Philllipa Nefri Clark Presents The Cottage at Whisper Lake - Temple River - Caring for Elderly Spotlight!

 When Dad told us we were moving, I made him promise we could bring everything of Mum’s as well. Nothing was to be thrown or given away. I’d carefully packed Mum’s clothes and shoes and locked diaries and photographs into especially sturdy boxes. And made a nest in the middle of Mum’s softest jumper for the jewellery box. I do love the small box with its lavender pattern with gold metal around the edges and when it is opened, a darling little ballerina lifts up and slowly spins in a perpetual pirouette as music plays. As long as I wind it up first with the key on the back, the dancer always dances. 

One day, maybe, I could be a dancer. 

Why wouldn’t a person care about the wellbeing of their neighbour? Mind you, her father never had. He rarely had a nice word to say about anyone unless it was to the face of a guest. But she couldn’t blame one man for her narrow view of the world. She worked with men a lot and some of them were decent blokes. Some of them.

‘See. It is a lake. A magic lake which makes people laugh,’ he says. ‘And when we sit in our magic lake we can whisper secrets to each other. Whimsical whispering water. With fish.’

This is such a lovely story... Even though the way it was written, readers will also experience the sadness that comes from the story. The story begins in the past where a family has just experienced the death of the mother. It saddens them all... But, the father decides to relocate to another town where his soon can attend a special school for detailed medical help. Charlie is looking forward to attending school. His sister, not so much. Mainly she doesn['t want to leave the place where her mother is buried--and she won't be able to visit like she has been doing.

Rebecca--Becky--is a good student, but she has taken on most of the duties needed to keep the home running. There is a constant discussion which sometimes includes her Dad's sister, about her needing to also attend a special school for girls, which her aunt happens to run. Rebecca was opposed to leaving her father and brother... Readers are privy to the day that everything changes. It was the end of an era of family happiness that had just begun as Charlie was growing stronger at his new school...

Readers travel over 60 years ago where we meet an entirely new family. One that has been separated due to trouble that developed fairly early in their marriage. We meet Sadie who has become a journalist who became a specialist in creating documentaries. She has developed a good reputation and has been kept busy in production of one after the other. So much so that she hasn't been home for years.

Her father has died so that Pam, her mother was now the only family connection and had been left after her father's death to run the family Inn. However, when Sadie got there, she immediately noticed that there was a change not only in the condition of the Inn but in the physical health of her mother. Readers can't help but become emotionally involved as these two women struggle to develop a new relationship that was based on their own connection as opposed to having their father being a wedge between them.

It's a sad story that will evolve as Sadie is there to not only see her mother, but to deal with the family will, the future, and what will happen in the future. Sadie finds herself stuck dealing with the past--a time when, when young, she and her father were very close and he was very supportive of her becoming what Sadie wanted to do in the future. But at some point, she remembered two men from a local church had come to speak to her father. And suddenly her father pulled away from the daughter he had spent so much time and support to her when she was younger.

Although Pam had loved her husband, she also had to adapt to the change that came over her husband... But Sadie soon realized that Pam was a stronger women than she had thought and, together, they worked to plan where they both would be in their future. With a little bit of help from her mother, Sadie also met Dan, a local building contractor, with whom she'd been talking about doing work in the Inn itself. Of course, Sadie and Dan were "destined" to be attracted to each other, even though Sadie was a lot harder to convince of being able to trust Dan...

I’m a big believer in the shrine of a trillion stars in the midnight sky.’ Good grief, if you don’t stop saying everything right and looking so darned gorgeous I am going to fall for you. Stop it.

But it wasn't until Sadie had become to explore the area and came across the home of somebody that put her on alert, that she and Dan got to know each other... Sadie had taken a walk and came upon a small cabin, where a black cat came happily to greet her, and quickly heading into the house... Sadie noticed that the door was open and, worried, she step in and immediately noticed a purse opened on a nearby table... Soon, the entire town was alerted. Rebecca a woman in her 70s had previously gone off by herself and had needed help to return home. Pam hooked Sadie up with Dan who was a friend who had helped before and had become friends with Rebecca...

It was Dan and Sadie who found Rebecca and got her home, but it was Sadie who took more of an interest--Many of the documentaries Sadie had made were dealing with homelessness and aging... But that first day, Rebecca had asked Sadie to help her find them and Sadie had said she would try, but, later, Rebecca didn't remember that request... But Sadie did and kept on trying to discover who or what she was looking for...

But there were many times available for picnics, or exploring Dan's home which he'd built himself... And, of course, Sadie was excited to see they had similar tastes in the home environment...

Folks, I chose to close out this review with a surprise which related to how the ending will surprise you in a delightful way... Sadie is working on a documentary of a new facility in this lake area...and it's bound to have lots of exciting music to celebrate... So enjoy!

May music and happiness end each day as you spend time with all those who care for each other and work together to service and support all God's Children! And, I highly recommend you don't miss this book!

GABixlerReviews

Penance - And Complementary Music by Shnabubula - By Sharon Sala

 

Six weeks ago, a simple trip to her neighborhood pharmacy had turned into a nightmare. She’d walked into the middle of a robbery. She never even saw the man who shot her in the head and left her for dead. She’d survived, but some of her senses had not. She was dealing with short-term memory loss and a tendency to stagger. Even though she’d been told the problems were most likely temporary, she waged a daily battle with depression. Her parents had been killed in a car wreck when she was twenty-one. They’d owned the apartment building in which she had grown up, so finances were never going to be a problem. But she was alone. There were no aunts. No cousins. No grandparents. Except for a few friends—and most recently her boyfriend, Dominic Tucci, who lived in the apartment right above hers—she was alone. Her doctor kept reminding her that she should be grateful to be alive, and on one level, she knew he was right. But he wasn’t living in her shoes. If she’d been anywhere else but at that pharmacy when the robbery happened, then she wouldn’t have died twice on the way to the hospital. She wouldn’t be mistaking salt for sugar. She wouldn’t be missing a head of hair and staggering like a drunk when she stood up. 

Instead of being grateful that she’d survived, she couldn’t quit thinking of what she’d lost. But that wasn’t the end of her troubles. On top of everything else, something strange was happening inside her head. She’d begun to hear odd things. Sounds, not voices—at least, she didn’t think it was voices. It sounded more like the distant sound of rapids—a rush of wind and water inside her head that, when it came, blocked out everything around her. It didn’t happen often, but when it did, it was frightening, and it was driving her crazy. The blank moments, as she called them, even had a rhythm. First came that sound, then a cold sweat, then panic with no reason. Part of her feared it was the beginning of an emotional breakdown. And part of her feared it wasn’t—that it was going to turn out to be a permanent souvenir of her resurrection. She was twenty-six years old and living the life of a senior citizen with dementia, and tonight was living proof. 

Here she was, alone in her apartment on a Saturday night, eating ice cream and watching the news like some old maid. All she needed was a cat. Frustrated with herself and the situation as it stood, she stabbed her spoon into the mound of mocha fudge and then scooped up another bite, letting it melt on her tongue while she upped the sound on the TV and watched Pat Sajak bantering with Vanna White. A few moments later, an announcer broke into “Wheel of Fortune” with a special bulletin. 

“This just in. Police are on the scene of a kidnapping that occurred only hours ago at The Dakota. Molly Dane, the five-year-old daughter of one of Hollywood’s blockbuster stars, Lyla Dane, was taken by force from the family apartment. At this time, they have yet to receive a ransom demand. The housekeeper was seriously injured during the abduction and is, at the present time, in surgery. Police are hoping to be able to talk to her once she regains consciousness. In the meantime, we are going now to a press conference with Lyla Dane.” 

Horrified, Nicole stilled as the cameras went live to where the actress was speaking before a bank of microphones. “I thought I had problems,” she muttered, instantly ashamed of herself and her attitude. When the woman began to speak, Nicole leaned forward, absently resting the bowl of ice cream in her lap. The shock and terror in Lyla Dane’s voice were physically painful to watch, but even though Nicole kept upping the volume, the sound continued to fade. Just when she was beginning to think something was wrong with her set, the broadcast suddenly switched from the Dane press conference to what appeared to be footage of the kidnapping. 

The clip began inside the apartment. When the front door suddenly flew back against the wall and four men rushed in, Nicole gasped. Horrified, she quickly realized that this must have been caught on the Danes’ security camera inside. As Nicole continued to watch, a small Asian woman, who she guessed was the housekeeper, rushed forward in an effort to keep them out. When one of the men hit her in the face with his gun, Nicole moaned. The violence was too reminiscent of what she’d lived through to ignore. Sick to her stomach, she fisted her hands against her belly, wishing it was over, but unable to tear her gaze away. When the maid dropped to the carpet, the same man followed with a vicious kick to her midsection that lifted her off the floor. “Oh, my God,” Nicole said. When blood began to pool beneath the maid’s head, she started to cry. As the clip played on, the four men split up in different directions. The camera caught one running down a long marble hallway, then disappearing into a room. Moments later, he reappeared, carrying a little girl, who Nicole assumed was Molly Dane. The child was wearing a pair of red pants and a white turtleneck sweater, and her hair was partially blocking her abductor’s face as he carried her down the hall. She was kicking and screaming in his arms, and when he slapped her, it elicited an agonized screech that brought the other three running. Nicole watched in horror as one of them ran up and put his hand over Molly’s face. Seconds later, she went limp. One moment they were in the foyer, then they were gone. Nicole jumped to her feet, then staggered drunkenly. The bowl of ice cream that had been in her lap fell at her feet, splattering glass and melting ice cream everywhere. 

The picture on the screen abruptly switched from the kidnapping to what Nicole assumed was a rerun of Lyla Dane’s plea for her daughter’s safe return, but she was too numb to really pay attention. Before she could think what to do next, the doorbell rang. Startled by the unexpected sound, she shakily swiped at her tears and took a step forward. She didn’t feel the glass shards piercing her feet until she took the second step. At that point, sharp pains shot through her foot. She gasped, then looked down in confusion. Her ice-cream-spattered legs looked as if she’d been running through mud, and she was standing in broken glass and melting mocha fudge, while a thin ribbon of blood seeped out from beneath her toes. “Oh, no,” she mumbled, then stifled a second moan of pain. The doorbell rang again. She shivered, then clutched her head in confusion. “Just a minute!” she yelled, trying to sidestep the rest of the debris as she limped to the door. When she looked through the peephole, she didn’t know whether to be relieved or regretful. It was Dominic, and, as usual, she was a mess...

~~~

Nicole Masters was feeling sorry for herself, but many would say she had a right to do so... She had been caught, by accident, being some place she wished she had not been and getting shot in the head for being there! How cruel fate was to have arrived at her pharmacy just when it was being robbed! Must we be forever caught in the midst of criminals, with guns, that have no concern for anybody but their own greed?!

She had resorted to treating her anger with her favorite--ice cream! Having each spoonful melt on her tongue, deliciously relaxing her mind to its wonderful diversion... At least until, a news item broke into her concentration. She stopped to listen, even stopping eating, as a clip inside the apartment of where a child was being kidnapped was shown...

Except there had been no clip of the actual event on the news... And, soon, Nicole was in the midst of a major crime--again! But, this time, she was watching as the kidnapping of a child actually took place! How?

And...Why?...

Molly Dane, daughter of a major screen star had been kidnapped! As Nicole watched, she began to feel a little ashamed of herself. After all, she was alive, and successfully recuperating a major surgery, while a young child had been taken by four men, one of them cruelly treating her as he pulled her out of her room, moving quickly to join the others and leave, after also hurting the housekeeper, who was now in the hospital... The maid had been slapped in the face hard enough to fall and then be kicked by her assailant until blood flowed around her...

Dominic Tucci lived right above her in an apartment where he had come to love Nicole greatly. Now, though, he was worried because she seemed to think that she was no longer worthy to be involved with him. Fortunately, he didn't agree and had come to visit her, only to disrupt her watching the news and her dropping her ice cream and then stepping on the glass as she tried to get to the door. He quickly picked her up and then found the first aid box to clean and wrap the latest bodily problem she was facing...

And while he was cleaning up the broken glass, they began talking about the kidnapping, until she began to talk about the four men who had taken her. Dominick stopped her--there had been no tape available and the video had not been part of the news program... Nicole knew what she had seen was real, however!

And she was willing to share everything she saw to help the police!

Could her head injury have resulted in some type of psychic ability developing? So she tried to see something more, but discovered it apparently didn't work that way... Until around noon, she could feel the same sounds that had been heard right before her first, apparent, vision. What would she see now?

The music playing on the stereo in the other room began to fade, and she felt the skin of her face tightening. It was happening again. She took a deep breath and leaned against the cabinet, waiting for the rush of wind. It came, and with it came another vision. One moment she was pouring soup into a pan, and the next she was watching a short, stocky man walking toward her. Thinking she was about to be attacked, it took her a few moments to realize that the man wasn’t coming toward her. In fact, he wasn’t even in her apartment. He was in the same room she’d seen before, and he was approaching Molly Dane. Somehow she was seeing through Molly’s eyes—seeing everything Molly was seeing. Then the man spoke. “Here, kid…you gotta eat. I brought you a Happy Meal. It’s got a toy in it and everything.” Nicole felt Molly’s despair as the man shoved the food in her hands. “Eat it!” he demanded. In what Nicole could only call an out-of-body experience, she and Molly took the food to a table. She saw the little girl’s hands trembling as she opened the small box and took out the plastic-wrapped toy. Without looking up, she set it aside. Someone in the other room called out, “Benny, come here!” Nicole saw Molly look up. The man, who Nicole now realized was one of the two men she’d seen at the kidnapping, glanced at Molly, then walked into the other room. As soon as he was gone, Molly ran to a window. It was boarded up, but she thrust her little fingers into a crack and pulled, trying to loosen the boards. Nicole winced as she saw the child lose her grip. When she pulled back, her fingers came away with splinters. Molly grimaced with pain but had the foresight not to cry out. Instead, she clenched her fists, then glanced over her shoulder to make sure she was still alone before peeking through the crack. Nicole felt Molly’s helplessness and despair. Nicole’s heart skipped a beat as Molly’s gaze went from the graffiti-sprayed wall of the building across the way to the street signs at the corner. “Oh, God…oh, God…look at them, baby. Look at the signs,” Nicole whispered. And Molly did. Her gaze went straight to the corner as if she’d heard Nicole’s long-distance plea. East 149th Street and Morris Avenue. Nicole read the names twice, locking them firmly in her mind as Molly suddenly spun and headed for the table. She was tearing into the paper around her hamburger when Benny came back into the room. Benny was staring at Molly for what seemed like a very long time. Then suddenly he shook his head and looked away. At that point Nicole panicked. The thought ran through her mind that they weren’t going to let Molly Dane go. Once the money was transferred, they were going to kill her. She had to tell Dominic and the detectives. And just like that, the vision was gone. She glanced at the clock. It was less than an hour before the transfer had to be made. If they didn’t find Molly before noon, it would be too late.

~~~~

Though less than 100 pages, this taut paranormal romantic suspense will keep you interested through each page that brings you closer and closer to the edge as you work along with the wonderful characters to bring a young girl back home! I admit that I was disappointed that it wasn't longer, wanting to learn more about how one criminal act is translated into the closeout of a different criminal act, involving a child... I enjoyed, especially, Dominick who work selflessly to help Nicole not only deal with her own misfortune but to let her completely know that she was his chosen, and nothing was going to break that bond... Highly recommended!

GABixlerReviews

Three Seconds To Rush: Piper Anderson Legacy Mystery Book l - by Danielle Stewart - Romantic Suspense at its Finest!

 

“Are you all right?” Tara asked, leaning back and folding her arms across her chest self-consciously. She’d taken a shower, brushed her hair out, and put on her only decent outfit. But the look in his eyes was making her feel like a heap of garbage. “I’m fine; how about you, are you fine? Are you clearheaded enough to have this conversation? I don’t need to be wasting my time. I put off two other meetings to have you up here. If you’re going to be turning down drug treatment, I hope you have some another plan for yourself. You’ll need to be clean for trial. Otherwise there’s really no point to this.” 

“What are you talking about?” Tara laughed but stopped abruptly at the look on his face. “I told you I don’t need drug treatment. I don’t do drugs.” “Did you take that cab home last night?” The arrogant look on his face made Tara’s stomach knot up. “Are you following me?” she asked indignantly, feeling like if she couldn’t get Reid to believe her, twelve strangers would surely never give her the benefit of the doubt. “I happened to see you,” he said bitterly, straightening some papers on his desk. “Listen I would be crazy to assume you’d kick the habit all in one night. All I’m saying is we need a plan to make sure you’re clean by trial time. You need to be open to that.” 

“Pass,” she said, nibbling angrily at the side of her mouth. “What?” Reid twisted his face in frustration. “What are you talking about?” “Pass; don’t you remember?” Tara’s mind, which had been pushed to the brink by sleep deprivation, had to wonder if maybe this wasn’t Reid. How could he have forgotten their code words and their secrets? “I . . . uh . . .” He faltered, narrowing his eyes at her. She would have sworn he was a stranger until he ran a hand over his cheek and rested it under his chin. The way he always had when she drove him nuts. “That’s what we used to say.” She smiled, wishing he’d remember it as fondly as she did. “If something got too heavy between us, if we couldn’t get the other person to see things our way, we’d say pass so we didn’t kill each other.” “Tara, this isn’t a game.” He sighed, leaning back in his chair. “We aren’t kids anymore. You could go to jail. You might miss your son growing up. I need you to do what I ask of you.” “Just pass, Reid. It’s not that I won’t do what you want, I’m just saying let’s move on to something else. There must be other things we could do first. Why argue right out of the gate?” “Fine,” he acquiesced. “We need resources. Expert witnesses and an investigator. The police had you pegged as guilty from the first moment. They didn’t look any further into the case. That alone might be enough to create some reasonable doubt in a jury.” “How much does all that stuff cost? I know that your hourly rate must be way above my budget, but I want you to know I’ll do what I can to pay you back. Even if it takes me a lifetime.” She crossed her finger over her heart, another piece of their own, long-forgotten language. “Forget that right now. I’ll cover the cost of the investigator and call in some favors. There’s someone I’ve known a while. I asked her to join us this morning. It took some persuading, but I think she’ll have a good perspective, even if she doesn’t take the job.” “Okay,” Tara said in a tiny voice, feeling like she was overextending her friendship with Reid. She’d relied heavily on the past relationship between them but now she was sure she was exploiting that part of Reid that could never say no to her. If that was her only path back to Wylie she’d have to get right with it. 

“Her name is Willow. She’s based in New York, but she owes me a few favors. She’s willing to come up for a while and hear you out.” “And she’s an investigator?” Tara had wrongly assumed the investigator would be some big-bellied old man, retired from his detective job and looking to freelance. In her mind she’d conjured up an image of an old time Dick Tracy. “She’s more than an investigator. She runs an innocence project that helps people who have been wrongfully convicted. This isn’t in her normal protocol considering you haven’t been convicted yet.” “Yet?” “I mean it’s earlier than Willow normally jumps on a case, but she was willing to come today. That’s a start. She’s the best at what she does. I’ve never seen anyone so driven at what she believes. You want her in your corner, so remember that. She has a family of her own and working with us will be keeping her from them. It’s a lot to ask.” 

“Got it,” Tara said, happy that no matter what Willow was like, they had that one common thread; they were both mothers. Surely she’d understand the horror Tara was feeling. “She’s going to ask you things you might not want to answer. Don’t get defensive. Hear her out. Nothing she throws at you will be worse than what the prosecutor will be asking.” Reid looked at her with an intensity that demanded an answer. Tara nodded, but like a dammed river finally cresting she asked the questions she knew Reid did not want to answer. “Are you sure there is no way I can see Wylie? Not even for a few minutes? I think if I called the Oldens, even though we haven’t gotten along in the past, they’d let me see him. He must be asking for me all the time. I’m his whole world.” “No,” Reid asserted. “It’s not a good idea right now. Focus on the case.” Reid didn’t blink. He didn’t soften his gaze or mollify his voice. “That’s easy for you to say; you don’t have kids. You can’t imagine what it’s like to not be with him right now. You don’t know the agony.” She clutched a hand to her heart and the tears began to form again. “I brush his teeth every night and sing this song about Pearl the white tooth. I remind him to take potty breaks. This is the longest I’ve ever gone without him lying in my arms to fall asleep.” 

“Good,” Reid said, looking her over appraisingly. “You need to continue to play that card, be sympathetic.” He waved his arm like a director instructing an actress. “You think this is a card?” Her eyes shot wide open with disbelief. “You think this paralyzing pain of not having my son in my arms is some kind of act? I know every single inch of him, every freckle, every cry. I know him better than I know myself. I love him more than I have ever loved anything, and not being with him right now, imagining he’s scared, imagining he’s missing me, is the most crushing thing I’ve ever experienced, and trust me Reid, my life hasn’t been easy.” There it was. Finally, a break in his steely expression. He swallowed so hard his Adam’s apple jumped. His cheeks changed just slightly, the quick burning red of a firework that fizzled out just as quickly. It was unfortunate the only thing that had rattled him also confirmed Tara’s presumption of why he was here helping. Guilt. At the sound of hearing confirmation that her life had been littered with troubles, she knew instantly he felt blame for much of it. 

“She’ll be good on the stand,” a smooth voice said from behind Tara, sending her jumping. In strode a bronze-skinned woman with large eyes and bluntly cut blonde hair. Her clothes were casual, just a gray T-shirt and some well-fitting dark jeans, her black flats looking almost like slippers. Rope bracelets laced around her wrists and an intricately wound metal necklace hung long on her. She was well put together yet intentionally disjointed. “Willow,” Reid announced, standing quickly and pulling her in for a hug. A hug? Reid had seemed so stiff, so unfamiliar and cold, but now he was throwing hugs around. Clearly this was more than just a professional favor. “How’s the family? Is Josh still working at the clinic?” “He is,” Willow announced with a dramatic roll of her eyes. “He’s a glutton for punishment. But he’s doing some good, and you know how important that is to him. My husband the martyr.” They both laughed and Tara felt small, like she didn’t belong. “I always said he should wear a cape to work. I don’t know how he does it. All those treatment programs and sad cases. It has got to be exhausting.” Reid shook his head and flashed his familiar friendly smile at Willow. There was a time in their lives that Tara and Reid had their own body language. It was all gone now, saved for other people. “He must be a superhero to put up with me,” she joked as she leaned against the small bookshelf below the window. She didn’t opt for the chair next to Tara, probably a tactic to stay noncommittal to the situation. “I appreciate your making the trek up here. Your opinion on the case means a lot to me.” Reid settled back into his chair. “I’d imagined you’d be interested in more than my opinion; I figured you’d want my services.” She cocked one of her brows and challenged him. Then she smiled, letting him off the hook. “I didn’t want to start begging too early,” he said with a wry show of his teeth. “You and Josh have been key players in so many of these cases, and I don’t know how I’d have gotten through some of them without you. I respect you both a lot and . . .” “Are we already to the flattery stage?” Willow laughed, waving him off and pushing her bangs off her face. “Let’s hear what we’re working with, and I’ll let you know how I can help. You know Josh and I will do anything we can for you. Now who are we trying to get out of jail?” “No one’s in jail yet,” Reid said, his voice sounding cautious...

~~~

...but Tara knew better. Lies were in her veins recently. Her whole life was fake, and it had become second nature to say what people wanted to hear. Teachers asking why her parents had missed another teacher’s conference didn’t want to hear about their latest bender or how her mom had wanted to come but she’d begged her to stay home, knowing she was too high. That version of the story was too messy. So Tara would make something up...

“I don’t do hope anymore. This job will stomp that nonsense right out of you.”

When I first seriously started reading and reviewing fiction, I soon realized that I agreed with what I had read in publishing magazines, which I had subscribed to while I was working at a small publishing company. I learned that writers should strive to grab attention of the reader within the first few pages. It became something I've always looked for but didn't find often. Danielle Stewart did it perfectly, and I was hooked, even though as I read I was certain of whodunit...

The book opens when a young mother is discovered in an alley, with a needle sticking out of her arm, completely passed out... About the same time, her son was found in a grocery cart seat, cold with his lips turning blue... Tara was immediately given a drug to bring her out of the near-death experience and was rushed to the hospital. So was the son... Tara was not to see her son further. She had been charged with child endangerment...

Tara had had a terrible early life, then her husband died by a heroin overdose, leaving Tara alone with their child. She immediately looked for work and had three different jobs in order to keep food and shelter for her son. She had nobody in her life other than the few people involved in her jobs and she worked hard to financially be able to just keep moving forward. Stewart's character of Tara was one that readers will immediately know that Tara was not a mother who will in any way hurt her child...

And yet none of the people who were immediately involved in the crisis situation would stop to listen to her story. She had a needle in her arm and was passed out... Same old story. She was a drug addict... Worse, she cared more about getting high than to caring for her son... Me? None of it rang true. Yet the police and prosecutors felt they had a tight, evidence-based case and were proceeding to indict her.

Tara had nobody, no money, no supporting family. But she did have a close childhood friend who she had heard had become a defense lawyer... After that time, she thought she could call on him and beg for help...

Reid, however, at that time, was close to job burnout. He had reached a point where he was tired of having to find some "story," some "angle" he could use in order to defend his clients, often knowing that they were guilty and he was helping them return to their criminal activities! By the time Tara called him, asked for his help and he had called to learn about the charges, he felt that, even as a friend, Tara was just one more client who wanted him to lie to keep her from going to jail...

But Tara had learned more about herself, had decided what she wanted in life, and was working hard to make a home for her child, as a widow... And she was not willing to play games or lie...

We need to create some checkpoints, some mental health intervention and a support system that’s sustainable for you. But this could change everything. Think about Wylie.” 

“You want me to say I tried to kill myself?” she asked, her words broken with emotion. “I don’t think I can do that. I can’t go there and lie.” “You can’t say it’s a lie,” he cut in. “You admit you don’t remember what happened that night. If the prosecutor can’t find any evidence of habitual drug use, then what other explanation is there? They’ll know they can’t prove their case, and they’ll back the charges down. Isn’t that worth it?” 

“Worth saying I’m suicidal?” Tara cupped her hands over her mouth, the word seeming too bitter and unsavory to let out again. 

“Better than being a drug addict,” he argued, his voice raising a few octaves. “You have no idea how lucky you are that Willow stumbled upon this. Just think about it for a minute before you shoot it down completely.” She bit at her lip to force herself to do what Reid was asking. “What would we do next if I say what you want me to say?” 

A smile accompanied by a look of relief cascaded over Reid’s face. “We’re about to enter the discovery stage of the trial now that the arraignment is over. That means the prosecutor has to share information and evidence they’ve gathered.” 

“Everything?” she asked, feeling like she was about to be stripped bare and paraded through the court when the day came. “By law it’s any information reasonably calculated to lead to admissible evidence. We’ll get a good idea of what they intend to do in court, who they’ll call as witnesses. Once we have that information I think we should present this new evidence and petition the court to reduce the charges.”

Tara often would have flashbacks to when she had helped Reid in his youth. He would sneak into her bedroom window just to talk and she would help him see things from a different perspective. Often he was just drunk and would sleep there on the floor rather than go home. One time, she had lied for him when he could have been arrested along with a group of students who had committed a crime. Tara was so used to lying, that the police had no problem in believing her story...

But Reid was not in a position in his own life to be able to return that favor of lying in court for her. In other words, he believed that she was indeed addicted to drugs and had not considered any other option. Fortunately Reid had met some good people along the way and one individual in particular, who investigated cases where innocence of the accused was unclear. She began to investigate, thankfully, and, even better, was a mother who knew exactly what condition Tara was in with no other help to care for a three-year-old son... In other words, she believed Tara...

Readers will see how easily somebody can be set up to be accused of a crime... Expect to be greatly frustrated as to how Tara was treated, especially, since she claimed from the very first, since she had no idea what had happened to her, that she did not do drugs and would never harm her beloved son. You will feel her pain, knowing she was accused yet knowing that there was no way she had been involved with those accusations. 

Even though I had correctly figured out what was going on fairly early, I still responded with anger of how this woman was being treated... I know we have a drug problem in America, but, even more, we have lost our sense of believing people, even in relation to criminal actions that may or may not be able to be proven. Suspense, therefore, is high... But the change that occurs to Reid is significantly higher... He has lost faith in defending people who may be innocent of what they've been accused.

Even though I had correctly figured out what was going on fairly early, I still responded with anger of how this woman was being treated... I know we have a drug problem in America, but, even more, we have lost our sense of believing people, even in relation to criminal actions that may or may not be able to be proven. Suspense, therefore, is high... But the change that occurs to Reid is significantly higher... He has lost faith in defending people who may be innocent of what they been accused. Readers see his on again off response to Tara, as he thinks he learns enough to know she is guilty of addiction and the subsequent charge about her son...

Stewart has written a realistic human story, that could easily be a real story right now in America. Have we lost our ability to believe that not all people are capable of crimes--even though the outward signs reflect evidence to create a legitimate assumption?

The ending of this story is fantastic, not just for learning the whodunit... This novel has much to tell you about life in America at this time, when even those who have entered the justice system believing that they can help, are meeting so many obstacles, not the least of which that they are more than likely actually defending a guilty defendent, often somebody with power and money, or even religion in this case, to feel like they should be able to buy their way out of that courtroom... It was too raw a story to become a personal favorite, yet, I can't help but recommend that this book is one that should be read for many reasons... Do check it out!

GABixlerReviews

Latest Post Re Within the Sounds of Silence:

https://gabixlerpersonalopinion.blogspot.com/2025/05/may-19-2025-within-sounds-of-silence.html

Can't Go Home - A Trinity Calhoun Mystery Series by Melinda Di Lorenzo - Extraordinary Personal Favorite Read in One Sitting!

 

Although the seedier parts of Whimsy aren’t really all that seedy when compared with Vancouver’s downtown core, there’s still a sharp turn for the worse as I guide my car through the streets toward Schmidt’s. The buildings are more rundown. A slightly acrid scent permeates my car. And evidence of neglect dominates the sidewalks. Right before I’m about to turn onto the street that houses the bar, I spy an overflowing garbage can and a pleased group of crows, digging their way through it. I want to shake my head at the mess. I know for a fact that Whimsy’s city crew comes through here only when they have to. Which means the cleanup coincides with important events. The big opening ceremony at the university every fall. The Winter Festival in December. And, of course, the start of spring tourist season. It irks me. Maybe even more now than it did when I actually lived here. I’m not naive enough to think that a little more attention will completely eliminate the problems that go along with relative poverty. But having grown up in the poorest of the family-oriented neighborhoods in Whimsy, I can vouch for the feeling that nobody cares. And if nobody cares, then why try to get out of what can only be fate? Ordering myself to stow the bitter emotions, I pull my car into Schmidt’s dilapidated lot and take inventory of the exterior of the bar. The building is short and squat, with a flat roof that visibly sags in some places. The siding is brick, broken in a few spots and covered in dark moss in others. An awning—once bright yellow, but now faded to a sallow shade—juts out above the main entrance. The lettering on the fabric has long since disappeared. The idea that it meets any kind of code is ludicrous. And how the local fire department hasn’t yet torn it down is a miracle. As I climb out of my car, it’s hard for me to imagine either Asher or Gabe choosing this as a place to drink. Even brokenhearted Gabe or the current version of Asher don’t quite fit with what I think must be the bar’s usual clientele. What about a cop? I ask myself. Like the one Asher described. Can you imagine a law enforcement official hanging out at Schmidt’s on purpose? “Well, I’m here, aren’t I?” I say under my breath. I reach the door and close my fingers on the handle, cringing as my palm meets with something slightly sticky. I give a forceful tug then quickly release my hand and slide my body through the entryway. I want to go straight to the bathroom so I can scrub down with whatever it is that Schmidt’s has in the way of soap and water. I don’t follow through, though. I can already feel every eye on me, and the last thing I want to do is alienate the customers and staff. People are reluctant to answer questions when they think they’re being looked down on. So I stow the urge to get clean. I walk directly up to the bar and seat myself on a stool instead. For a good two or three minutes, the sixty-something bartender, who’s sporting a beard worthy of Santa Claus, ignores me. Though I know he’s seen me, he continues to unload, dry, and put away a set of glasses. I don’t care. I’m happy to wait it out. But I do use the extra time to steal a look around. I’m careful not to make it too obvious, primarily taking my glances via the dingy mirror behind the bottles of even dingier liquor. There’s a man alone at one table, his head propped up on one of his hands, his eyes closed. There’s a group of three other men, sitting in a booth and playing cards while sipping from their pint glasses. A third table hosts a couple who are sitting so close together that it’s impossible to tell much about them other than that they’re both blonds. The only other person in the dimly lit space is a big man—tattooed, enormously broad-shouldered, and thick across the middle—standing beside an antiquated jukebox with his arms crossed, and who I assume must be Schmidt’s answer to security. I see nothing particularly interesting or concerning. So when I glance over at the bartender once more, I’m glad that he’s finally deigned to pay attention to me. “Drink?” he grunts. “Just a beer, please,” I reply, knowing that whatever he gives me will be watered down to the point of not being alcoholic at all. He grabs one of the glasses that he just finished wiping, fills it at the tap, then sets it down with a slosh. “Four bucks even.” “Thanks.” I pull a twenty from my wallet and set it on the bar. “Keep that.” His eyes find my face as his hand finds the money. “You a cop?” “I am,” I admit. “Cop night is Wednesday.” I’m curious about what he means by the statement. Is he referring to a designated evening where the police can simply unwind? Or a day when the local PD drinks for free? Or something with an even more corrupt undertone? But I don’t ask. It’s not what I came for. “I’m not here on official business,” I say instead. “Cops are always on duty, whether they admit it or not,” the bartender replies. “Accurate to some extent, I guess. But I’m just trying to figure out the truth about a fight that happened in Schmidt’s a few weeks ago.” “That’s not gonna narrow it down. Someone tries to get the shit kicked out of themselves here pretty much every other night.” “This fight would’ve involved an older man.” I wince inwardly at the description; I really hate it that that’s what Asher has become. “Thin. Wild gray hair. Clothes might not have been the cleanest. A little confused, but smart as hell.” “Ah,” the bartender says with a knowing nod. “Ah?” I repeat. “You’re talking about Prof.” Relief makes my shoulders sag. “Yes, that’s him. Do you remember the fight? It would’ve been between a month and two months ago.” “I do,” he tells me. “Weird fucking few minutes. Prof was in here a lot up ’til then. Always quiet. Out-to-lunch when he’s in the mood to talk. But polite. That was the first time I’ve seen him on a Wednesday, though.” I don’t bother to cover my surprise. “He was here on a cop night?” “Yep. Before that, he was strictly a Monday and Thursday guy.” I let that process for a second. Asher being here on a night designated for police lends credibility to his story. At the very least, it explains his interpretation of the situation. “What about the guy he got into it with?” I ask. “Was he a cop?” The bartender snorts. “Gabe?” This time, I don’t let my surprise show. “You know him, too?” “Yeah. I’ve known him since he was a shit-disturbing kid, trying to sneak in here underage. Moved back to town a couple of months ago, I think. Been coming in most Wednesdays since then.” I bite down on the inside of my lip, now adding that revelation to the stack of other facts. Why did Gabe lie about spending time at Schmidt’s? Was it really a lie, though? I ask myself. He didn’t say that he never came here. Just that it wasn’t his usual kind of place. He might’ve just been embarrassed. “Do you know how the fight started?” I ask. The bartender gives me both a shrug and another nod. “Prof came up and sat beside Gabe, said a few things. Couldn’t hear what, exactly. Then he started yelling about some woman. Figured it was a sex thing. Prof used to be a bit of a stud.” I decide not to comment on the last bit—I have no desire to discuss either Gabe’s or Asher’s sex lives. And I also don’t prompt the bartender by identifying Jennika. I’ve already let her name slip once today. And besides that, it would feel too much like leading a witness. But a question pops to mind, and even though I know it really has no bearing on the facts, I want to pose it anyway. “Can I ask your opinion about something?” I wonder aloud. “Go for it,” the bartender replies. “So long as you’re sure you want to hear it.” “I wouldn’t have asked otherwise,” I tell him with a smile. “Then hit me.” “What I want to know is if you think either man was more responsible for the fight than the other.” He tilts his head, visibly considering the question. I take a sip of the watery beer, waiting. I don’t know what I want his response to be. I have no desire for either man to be at fault. One would be as bad as the other. I loved Asher. I still do, on some level. And Gabe… Just the idea of Savannah’s brother being the aggressor in a fight makes my heart hurt. I want to think he’s moved on from that angry kid he used to be. And what all of it has to do with the missing women is another thing altogether. Or it’s not a thing at all, says my subconscious, much to my own frustration. Finally, the bearded man opens his mouth again. “Here’s what I’ll say. Gabe didn’t look put off or surprised to see the good old professor. They sat together for a few minutes before any shit went down. The more that Prof said, the more agitated our other friend got. Then came the yelling about the girl. Pretty sure Gabe told the old guy to mind his own business. There were some shoves. Couple of punches. Then my security man and one of the cops broke that shit up.” Well, I think. It’s about as neutral as I could’ve asked for. Except it’s also unsatisfying. I have an explanation for why the two men’s stories have conflicting details. And based on cohesive state of mind, Gabe’s is likely the one that’s more accurate. But I can also see how, addled as he is, Asher would mix things up the way he did. It also begs the question of whether or not he really can’t go to the police. Though it’s not quite as bad as starting a fight with a cop, I suppose that starting a fight in a roomful of them isn’t exactly trust-inspiring, either. “Does that give you what you need for your unofficial business?” the bartender asks. “I don’t know,” I say honestly. “But I do appreciate your help.” He grunts an acknowledgement, then grabs a cloth and turns away. I watch him polish the dented brass on the bar for another moment before I slide my stool out, stand up, and exit the building. When my feet hit the cracked concrete outside, I see that it’s splotched with rain. As I hurry back to my car, several droplets hit my head. And by the time I actually put the vehicle into drive and start to pull out, a full-blown storm is nearly in effect. Even with the wipers on the highest setting, the water on my windshield doesn’t clear fast enough. It puts a kibosh on my desire to go immediately to Asher’s—the roads out there are unpleasant when it’s pouring, and downright treacherous when it’s like this—and I decide to try to call him again instead. But three attempts yield me nothing but voicemail and frustration, so I resign myself to heading back to the hotel. The going is slow. It probably takes me twice as long or more to drive back to the Queen Inn as it ought to. The rain has brought extra traffic—likely people trying to get home before the onset of Whimsy’s version of rush hour—and an accident requires me to reroute three times. But at last, I get there. And with Asher’s folder tucked under my arm, I make a mad dash for my room. As fast as I go, I still manage to slosh through a puddle, soaking my pants. And my hair is plastered to my head and face, too. My soggy state and my hurry to get out of it are probably the reason that I don’t notice immediately that something isn’t right. My hand is already outstretched to take the knob when I see the tiny, open space in between the frame and the door.

~~~

I love book series where, after reading them for a long time, you get to know the characters as actual family members, working together, or fighting, or coming together, often to solve a mystery... On the other hand, there is nothing like starting a book by a writer you've never read before, and finding that the style of writing is so perfect, that the constant moments when the author leaves you hanging, wanting to know more, or, just, the awareness that this book is something very special, a book that perfectly matches what type of story you most enjoy reading... I started reading this book Tuesday--some of you might know what was to happen that night--but that was not part of my plan even if the book hadn't been pulling me forward for every single page! Seriously, this writer had me hanging to the climax... and then wasn't satisfied, she had to include a type of afterthought which leaves you wondering whether what you just read was correct?! Wow, I finished the book about 2:30 Wednesday morning and fell asleep smiling...

We meet a character, who always has a backstory as to why she chose to be doing the job she has chosen. In this case, Trinity Calhoun had chosen to become a cop and was successfully handling case after case in Vancouver where she was living...when she got the call...

But that was after a talk with her boss about her needing to take some time off, clearly making Trinity understand that she needed her to come back, fully able to engage in her job again. Trinity was not quite sure she understood what her boss meant, but it was clear that arguing with her was not the answer. Trinity would take some leave she'd built up... not even considering what she was going to do, since her job was really the only life she had. Maybe that was the problem?

The call was from a former professor at Whimsy where she had attended college in her hometown. Truth was, she'd had a more personal relationship with him as well and still cared about him. But on the phone, even then he seemed confused, even using a wrong name when he asked Trinity whether he remembered Sylvia who had been killed when she was still home. Trinity immediately went on the alert, Savannah had been her best friend and she still mourned her and thought about her constantly... But it had been more than a decade since her body had been found, murdered. And never solved...

A too-long moment of silence. “Professor Phillip? Is… Are you there?” “Trinity…do you remember Sylvia?” A chill. “You mean Savannah.” “Yes. Yes, that’s right. Savannah.” A throat clear. “But do you? Remember, I mean.” “Yes. Of course.” “Trinity, I need you to come home.” A pause. “Home? Asher…” “Trinity. I need you here.” “What do you mean?” “Can you come?” “I can. But—” A click. “Asher? Are you there? Asher?” Dead air...

Trinity knew that, even if she hadn't just been committed to take time off, that she would have immediately left to find out what was wrong with Asher, a man she had once loved, even while she knew he was right to push her away when he said he was not going to change his life for a future with her... Still, she was very confused by how he seemed on the phone. He wasn't that old--she figured out he was 56, but he'd sounded like he was close to dementia... And when she finally got there and saw him, long messy hair, baggy clothes, piles of papers all over the house and completely unable to even complete a coherent sentence, she immediately thought this was not something she could help with! And thought about immediately turning around to go home. Until he told her there had been another woman taken... Finally to calm him down, she said she would check out what she could...

Whimsy was one of those towns which was more concerned about having a good reputation as a college town than to ensure public safety was routinely handled. Trinity quickly learned that she could not depend upon the police to help in any way and quickly learned that little had ever been done to find out what had happened to Savannah. Instead it has been left to slowly be moved to the Cold Case Files...

But then one bright surprise occurred when Trinity accidentally met Gabe, who was Savannah's older brother and, of course, she had not seen since her funeral. In fact, Gabe had left town immediately after the service. And, as he told her, had only returned about three months ago... Still, the meeting was very tentative since Gabe had never learned that Savannah had called her the day she had later disappeared. And, Trinity had purposely chosen not to call her back, since they had been estranged for months. She had never forgiven herself, knowing that she had been the only person who Savannah would have reached out to for help...

Nevertheless, Trinity had agreed to stay a few days, especially after he had shared that there were two Whimsy students who had disappeared, one of which had been reported missing by her roommate... Trinity had pressured the professor to put together a set of documents supporting his opinions. What he gave her was a stack of unrelated papers, but a copy of her final paper she had written about Savannah's murder case. Perhaps he thought that would be incentive enough?

And, while she had brought her badge in case she needed to contact local officials, she was soon upset that she had chosen not to also bring her gun... Because now the professor was remembering that Savannah had been gone for quite some time before her body was discovered. Perhaps the latest, Jennika, could still be alive? Soon Trinity was talking to her roommate and discovering details that could lead to the possibility that she was indeed alive...

Be prepared to be frustrated. Clues coming together sometimes would lead where Trinity didn't want to go... When she found herself visiting her home where she had once lived, she also realized that there could be somebody following her. As she calmed herself down, she stopped to listen, realizing somebody was jogging, just like she had been doing to get there. But then she recognized the running pace of that individual... Dare she assume it was alright to come out of hiding???

I loved this book, Mystery and Suspense at its finest! Do consider this a book that you just might enjoy as much as I did! Highly recommended!

GABixlerReviews

Something was very wrong. As soon as he put his palm on the door handle, he knew. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was experience. Or maybe there was something more tangible behind it. A subtle, physical change that he’d picked up on subconsciously. Whatever the case… He. Just. Knew. Except the knowing wasn’t enough. A second too late, he dropped his hand. The door came flying open. The heavy wood—they sure as shit didn’t construct stuff like that anymore—slammed straight into his forehead. The blow sent him to the ground; the pain paralyzed his limbs and made his eyes water. Then…there she was. The girl.

Masters: The Archers of Saint Sebastian III - by Jeanne Roland - Personal Favorite 2025 - Melodrama at its Finest!

Forgive my move from totally medieval... I so enjoyed the lyre music that I wanted to also hear songs with which I was acquainted...LOL

Upon finishing Masters late last night, my first and immediate thought was to begin my review of this book with some thoughts on Melodrama. I had already read, somewhere, that Roland loved melodrama, so I knew exactly what to expect--or thought I did... You know... Think Soap Operas... At least that is what they used to call them. Those daily portions of an ongoing story that are fed to, mostly women, all over the world... My mother, my cousin...you get the idea...there were always fans who would stop everything each day to watch "my story..." LOL Seriously? Truthfully, I rarely watched unless I was forced to, by being at somebody's house visiting and would have to stop all activities, at least until The Guiding Light or whatever, was over...

But the storyline wasn't necessarily the issue... As an avid reader of books on all things, I got used to a finale--a climatic completion, most of the time totally satisfactory, even if I wasn't a fan of the book itself. A writer had written a good story, which may or may not have met my personal preferences. I acknowledged that and would evaluate the book on merit as opposed to opinion... Now, as my posting to the right says, I include not only my merit review but my personal opinion... and I normally purchase all of the books I now review.

As you have seen, I read straight through this trilogy, often losing sleep to finish and move on, needing to know what was coming... Until I came to Masters... The ending did not satisfy... BUT, I started searching and learned that the author is writing a fourth book--I am sure she realized that she could not leave her fans hanging... GUARDS is the next book!!!! Not yet published, but I am thrilled and hope that my personal desires will be ultimately met before the series ends... LOL 

This latest book is the most melodramatic of those now published! Roland has unbelievable timing in writing her stories... She ensures that at the end of the book, the reader both immediately wants to read more of the story, but, also, provides a great cliffhanger that excites and titillates the reader to look for answers that have been left hanging, at least in my mind... LOL Thus, I'll be looking for the next book due out in February if everything goes right!

Hey! Everybody! I'm now an honorary Guild Member! Me! A Girl! LOL I'll be getting the first chapter of Guards to read!

Now on to Masters!

 

A light snow must have fallen sometime earlier in the night, unnoticed by us all in our preoccupation with the evening’s more dire events, and before me now stands a perfect circle of white bathed in the light of a full moon. I’ve only seen a moon like the one that’s out tonight once before, on the night I led the squires on an outing to the convent of St. Genevieve to ask for a kiss. A witching moon the boys called it then, and I guess they were right; at least, with the icy foliage and the snow-strewn ground gleaming in the moonlight the place is so transformed from what it was during the day that I hardly recognize it. Now it’s an inviolate druid’s circle or the forbidding haunt of a faery queen, and I suppose it should be beautiful. But this place can never be anything but ugly to me, and if anyone had told me when I stumbled blindly away from here this morning that I’d ever come back willingly, or that it would now seem to me to be a place where things made sense, I’d have said he was crazy. I pluck up my courage and pick my way across the open ground, lifting each foot high and placing it down deliberately again as I go. A nervous tick has started pulsing away erratically against my wrists and behind my temples at being back here again, but when I pause to lean the bow in my hand against my leg and adjust the shooting bracer carefully on my arm, I’m not stalling. It’s just my usual routine, before taking any shot. When I’ve got the bracer positioned, I pick up my bow again. It’s a long clean, line, and holding its smooth wood feels good. It feels right. It’s something I understand, something that makes sense. I make sense, when it’s in my hand. I’m a boy again, Tristan’s squire Marek and an archer of St. Sebastian, the boy I want to be. It’s about the only thing that’s made any sense today, and right now I need to do something that makes sense, something I can know exactly how I’m supposed to feel about it. I slide an arrow out from the quiver slung across my shoulder, and roll it between my fingers. It’s one I made myself, and I don’t think I’m bragging when I say it’s as beautiful as any work of art. I’m good with my hands and I never do anything but my best work on Tristan’s equipment, and a squire always shoots with his master’s arrows. It’s a little thing, but it feels good, too, moving in my hand. I watch the thin red whipping swirl through the feathers of the fletching as I twirl the arrow, and the red bands around the shaft that are Tristan’s mark blur until they could be a smear of blood. With a deep breath, I slip the nock of the arrow onto the bowstring. Then I step to the place where Tristan fell, an unmarked arrow in his side. I know the exact spot where it happened, on the day of that fateful hunt here so long ago. I recognized it right away this morning, didn’t I, when Remy and I came out of the woods across it, by some extraordinary chance? A lucky chance for me, as it turns out, although I felt anything but lucky, then. Now even with it covered in snow I couldn’t miss it. Not after the wretched scene that followed our discovery, when all the boys spilled into the clearing behind us, to find me with a broken arrow clutched in my hand. A fresh wave of frustration and rage washes over me, although after all that’s happened since, I’m no longer sure who or what it is I’m so angry at. Myself, maybe. How could I have been running thoughtlessly through the woods to Tristan’s rival, bent on betraying Tristan, and myself? I was about to throw away everything I’d worked so long and hard to achieve for the both of us, and why? Because I’d let the girl in me be seduced. And how easily he did it! Just by letting a hawk land on my hand. At the thought of how I felt standing in Brecelyn’s field as that bird of his swooped down toward me, a flush of shame floods my cheeks. Who am I kidding? I know exactly who it is I’m really furious at. I give myself a shake. I didn’t come here to think about this morning. I came here to forget all about it. It’s time to take aim and focus on what it is I really want. So I force my mind further back, to the day Tristan was shot, and I lift my bow slowly. As I do I sight across the clearing, along the path the arrow that struck Tristan must have come in its flight. My eyes search out the hiding place where his shooter would have been concealed, waiting for his prey, and I find it easily: a fallen log, with the tall stump of a tree rising next to it, its arms outstretched. It’s not hard to imagine it’s the boy who must have stood beside it then — an archer in St. Sebastian’s garb, dressed all in black, without a spot of color to relieve the midnight of his costume. I bend my bow, and as I rise into my shot, I focus all my concentration on that stump, just as though it really were that treacherous boy, that day. As I do, in my mind I picture Tristan’s enemy and mine as he would have looked then: tall and strong, his head held high, the huge yew bow in his powerful hands trained on Tristan. He throws back his broad shoulders, and those incredible arms of his eagerly stretch his bow, straining it to the breaking point for the kill. There’s a murderous scowl blazing on his handsome face; his thick, black hair falls in a wave across his brow, his dark eyes flash with fire; his mouth curls into a triumphant sneer, as his breath comes out hot and fast through parted lips that … uh … his lips … warm, hungry lips, pressing mine … “Oh, damn it all!” 

With an exasperated cry I squeeze my eyes shut and let my arrow fly, sending it with shaking arms in a perfect shot, straight for his eye. The arrow strikes the stump with a loud thwack. It’s a very satisfying sound. To me, it sounds like finality. Okay, maybe it’s an empty gesture. But I do feel better. A little. “Gads, Marek! What a remarkable shot!” a languid voice suddenly exclaims behind me, and I jump about two feet straight into the air. I clutch my chest and stagger backward, more from shock than from fear. I’d know that impeccably accented voice anywhere. It’s Gilles, and I’m caught. I can’t believe it! I’ve managed to make a complete fool of myself on the exact same spot, twice in one day. My eyes fly open, and I whirl around. Sure enough, an elegant boy is lounging up against a tree a few feet behind me, dressed to the nines despite the hour and casually examining the fingernails of one hand in the moonlight. “But whatever do you have against stumps?” he drawls, amused. “Why, you’ve positively emasculated the poor thing!” I look back over my shoulder, to see with dismay that he’s right. My arrow is sticking out of the stump. But it’s much, much lower down on it than where anyone could picture a boy’s eye to be.,,

~~~

The hierarchy of the Guild is mandatory, filled with painful penalties on just about anything that the Masters disapprove... Using the term master begins at the lowest level. Squires refer to their Masters, the Journeys... Journeys refer to those who have become Masters, as such... But, there is only one Head Master at a time... We see even more of this cruel man as we start reading the latest book in this extraordinary and fascinating series!

When I don’t rise to his bait, Gilles doesn’t take it amiss. Needing no audience, he simply returns to his earlier theme and starts waxing lyrical about lovers again in a most grating fashion. When he starts to sing an old love ballad that echoes crazily around the hollow room I move away, not wanting to let Gilles suspect how much all his talk of lovers is getting under my skin. For some reason, I find myself gravitating over to one of the alcoves, to the place where I dragged Tristan to tend to his wound here after the hunt; to the place where I pulled the arrow out of Tristan’s body that Taran shot into him.

~~~

“In a clearing in the forest there stands a willow tree,” Charles croons, and I don’t like the song already. But I tell myself with Gilles suggesting it, it could be worse. It could be about a stump. “Beneath its bending branches you used to wait for me,” Charles warbles on. “But your heart is as fickle as clouds that ride the skies, for oh my faithless lady, you believed all their lies! Why did you give ear to idle rumors, slurs that I was fancy free? Or trust in the opinions of others over your own experience of me? How often have I proved noble, more than worthy of esteem? Oh, why didn’t you remember: things aren’t always what they seem?” My head swivels around and I look sharply over at Gilles; it’s obvious now where he got this line of his. But he’s not looking at me, and I don’t think he asked for the song to tease me. And as Charles begins the next stanza, I have to wonder why he did. Despite cutting his hair (and some of his affectations), Gilles is still a wands man. So maybe it’s as simple as that. But I doubt it. I feel myself blushing in the dark, and I look furtively around the garden to see if anyone is looking at me, embarrassed by the thought that the reproachful words of the song could somehow be meant for me. Of course, no one else is thinking about me in connection with the song. It’s a love song after all, and their heads are full of thoughts of the trials, or of their own amours. So I suppose, given the way he feels about me, it’s only natural that the one boy who is staring at me intently from across the little patch of grass is Remy. I can’t tell if the moonlight is making him romantic, or if he’s thinking about what happened between us in Brecelyn’s clearing, when we found Taran’s broken arrow and he begged me not to tell. But I bet he knows I kept that promise about as well as I’ve kept my promises to his master, and with the moon casting long, distorting shadows across his face he looks older than usual, and more serious. Hard, even, and a stray thought pops into my head, that it’s odd Remy’s never held my low opinion of his master against me. In the strange light that’s making everything look so different, it suddenly strikes me as incredible. Where another boy would hate me for it, instead Remy loves me. It must be the alcohol confusing me, since soon Armand nudges Remy and the two of them start whispering about something together, to all appearances quite happily. But as Charles’s rich tones fill the garden, I can hardly bear to hear any more of the song, or to think about what Remy’s master must be making of it, and it takes all my willpower to keep myself from looking directly over at him. "St. Sebastian’s is our family, and a merry band were we, until I found you with another, with my own guild brother — Tell me, was that kiss just to punish me?" Before Charles can finish the line, Taran’s already on his feet. He’s gotten up even more swiftly than he did from table, and just like then he turns heel and without a word to anyone he disappears into the darkness of the portico, no doubt heading inside to bed. Nobody much seems to notice; abrupt departures are nothing unusual for him, and the boys are too spellbound by the magic of the evening to pay any mind to him. Even Remy doesn’t seem to mark it, since Armand is now pestering him with some nonsense about ghosts, and the two of them are quietly arguing about it. Nobody, that is, but me. As soon as Taran is on his feet, in the same instant I’ve sprung up, too, almost as though we were connected by an invisible string. And without a thought for what he or anyone else might think about it, in a flash I dash recklessly across the garden, and I run after him. I catch up with Taran behind the vines, and as Charles is belting out the last lines of the wretched song, I’m pulling Taran back frantically by his sleeve. “When all my trials are over, dig my grave beneath that tree, with a wand as my marker, inscribed for all to see: No one ever loved her more, or did more for her than me." Taran turns to peer down at me in the dark, and as the words of the song hover in the air between us, we stand there in the portico, so frozen for a moment that again I think we could be statues in a niche, hidden from the view of the others in the garden only by a thin veil of leaves. “Taran,” I stammer breathlessly, “Taran, I … oh, Taran, I don’t, I don’t … I, oh, Taran.” And then I’m in his arms, and I’m kissing him. Or he’s kissing me, most violently. I don’t know how I got there — if I grabbed him, or he grabbed me. I don’t really care, since his arms are tight around me and I’m swimming in moonlight, up through the clinging vines that are sweet with scent and trembling right along with me. The blood in my veins is liquid fire and it’s moonbeams, and as I drink Taran in as deeply as I longed to do that day in the archives, his kiss is moonlight, too, and it’s fire and I’m drowning in it. As abruptly as it started, it’s over. Out in the garden the boys’ voices raise in laughter at some joke or other, and at the sudden sound my eyes fly open...

Taran’s nowhere to be seen. I’m still sitting out in the garden, with my head on Tristan’s shoulder and my back up against the base of the tree. It was just the moon playing tricks on me, and I dreamed the whole thing. I straighten up, and I wipe away the drool that’s been puddling from the corner of my mouth onto Tristan’s shoulder self-consciously. I’m burning in the dark, as disoriented as if my feet had been suddenly pulled out from under me and all the breath knocked out of me; I’m only vaguely aware of Tristan now drawling amusedly over my head, “It’s dashed ungrammatical, too, isn’t it? It really should be ‘no one did more for her than I,” and as the boys all laugh again, I struggle back to reality: I’ve been slumped out here under a tree drunkenly slavering over Taran, while he’s surely back in his room, lying face-down on his cot with his face buried in that sea-foam green veil of my sister’s. But I don’t let it upset me unduly. I really don’t. On a night like this, anyone can slip. I am a little drunk, and no one can control what he thinks in his sleep. Besides, I’ve already admitted to myself that I’m in love with him. The full moon comes around only once a month; by morning it will be gone, and with it all its cruel fantasies. So I force myself to settle back into enjoying what’s left of the evening, and I think I manage it pretty admirably, although some of its charm has understandably palled for me. What stays with me the longest isn’t the humiliation of it, or even annoyance at myself that I haven’t really managed to forget about that almost-kiss of Taran’s, since it’s not hard to figure out what inspired the dream. It’s the chastising words of Gilles’s song. And it’s that the feeling I had in my dream that there was something I was desperate to tell Taran is still lingering — only now that I’m awake, I’m no longer sure exactly what it is. With the competitions starting up again in earnest, I know I’ll never really have a chance to thank Taran for saving me on the tower, or find a way to tell him that I no longer think quite so badly of him. But I have a niggling feeling that whatever my dream-self was about to say to Taran there under the vines was something more than either of those things. Gilles interrupts my meditations not much later, by giving me another meaningful prod with the toe of his boot. When he proceeds to drawl down at me sourly, “A lovers’ moon, indeed! What a pity, Marek, it’s turned out all along just to be Aristide’s,” all I can do is agree. And with that, I’m more than ready to go in. I cast one last baleful look up at the brilliant moon. It’s so huge and bright, it could be the eye of our Saint himself, keeping tabs on me. So I lift my arms in that motion that’s like I’m aiming to shoot down the moon, and as I follow my master inside to get some much-needed sleep, I grumble to myself, “If you had to give me a test, Sebastian, did it have to be such a hard one?”

~~~

A couple of things I need to point out for possible readers. These books in the series cannot be considered free-standing. Consider this, Marek is the main character. We are privy to all of her thoughts, her dreams, her tantrums, her planning and her love mates--whether or not she wants them... That results in Marek's thoughts going back and forth often and sometimes from book to book. One in particular is that one day she loves a boy; the next she gets so mad that she hates him, doesn't trust him...and so on... To me, this writing made my reading more compelling. I was totally lost within Marek's life from the first words in Book 1. Fortunately I have a good memory so a change of heart on her part which contradicted what was said in the last book, was just another characteristic of this main character... But, sometimes, I just wanted to slap her face and give her a chance to talk to somebody--like me--LOL But she had nobody with whom she could share ALL of her innermost thoughts... What a cruel life punishment that resulted purely from her father being murdered!

I've always been a fan of drama, mystery, romantic suspense. This book has all of that. But, in my opinion, 90% of the melodrama in these books was brought about by Marek, actually created by Marek, or bitterly responded to by Marek... That's a lot of burden to throw at a 16-year-old girl... Sometimes I loved her; other times I was frustrated with her inability to, like one Journey said, keep her mouth shut; but most of all I admired her resilience at every turn that was forced upon her by others! And, I could appreciate her often turning to Sebastian, her Patron Saint, to help her through what she was doing...To me, God's role in our lives is what keeps us...moving...forward.  Kudos, especially, for Marek, to author Jeanne Roland! 

Head Master Guillaume has left the Guild to travel to another town. There is immediate speculation as to why and what he is actually doing. But when he comes back, several of the journey and squires are excited to see that at least one past master, with a skilled background, comes with him, together with two of those journeys who were cut due to low scores during the competitions, and have been brought back to take on different roles. Charles who was our lyre player in earlier books and Jerome whose eyesight had prevented him from moving upward. Each of them will be assuming different roles as the Guild works to both finish reconstruction after the plague/riots as well as to expand the programs of the Guild. Crossbows, another idea generated by Merek will become a new skill to be taught!

Upon Master G's return, he announced one major decision. All of the rankings from the last competition would be eliminated. Journeys were stunned. Squires automatically began to think about how they could guide their Journey forward... But, for Marek, she had already accepted that she had allegiance of some sort to two different Journeys. One of who had been top winner last year. Now, she knew she had to place her Journey, Tristan, first in all ways...

Thoughts flitter across my mind as I consider what was happening back then. Was Marek (or somebody like her) the first to propose that, instead of competitions for each other, that teams could be created to work together, to challenge each other... In any event, last year she had initiated what was called Squires Club and it had been so successful that Master G decided to break into that activity... As we now know, Master G is also an authoritarian dictator. Even though Squires Club was a success and had provided an excellent exhibition at last year's event, Marek had never asked for permission to even form such a club! She Must Pay! It is doubtful to me that even Master G did not know what he had done when he had this year placed Taran as the trainer of this group--no more unsanctioned leadership of a club of squires! The Squires, especially, as well as we readers, will be privy to the ongoing arguments between Taran and Marek as he slowly took over control, often disagreeing with Marek in front of the other squires...

Still, Marek thought through what had happened and decided that Master G had not stopped the squires working as a team. So, she was now able to start thinking about what could be done as the Journeys started their do-over and beginning again to establish a new ranking for those remaining journeymen... She chose Gilles, the journey who was top at most of his competition activities, to team up with Tristan who was lower in ranking. Her proposal to them was that each could help the other train for whichever type of skill that was needed for the three different types. While they agreed to try her idea, nothing prepared Marek or the entire Guild for what these two actually did...

Gilles is an aristocrat with lots of money and chose flamboyant clothes, jewelry and type of language that reflected best of his personality. Tristan had, long ago, given reign of his illegitimate background, to adopt a somewhat insolent attitude where he chose sarcasm as his main type of communication to those with whom he was not close... Gilles and Tristan began to spend much more time together than ever before. They began to practice together and saw the potential... Then, based upon their respective personalities, they decided that the only way to really understand the other's skills, was to become that other one! Yes, Tristan soon had taken on the persona of Gilles and vice versa! Everybody thought it was hilarious...except maybe the Masters...

But, we also find just what kind of man Gilles really is, when he creates a false celebration for his squire that was absolutely revolting... I hope the next book rectifies this piece of betrayal...

Still practice for the "Firsts" competition, once the theme was announced, moved forward smoothly... Which, of course, allowed our author to slide in several new catastrophes for Marek to deal with! One of which could possibly lead to her death by revelation that she was a girl... Yes, The Guild would kill any woman who violated the sanctity of the Male Guild... 

And, second, the attack of Tristan, which prevented him from being on time for the exhibition portion of the competitions!

This book thus became much more melodramatic than, in my opinion, either of the first books... The switch of Gilles and Tristan was hilarious... The two scenes for Marek, especially, and Tristan are hair-raising... By the end of this book, readers will be thinking of Marek as a true HEROINE!

But the ending, I think, is what led Roland, to write another book. She knew that readers would not be willing to stop...and...accept... This story was NOT OVER! I--We Want More!

I've asked the author/publisher  whether I can share the first chapter here... So, keep watching for info on Guards: The Archers of Saint Sebastian IV!

GABixlerReviews

Will Marek ever Become the Woman She Must Be to Love?