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Tori held up the newspaper article. “This is an invitation. My sister’s killer wants to play a game, so… game on.”
“You may have broken off contact with everyone here, but someone kept track of you. Watch your back.”
The massive stack of mail had collapsed and fallen to the floor. “Naturally.” Exasperated, Tori walked over and dropped down to her knees. She started pulling all the pieces of mail together, finding miscellaneous bills, junk mail, a donation solicitation for Boston College, her latest Vanity Fair and Vogue magazines, and then a yellow envelope that she flipped over to make sure it was addressed to her. There was no return address, but the postmark was for Manchester Bay. Tori exhaled. She hadn’t received a piece of mail from Minnesota, let alone Manchester Bay, in years. Pushing herself up from the floor, she went to her desk and reached for her letter opener.
She sliced the top open, reached inside, and pulled out a single piece of paper. “What the…?” It was a photocopy of the front page of the Manchester Bay Chronicle, dated July 5, 1999, and the headline read: Hunter Girl Missing. In the lower left-hand corner, secured by a paper clip, was a typed note that read: Check the Manchester Bay Chronicle. It will look familiar. She’d seen the clipping before, although it had been years. A copy of it was stored in a box in the closet. “It will look… familiar.” Tori went to her desk and powered up her laptop. She typed ManchesterBayChronicle.com into the search bar. On the home page the first headline was blunt: Genevieve Lash Missing. The sub-headline read: On Twentieth Anniversary of Jessica Hunter Disappearance.
As Tori scanned the article on the website, she learned that Genevieve Lash was last seen by a friend she dropped off at home early in the morning of July 5. In his press conference, Shepard County Sheriff Cal Lund reported that Lash’s car was found abandoned and locked along the side of a county road with a flat right front tire. “Cal…” Tori murmured.
Manchester Bay always went big on the fireworks for the Fourth. Synchronized to music, they were launched from the end of the long fishing pier at the opposite end of the beach. A massive crowd gathered in lawn chairs or on blankets on the beach and in the park and then along South Shore Drive, which was barricaded for several blocks to allow for more seating. A flotilla of speedboats and pontoons were anchored in the placid waters of the bay, as well as in front of Mannion’s on the Lake, a restaurant farther northwest up the shoreline. As they settled into their seats on the bench, Jason casually put his right arm gently around Tori’s shoulder. Self-conscious to a fault, she almost always held back her emotions and affection. Yet, in this moment, she was… content. For once, she stopped caring what anyone else thought or saw. Instead of keeping just a little distance between them, she snuggled closer to Jason and then turned her face to his. Rarely the initiator, she almost surprised herself as she leaned up and kissed him, first just a little peck on his lips and then a second, softer kiss that she held for an extra moment as the fireworks show began. It was a long show, lasting nearly forty-five minutes before there was a rapid-fire launching up into the sky. “I think this is the grand finale,” Jason observed as one rocket after another shot up into the sky, exploding loudly into a kaleidoscope of colors over the waters of the bay. With his arm wrapped lightly around Tori’s shoulder, he pulled her a little closer and then leaned down and kissed her again. “Do you want to get out of here? Just you and me?” Tori froze. She knew what this question meant, to go off alone with him, and where it was leading. She’d talked about this with Jessie, who’d already taken the plunge. Tori had openly wondered whether she was ready. It had been a frequent discussion topic between the two of them. “You are,” Jessie had assured her. “You’re ready.” “How do you know? How do I know?” “Because you’re asking the question. If you ask the question, this question, the big question, then you know—” “—the answer,” Tori finished the sentence. Her body was a jumble of nerves at the thought of… sex.
Tori was aware as she came home from another case completion that the annual holiday that haunted her each year had come and gone. She'd never forget that it was during that celebration she had lost her virginity, but, worse, lost her twin sister... Sure, they had talked about it before going to the town event; but, now, it was a heavy load of regret, knowing that she had not been around her sister, as she normally was, when she had, for some reason, disappeared... Not ever discovering what happened was part of the reason she had become a FBI Agent, specializing in lost children...
Nothing, however, could have prepared her for getting a notice in her mail postmarked from her home town--a place she had not visited since she had buried her father. That was now twenty years ago!
Traveling back to where she had lived for most of her life was hard. But when she checked in with the local police, she was pleased that she knew the now chief and one of the officers was still there. She was sure that the new detective, who was handling the death of Genevieve Lash, would not easily welcome her desire to participate, so she went to Cal first and let him know she was back and showed him the message that she'd received. There was really no choice, having an FBI agent with expertise in tracking missing people, would be an asset to the case that could not be ignored.
“Yeah, but then you showed up with that article and note,” he replied. “We either have a situation where they are connected, and your sister’s disappearance was not random, or someone is using the disappearance of your sister to deflect and hide some other agenda.”
Tori was surprised and grateful that she also was able to reconnect with quite a number of her high school gang. It was to prove an advantage as they all realized that with the message that was sent to Tory, which had spotlighted the 20th anniversary of her sister's disappearance, a merge of the two cases would be required to investigate where Genevieve might have been taken...
Interestingly, the two cases which were the first to be pulled together showed many parallels between the two... And, it was a natural assumption to believe that if somebody was still active 20 years later, that there were more victims between this period and possibly even before... But what they discovered to be the reality was shocking. Soon Tori was seeking help from a friend from the FBI...
But right in the middle of the investigation, Tori was called by her boss at the FBI to travel to where a two-year-old child had been kidnapped... Another case within the larger case!
Tori tried sleeping in an easy chair in the office of the Taylors’ home. With the number of times she’d done this in various houses, buildings, and offices over the years while working a kidnapping, she ought to have trained her mind and body to be able to sleep anywhere and on anything, no matter its size or level of comfort. Yet every time it was a struggle. And now, while loath to admit it, especially with a two-year-old child kidnapped, her mind was elsewhere. No matter the lengths she went to bury it, the memory of her sister and her disappearance was always there, lurking in the back of her mind. Thoughts of Jessie were ready to be triggered by the littlest thing from 1999, like if she heard “Scar Tissue” or “Californication” by the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Or if she happened to stumble across a Friends episode,
something she and Jessie always watched. If Austin Powers: The Spy Who Shagged Me was on, the last movie they’d gone to before she disappeared, it would all come flooding back. They’d spent three weeks
saying: Oh be-have and Not if I can help it or Felicity Shagwell. Shagwell by name. Shag-very-well by reputation. It was the little moments and memories like that which, in a flash, brought her sister’s case out of the dark corners of her mind. That memory was no longer the lurking, occasionally painful distraction that would appear and then fade. Now it was once again all-consuming. She had the taste of reopening her sister’s case—of Manchester Bay, of walking the stretch of highway where Jessie was abducted, cruising the streets of their old hometown knowing, knowing that somewhere nearby the killer was skulking, maybe even watching, and even possibly hunting her. More than anything, that was why she was wide awake in the pitch-black of the night. Instinctually she reached for her phone and checked her text messages and emails. There was an email from Tracy Sheets from late last night indicating she was working on the project and thought she’d have something to share later tomorrow, which was now today. Later in the day—how much later? How long would she have to wait? And if Tracy had something, what did she have? And even if Tracy did have something, Tori wondered what she could then turn around and do with it. She’d considered calling Braddock but then thought better of it. They were on good terms now and she didn’t want to do anything to distract or, knowing herself, annoy him before she heard from Tracy. Besides, she had no idea when she’d be able to get back to Manchester Bay. Trying to sleep in the chair was worthless. As if her own insomnia wasn’t enough, it was a cloudless night with a full moon, and the light filtered in through the six tall and lightly curtained windows of the office. Turning on a light was not required for her to inspect the many pictures on the shelves of the long, built-in bookcase. There were family pictures, several of the Taylors with Ava over her two years. A high shelf contained a set of photos of Jake Taylor with what appeared to be college friends, and on another lower shelf was pictures of Erica Taylor and what looked to be several of her friends. A shelf in the middle of the bookcase contained pictures that were perhaps ten years old, of Jake with three people, who Tori presumed to be his sister Cindy and their parents. There were also several pictures of just Jake and Cindy. She quietly made her way down the wide corridor dividing the main level of the house. To the left she glanced into the living room to see Jake, his back turned, sleeping on the couch. In the kitchen she could see a red light illuminated on the coffee maker. There was half a pot of warm coffee left. If she was going to be awake, she might as well do it with coffee. She took a ceramic coffee cup out of the sink’s drying rack and filled it halfway. Blowing to cool the coffee, she stepped to her right to look out the side window of the kitchen into the neighbor’s backyard. As she raised the cup to her mouth, she caught a flash of light and then looked up to the second floor of the neighbor’s house. In a narrow window, she saw a man who she recognized as the neighbor. She’d seen him in the driveway putting the garbage out earlier. He was holding his cell phone and appeared to be typing a message. After a moment, he looked up and to the Taylors’ house, waving the phone. Tori leaned forward over the sink, trying to peer out the kitchen window to look up to her right but she had no angle to see up to the second floor. She was aware of only one person being up there. Tori set her cup softly on the counter and walked back to the front of the house, quietly opened the front door, slipped out onto the front stoop, and then pulled the door gently closed. She turned to her right, stepped over some bushes and flowers that were planted along the sidewalk and front step, and then made her way around the south side of the house and into the backyard. Jutting out from the northwest corner of the house was an expansive deck. Crouching down low, using the spindled deck railing as cover, she picked her way along to the corner of the deck and then peered around it and up to the second floor of the Taylor house. As she’d expected, she saw Erica in the window with her phone, looking over to her neighbor.
Will Braddock, chief detective for the Shepard County Sheriff’s Department, had already done the onsite stop to where they have found evidence of Lash. At that time he had begun his routine lead of the two additional officers who would work the case with him. Readers learn more about Will as Tory does, later in the book, as she realized that she had given little notice to his credentials and background because of her intense desire to begin to compare the two cases. And, BTW, this book follows true on a romantic interest becoming a part of their lives, although, it was not a primary part of the plot.
“Cal, he can’t—” “Victoria, please sit down.” “Cal!” “Sit down and shut up, now!” Tori froze, stunned. In the entirety of her life, she’d never heard Cal raise his voice like that to anyone. Sheepishly, she did as she was told...
Tori mumbled, “What are we going to do?” “Go back to my place and strategize while we still have some time before we have to sing “Ave Maria” in five-part harmony.”
This became a personal favorite for me for a number of reasons. As the subtitle indicates, it is addictive even though I was unable, because of my fall, to read as long as I normally do. But perhaps, from that, I was able to ponder exactly what was so intriguing about the story--for surely abuse of girls is nothing new, sad to say... For one, the book was written by a man; I wanted to see how he treated the topic that was routinely covered by women writers. I found little difference, thankfully, because I don't think this is a topic that is in any way, sexist in nature, meaning that I believe that most men are as concerned about ridding our world of such terror as women are. It was, however, by reading at this time when so much news is in the headlines about the release of the Epstein files, it created a comparison of the villain in this book against those that have thus far been identified as active participators in this cult-like crime wave that has gone on for so many years and included a documented number of over 1000 victims, thus far.
The tenacity exhibited in those characters working on the cases within this book certainly supports the caliber and intensity of those congressional and other men (and women) who are working diligently to provide some semblance of justice for those innocents who were taken into a world in which they were forced to be involved. I, for one, continue to read such books in the hope that one day we can figure out just "why" some choose to use force against those who should be loved and cherished...
Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic. Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray
Every Work of Art Tells a Story
And Every Story Has Its Secrets
I did not doubt my decision to marry Winston. The arrangement would bring about my happiness and restore my sister’s health. I would be a fool to decline his offer. But when I decided to marry him, I had to release a sliver of possibility, a pinprick of hope. My love for Winston was sincere and warm, but not irresistible. In my decision to marry him I was closing a door on the forceful, if tumultuous, love which Miss Brontë had described to me over the past two days. As if summoned by my thoughts, the front door opened and Winston’s voice rang out. “Iris? Are you here?” I rose from my seat, not caring that James was in the middle of studying me. “There you are!” Winston stepped into the parlor doorway, his face brightening at the sight of me. Had anyone ever looked so happy to see me? I could look all my life and never find anyone so thrilled by my presence as Winston. I tossed Jane Eyre onto the bergère and ran toward him. His own arms were free—Stanley entered behind him with the luggage—and he wrapped them around me and lifted me off the ground. I broke into a smile. “I missed you,” I whispered into his ear, my feet dangling above the floor. “And I you.” He gently lowered me back to the floor and, to my surprise, kissed me. We had not kissed in front of anyone since our engagement. Though my back was to James, I imagined he was watching us with a condescending smirk. I pushed a curl behind my ear. “Did you finish all your work in Birmingham?” “No, but I came home anyway so I could see you—and bring you this.” He gestured toward Stanley, who handed me a box from the top of Winston’s luggage. It was a hat box, its wood painted emerald green. I slipped its leather handle aside and lifted its lid to find an ivory silk bonnet. Beneath it lay a pair of cream kid gloves. “Do you like them?” he asked, watching my reaction carefully. “I love them—though the better gift is your presence.” He grinned. “Stanley, bring me the mail that arrived while I was away. And take my things to my room.” Winston held both my hands in his and took a step back. “You are lovelier than ever. Have you been out in the sun? Your cheeks are red.” I placed a hand over my right cheek. Sure enough, it was warm beneath my palm. “Or perhaps you’re just blushing,” he laughed.
I already knew this, but his words—and the thought of my portrait making his departure possible—caused me to look away. Upstairs, a minuet slowed until one last sweep of strings rang out. A breath of silence.
“It’s been terribly embarrassing to have my portrait painted,” I admitted in a low voice. “Sitting there and being stared at all morning.” And James wasn’t making the process any easier, I thought, as Winston led me by the hand to the parlor. “So the American has decided to accept the commission!” he boomed at James. “Mr. Carmichael.” James straightened behind his easel, careful not to look at me. “Yes, I began on Saturday. I promise to finish as quickly as possible.” “Fine, fine,” Winston said with a disinterested wave of his hand. “As long as you’re finished before the wedding it hardly matters. Perhaps it will keep Miss Sheffield out of trouble. She has little else to do during the day—isn’t that right, dear?” I pricked with resentment at his words. “I’ve read a book since I last saw you. And I went with the cook to Covent Garden on Saturday.” “You did?” Winston’s brows furrowed. “Whatever for?” “I bought an orchid for the conservatory. I enjoy the market, to look around, watch people, you know.” Winston cocked his head. “I’m afraid I don’t know, but then again, that’s never really been my cup of tea.” I ignored the stare I felt from James. “Actually, I’ve been meaning to ask if you might have any family records that I could read during my sittings.” Stanley returned, carrying a silver tray with four envelopes spread across it. Winston grabbed them and tore open the first. “What type of records do you mean?” he asked, his attention quickly slipping to the letter before him. “Journals, letters, a Bible with family names written in it. You know how I love to study penmanship. Remember when I learned to replicate yours so well? Anything handwritten is a treasure to me.” Winston nodded vaguely as his eyes ran down the page before him. “There’s nothing from my family, is there?” I assumed Papa and Hope would have mailed their letters to the townhouse, but nothing had arrived from them. It was probably too early to expect anything, but the silence still worried me. “No,” he said with a subtle shake of his head. “I’m afraid it’s all for me. And I don’t think we have any family journals, but you may search the library. You’re welcome to anything handwritten you can find. If you’ll excuse me, I must attend to some things. James, it’s a pleasure to see you again.” James nodded. “Perhaps we can discuss the details of the commission after my day’s work.” “Of course,” Winston said, already halfway across the foyer. “Knock on my door before you leave.” Winston closed the library door firmly behind him, leaving me alone once more with James. I returned to my bergère and placed Jane Eyre in my lap, eyeing the cover with a new skepticism. I had had my fiction: heat and passion, arranged for the most dramatic effect. Now I craved something true, something as honest as my warm affection for Winston. I knew of nothing more real than a record written by hand, whose penmanship attested to the writer’s presence as much as the meaning of the words. I wedged Jane Eyre into the cushion of my chair and wondered if, somewhere inside this mansion, I might find the honest record I sought.
~~~
I yanked open the parlor doors and the sounds from upstairs grew: the quartet playing a polonaise; laughter; the gentle thump of dancing feet. James bowed before brushing past me into the foyer. I followed him for three steps. “I’ll see myself out,” he said without looking back. He pulled open the front door, struggling only for a moment with the knob, and slammed it shut behind him. The polonaise ended and the guests applauded. I stayed frozen in place, one shoe on my left foot, the other clenched in my hand. I stared at the closed door and imagined James pulling his jacket tight around him in the snowy London night as he walked down Kennington Road and disappeared around the corner. I do not know how long I stood there, staring at the door, knuckles white around my shoe, but by the time I finally forced myself back to the party the dancing was over.
~~~
When I was first reading and became selective on what I wanted to read, Gothic was my choice. If you don't know what I mean by that genre, then you have missed some of the greatest women's literary books of early history. For instance, Rebecca by Daphne Du Maurier and Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte are two of the most known and loved... And while others have likened this book to those, I found only a little--maybe the main character's as to how she dealt with a man who was brought into her life by her fiance! Other than that, I found the most dramatic part was the totally different suspense of the story... And the blatant actions of the three main characters seemed much more in tune with today's actions. Or, perhaps, I just haven't read as many historical novels that dwelled on the significance of what was to occur and each of the individual's reasons for doing what was done. It was fascinating, sometimes exhilarating, and, frankly, totally unexpected! I loved it as I would not normally "love" just a romantic novel... Kudos to the author!
Set in 1850, Iris had met Winston at the time when her younger sister had become gravely ill. The doctors had said that the London air was what was causing her problems. Winston had from the very first provided care and support to Iris and her family and soon Winston was talking marriage. Iris knew that her love for Winston was as a friend, even realizing that the love described in the books she had read was not what she felt for him. Still, they were close and Winston offered her everything, even volunteering to cover the cost, when they had decided, that her father would take her sister to Nice, France, where the doctor had recommended...
But, the discussion of when the marriage would take place had already begun and Iris felt torn as her only living family would be leaving just as a major change was happening in her life. Finally, Winston had agreed to schedule the wedding in the spring, hoping that her sister would be able to come back. In fact, she had forced a promise that there would be no wedding without her family able to return...
Iris found she had a hard time sleeping in their London home, and Winston had offered to have her stay there, even though they both knew that nobody would accept that as proper... Soon, though, Winston was inviting her to come for meals and he wanted to give her a tour of his entire home. She was thrilled to find that a conservatory had been added at the back of the house. Soon she was working there to clean out all plants that had died and enjoyed selecting new ones to enjoy. Often she would go directly there when she came to visit...
Because Winston often was not yet home from work. Winston's father had built a glass factory that was new and had spent most of his life on location working to get business started. In fact, it was his having a designer build the conservatory and its being so well received that he had begun to expand and get word-of-mouth attention. The designer, Mr. Paxton had made Carmichael Glass a respected company...
Now, after his death, Winston was working long hours to take over the business, almost fixated on doing a better job than his father... While Iris understood, she was often left for long hours without her family, without Winston...But, during the tour Winston had hosted for Iris, he had especially pointed out the portrait of his father, first, then, his mother, and his as well. Even though Winston talked about one day adding hers, Iris was really not interested. The idea of portraits being made was mostly, at that time, for the rich elite families. Iris' background was a good one, but the financial part had long ago disappeared...
Still, Winston persisted and talked to people to learn who was the best portraitist now in the area. Soon Winston's friend brought Mr. Thomas James to their home. Even at the beginning, after learning what Winston wanted, Mr. James was not interested. He'd had many bad experiences with the women who had sought his attention to paint them. Iris was just another one, although she would make a beautiful portrait. Finally Winston offered to double his normal fee and James (as he wanted to be called) agreed. Later he had told Iris that many of the rich and famous often were hard to have sit still, often talking without regard to what James had asked...
In fact, Iris was really not impressed with Mr. James... And, she really didn't want to sit for a portrait either. Readers will delight as these two snarl at each other or remain silent, barely looking at each other... Still, as time went by, as we all know, some type of relationship will and must develop. It started when James started telling him how he would be working, that he would start with her face. And, to do that, he must spend considerable time staring at the various parts, starting with her eyes... This was harder than he imagined. Why? He needed to get to know about Iris--her personality, see various emotions play over her face and learn about the individual he was to paint. At the same time, neither of them wanted to be caught looking at each other... You get the idea... That interaction would continue through several months...
In the meantime, Iris had asked Winston, when he had led her to the Library, whether there might be any family documents that were handwritten--perhaps the Family Bible, diaries, or letters. She was interested in getting to know his family, but she also had a personal fascination with handwriting--learning about the writer, seeing their handwriting and, often, like she had started with her mother's letters, attempting to, through, study and trial, to copy that individual's words and style. As she talked about this, I flashed back to my early working years as a secretary when I did the same thing and often signed my boss's signature in his absence... I have learned, however, that handwriting deteriorates as we grow older...
Winston had told her that he knew of no such personal documents, but she was welcome to read any that she might find...
What he didn't plan on was that, one night, when there was a storm, Iris was forced to stay overnight at Winston's residence. She was shown to a guest bedroom... Sometime during that night, her foot caught on something sharp in the bed. When she looked under the sheet at the bed's bottom, she found what looked like a diary... She opened and saw that it was handwritten, but was prevented from reading it immediately because of other events... But she was frantic to do so... Because in a woman's handwriting, the name Winston was written...
Kelly is especially skilled in weaving the various characters in and out of the scenes--bringing in Winston's mother just a few times, but she always leaves immediately, claiming she can't stand the smell of the house. Iris always thought it was that she missed her husband... but... Iris, herself, could not smell anything strange until much, much later... I had to admit that the Prologue was lost to me as I fell deeper and deeper into the story, captured into the triangle that was developing for Iris.
And, I must say that the climatic ending was a total surprise! And you all know I love it when I don't guess the ending... The scope and depth of the story is as complex as many I've read, intriguingly presented so that my emotional responses went back and forth automatically as each character spoke and acted out their individual stories... Thankfully, and that's why it became a personal favorite, the book ended just the way I wanted it to, without being able to see how events could lead to that astonishing tale! Again, Kudos to Emilia Kelly...
A Romantic Suspense Novel at its very finest! Highly Recommended!
You’re special. That’s all her first note from him had said. She’d found it taped to the knob of her apartment’s front door after she arrived back from her jog one morning. Given the difference in their schedules, he’d have time to leave the note and be gone for work before she’d be back from her pre-work cardio jaunt around the community, and he’d known it. She hadn’t recognized the handwriting, and no wonder. Who wrote anything down so much anymore in this increasingly paperless world? A note from an apartment-complex neighbor, jotted inside of a folded little sheet of repurposed tree and stuck to a doorknob, was a definite twenty-first-century anomaly. He hadn’t signed it, but she loved that. Not because he’d never been too wild about his name (he said the sound of it always made him feel like he ought to be tap dancing somewhere in a tux with tails, and he’d never tapped in his life) but because his leaving the unexpected, two-word message unsigned made it more intimate. Unrecognizable handwriting and absence of a signature aside, she knew right away that the note was from him. And he knew she’d know it. “Ah, Tracey,” she’d murmured over the paper as she delayed refolding it, the essence of a smile drifting over her lips. Her eyes embraced the message, or rather surrendered to the message’s embrace, as two of her fingers fiddled with the string from the hood of her hoodie, a garment often tasked with shielding her head from the early mist of the outdoors. The mist, among other things her various workout shields shielded her from. She didn’t usually address her favorite neighbor by the full first name with which he’d only come to resigned terms in adulthood...
I don't know about you, but I enjoy a little mystery with romance... And Nadine Keels who has become a friend plus a favorite author begins her lovely set of short stories with one that is intriguing... It starts with a short unsigned note left on the main character's door--two or three words just to let her know that somebody is thinking about her! Cool, right! As the story goes on, Clarion meets and begins talking to her new admirer, at least until she brings up a question she'd been wondering about: “Tray? Do you ever think you and I must look mismatched?” she’d come out and asked him one weekend afternoon...
At this time when some are trying to divide America racially, I loved Nadine's approach to this sad issue being "used" in today's politics by one party... Young people don't have those biases unless they are taught by their parents or other influential people in their lives. It certainly does not come from the church as Jesus Christ proclaims that we must love our neighbor--all our neighbors... So,
As two people who were not really acquainted began to send messages to each other, they learn more and more about the other and learning to be friends. That is, until tragedy strikes the life of Clarion and she is lost to a world where she must begin to find her own way. Can her new friend help?
Show Me Silver
It was more than a dance. First of all, she wasn’t the kind of woman for just anybody to take dancing just anywhere. Yvonne’s very essence spoke of high class, and that was more than all right. Sterling wasn’t the kind of man to take just any woman out anyway, and classy entertainment was his dating specialty. Fine dining. Theater. Book readings. Art and history exhibits. Orchestral ensembles and symphonies. Ballroom dancing. Tonight, the music was live jazz, from an excellent band that knew how to create and work an atmosphere.
There wasn’t only one couple out on the dance floor. But as far as Sterling’s consciousness was concerned for this space in time, he and Yvonne could have been the only two people on the floor at this dinner concert. It wasn’t because the band’s number at the moment was a slow one with rich tones. It wasn’t because the refined yet alluring fragrance floating from Yvonne’s skin was such a complement to Sterling’s aromatic cologne. It wasn’t even because on what was now their fifth date, this was the longest the two of them had ever held each other. No, no. The other people around faded away and the dance became more than a dance once Sterling began to realize he hadn’t stopped…looking at Yvonne. Meeting her open stare, and saying nothing. By this point in his life, slow-dancing with a woman wasn’t anything new to him. Oftentimes, maintaining a stream of light banter with a dance partner could keep prolonged staring from becoming uncomfortable. Or if Sterling had sensed any possibility that this close and quiet interlude might become at all awkward, this would be the time when he’d lean in to rest his russet brown cheek against Yvonne’s darker, rounder one. Of course, in favorable scenarios, it’d be romantic of Sterling to make such a move. Conversely, it could serve as a convenient next step for a slow dance that would stagnate or become uneasy if the banter ran out, leaving him and his partner with nothing but music and eye contact. But tonight, two or three songs ago, Sterling had lost any sense of time. Neither he nor Yvonne had spoken a word for however long on this dance floor. Neither pair of their brown eyes, his behind wire-framed glasses, had strayed long or far from the other. And Yvonne’s gaze—as soft as her full, feminine form, gently swaying in Sterling’s arms to velvety jazz—had yet to make him feel in any way that it would be best for him to look elsewhere. This was different. A different level of seeing and being seen. He should’ve known. Should’ve known that dancing with Yvonne wouldn’t be only that. He should’ve known because not one thing between him and Yvonne, from the first day to now, had been “only” anything. Every exchange on the phone and in person, every outing with her had left him sated with light, pleasure, and verve. He should’ve been prepared. Yet, how did one prepare for this? For this level of seeing. Seeing that accordingly called for knowing. Not merely the kind of knowing that Sterling could boast about if he wanted. Here while he was amazingly lost but right at home in Yvonne’s gaze, any manner of boasting couldn’t be further from his mind. He wasn’t imagining himself turning back to face all the eyes that had overlooked or looked down on him in past years. He hadn’t a notion of announcing to all the owners of those eyes, as though it would prove anything, “I know Yvonne Royale now. The Yvonne Royale.” No. That wasn’t the nature of potential knowing, here. Besides, it had never been Sterling’s style to boast about anything that daunted him. The sigh he gave then wasn’t outward but inward. And bewildered. Was it strange that, in an atmosphere saturated with music so marvelous, with a woman whose presence he found both invigorating and soothing, and with her honest gaze for him to get so lost in and to feel he’d been found there, all at once—might it be strange that some part of Sterling’s psyche could even consider something about this experience…to be daunting?
Moving Points of View between the two who are looking for love, makes this even more interesting because, at first, each would have their own opinions and background which are important to them, while at the same time, not knowing how the other might react!
Sterling was a man who spent time and money to ensure that his dates were impressed by his interest in the arts of all kinds, choosing jazz for an evening meal or a book reading--anything that would allow him to carry on a conversation to keep his date interested in him... His early life had been unhappy, never being able to satisfy, or even know, what his father expected of him. Now he carried the words he'd said each night as he went to bed: "I'll Show Them!" And even though he was now successful and met many interesting women, he was never quite sure how to ensure a longer relationship--one that would lead to their being interest enough to go on to a deeper level of the relationship.
That is, until he met Yvonne... By the fifth date, he found that they had spent time dancing, dancing, without no concern whether they were talking about this or that. It was enough just to be in each other's arms, gazing at each other... There was talk on earlier dates, about books or music, but when Yvonne would ask personal questions about his family, he tended to evade the question by moving on to another topic quickly. And then, one evening he had brought a folder, containing part of a novel he was writing and presented it to her. But her response was not what he had expected. She thought he had wined and dined her, hoping to have her review his book and help to get it published. He stumbled into an apology that it was in response to her always asking about his personal plans and that it was his way of sharing something important to him with her...
So she did read it and talked to him via video to give him her best feedback... She had to be truthful, yet helpful, complimentary yet point out problems she saw... But, in Sterling's mind, he was already whispering, "I'll Show Her..."
I'm sure every writer will totally get involved in this short story that goes to the heart of every writer's wishes for their future... For me? It was whether or not Sterling's writing was to be an obstacle for their own relationship... Can a newly developing relationship be destroyed by one misstep by one or the other?
Debbie Duo
Dream Debbie
It’s a bird! A majestic eagle, soaring high and gracefully through the skies. It’s a plane! A jet aircraft, piercing through the clouds so swiftly that not even sound can keep up with it as its onlookers from the earth below hold fast to their hats and scarves, standing in an afterglow of awe. No! It’s Dream Woman! Taking flight through the stratosphere yet again, undoubtedly on another momentous, noble mission that only she can achieve—since she, quite frankly, is the only one perfect enough to do that sort of thing. A stellar career woman, a domestic genius, a renowned icon with the striking form of a goddess beneath her magnificent cape… Groan. “Delete.” Debbie hits the backspace key to eliminate her unrelated ramblings of the past few minutes from her computer screen, and she frowns at the aging remnants of her lunch on the desk, a pasta recipe that needs an upgrade. Having told her editor that she would have her story to him a week ago, she knows that the book’s illustrator cannot resume his work on the project during such a standstill. But here Debbie sits, wasting time with word-doodles that don’t have anything to do with anything. Her tale about a bunch of neighborhood pals on summer vacation has the possibility of becoming Debbie’s best children’s tale yet. She’d seen it so clearly the month before, as the proverbial bulb had burst into light over her head one morning, yanking her out of sleep with its promising incandescence. She’d floated through the next few days, refining her new characters in her head, piecing together a lively plot that would teach developing minds an important lesson on friendship while simultaneously entertaining their young, eager imaginations. Debbie isn’t sure what became of that bulb, but currently, she can’t seem to get the end of the story to pan out in a choice amount of words. She’s been mulling over this issue for days, reworking the plot, and now (taking a look at her cell phone) she hasn’t left herself sufficient time to close up shop, so to speak, and to get ready for her date with Stuart. “Enough. I quit.” In exasperation, Debbie puts her computer down for a nap and shoots up from her desk, but she pauses to tell her unfinished story, in case it happens to be listening, “I mean, until tomorrow.” Once again, Saturday won’t be a day off. An involuntary smile of apology flashes toward her computer before Debbie rushes out of her home office, taking the scraps of her lunch along for disposal. Stuart will be on his way to pick her up soon, and she absolutely must be ready on time. Ahh. Stuart. The brilliant magazine columnist Debbie met some weeks ago in the coffee shop she frequents early on weekday mornings, sometimes just to get out of the house. She hadn’t known at first that Stuart is at the shop almost as much as she is. She’d failed to truly notice him until he’d approached her table by the windows one day, saying, “Pardon me, but I’ve been observing for some time that you never order coffee here.” Debbie had peeked up from her newspaper to see the tall stranger there. He probably wasn’t the handsomest man on the planet, but he did have a pair of kind, soothing eyes. Debbie’s friends might’ve judged that Stuart had natural “bedroom eyes,” but Debbie had immediately informed herself that she had no business thinking of bedrooms. She’d jumped into her favorite old pair of unsexy flannel pajamas that night to remind herself of the fact. Debbie had briefly glanced away from the stranger, down to her apple, bagel, and orange juice breakfast. She’d smiled, somewhat embarrassed. “I don’t drink coffee. But I’ve always revered the aroma of it.” The stranger had laughed. On the mornings since then, he’d been making regular visits to Debbie’s table to chat with her, even sitting down for breakfast with her on occasion, until he’d declared earlier this week, “To be honest, Debbie, I’d really like to see you outside of this shop. I’ve got tickets for a play downtown, this Friday night…” Debbie had nearly choked on her blueberry muffin. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been asked on a date by somebody she actually liked. “And I don’t want him to regret having asked me,” Debbie now says as she rifles through her closet, looking for her knee-length, emerald green dress. She takes the dress out and goes to stand before her long mirror, holding the garment against her delicate frame, knowing that she wants to look as nice as possible. Even as alluring as possible—without looking, well, as alluring as she possibly could. “If that makes sense.” Time is of the essence, but Debbie can’t resist sacrificing a moment for a jubilant, girlish spin in front of the mirror. She remembers the first time she’d ever consciously done that, when her mother had brought home a new, flouncy dress for her to wear to her fifth birthday party. Yes, even now she can see that imaginative little girl who’d wanted her parents to get her a space helmet when she turned five, since she was going to be an astronaut when she grew up. How she was going to fit that in with being a dentist, a Hollywood actress, and the Queen of America, she hadn’t known at the time, but that didn’t matter. Her becoming Dream Woman one day would take care of it, and she’d fit everything in seamlessly as the ultimate life planner. And Dream Woman could fly like a jet, of course, so soaring from one task to another in a timely fashion, or even swooping from one career to another if necessary, wouldn’t be a problem for her. Debbie slips into her green dress after a quick shower, a dashing of makeup, and a whirl with a curling iron through her dark hair. She looks herself over front and back, not without a tiny sigh. This isn’t quite the curvaceous figure she’d once been sure she had a chance of developing, but she’ll strut what she has to work with. She releases a chortle, recalling the first time she’d ever scrutinized herself so closely, having donned an outfit for a high school dance. She’d initially hoped that it would be her first date, but no guy had asked her to go. In the end, it hadn’t made too great a difference because she went with two of her closest friends, people who consistently stuck by her, much like her family; friends she is fortunate enough to still have. They were all there for her while, perhaps prematurely, Debbie’s vast and glittery ideas of the future began to settle around her like fairy dust, leaving her standing there, not on top of the world but atop a living pile of hardbacks, paperbacks, and notebooks. Thoughts about dentistry and Hollywood faded. Writing was what this bibliophile had grown to love, and she couldn’t help being good at it. As a teenager, Debbie started making crude little picture books for the neighbors’ kids next door. Her pictures were horrid, but the stories were delicious, and Debbie’s soul would lift in response to the light in the children’s faces as she read to them aloud. Memories of those faces carried her through college, and she gets that same feeling to this day, when she reads her books to her engrossed listeners during story hours at local libraries. Never an astronaut. Never the queen of her country. Dream Woman yet soars, nonetheless, disappearing far off into the horizon. She must still be out there, somewhere… “Hello. You look lovely,” Stuart says when Debbie opens her front door to greet him at the appointed time. She lets out a relieved breath and warms at the sight of her date standing there in a dark blue overcoat, handing her a bouquet of blossoms that could have been made of silk. Debbie thoroughly enjoys her evening out. Conversation over dinner is great, as is the play downtown. However, while their outing draws toward a close, Stuart appears to have a question in his kind eyes as he walks Debbie back to her front door. “Is there something you’re waiting to say to me?” Debbie ventures to ask Stuart. His eyebrows go up. “On the contrary. I could be wrong, but it’s seemed all evening that there might be something you’re waiting to say to me.” Debbie doesn’t bother to ask him how he knows it. It’s one of the things she likes so much about him. She shakes her head. “I’m rather out of practice with all this. I don’t want you to regret having asked me out.” “Regret asking you?” Stuart’s forehead wrinkles. “Why would I—?” “I’m just me, you know.” Debbie gives a slight shrug. “I’m not exactly what I dreamed I would be. And I haven’t won a medal in literature to make up for it. I think I burn my cuisine a bit more often than a grown woman should, and sometimes I’ll lose a battle with a stubborn stain in my laundry. But, despite all of it, when the dust settles, I’ve got my family, and my friends are still here. I am what I am, I do what I love, and my love helps people, especially little ones.” Is it silly that Debbie’s eyes are growing damp? She blinks, smiling. “I can’t fly, Stuart. But I’m happy. I’m happy, and I’m grateful to be one in probably too small a number of people who can genuinely say that.” Stuart hesitates, his look both warm and quizzical. “You are the woman I met in a coffee shop who doesn’t drink coffee, aren’t you?” Debbie wonders at his question, but before she can answer, Stuart leans in to brush a soft kiss over her lips. He lingers close for a moment, murmuring, “You’re amazing, Deborah.” Debbie blinks a few more times, her eyes now wide. She’s at a loss for any more words.
What draws another person to start paying attention to another? Is it looks, body type--are they taller than you or shorter, are they the right race or religion (if you meet them in church)... Or is it, that the other individual started to pay attention to you first?!? That's what happened to Deborah when Stuart approached her while they were both in a coffee shop... She realized that Stuart seemed to want to get to know her better, but when that happened, she worried whether or not she could manage to keep him interested... Then the question might be, will Stuart continue to be interested after knowing each other for a week or so?
Stuart had already begun to think about how his parents seemingly never were happy with even his breathing! And his defenses would arise, but without anybody to whom he could turn to get positive feedback, he had carried this fear into his adult life. Can this shy couple get past their own fears and begin to share openly and truthfully?
Tea and Cream Debbie
She never would have thought of herself as one of the most popular girls in senior high. She was too busy enjoying this time in her life with all of her upbeat, teenage friends to stop and worry about how popular she might be. She and several of her girlfriends would engage in lively chatter between classes at school, their cute and curly hairstyles bouncing, their modest but trendy and feminine skirts lightly swishing as they’d walk down the hallways in their saddle shoes and bobby socks. They’d hold their mathematics and English textbooks up close to their chests, but books weren’t the biggest thing about their high school careers. Of course, learning and getting good grades was important. She and her friends weren’t dense or daffy, and most of them would be going on to further education after they graduated. But books and homework assignments and such were more in the background somewhere, since high school was, above everything else, an exhilarating social experience.
Well, you'll have to wait and see how this story turns out! LOL
Celebrating Solo?
Wake Up Sheridan!
Dumped. Whose jolly idea was it to ever apply such a thwunk of a word to an experience that has such potential to be, well, delicate? “Dumping” rightly identifies the deeds of, say, county waste management crews at junkyards. And individuals who’ve determined that a nearby ravine or a sloping stretch of grass alongside the Interstate onramp would be the best place to desert the raggedy sofa or the busted TV they no longer have room or use for. Stuff like that. Oh…granted, it was all so romantic, really, when I thought about it. Picture tallish, chocolate-dipped specimen of charisma and a looker-to-end-all-lookers, David Franklin. David once had a high school sweetheart: a gregarious, gorgeous girl he lost to her moving family’s move to the opposite side of the country, on account of the prestigious job promotion the girl’s father had landed. David saw the apple of his teenaged eye off at the airport, vowing to remain true to her and her alone from across the miles. But after the passing of a few months, David’s sobbing sweetheart called to break the news to him. Her mother held firm that her daughter was too young to be going steady with a boy who wasn’t even around. There were plenty of other nice, young gentlemen in the girl’s neck of the woods for her to socialize with, and she had better get to proper socializing, lest her growing fluidity in social graces be stunted before she would come of age, her mother said. That phone call devastated David. He mourned the loss of his love until after high school, when, as a freshman in college, he met the first girl he’d thought to date since his sweetheart had been taken away. This new young woman was a bibliophilic sort, not unladylike but without the deepest concern for cosmetics or fashion. She was a fellow student David was thrown together with for a two-person presentation for their Introduction to World Literature course. After a couple of study sessions with her outside of class, followed by a resounding 105% score on their presentation, David decided that he liked the bibliophile enough to ask her out. Thus began a casual courtship that happened to endure for the rest of David’s four-year college career. However, before he could resign himself to plans of making the courtship something more than casual after graduation, up popped his high school sweetheart. She was local again, free from parental clutches, gorgeous and gregarious as ever, ready to reclaim what she knew to be destiny. David knew it too. Destiny won out, and off Mr. Franklin went to pursue the sun, the moon, and the very Milky Way with the girl he’d once lost but had never been able to forget. Ahh. The romance. [Insert long, breathy sigh, full of dreams.] The incandescence of it all could scarcely be dimmed by a leftover factor: the bibliophile who hadn’t known the college courtship had been but a casual one, despite the fact that it hadn’t included any affairs of a distinctly serious or fancy nature. The bibliophile had even taken the plunge into stylish jeans and trendy tops and appealing perfumes and elegant eye shadows and luscious lip colors after she’d become the (initially stunned) recipient of David Franklin’s attentions. How she’d paid through the nose for some of those lipsticks but hadn’t had the faintest objection whenever David would step in to disrupt their dazzling displays of color, asking for one of the cottony wipes from her purse. He’d take it upon himself to ease her lipstick from her lips as he’d declare, in that mesmeric murmur of his, “There, nice and bare.
~~~
Hi-ho, the Derry-o
🙀There's a number of things that I'd say to all of those involved in this threesome... But, if you don't see where this is going, you need to read it for your own oohs and LOLs! And, here's a "real" clue...
Joy to the World, Even!
I loved reading these stories, but it's always hard to do a review and give enough to allow potential readers to decide whether they want to read the book. So I've tried to be as fair as possible, but several were too short to not give the storyline away...So I added music instead! And, especially on the last story, bet you'd never guess how The Farmer in the Dell was brought into the storyline... You'll enjoy this one for sure! I can highly recommend this for ages beginning mid-teens... And check out other books by this author by entering her name in the search column on the right!
Peg took a sip of her coffee. “Wow! Were you such a feminist before you transitioned?” Erin grinned. “I wish I could say yes, but probably not. As they say, ‘Perception is reality.’ ”
November 20, 2009 THE CANDLES ON THE ALTAR FLICKERED, THROWING STRANGE SHADOWS across the enormous stained-glass windows that rose up to the vaulted roof of the chapel. Erin McCabe stood among a group of people she had come to know over the last five years. Their journeys were all very different, but they were compatriots nonetheless, joined by a common thread. A thread that also knitted them to the names being solemnly read to the fifty or so people gathered in the pews near the front of the chapel. “From the United States—Caprice Curry, age thirty-one; Jimmy McCollough, age thirty-four; Foxy Ivy, age twenty-five; Kelly Watson, no age; Eric ‘Beyoncé’ Lee, age twenty-one; Paulina Ibarra, age twenty-four; Mariah Qualis, age twenty-one; Carson Stevenson, age forty-seven; Jacqueline Ford, age sixty . . .” As each name was read, it was displayed on a large screen. Each name a life lost, most of them young, most women of color, all of them killed in the last twelve months because they were transgender, nonbinary, or gender nonconforming. Tears rolled from the corners of Erin’s eyes. This was her third year attending the International Transgender Day of Remembrance at the Princeton Chapel, and each year was harder than the previous one, as the list of names grew longer every year. Tonight, she and her companions took turns reading each of the 163 names of the people lost. After the last name was read, they slowly returned to the pews and took their seats among the others in attendance. When they were seated, a Unitarian Universalist minister slowly climbed up to the pulpit and offered a moving prayer about love, compassion, and acceptance. When the minister finished, a singer sat down at the piano and, in a beautiful contralto, offered moving renditions of “Imagine” followed by “I Will Remember You.” As the final chords faded, Erin remained anchored in place, allowing the solemnity of the moment to linger, taking a few more seconds to remember those who had lost their lives, especially those who were remembered simply as “Name Unknown,” a final indignity to lives tragically cut short.
After several minutes, Erin turned to the woman on her right, Rachel Stern, a retired IRS Special Agent, and gave her a hug. “I hope you didn’t mind that I added Jacqueline’s name to the list,” Erin whispered, referring to Rachel’s friend Bradford Montgomery, who had also gone by the name Jacqueline Ford. “No. It was nice,” Rachel replied. “I know Brad spent his life in the closet, but he was one of us. Although, we both know Brad’s murder was politically motivated, and not because he was trans.” “That doesn’t make her loss any easier,” Erin replied, purposely switching pronouns to reflect who Brad truly was. “No. You’re right,” Rachel replied, and sighed. “I still miss her.”
Once they slid out of the pew, Erin gave Logan Stevens a hug. Logan, a self-described biracial, pansexual, genderqueer attorney, had played a huge role in Erin’s last case, and was now dating Rachel. Gathering their belongings, they made their way out into the unseasonably warm evening. They stood outside the chapel in the well-lit area by the walkway to Nassau Street. “A few of us are heading over to the Alchemist & Barrister to grab something to eat. You want to join us?” Logan asked. “Sure,” Erin replied.
“Excuse me,” a man called out as he approached. “Would you be Erin McCabe?” “I am,” Erin replied, catching Rachel and Logan eyeing the man suspiciously. “I don’t mean to be rude, but are you the criminal defense lawyer?” he asked skeptically. “Yes. I’m that Erin McCabe,” she responded with a small grin. “And to answer your next question, as far as I know, I’m the only Erin McCabe who’s a criminal defense attorney in New Jersey.” “I’m sorry,” the man stammered. “I apologize. You . . . well . . . you just look . . .”
“Too young to be the infamous Erin McCabe, criminal defense lawyer,” Logan suggested with a chuckle. Erin tried not to blush, but at five foot five with a dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose and a slim, athletic figure, she was still blessed with a youthful appearance that belied the fact that she was a seasoned attorney with a unique backstory. “Is there something I can help you with?” Erin asked. The man rubbed the back of his neck, appearing uncertain. “Um, is it possible for us to speak privately? I promise I won’t keep you from your friends. I know what today is. I was inside for part of the ceremony. I only need a couple of minutes. It’s about a potential case.” Sensing that Rachel was about to spring into special agent mode, Erin turned to her. “Why don’t you go on ahead with the others and save seats for Logan and me?” she said, hoping that Logan’s presence would reassure Rachel. Rachel gave Erin a sidelong glance, but headed off to the restaurant.
Erin studied the man. He appeared to be in his early thirties, and was significantly taller than her, so her guess was that he was close to six foot. He was a good-looking guy, well-built. He was wearing a black suit, with a white shirt that was unbuttoned at the collar, exposing a gold crucifix hanging from a chain around his neck. And even though Erin didn’t sense any danger, she felt better with Logan standing next to her. “Is this about representing you?” Erin asked. “No. Not me; I have a friend who needs help.” Erin pursed her lips. “Okay, but just so you know, if it’s not about representing you, the attorney-client privilege doesn’t apply.” “What’s that mean?” he asked. “Basically, it means that whatever you tell me isn’t confidential,” she said. He sighed and looked down at the ground, seeming to weigh his options. “Okay,” he finally said. “I guess I don’t have a choice. But can we speak alone?” Now it was Erin’s turn to consider her options. She had certainly pissed off enough rich and powerful people over the last four years to be wary of someone wanting to speak to her alone about representing someone else. Perhaps she was being paranoid, but as she was known to say, “It’s not paranoia if they’re really out to get you.” Then there was also the issue of Logan, who Erin could sense was now in full protect mode. Erin finally landed on being cautious. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I prefer to have Logan here. Logan’s also an attorney and we sometimes work together, so anything you want to discuss with me you should feel free to discuss with them here as well.” “Them?” the man repeated, looking around. “Yes. Logan’s genderqueer and uses they, them, theirs pronouns.” “Oh,” he replied, unable to mask his confusion. “I apologize.
I don’t know your name,” Erin said. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Gabriel, Gabriel DeAngelis. But please call me Gabe,” he replied, offering his hand to Erin and Logan in turn. “How can I help you, Gabe?” Erin asked. DeAngelis seemed to glance around to see if anyone was within earshot. “Like I said, it’s not for me. It’s for my . . . my friend. He was arrested two days ago. He’s charged with murder and he desperately needs an attorney and you come highly recommended.” “Nice to know someone highly recommends me,” Erin said. “What’s your friend’s name and who’s he charged with murdering?” “My friend is Jon Mazer and he’s charged with murdering—” “Russell Marshall,” Erin said, finishing the sentence. DeAngelis took a deep breath. “I guess you saw it on the news.”
“Gabe, unless I was living in a cave on Borneo, it would be pretty hard for me not to know about the case. A white state trooper shoots a Black newspaper reporter, in the reporter’s home—a reporter who allegedly was working on an exposé of the state police. I mean, the governor, state attorney general, and the superintendent of the state police have all condemned your friend as a bad apple in an otherwise stellar law enforcement agency.” “They’re all full of it!” Gabe shouted. “I won’t argue with you about that,” Erin said. “But from what I’ve read, it still sounds like the state has a pretty solid case.” “That’s exactly why Jon needs you. He didn’t do it. He was the one working with Marshall to expose the corruption within the state police.”
“Look, Gabe, let me be blunt. I presume you know that I’m a transgender woman, and generally speaking, law enforcement doesn’t have a great reputation within the LGBTQ+ community. On top of that, my law partner, Duane Swisher, is a Black man. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how sick and tired Black people are of being killed by white law enforcement officers.” “Ms. McCabe . . .” “Please call me Erin.” “Erin. I get it, but Jon’s not just any trooper—he’s gay. He’s the only out gay male trooper we’re aware of, and since he was outed, other troopers have put him through hell. They literally hate him.” He bit down on his lip, closed his eyes, and exhaled. “Jon’s a close friend. Trust me, he didn’t do it. You have to help him.” Erin stared at him for several seconds. “Based on the fact that you’re here, I’m assuming he’s in custody.” “Yeah. Bail’s been set at two million dollars. There’s no way he can make that.” “The case is in Middlesex County, right?” Gabe nodded. “Not to be crass, but does he have money to pay for a lawyer?” “We’ll find a way.” Erin reached into her purse and took out a business card and handed it to DeAngelis. “Let me talk to my partner. Do you have a card?” He reached into his pocket, took out a card, quickly jotted something on the back, and handed it to her. She looked at the card, then at him. “That’s interesting.” “Please don’t call my work number,” he said. “I wrote my cell number on the back.” “Can you call me around ten a.m. Monday?” she asked. “Yeah. Ten will work.” “Okay. I’ll talk to you then.” He turned and headed down the walkway toward Nassau Street.
Once he was out of sight, they made their way down Witherspoon Street to join the others at the restaurant. “You going to take the case?” Logan asked. Erin shrugged. “Don’t know. At this point I don’t even know if he can afford a lawyer. Not to mention, I’m not sure how Duane will feel about the racial overtones of the case. I guess we’ll see.” “How about the fact that, based on what’s been in the press, his friend is guilty as sin,” Logan asked. “Nah. That’s not a consideration. If Duane and I only took on clients who were innocent, we would’ve been out of business years ago.” Logan laughed. “You think Gabe and Mazer are more than friends?” “Don’t know,” Erin said. “But it would explain Gabe’s desire for confidentiality.” “Why?” Logan asked. Erin handed Gabe’s card to Logan. Logan looked down at the card, stopped in their tracks, and screamed, “What the fxxx! Are you shxxxing me? Reverend Gabriel DeAngelis, Saint Raymond’s Roman Catholic Church, Franklin, New Jersey.” “You can’t make this stuff up,” Erin said. “Damn, woman,” Logan said. “You sure do get some crazy-ass cases.”
I decided to read this story based upon the title--Nothing But the Truth--an obvious legal novel which I've always enjoyed. It truly is a fascinating fictional story that comes straight from today's headlines. As soon as I finished, I went out and purchased the first in the series - An Erin McCabe Legal Thriller, to begin catching up on the main character's life.
To begin I want to share a portion of the Acknowledgements section written by the author:
Although this book is critical of some in the law enforcement community, I am sensitive to the fact that there are many dedicated people working in law enforcement—I’ve had the pleasure of working with any number of them. It can be a difficult and dangerous profession. However, those dangers should never blind us to the fact that there is room for improvement in the way the public, and in particular, marginalized communities are treated by members of law enforcement. It is no secret that these are especially difficult times for the transgender and nonbinary communities. Trans and nonbinary folks, especially young people, are under attack by people who deny our very existence and seek to take away our basic human rights. Some have vowed to eradicate us. I am an out, proud, and open transgender woman, and if Erin McCabe as a character offers any lessons, it’s that none of us choose to be trans or nonbinary—it’s not a lifestyle choice or a fad—it’s just who we are. Like everyone else, we are human beings trying to live our best lives possible. So, to everyone in the LGBTQ+ community, and especially those in the trans and nonbinary communities, thank you for your strength and inspiration. Finally, thank you to our allies who stand with us, you are invaluable.
Her words match what I had come to know as truth years ago. Given the ways in which those in this minority community are negatively treated, I knew there was No Way that they would "choose" to become something different than, often, their own family members. And, more importantly, Jesus never listed anybody to be excluded when He commanded us to Love God and Love our Neighbors... In fact, if you believe that God created us, then there really is no justification to treat them differently. And yet there have always been those who do.
You know, folks, from my perspective as a Christian, none of the prejudices that some people develop and attempt to justify hate and violence against others are valid. Nevertheless, as we have seen, it is only on the individual person level that we can truly know who others are... I don't profess to know how others choose to be as an individual, but then, many would never accept that I find fulfillment in reading and talking about the books I read, instead of some other activities that ar available to me... Yes, in my mind, there really is no difference in being called a "Single Cat Lady" as opposed to being a mother, by a vice-presidential candidate than in hearing any other critical evaluation made from one individual toward another... And, in the political world, in my opinion, the extremes that is happening right now in America is totally unacceptable. I didn't know about the characters identities before I started to read. To me, it didn't matter...
Nuf Said...
Erin McCabe is the main character and is a criminal defense lawyer who is rapidly building a name for herself... Standing tall, literally, beside her is a Black former FBI Agent/lawyer who has become a perfect partner for two individuals who've had some difficult history to go through. Like many of us... BUT, for me, my difficulties may not have been my fault but are the types of things we must all deal with, it seems, especially in the present when after too many years, we are still dealing with those who choose hate, prejudice, fear and violence, to be their life choices. My point? I've never experienced personal hate and violence against me like Erin and those who are "different" in some way. You see, I am a white woman and only recently began to see the total indifference from many who see the elderly as a minority they are not interested in supporting... Or, worse, all women who have had their basic rights for feminine health care taken away from them!
This book centers on those who are targeted...just...because...of...who... they...are... And, all those who love them...just...the...way...they...are!
The book opens when Russell Marshall, a local investigative journalist is murdered in his own home. He was Black and soon an openly gay State Trooper is charged with his death. Marshall had actually been working with this trooper since he was doing an investigation on the targeting of Black and other minorities by a group within the State Troopers known as the Lords of Discipline. Jon Mazer had been working with Marshall on his investigation since he had, himself, filed a Internal Affairs report about being harassed by certain Troopers.
First they discovered his fingerprints in Marshall's home which then led to the fact that one of his guns was used for the murder. Jon's Priest was the one to contact Erin in the hope that she would agree to defend his friend. She took his card and told him that she would discuss the case with her partner. The primary reason to clear with Duane Swisher, known as Swish, was because of the ongoing killing of black men by cops and whether he could handle working closely with a state trooper. But during the initial interview, it was Swish who began to talk about the costs, leaving Erin to recognize that he was willing to take the case.
What they discovered during an in-depth investigation is truly direct from the news headlines. Indeed, Marshall, the news investigator had uncovered the reality that there actually was a group who worked to bring harm to those who were in non-white groups of people. And, verified that the earlier internal investigation had been falsified. The final draft had been shared and ready for publication... That evening Marshall was confronted and murdered!
Erin and Swish are excellent characters. They are loving to each other, totally committed to their professional relationship, and, have to deal with family relationships just like the rest of us... More specifically, they treat each other and their clients as all should be treated--with sensitivity, concern and a dedication to ensuring they have done the best job they could do in defending their clients.
Lots of kids have to deal with issues over who their parents are. But that’s not a reason to shy away. It’s a reason to move forward.Because it’s only when we refuse to be intimidated and we stand up to the bullies that we can move past the hatred and bias to a place of love.”
You will learn that the haters can be situated in just about any position that is available. You will also learn that those who have accepted an oath to protect may willingly choose to break that oath based upon their own prejudices, biases, or because they have been incited to break their oath by those in supervisory positions. And, importantly, you will learn that those who have been targeted feel just as you might feel if you were discriminated against. Rather, that decisions are often made to support their personal drive for power and higher salaries. And, most of all, you will see and read how those who are focused on hate, speak, act, and strive to ensure that their hatred is known and, ultimately, felt by those toward which hate is pointed. You will read language used by the haters that is obscene, yet you will read it as spoken by the haters. In fact, during the trial, you will explore just how much of that hatred spewed by those haters is acceptable, even to prove guilt.
Erin thought. Rule number one—the person responsible will always try to blame someone else when questioned. “Your Honor,” Erin began, “I will represent to you as an officer of the court that neither I, nor Mr. Swisher, has provided any information to the press.
This is the best legal interaction within a novel that I have read. One significant difference was that the judge herself, was much more active during the trial than I had witnessed even through hundreds of hours enjoying television's Law and Order programs! I like to think that this evolved because of recent television court cases that have been shown. Frankly I enjoyed the judge taking a leading role, rather than leaving it to the prosecuting team to control the activities.
One of the areas that came across clearly in the course of the legal preparation was that both sides needed to know much about all forms of computer technology and how it can be used to create, secure and share. In this case, it came to be the computer experts that led to the final decision... For me, I have no concern about how things can be done, rather I want to know what is possible. There will always be those who strive to communicate secretly, for whatever reason. Bottom line, for me, I learned much simply from reading this book!
One final point, there is considerable discussion about women's reproductive issues, including for minority people. I learned much from this book as well. Women's reproductive rights is uppermost in women's minds these days. Given one party's attempts to move us backward, while science has gained leaps and bounds in improving options in this very personal field, I found myself grateful for the author tackling the legal methods by which women can ensure that their needs are met within the laws but in support of what the medical professionals must address as well. Both were exceptionally well presented with specific issues and character involvement.
This was my first book read by author/lawyer Robyn Gigl. Her skills and expertise in both fields is so revealed that she's given me one of the most comprehensive fictional legal book that I've read in many years. It's an important read for women experiencing today's trauma at the hands of the republican party. Women will begin to understand the complexities of just how many issues that can occur in reproductive health! It will provide women with an exploration of how the doctor, lawyer, family dynamic can effectively occur--even without the government!!! I loved it and will continue to at least read this series...and more... Highly recommended as an addition to my Personal Favorites for 2024!
GABixlerReviews
“... think about it. Isn’t everyone’s desire to have a baby inherently selfish? Mind you, I’m not talking about an unwanted pregnancy or someone who’s raped, I’m talking about a mature couple that decides they want a baby. Why do we do that? Why do we think the world will be a better place if we create a child?”
