mark on the hearts of Americans everywhere, echoing a familiar pain that we, as a country, should no longer be forced to bear. As the news unfolded and another community was torn apart by senseless violence, I found myself compelled to reach out to you—our nation’s leader—with a plea for decisive, compassionate action.

Parent's Fault Vs Gun Control?

It is no secret that gun violence has become a defining crisis of our era. The frequency of these horrific acts has normalized the unimaginable, leaving families shattered, children traumatized, and a nation weary of offering thoughts and prayers instead of solutions. Mr. President, we must recognize that these tragedies are not inevitable. They are preventable. What we need is leadership—bold, pragmatic leadership that rises above political ideology and centers unwaveringly on the preservation of life.

I acknowledge your administration’s expressed commitment to eliminating crime, particularly in Washington, D.C. You have championed initiatives aimed at restoring law and order in our capital, focusing on violent crime, drug trafficking, and the safety of our communities. This determination to make our cities safer resonates with many Americans who long for a sense of security in their daily lives. However, while the spotlight has been cast on the challenges facing Washington, D.C., there is a glaring and heartbreaking reality that cannot be ignored: mass shootings are occurring with alarming regularity across our nation, from small towns like the one in Minnesota yesterday to bustling metropolitan centers.

The contrast is stark. On one hand, your administration’s efforts to address urban crime reflect a clear understanding of the need for proactive strategies and robust enforcement to protect citizens. On the other hand, an absence of meaningful action on gun control has left a gaping void—one that continues to be filled with the blood of innocents, the anguish of survivors, and the silence of those lost.

Common-sense gun control legislation is not a radical idea; it is a rational response to a persistent threat. The overwhelming majority of Americans—across the political spectrum—support measures such as universal background checks, restrictions on high-capacity magazines, safe storage requirements, and red flag laws that keep firearms out of the hands of those who pose a danger to themselves or others. These policies do not infringe upon the rights of responsible gun owners; instead, they serve to protect the very fabric of our communities from the devastation wrought by unchecked access to deadly weapons.

Yesterday’s tragedy in Minnesota is yet another reminder that action cannot wait. The victims deserve more than our condolences—they deserve a nation willing to do everything in its power to prevent such violence from recurring. It is a moral imperative that transcends partisanship, demanding we place the sanctity of human life above all else.

History will judge our response to this crisis. In moments of great challenge, presidents have the opportunity—and responsibility—to rise above the fray, to unite a nation around solutions that reflect our values and our humanity. President Trump, you have frequently spoken of your love for this country and your desire to protect its citizens. I urge you to extend that protective mantle to the realm of gun safety, to champion reforms that will save lives and spare countless families from unimaginable loss.

Some will claim that any regulation of firearms is a slippery slope, that the solution to gun violence lies solely in mental health care or the arming of more “good guys.” While mental health care reform is essential and the rights of law-abiding citizens must be respected, the data is unequivocal: countries with strong, common-sense gun laws experience far fewer mass shootings and gun deaths than the United States. We cannot ignore this truth for the sake of political expediency.

The Second Amendment, cherished by many and foundational to our history, does not preclude us from enacting measures that make our country safer. Rights and responsibilities are inseparable in a free society. Just as laws balance the right to free speech against incitement and defamation, so too must the right to bear arms be balanced by laws that protect the right of every American to live without fear of being gunned down in their schools, places of worship, shopping centers, or neighborhoods.

You have at your disposal the power to lead, to convene lawmakers from all sides, to listen to experts, survivors, and families, and to forge a path forward that honors both our Constitution and our collective desire for safety and peace. Imagine the legacy you could leave—not merely as a president who sought to eliminate crime in the nation’s capital, but as a leader who marshaled the courage to confront gun violence head-on and to enact reforms that will reverberate for generations.

The time for action is now. The eyes of the nation—and indeed, the world—are upon us. We must not be remembered as the generation that looked tragedy in the face and did nothing. Instead, let us be remembered as the Americans who came together to end the carnage, to heal our divisions, and to build a safer, more just society for all.

Mr. President, in the aftermath of the latest tragedy, I urge you to support common-sense gun reform. Let us honor the memory of those lost in Minnesota and countless other communities not only with words, but with deeds. Let us show the world—through our actions—that America’s capacity for change is as great as its capacity for sorrow.

Respectfully,

A Concerned Citizen

Thank you Michael for clearly sharing what we all Believe!

Gabby

Whether we argue, share, or speak directly to the President, we all believe that there are those in Congress who are funded by the National Rifle Association, which lobbies to allow them to do anything they want to make MONEY!

Money and Power are Driving Death of Americans

Even More now than ever Before!

And Now Let's Get Personal

Michael A. Smith Speaks Out Against Militarization of Streets of America! All For Intimidation! Faith for These Times...

Trump signed an Executive Order to utilize the National Guard as His "Special Forces." He is now in control of the Nation's capital militarily.

Today, President Trump signed a special order for the Department of Defense to enlist and train National Guard Units from the states to act as his 'Special Forces' in the larger, mostly Democratic cities, where most of the opposition to his policies has the most significant effect. This is also the location where the largest population of non-white Americans live. This was a tactic used by Hitler against the Jews, when he turned sections of the larger cities in Germany into ghettos or makeshift prisons while they were being processed for removal. He has added firepower to the units deployed and are now running the nation's capital. He is now in control of the Nation's Capital.

We have noted earlier the agreements with foreign governments, such as El Salvador, Somalia, and Uganda, to take undesirables from America, including both non-citizens and citizens. If you think these moves are only about illegal aliens, that bus left the station a long time ago. Likely, we are too far gone and lack sufficient support to prevent what will happen.

The use of the National Guard as Trump's personal army is a significant violation of established principles. The National Guard is the state-level defense. They are not full-time military and are more likely to be involved with MAGA or the Evangelical wing of Christianity, which has been indoctrinated to follow. The removal of protections at the state level is indeed serious and poses a major threat to our freedom.

~~~

The American Experiment: 

Reflections on Our Constitutional Origins and Present Course

The vision of America's founders remains one of history's most profound political innovations. When examining the careful construction of our founding documents, one can't help but wonder: What insights into human nature guided these architects of democracy to create such a deliberately balanced system?

The framers of our Constitution understood humanity's dual capacity for nobility and corruption. They recognized that unchecked power inevitably corrupts even the most virtuous individuals. This fundamental understanding of human psychology led them to create a government of carefully separated powers, explicitly designed to prevent the concentration of authority in any single person or faction.

Their deliberate omission of established religion from government wasn't an oversight or rejection of moral principles but rather a recognition that combining religious authority with political power creates a dangerous brew. History has repeatedly demonstrated that when church and state intertwine, both institutions suffer corruption, and individual liberty becomes the first casualty.

Today's landscape reveals the wisdom in their caution. As religious influence increasingly enters our political discourse, we witness growing division and the erosion of the principles that have sustained our republic. The separation the founders established as a protection is increasingly challenged, with implications concerning.

Human progress, despite technological advancements, remains fundamentally constrained by our nature's limitations. We repeatedly cycle through patterns of advancement and regression, applying cosmetic solutions to deeply rooted problems. For all its sophistication, our modern society still struggles with the same fundamental human tendencies that concerned Madison, Jefferson, and their contemporaries. Most of the time, we put lipstick on a pig.

Perhaps the most troubling is our current trajectory regarding society's most vulnerable members. The widening gaps in opportunity, resources, and representation suggest we've strayed considerably from our founding ideals of equality and justice. What is the point of claiming to be a Christian nation when on every turn we ignore the master’s teaching? America no longer walks the talk. We are not Christian, but the worse kind of pagan. Fundamental religion has become our Trojan horse, which we use for access, but little else. The most damaging fact is that the path back to those principles grows more difficult each year.

The psychological and spiritual dimensions of these challenges cannot be overlooked. Our collective psyche reflects both our highest aspirations and our most profound flaws. The founders' genius lay in creating a system that acknowledged this duality while establishing guardrails against our worst impulses.

Today's questions are not fundamentally different from those confronted in 1787—they wear modern clothing. How do we balance individual liberty with collective responsibility? How do we ensure that power remains distributed and accountable? How do we protect vulnerable members of society while

 respecting freedom?

Understanding these questions represents the first step toward addressing our present challenges. Whether we possess the collective wisdom and will to answer them remains uncertain. What is clear is that the path forward requires a clear-eyed assessment of both our founding principles and our human limitations.

~~~

Associate Adjunct Professor
at University of Maryland Global
Campus Writer

Thanks again, Professor Smith for visiting and sharing about the chaos happening here in America... We all appreciate your contributions!

God Bless America

Gabby

BTW _ Having Vertigo episodes

so will get back to books ASAP

Harold Michael Harvey Presents Brilliant Analysis of "The Whitewashing of American History: From Policy to Pancakes" - I Read Therefore I'm Woke!

 Fighting Against Trump in Washington D.C.

The Whitewashing of  American History From Policy to Pancakes Harold Michael Harvey In the age of algorithmic memory and curated nostalgia, the battle over American history is no longer confined to textbooks or monuments. It’s playing out in policy briefs, restaurant logos, and the very language of civic belonging. The Trump administration’s recent maneuvers—paired with the cultural firestorm surrounding Cracker Barrel’s rebranding—reveal a coordinated effort to sanitize the past, suppress dissent, and recast American identity in sepia tones. This is not just political theater. It’s a spiritual theft. The administration’s push to revoke security clearances from dozens of current and former officials—many of whom were involved in investigations of foreign interference—signals a broader campaign to delegitimize institutional memory. These revocations aren’t just bureaucratic maneuvers; they’re acts of historical redaction. When truth becomes inconvenient, power rewrites the footnotes. Changes to student loan forgiveness policies now target public service workers affiliated with organizations that support gender-affirming care or sanctuary policies. The message is clear: civic engagement must align with state-sanctioned ideology or be punished. The classroom becomes a courtroom, and the syllabus a loyalty test. The executive order “Defending Women from Gender Ideology Extremism” strips gender identity from all federal policy. Transgender individuals are barred from military service and forcibly reassigned in federal prisons. This is not governance—it’s a denial of existence. In this revisionist America, identity is not lived—it is legislated. Policies reinstating “Remain in Mexico,” ending birthright citizenship, and labeling cartels as terrorist organizations echo the Alien Enemies Act of 1798. The border becomes a stage for mythmaking, where the “ideal American” is imagined and the rest cast as threats. The wall is not just concrete and wire; it’s narrative architecture. On August 19, Cracker Barrel unveiled a new logo—stripped of the iconic image of a man resting beside a barrel. For 48 years, that figure stood as a symbol of country hospitality, storytelling, and Americana. Now, in a bid to modernize, the company has removed him—and with it, a cultural flashpoint was born. Conservatives erupted. Donald Trump Jr. asked, “WTF is wrong with @CrackerBarrel??”. Others called it “brand suicide,” accusing the company of bowing to a “woke DEI regime.” The man in the logo—nicknamed “Uncle Herschel” or “Old Timer”—was never just a graphic. He was a proxy for a curated memory of America: simple, whitewashed, and unbothered by complexity. The barrel was never just for crackers. It was a container for stories—some told, many untold. Cracker Barrel’s CEO insists the redesign is “for today and for tomorrow,” but the backlash reveals a more profound truth: in America’s culture wars, even breakfast isn’t safe. The administration’s cultural overhaul has slashed funding to institutions like the National Endowment for the Humanities and the Institute of Museum and Library Services. Boston’s Museum of African American History, for example, lost a $500,000 grant for school programs—deemed “no longer in the interest of the United States.” When history is inconvenient, the budget becomes a scalpel. President Trump’s executive order to “restore truth and sanity to American history” has triggered a federal review of Smithsonian exhibits, demanding they align with a celebratory narrative of American exceptionalism. The directive prohibits funding for programs that “divide Americans based on race” and mandates that the American Women’s History Museum “not recognize men as women in any respect.” The Smithsonian, once a sanctuary for complexity, is now being asked to perform patriotism. From pardons for January 6 participants to cuts in health research grants over DEI policies, the administration has embraced a theatrical nationalism. Agencies like the “Department of Government Efficiency” are less about governance and more about narrative control. Efficiency becomes a euphemism for erasure. This isn’t just a battle over facts. It’s a struggle over who gets to define the soul of the nation. When policy, branding, and pedagogy converge to erase complexity, the role of the cultural steward becomes revolutionary. Let this essay be a ledger of resistance, a call to remember, and a refusal to let the archive be whitewashed. If this piece resonates, share it, discuss it, and teach it. Let it be a prompt for your following classroom conversation, community gathering, or Substack thread. And if you’ve got stories—personal, ancestral, or archival—that challenge the sanitized version of America, I invite you to bring them forward. The barrel may be gone from the logo. But the stories it held are still ours to tell. After all, the cracker was never inside the barrel; the cracker stood next to the barrel, as evidenced by the public outcry over the removal of the “cracker and the barrel.” ~~~~  Macon Legacy   A National Call to Action Harold Michael Harvey Fifty-one years ago, in 1974, the city of Macon, Georgia, redrew its district lines—not to suppress, but to uplift. That redistricting made way for the election, a year later, of the “Macon Fantasy Five,” the first five Black members of the Macon City Council. They were Willie C. Hill, Vernon Colbert, Julius Vinson, Delores Brooks, and Rev. Eddie D. Smith, Sr. It was a moment of strategic clarity and democratic courage, a local triumph with national resonance. Today, we stand at another crossroads. Across the country, in states like Texas and Missouri, we’re witnessing the inverse: gerrymandering designed to erase Black congressional representation. These efforts are not isolated—they are part of a broader campaign to silence voices that have fought too long and too hard to be heard. If it can happen at the federal level, it can happen anywhere, in city halls, in state legislatures, and in school boards. In the very places where the Fantasy Five once stood tall. That’s why the 50th Legacy Celebration on December 12, 2025, is not just a local event. It is a national rally. A call to every democratic-loving citizen to gather in Macon and declare we will not go quietly into the night. This is more than remembrance. It is resistance. We invite you—organizers, artists, elders, students, freedom dreamers—to meet us in Macon. Let this be the spark that ignites the 2026 midterm fight. Let this be the moment we reclaim the rhythm of representation. The Fantasy Five didn’t just win seats—they won space. Space for truth, for justice, for the unsung to be heard. On December 12, 2025, we honor that legacy with a proclamation from the Macon Bibb County Consolidated Government in the Commissioners’ Chambers at 10:00 a.m., followed by a luncheon at noon at the Tubman African American Museum to honor these five pioneers and to fight for the future of American democracy. And we commit to fight to protect it. Macon is calling. Will you answer? For details on how you can participate in this historic and monumental rally for the conscience of this nation, see haroldmichaelharvey.com. Please know that these two posts were first published on Harold's Substack... Also, find his book Fantasy Five and all other books reviewed here via the search process in the right column... I oppose all DEI activities now underway within this administration in America... We are all brothers and sisters in God's eyes... Let us remain and move always forward in that direction! God Bless  Gabby

A Personal Favorite! Cat's People - By - Tanya Guerrero - Enjoy!

Books - Cats - Life is Sweet! 

My Personal Motto 

Screw all those kids who had ignored her. Screw all those people who thought she was weird. Screw all those guys who had called her a “crazy cat lady” and run off.

As Núria wandered the streets feeding the strays, she could feel herself sort of floating. The phrase “walking on air” came to mind. She hadn’t felt that way in a long while. Not since Rocky had waltzed into the café one day and decided that Núria, the barista who had crafted her extra-sweet chai latte, was going to be her new BFF. Back then, she’d had doubts too. Why would an outgoing, successful, and beautiful woman want to be her friend? As she got to know Rocky, she realized that they did have something in common. Núria’s calling was taking care of stray cats. And Rocky’s calling was taking care of stray people. Maybe she was just overthinking it. Núria stopped in front of Cat’s hedge. Her feet suddenly felt solid and grounded. She decided that she would go with the flow and stop worrying so much. She would get dressed up and go to Omar’s dinner with a bottle of wine and have some fun for a change. Screw all those kids who had ignored her. Screw all those people who thought she was weird. Screw all those guys who had called her a “crazy cat lady” and run off. She reached up to adjust her lopsided top-bun, and from the corner of her eye, she spotted a neon-pink Post-it note tucked inside the empty plastic feeding container. Huh. With everything going on, she’d almost forgotten about the mysterious stranger. She bent down to retrieve the note and read it. "Do you ever wonder if the cat misses you when you’re not around?" Núria smiled. But then she quickly covered her mouth in case the mysterious stranger was watching. It was an odd question. However, she had to admit that the thought had crossed her mind. If she stopped showing up one day, would the cats miss her too? Or would they just miss the food? People always joked that if a cat owner was murdered, their cat wouldn’t care; their dead body would become just another piece of furniture or a scratching post or, even worse, cat food. Núria disagreed, though. Cats did form bonds. Every time she went somewhere for just a couple of days, her cats would rush her as soon as she got home. From what she could gather, this rando was not a cat person. Which was fine and all. It certainly made her even more curious about the person’s intentions. In spite of Rocky’s teasing, she still wasn’t sure that this was a romantic gesture. One, because she looked like an absolute slob whenever she made her rounds. Two, because men were generally not shy about approaching women they were interested in. At least, that’s what she’d experienced in the bars that Rocky had dragged her to. Could it be a woman, though? Or a nonbinary person? Huh. The possibility hadn’t crossed her mind until now. Núria stared at the handwriting on the note, trying to analyze every letter—their curves and lines and dots. Well, not really dots, since the dot over the “i” looked more like an accent. Also, the letters were neater than most guys’ penmanship, but it didn’t scream “girly,” either. Then again, maybe that was stereotyping. The more she stared, though, the more confused she got. Did it even matter who this person was? Was she even interested? As much as she wanted to toss the note in the trash and forget all about it, she couldn’t help feeling intrigued. Maybe even flattered. It wasn’t often that someone was interested in her like that. The handful of relationships she’d had in her life had ended disastrously. Looking back, they hadn’t even been real relationships, not in the give-and-take sort of sense. It had been Núria doing all the giving and the men doing all the taking. That’s probably why she preferred the company of cats. There was no pretense when it came to her feline companions. When they were being sweet, they were being sweet... When they wanted to ignore you, they ignored you. Cats didn’t have a hidden agenda. Núria sighed and stuck the note in her pocket. She needed a double shot of espresso and some words of reassurance from Rocky before deciding whether to write back. 

~~~

What I really wanted to do to begin this post was to immediately share how it ends! Just this once, I wondered? Why not? It's so warm and fuzzy, it would make everybody feel good about the book--isn't that what the author and other people want? But, of course, that "just isn't done..." for reviews, so as to not give the ending away... Some even have a method by saying "spoiler alert" so you know not to read... Geesh!  I have to think that these are the people who never decide to eat their dessert first...and still enjoy the meal...LOL  In any event, there was no way that this wouldn't be a personal favorite for me--or any cat person... Check my Motto above as a reminder...LOL

Cat lived on the streets, but really was afraid of the traffic and other dangers, so she had picked out a home under a hedge where she could hide most of the time...Cat didn't mind people, in fact she had come to know a number of individuals who lived in places where she felt safe to travel... In fact, one woman, Nuria, who loved cats so much that she had taken on the extra job of feeding cats who lived on the street, and she had found Cat--Nuria had run out of names she could think of to name the stray by the time she met Cat! LOL

The Mailman who had his route in the neighborhood had also become a friend. Then there was a local lady who had fed him from those items sold in the grocery. But then she had died and her husband was so distraught that he didn't think about feeding the cat... until much later, when the mailman got involved...

And then there was a writer who watched Nuria from his window every day and became interested in Cat, along with the woman he'd been watching, so much so that he built a little home in the alley next to his house, and started feeding Cat as well... And finally, there was a young girl who had come to town to find her sister, who became somewhat of a stalker once she had found her, but was still afraid to approach her... Five people--all five to have entered Cat's life with somewhat unusual backgrounds...

Take for instance, the night when Nuria had finally agreed to have dinner at the mailman's home where she met his partner and had a lovely dinner with too many drinks--and she was a little tipsy walking home and was accosted by a man who started touching her inappropriately. When Nuria started screaming, her stalker heard her, and so did Cat, who, although afraid of the traffic, immediately ran to help his friend!

The curb on the other side was near; he could almost touch it. Just a few more steps and he leaped, giving it all he had as a bicycle whizzed by, grazing the tip of his tail. Finally, he landed on the sidewalk. As much as he wanted to stop and rest after his traumatic ordeal, Rainbow Lady was in trouble. The man’s hand was even farther up her leg. It’s now or never… Cat growled and hissed with all his might before charging toward the man with his back arched, fangs exposed, claws extended, and fur standing on end as he readied himself for a fight. The man pulled his hand away from Rainbow Lady and whipped his head around just as Cat pounced on him, scratching the side of his face.

Cat attacked the man who ran away, but couldn't do much more; however, her "unknown" sister rushed to help Nuria and helped her home--but she didn't yet explain who she was...

Of course, the story is character driven, and readers find that each of the individuals were, for one reason or another, lonely and somewhat introverted with other people. But Cat seemed to listen--and even understand their stories!

One cold winter day, Cheery Mailman had confided in him that even though he loved being a mailman, sometimes he wished for a higher calling, something that would give his life a greater purpose. In his own way, Cat had understood where he was coming from. There had been a time when he’d thought about what it would be like to live with a human. Cat had been born on the streets. His mother had eventually run off. His siblings had died, one by one. He’d never known a life other than being a stray. Sometimes, he passed by windows with chubby cats staring at him from inside a home, and he would wonder what it was like on the other side. But those notions usually left as quickly as they’d appeared. Cat loved his freedom. There was a wildness inside of him that couldn’t be tamed. He’d come to peace with that. Where the heck was Cheery Mailman, anyways? Cat stood on his hind legs with his front paws on the bench’s backrest. Once he had a good vantage point, he peered through the storefront window. It was a bit dark and there was a glare on the glass that made it hard for him to see the store’s interior. He jumped off the bench and sauntered over to the door, hoping for a better view. After a couple of seconds, he spotted Cheery Mailman standing several feet away from Sad Bodega Man, the one whom Smiley Lady had called “mahal,” whatever that meant. Cat understood that Smiley Lady had died. She’d been there one day, gone the next. Of all his feeders, she had been the most dependable, the one who showed up every day at the exact same time, rain or shine. That’s why he knew something had happened to her. It had made him sad. Really sad. His little heart ached at the thought of never again seeing the way her entire face would light up every time she spotted Cat through the back door. For weeks, he’d stayed away from the bodega. One day, though, Cheery Mailman managed to convince him to join him for a walk, a chat, and some creamy treats. Since then, he’d been visiting the bodega with him almost daily. Most of the time, he avoided looking inside at Sad Bodega Man. Seeing him reminded Cat of Smiley Lady’s absence. But today, he felt braver than usual. Through the glass, he stared right at him. The old man looked different. Much older. He’d lost some weight too. It was as if the life had been zapped out of him. Seeing him like that brought the feelings of sadness out of Cat once again. He went even closer to the glass door, craning his neck to figure out what was going on. After a moment, he realized that Sad Bodega Man was seated on a box, crying. His face was moist, covered in tears and mucus. His body sagged, making it seem as if his bones had suddenly melted. It was as if he was broken, like those discarded toys Cat would see out on the sidewalk on trash day. Part of him wanted to hightail it out of there. But the other part of him, the one that had loved Smiley Lady so dearly, knew he had to do something. He owed her that much. So when he saw Cheery Mailman trying to leave the store with embarrassment stamped all over his face, Cat stood his ground at the door, as if his butt and paws were cemented to the sidewalk. If he didn’t move, there was no way for Cheery Mailman to escape. He would have to stay inside and help Sad Bodega Man. If anyone could help that pile of depressed flesh and bone, it was Cheery Mailman. There was a reason that Cat had nicknamed him “Cheery,” after all. And it worked! Cheery Mailman turned back around and said something to Sad Bodega Man. After a second or two, he went over and sat next to him, not saying anything, while the old man’s tears streamed down his face, his body hunched over as he rocked back and forth. Even though Cat was incapable of crying, he had experienced sadness in his life. When his mother left, he’d felt abandoned and heartbroken. When his siblings died, leaving him all alone, he too had hunched over, curling into a ball of misery for days on end. It wasn’t until he’d found the kindness of strangers—strangers like Smiley Lady—that his grief had begun to subside. Until, finally, life had become bearable again. Now it was his turn to pay it forward...

~~~

If you ever feel lonely, you may find a stray Cat coming around the corner, looking for a bit of food, or maybe, even a friend... You may find that, if you give a little tenderness, you'll find someone who will welcome your touch, a little lovin' and maybe able to say welcome to your new home...

She couldn’t explain it, but it somehow felt like it was meant to be. Like it was a master plan that Cat had meticulously orchestrated. Núria knew that couldn’t be true. After all, he was just one stray cat. But she wanted to believe. Because if she believed, then maybe, just maybe, they would all get their happy endings...

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