COMING SOON: AUGUST

Pre-Katrina New Orleans: In FATE, you met Vanessa Lewis, a young woman destined to fall in love with Scott, a man so different, yet so perfect for her.
CHANCES, continues this family's story with Vanessa's no nonsense sister Monica. After losing the man of her life she was determined to bestow her love and attention on her children. Until her new neighbor became an honorary member of the family. Everybody loved Devin. Could she?

MISCONCEPTIONS, brings the family together to support Daniel and Cassie as they fight a persistent thorn in everyone’s side.

IRONIC brings them all together once again as the family’s nemesis unexpectedly falls for a member of this strong family united in love.

Post-Katrina New Orleans : In STORM experience the aftermath of the worst natural disaster to hit the Gulf Coast through the eyes of the Lewis’s as Sabrina Adams and Josh Lewis find and preserve love in the midst of devastation.


STORM
An Excerpt
by Pamela Leigh Starr

Saturated With Katrina

Everywhere I go,

Someone’s life is on the sidewalk

My face curls up,

A flimsy attempt

To prevent

The stench from entering my nostrils

The speech in my periphery

Of losses, lies, dreams halted

In their tracks

Causes my ears to vibrate

A sadness that plunges into my spirit like a torrent wave

My town! My Town! My Town!

My People! My People! My People!

My mouth curls up

My fingertips warm, in the sweet grip of reunion



By Angela Foy Thomas
My sister and ONE of MANY Hurricane Katrina victims still rising


Chapter 1

It was no use.

It was dying.

Dreading the only decision left to her, Sabrina Adams guided the car to the shoulder of the road, moving faster in her sputtering twelve-year old Corolla than the stalled traffic she’d sat in for the last ten hours. The narrow shoulder was not quite wide enough to accommodate her compact-sized car. Coming to a complete stop partway on the shoulder and partway the grassy field running parallel Sabrina threw her car into park, shut the engine off and stared out the windshield as the radiator released its last, fiery breath with a tremendous puff of smoke.
She had been warned that the radiator was on its last leg and that her Band-aid approach of periodically adding water would one day fail. The radiator needed to be replaced and she had planned on getting it done one day last next.

Which was exactly what she had said the week before. And she had meant it, had even put money aside for that exact purpose, but a more pressing matter had derailed her.
Sabrina got out of the car and stared at the bumper to bumper traffic stretching as far as se could see. Thousands were fleeing New Orleans, heading for higher ground.
A hurricane was headed toward New Orleans again, like the year before with Hurricane Ivan, it was a snail-moving-through-molasses evacuation, nevertheless, people were taking the threat of Hurricane Katrina seriously.
Despite the inconvenience…
Despite the traffic…
Despite last year’s memory of a fifteen to twenty hour drive that would normally take no longer than two to five hours…
Katrina could be the one the entire population of New Orleans had been warned about for as long as she could remember, all her life probably. “New Orleans is a bowl,” she had heard over and over again. With Lake Ponchartrain to the north of the city and the Mississippi River running through it, if the city got a direct hit there would be no place for the water from the storm surge to go. It was a bit hard to imagine, but who would dare to be stuck in such a situation?
Not her.
Which was why, having a car, slightly handicapped as it was, she was evacuating. A little late but that couldn’t be helped. A steady, constant breeze washed over her, a heavy scent of rain in the air. She needed to find some shelter. According to the radio report the storm would be making landfall in a matter of hours. Pulling her cell phone out of her pocket she dialed her uncle’s house for the twenty-fifth time. Her grandmother was safe. She had already been picked up, transported and made comfortable by her uncle who lived in Lafayette, Louisiana, about one hundred forty miles from New Orleans, and where she had been headed there herself. That is, until she found herself in the wrong lane for the contra-flow designed to help relieve traffic. It had steered her northeast toward Hammond and no one, instead of northwest toward Lafayette and family. If she didn’t show up, her grandmother would worry and wouldn’t sleep, which would keep her Uncle Darren from sleeping. He needed to sleep, because storm or storm, he had to go to work the next morning. Uncle Darren was one of Lafayette Police Department’s finest. He would be preoccupied with dealing with the influx of people evacuating from New Orleans. There would be thousands of people simply coming through or looking for a safe place to stay for a while. Sabrina knew from Uncle Darren’s muttered complaints during and just after last year’s mandatory evacuation, that dealing with the effects of such a large mass exodus, for even a brief period of time, stretched the resources of all nearby cities and towns.
“Can I help you ma’am?” A young state trooper mercifully interrupted her rampaging thoughts.
Turning to fully face the officer, Sabrina snapped her cell shut to the recording she had heard over and over again, informing her that she, along with and because of thousands of other customers who were calling their loved ones, could not get through to the party dialed and should try again at a later time.
But voila’, she had the next best thing: a handsome state trooper, well, not exactly handsome, but definitely cute, but nowhere near as cute as John, especially when he—
“Ma’am, can I assist you?”
Pulling in her wayward thoughts, which always ran wild when she was nervous, Sabrina smiled and nodded at the cute trooper who could never compare to John, but who could direct her to the nearest police station or shelter where she could use a phone.
“Your car?
“It died.”
“So I noticed.”
“It’s the radiator.”
The trooper nodded. “Can I give you a lift, get you out of harm’s way? The highway is closing as soon as the traffic dies.”
“I know. I just made it out a couple of hours before the highways closed in New Orleans.”
He nodded again impatiently. He probably thought she was nuts standing in the middle of nowhere conversing on the topic of road closures when she should be jumping at the chance for help. The leery look that crept onto his face confirmed it. But Sabrina wasn’t nuts, just worried about her grandmother. She had had a heart attack a few months ago and though mild, the possibility of losing her had scared Sabrina enough to keep her at her grandmother’s side until two days ago. At that time she had had no idea that Hurricane Katrina would decide to make her way to New Orleans. The hurricane had been heading to Florida as most of them did. And the only thing that had torn Sabrina away from her grandmother’s side was the old woman’s insistence that Sabrina celebrate her twenty-first birthday. Which was what she had been doing with her best friend Kara. Celebrating her adulthood and her decision to tell John Lewis exactly how she felt about him. That of course turned out to be a disaster. She had been so wrapped up in said disaster and Kara was so knocked out from too lack of sleep due to Sabrina rehashing her most recent embarrassing encounter with John that Sabrina had not noticed the increasing amount of traffic leaving New Orleans as they headed back to the city. It wasn’t until Sabrina pulled into the driveway of her friend’s home to find, Kara’s sister storming down the steps, her arms overflowing with luggage. She informed that there was a mandatory evacuation and that Kara had better pack and be ready to leave in the next half hour. That was the first inkling Sabrina had gotten that Hurricane Katrina was headed their way. prompting her to race home, gather Grammy and a few basic needs to begin their own evacuation, only to find a curt note from Uncle Darren telling her that he had collected Grammy that she should “--call and get your butt to Lafayette ASAP!”
The cutie interrupted her thoughts once again. “Can I escort you to a shelter? I have a few other motorists in your predicament.”
“Yes, of course, I’d appreciate that.”
Sabrina followed the trooper to a police van, nodding to the handful of passengers as she took a seat. Instead of pulling into the congested highway, the van moved across the field and onto a small dirt road. Sabrina tried to relax against the warm vinyl, assuming that this was some sort of shortcut.
“All this traffic and bother for nothing,” a nasty voice said behind her. “Watch, we’ll all be back in a day or two, three at the most, having evacuated for no good reason. The hurricanes always miss us. Watch and see.”
Sabrina turned to see a middle-aged balding man with a huge belly taking up most of the seat behind her.
“If it wasn’t for you I’d be in my own house relaxing with a couple of beers,” he told a scrawny blonde women sitting on what was left of the seat. The woman ignored the grouchy man and Sabrina’s look of sympathy, staring straight ahead.
“The traffic and the situation have made us all irritated,” the trooper was saying, “but in the long run you’ll be glad you listened to the authorities and evacuated.”
“I doubt it,” the man grumbled before falling silent.
Turning away from the disgruntled passenger, Sabrina noticed a frail, elderly man sitting next to a middle-aged one who could be nothing other than his son. She remembered seeing them on the highway a few miles back. The sweltering heat of August in southern Louisiana had looked as if it was draining every bit of energy from them as they sat in the barely moving traffic with windows rolled down. Sabrina understood their predicament. Her air conditioning barely functioned, blowing only semi-cool air, but at least she had that much. And she was young to boot. She smiled at them. They mustered a smile of recognition and a quiet hello.
The sight of them brought her grandmother to the forefront of her mind again. Trying to clear her head of worry, Sabrina allowed herself to relive part of her birthday adventure, only the good part. After all, it was because of her adventure that her uncle had had to travel to New Orleans to take her grandmother to safety. Because of her adventure, she had left the city just before the highways were closed and long after her grandmother. And it was because of her adventure that she had embarrassed herself more than she had ever done in her life, a major feat in and of itself.
“John.” She sighed his name, wallowing in her infatuation. No, not infatuation. Her grandmother thought it was infatuation, and maybe at one time it had been. As a teenager she had sighed and mooned over John Lewis and his identical twin brother Josh every time she saw them and every hour in between. But then, one day she’d found herself mooning over John and only John. He was somehow the more handsome of the two, even taking into consideration the identical twin thing. John was the one she had fallen in love with.
John, so sweet and talented and probably still completely mortified and mad as hell that I made a pass at him, Sabrina pressed her face into her palms. She lifted her eyes a moment later to stare at the lights of a three-story building that looked like a school, situated on the side of the dark highway. A lone figure was walking toward the building, carrying what looked to be an instrument case. The deceptively slight build, the straight, confident walk… It couldn’t be him. But as they drove closer Sabrina had no doubt that it was.
It made perfect sense. They had both left from the casino hotel where he had played a gig with his jazz band. John had been loading his car when she and Kara had pulled off. Of course she had avoided him. She couldn’t avoid him now. John was walking toward the same shelter where she would probably be spending the next two or three days if the grouchy guy’s prediction was right.
Sabrina’s heart beat double-time.
She’d get to see him again.
But she didn’t want to see him.
She’d feel awkward, but what was new about that?
But then, he’d feel awkward.
Now, that would be new.
Before she could decide how she would deal with the awkwardness that they
were both bound to feel, the other passengers were getting out of the van.
Sabrina hopped out behind them, turning in the direction she had seen John walking. She took a deep breath in an attempt to calm her nerves.
“Woman, just what did you pack in this big old suitcase. Don’t you know we’ll be back in the city as soon as this thing passes?” the loud, rude man yelled at his wife as he hefted the suitcase out of the rear of the van.
“Pictures, important papers and some personal things—”
“I don’t know why you packed all that,” the man went on as Sabrina turned to catch up to the state trooper.
She reached a hand to his shoulder to get his attention. “I forgot my suitcase in my car. “Can we go back?”
“Sorry, ma’am,” he turned to say, laying a hand on her shoulder when disappointment took over her face. “It’s after midnight and not safe to be out. Perhaps tomorrow, after the storm has passed.”
At that moment Sabrina felt John behind her, his eyes boring into her back. “Shooting for more attention, Pest?” he paused to say before continuing toward the shelter.
No-he-didn’t! Sabrina’s worry about any potential awkwardness dispelled with his words. Her eyes locked onto the firm behind and broad shoulders of the man walking away from her as if he barely knew her, as if he’d never kissed her, as if she had never thrown herself into his arms, pressing her body against his hard chest, savoring the heat and scent of him while her mouth had its way with him. Well, exactly who did Mr. John Lewis think he was! Implying that she was after this cute trooper, who still had a hand on her shoulder. A warm hand that didn’t pull the least bit of yearning or excitement through her the way a simple glance from John created overpowering feelings of longing and a heart-pounding thrill at being near him.
“I’ll see what I can do about your bag tomorrow, ma’am,” the trooper said before heading back to the van.
Life would be so much easier if she could do something as simple as fall for a guy like the trooper. But no, she was destined to find herself panting for Mr. Nose-Up-in-the-Air Lewis.
Panting.
Yes, girl, that’s what you’ve been doing, but not any more. Gusts of wind pushed her toward the shelter doors the name above them confirming that the shelter was indeed a school.
You’re twenty-one now, not a silly teenager. Act like an adult! She had gone to Mississippi for the purpose of watching John play in a band at one of the casinos. And most importantly, to tell him how she felt about him. Which had pretty much amounted to throwing herself at him, only to be tossed aside.
Gently, but firmly tossed aside.
Sabrina grimaced as she remembered exactly how firmly she’d been tossed aside. Entering the well lit foyer of the school-turned-shelter, she walked down a hall toward the sound of people. In a large gymnasium where of people clustered in small family groups. Sabrina made her way across the crowed floor, finding a small entrance to the stands of the middle school gym that were sparsely occupied. Spotting the elderly man and his son across the gym Sabrina changed directions and walked over toward them.
“Are you two okay? Can I get you anything?”
“What a nice girl,” the old man said barely, making it into the folding lounge chair with the help of his son.
“That’s nice of you,” the son said, “but I’m sure you have things you need to do. The director just warned us that the lights would be turned off soon.”
“I’ve just got me to take care of,” Sabrina told the man, her heart going out to him. “Just tell me, is there anything I can get for you before I settle in?”
“Some water would be nice,” the old man said. “I can’t seem to get that parched feel out of my throat after staying in the hot car all day.”
“Water coming up!” Sabrina dashed away in search of water, wishing that she had remembered her bag.
She’d had a twelve- pack of water and a ton of snacks and fruit. Before she could make it too far, the lights flashed on and off and she heard an announcement. “Second notice. Lights out, ladies and gentlemen, in five minutes. Remember, we’re safe from the storm. Tomorrow will be a new day. We again apologize for the lack of supplies. The Red Cross will be sending in cots and blankets as soon as they can.”
People moved about restlessly, settling down for the night. The tension in the air was tinged with the hope that the woman who had made the announcement was right about them being safe. Sabrina glanced over at the younger man, an apology in her eyes as she wondered if she had enough time to catch the woman who was heading down the hall.
“Here you go,” John said, slapping a bottle of water into her palms. “You better find a place for yourself before the lights go out. You might end up stepping on somebody, maybe even accidentally cuddling up to someone you don’t know.”
Before she could respond, he had moved into the bleachers directly above the old man and his son. Sabrina handed the water to the man’s son and turned to pick her way across the gym floor, making it into the bleachers on the opposite side just as the lights were flashing for the last time. She stared across the gym at John. He’d stretched his long body across one of the bleacher rows using his backpack as a pillow. He wore a hard piercing look as the lights went out for the night.
Tired, achy, and disgusted with herself, Sabrina sat Indian style, her back against the row behind her. This was as comfortable as she was going to get. Her suitcase would have made a wonderful pillow and the blanket she usually kept in the trunk of her car would have added a bit of softness to the hard wooden bleachers, as well as providing a decent layer of protection from whatever might have been left on the surface from the many fans who had sat here.
“Oh well, there are worse things in life,” she sighed, knowing that sleeping on the bleachers in a shelter was better than being stranded on a dark highway in the middle of a hurricane. Digging into her pocket, she pulled out her cell phone once again. When she tried to call her uncle’s house, she received the same recorded message indicating that the call could not go through. Feeling frustrated and helpless, Sabrina flipped the phone shut but kept the power on. She slipped it back into the pocket of her pants in case her uncle or grandmother tried to call.
Leaning away from the light that filtered in from the foyer, Sabrina didn’t expect to sleep. The threat of rain and tropical force winds, even a few hundred miles inland from where the hurricane would make landfall was very real. Despite her worry for her grandmother, and the storm, however, she eventually fell asleep, knowing that even though John had been rude he would make it up to her. He always did. It was because he loved her too. He just didn’t realize it yet.
***
In the soft light easing into the gym John watched her.
And he noticed.
He noticed her shapely form, though it was a mere outline in the diminished light. He heard a deep sigh from across the gym or maybe he had imagined he had heard it because he could see the way her rounded breast moved with each deep, long breath. Sabrina seemed almost a part of him.
John shook his head!
Rounded breast.
Deep breath.
A part of him?
This was wrong!
All wrong.
He couldn’t think of Sabrina like that, not like a women. She was “the pest.” The little
girl who at one time was the next door neighbor and sometimes babysitter for his sister Ness (short for Vanessa).
But it was too late now. He’d noticed her. She was a woman and she was interested in him. From the way she’d pressed herself against him the night before, he had no doubt about that. This was all so very wrong. He didn’t have time for a woman in his life. His career was just taking off. He had landed a temporary spot in a well-known brass jazz band because their trumpet player got busted for drinking and driving and then held for the many parking and speeding tickets in his name. The player’s tough break had been a good one for John.
He had tried to let Sabrina down without hurting her feelings. She needed to understand that he wasn’t interested in her that way. But now he was coming to understand that he was interested in her that way. But he didn’t want to be, which was why he had been so nasty to her earlier today. That, and the fact that he had been jealous of that trooper, who’d had the nerve to put a hand on her.
His eyes having fully adjusted to the sparse light in the gym, John couldn’t keep them off Sabrina as he puzzled over his new feelings for her. Staring at her, he finally noticed a few other important things. She didn’t have a thing with her. No blanket, no suitcase, no pillow. Her head lay across one long outstretched arm. She seemed to be sleeping but how that was possible he didn’t know. He couldn’t leave her to sleep in such an uncomfortable position all night long just because he was leery of how she was making him feel. Ness would never forgive him, he told himself, using that excuse to justify the decision he had already made.
John scanned the gym floor, trying to gauge the best way to get to her. The floor was literally littered with sleeping bodies exhausted from the long hours spend on the congested highway. So, going across the gym floor was out. He’d have ended up waking half the people down there. His only other option was to stay in the stands and make his way around to the other side. He would have to make the journey without much light because the far end of the gym was pitch black.
His instrument case in hand and a small backpack on his shoulder, he slowly made his way across to the rounded end of the gym, banging his shins a time or two, hoping he was able to avoid encounters of the sticky kind. Coming around to the side of the stands where Sabrina had settled, John kept his eye on her sleeping form as he got closer and closer, refusing to consider that his decision to make her more comfortable was anything more than an act of kindness from one friend to another.
John stopped a few feet away, taking in the sight of her. She had a dancer’s body, which made sense. She was a dancer and at one time had been a gymnast. He remembered her trying to impress him by bragging about her skills. He also remembered her wearing braces and worrying about breaking out if she ate too much chocolate. The memories of a younger Sabrina were all overridden by the sight of her shapely form perfectly accented in a tank top that hugged her breasts and ended just above the waist of the white Capri pants she wore in deference to the hot August heat. Thankfully, the shelter had an efficient air condition system that gave them all a bit a relief. Wondering if the air was too cool for the tank top she wore, he placed a hand on her shoulder. That was a mistake. She was warm. The soft smoothness of her skin was a contradiction to the firm muscle beneath his hand, gained from her active profession as a dance teacher. Despite the warmth he felt, she shivered beneath his touch. Pulling his hand back, John stared at it as if to extinguish the tingling sensation simply touching her had left behind.
Placing his trumpet case next to her, he eased the backpack off his shoulders and found one of his cotton button-down shirts. It was the closest thing he had to a blanket. Sitting on the row behind her, trying not to think about how close his hands were to the rounded breasts that were now up close and personal, he laid his palms under her arms and carefully lifted her into a sitting position, gently easing her upward until her head and arm rested on his upper thigh. Too late he realized what a mistake that was. Shrugging his shoulders, John was suddenly too tired to do anything about it. The gig, Sabrina throwing herself at him, the sudden mandatory evacuation that he hadn’t known about until he was on his way back home, running out of gas and walking a mile to get to this shelter before the storm hit, all the events of the last twenty-four hours had taken their toll.
Using his backpack as a pillow John drifted to sleep, knowing he had to find a way to deal with Sabrina.

EXCERPT: Release Me

RELEASE ME
By
Farrah Rochon

CHAPTER ONE

Fake right.

Dribble left.
The ball left his hand headed in a graceful arc towards the net.
Swoosh!
Sinking the game-winning shot in the championship game was the only feeling that could compare to the rush that zipped through Tobias Holmes' veins as the crowd rose to its feet. The cacophony of applause, foot stomping, and catcalls played like a raucous melody in his brain, stoking the excitement already roaring through his body like an uncontrollable forest fire.
Toby joined in the ovation, placing his index and middle fingers in his mouth and releasing a high-pitched whistle.

Aria Jordan, the hidden talent he’d stumbled upon only a few months into his new career as a record producer, received the accolade with humility and grace, as she always did after performing. Toby still was not sure if the innocent, almost timid acceptance of her rising fame was an act or not, but he wanted her to stick with it. It was a nice touch. The crowd seemed to cheer even more every time that bashful blush rose to Aria’s cheeks.

Their applause continued, making him as giddy as a kid on Christmas morning. Others on the club scene talked about how tough it was to win over the crowd at the popular nightclub, The Hot Spot, saying it should be called The Cold Spot instead, to reflect the supposedly frigid response the audience bestowed to newcomers. The atmosphere was not cold tonight. The place was practically on fire.

Toby ushered pass the horde of club-goers making their way to the bar and restrooms during the short intermission. He intercepted Aria as she descended the short staircase behind the stage.

“You kicked butt up there,” he greeted her.
A shy smile broke out on her face. “You really think they liked me?”

“Think? Didn’t you hear that a minute ago? They were shouting for more. If I were tonight’s headliner I’d be afraid to come out on stage.”

“Thank you, Toby.” Aria crushed herself to his chest, practically knocking the air from his lungs.

“Whoa,” Toby chuckled, bracing himself after nearly losing his balance from the force of her hug.

“Come on. I don’t want anyone to take my table,” he said, unfolding Aria’s arms from around his waist.

Ever since his older brother, Eli, had questioned his relationship with Aria, Toby had been cautious of rumors concerning him and his client. He was determined that people see him as a professional, and knew better than to start something with one of the performers he managed. Besides, Aria wasn’t really his type.

He was still trying to figure out what exactly was his type. None of the women he’d dated over the past couple years appealed to him enough to consider developing anything serious. Then again, he wasn't looking to start a serious relationship. He needed to focus on his new career.
He guided Aria back to the prime table he’d secured.

“I’ll get you a drink,” Toby said, after settling her at the table. He headed toward the chrome-lined bar that spanned the entire right side of the club. “Can I get a Bud Light and a Strawberry Daiquiri?” he asked the bartender.

“Tobias Holmes?”

Toby turned. An older man, almost equal to his own impressive 6’ 9” height, stood not even a foot behind him. It was hard to keep much of a distance in the packed club.

“Do I know you?” Toby asked.

“Not yet.” The man extended his hand. “Marshall Kellerman.”
Where had he heard that name before?

“I represent Over the Edge Productions,” the man continued.

Ah, that was it. The television production company.
Production company?

Toby’s antennae perked up like a foraging ant’s. He clasped the man’s outstretched hand. “Hello, Mr. Kellerman. What can I do for you?”

“Actually, I want to talk about what I can do for you. And call me Marshall.”

The bartender delivered his drinks. Toby paid for them and picked both up from the bar. He turned back around and said, “Okay, Marshall, what can you do for me?”

“I hear you represent that amazing talent that just captivated everyone in this club a minute ago.”

“I'm her manager." And producer. And songwriter. And the only person she knows in the city.

The smile that drew across Kellerman's face was wide enough to park an Oldsmobile inside of it. That feeling of excited anticipation that used to come over Toby before the start of a basketball game skirted down his spine. It had been a long time since he'd felt the sensation. And, man, did it feel good.

Marshall Kellerman wrapped his arm around Toby’s shoulder. “Oh, yes, Mr. Holmes. We definitely need to talk.”

Toby returned his smile. “Call me Toby.”
###

“Mom, where are the silk scarves you ordered last week?” Sienna Culpepper asked as she straightened a faux pearl necklace in the glass étagère filled with expensive costume jewelry.

“I’m still waiting on the order.”

"Do you want me to call the company? The Southern Christian Women Leadership Convention starts next week. You'll need to stock items that are going to appeal to them,” she reminded her mother.

"I know how to run my own store, Sienna," came her mother's reply. "I've been doing it successfully for the past twenty years."

Sienna willed the impending headache to take a backseat. It was far too early in the morning to start popping ibuprofen. "I was only offering to help, Mother."

"Since when have I needed your help?" Sylvia Culpepper asked as she rounded the étagère, a collection of earrings hanging from a mahogany and cream velvet display shelf in hand.
Why did she even bother? Sienna asked herself for the four hundred thousandth time. This sadomasochistic ritual of helping out at her mother's French Quarter antique and high-end gift shop had occupied practically every Saturday morning since she was eight-years-old, and she had never receive as much as a simple thank you. She felt more like a bother than the asset she knew she was to her mother's business, yet Sienna found herself coming back every weekend. Even negative attention was better than none at all.

Preparing for an argument, Sienna broached the subject she had been thinking about all morning. “Mom, have you given anymore thought to the advertising ideas I mentioned?”
Silence.

"Mother, did you hear me?"

"You're standing right next to me. I'm not deaf."

The headache was coming on despite her best intentions to curb it. She sprayed glass cleaner on the inside of the étagère's glass door and wiped it off with a lent-free towel.

"So, have you thought about it?" Sienna asked. "You could do so much more business if you put a little more effort into getting the name out. A few ads on the St. Charles Streetcar Line and you can double the foot traffic in here.”

“My business is still open, isn’t it? You girls never went hungry. And you? You didn’t have to pay a single penny for that fancy education that you're wasting. I’ve never had to advertise before, and I don’t have to do it now, especially not on a gaudy streetcar sign."

"It is not gaudy, it's smart business. Some of the top restaurants in this city advertise that way."

"Do not stand in my establishment and tell me how to run it, Sienna Elaine! What do you know about any of this anyway?”

"Oh, I’ve only spent the last six years studying this very thing while getting my fancy education".

Sienna couldn’t help rolling her eyes. Most parents would be overwhelmed with pride if their child attained a graduate degree--with honors, at that--and landed a good job by the age of twenty-eight. Not her mother. It had taken her too long to finish school, even though she'd held a fulltime job while attending one of the most prestigious historically Black colleges in the country. Being picked out of a pool of over two hundred candidates for the only junior associate position offered with the leading marketing firm in New Orleans was only mediocre in her mother's eyes, as well. Accomplishing her careers goals meant nothing if she were still unmarried and not producing grandchildren her mother could brag about to her friends.

Sienna had resigned herself to the fact that she would never be good enough. No matter how hard she worked, or what she accomplished, her mother would always find her lacking.
And just how long will the pity-party last today?

God knows she could stand here berating herself well into next week if she didn’t get a handle on it. Sienna retrieved a pink and white feather duster from the janitorial closet and went over to the shelf that held an array of African sculptures.

“Are you going to the Holmes’ today?” her mother asked after several long, uncomfortable minutes. “Margo invited us to a little get-together they’re having for Alex’s baby. She graduated from kindergarten.”

Little get-together? Sienna knew the Holmes family well enough to know nothing they did was ever little, especially where the only grandchild, Jasmine, was concerned. Sienna expected nothing short of a full-blown carnival, complete with dancing bears and a fire-eating lion tamer.

“I guess I can stop by," she answered her mother.

“Good," Sylvia said. "Somebody needs to represent the family. I don’t even know where Ivana is these days, and Tosha’s busy packing up for her move back to Atlanta. Besides, she doesn’t need that anyway.”

Sienna agreed. Tosha should stay far away from the Holmes family, especially the middle son, Elijah. Seeing your ex-fiancé madly in love with another woman could not be an easy thing to witness. Even though what they had shared had been over for more than fifteen years, Sienna knew her sister, and Tosha had a big heart. It was easily broken. They were definitely alike in that regard.

Let it go. The pity-party ended five minutes ago.

“After I finish up here I’ll go home and change, then I can head Uptown to the Holmes’s."

"What are you doing tomorrow afternoon?" her mother asked.

"I plan on just relaxing a bit if I can get the work I brought home with me this weekend completed after I get back from Margo's."

Her mother turned, her eyes holding the stare that dared its recipient to refuse whatever she was about to ask. "Millicent Perkins has Sunday Tea at her home. I want you to come along."
Sienna paused, the feather duster hovering over a carved father and son statuette. A chill traveled down her spine at the thought of Millicent Perkins and the world she represented. The pomp and circumstance of New Orleans' high society, with its teas and debutant balls, had been a part of her life she'd vowed never to return to for reasons she could never bring herself to voice out loud. Sienna's eyes shut tight as she attempted to bite back the memories that begged to surface, memories she had buried in her subconscious. She clamped down on the bile that threatened to rise at the thought of that horrible night nearly eleven years ago.

"You know," her mother's voice propelled Sienna to the present. "Millicent's youngest daughter, Danielle, is expecting her second baby," her mother said.

"I'm surprised her husband stopped beating her long enough for her to even get pregnant," Sienna muttered under her breath. "Really?" she said loud enough for her mother to hear.

"That's three babies in just over three years, isn't it?"

"Um hmm. I also heard Aldonia Lewis' daughter did such a good job planning her wedding that she decided to start her own wedding consulting business. She isn't anyone's assistant."

"I'm not an assistant, mother," Sienna ground between clenched teeth. "I'm a junior executive. If you cared enough to pay attention to anything I told you, you'd know there is a difference."

"Well, Aldonia's daughter owns her business.”

"Ivana’s business is very successful, or have you forgotten that you have a daughter with her own business only steps away from this store."

Her mother pierced her with another of her infamous looks, turning her nose high enough in the air to smell the exhaust fumes of the airplane flying overhead.

"You need to get over to the Holmes's," Sylvia said with cold finality, grabbing the duster from Sienna's hand.

Sienna stepped away from the display, questioning yet again why she put herself through this torture on a regular basis. She never asked, nor expected, monetary compensation, but a little appreciation wouldn’t hurt.

She looked over at her mother, who kept her back rigid.

Appreciation? Right. She was not holding her breath.

But she wasn't giving up, either. Her grandmother had always told her family was the most important thing. Her mother and sisters were all the family she had and Sienna still held out hope that she and her mother would eventually have the mother and daughter relationship she had always dreamed of. There had to be something she could do to finally make her mother proud.

She knew one way she could start.

Sienna brought her hand up and kneaded the spot between her eyes; her hand shaking as the implications of what she was about to agree to began to sink in.

Her hand on the faux crystal door handle, she said," I'll see you tomorrow at Mrs. Perkin's tea."

COMING SOON

Divorcing the Devil
by Dwan Abrams


Urban Books (April 29, 2008)

ISBN-10: 1601629605
ISBN-13: 978-1601629609

For Skyler Little, it's not easy being a psychoanalyst and a Christian. Sometimes it's hard not getting drawn into her patients' personal lives filled with adultery, abuse and turmoil. Yet, she remains steadfast in providing them with the best in Christian counseling. She even counsels her friend, Gabriella, who has just learned that her husband is cheating on her.

But when Skyler learns whom Gabriella's husband is cheating on her with, things start to spiral out of control, and she is now caught in the middle. Can Skyler get herself out of this situation, or can anyone be spared when you try to divorce the devil?

BOOK INTRO: Choices

CHOICES

Making choices had come easily for Lara Boyd, until an unlikely ultimatum from her fiancé changed everything.

Six years later, the kindergarten teacher is heartbroken, love-leery, and certain her dreams for husband and family will remain just that. But everything changes when widowed illustrator Ryan Andrews and his young son, Justin, enter her classroom, and Lara finds herself making choices she never thought she would, in the name of a love she never thought she'd have.

Three years widowed, Mr. Mom Ryan Andrews never thought he'd want to date again, but one look at Lara Boyd changes that. If feeling attraction isn't enough of a surprise, his dead wife appearing and urging him to finally move on definitely is. With Justin's encouragement and his wife's prodding, Ryan chooses to pursue the relationship, a choice that does not sit well with everyone in his life, and proves the power of love can make the easiest choices the most painful.


Choices

Tammy Williams

Genesis Press

April 1, 2008

ISBN-10: 1585713007

ISBN-13: 978-1585713004

EXCERPT: Dangerous Secrets

DANGEROUS SECRETS

In the final book of the Harbor Intrigue Series, Lyn Cote takes all the parts familiar to readers of the series and steps up the romance element. The suspense element grabs you from the first chapter if not the first page. Sylvie Patterson wants to know the truth about the death of her cousin Ginger. Ridge is on loan to Winfield's police department and stuck right in the middle of the developing intrigue. When the string of break-ins continues, following the trail might become dangerous for body and heart. Side by side, Sylvie and Ridge seem to find the other uncovering their secrets too.

Website: www.LynCote.net

DANGEROUS SECRETS

By

Lyn Cote


Prologue

March 1st

She'd managed to climb in a rear window. Had anyone seen her? At this time of night in this little burg? She doubted it. Standing in the apartment lighted only by her flashlight and thin moonlight coming through the windows, she laid her flashlight on the floor. Where should she start looking? It had all seemed so easy. Well, get started, she told herself. She approached a built-in bookcase.

As she reached up to remove the books from the top shelf, it began. The wall in front of her eyes started to undulate as if an earthquake were taking place. Then the floor beneath her feet began ripple. She staggered and caught hold of the bookcase, cursing.

And then she heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Or was that just part of the flashback too?





Chapter One

March 2nd

Sylvie, I am going to WOW you with a big surprise tomorrow! What could Ginger's WOW surprise be? This question kept bobbing to the surface of Sylvie Patterson's mind--interrupting her work. She sat at her PC near the front of her store, My Favorite Books, answering customer e-mails.

Last night Ginger, her favorite cousin, had blown into Winfield, intending to spend the next two months in her apartment above Sylvie's bookstore. Just a few years younger than Sylvie, Ginger would be busy "polishing" her dissertation on Alaskan whales. Last night Ginger with her long curly red hair and golden freckles had been more effervescent than usual.

And in just a few more minutes, Sylvie would close up shop and find out what Ginger's big secret was. She'd make Ginger come clean tonight.

The little bell on the door jingled and cold air swished inside. In the off-season, Sylvie didn't usually look up from her monitor to see who'd come in. But today it might be Ginger.

She glanced up. Not Ginger.

Ridge Matthews looked back at her. Ridge Matthews, standing there against the wall, lined with shelves and shelves of books.

Waves of recognition on so many different levels undulated through her. So much history lay between them. Then the waves emanated from her, toward Ridge and were palpable in the silence. Ridge was still tall but not too tall, still stocky with broad shoulders, still the same dark brown, nearly black eyes. Only a few glints of gray in his short-cropped hair reminded her that eighteen years had passed since he'd been a year-round resident of Winfield.

"Sylvie," he acknowledged her with the grave voice he'd acquired that awful summer night eighteen years ago.

"Ridge," she returned the greeting and forced a smile. She rose, holding out her hand. I'm surprised to see you, Ridge, but not unhappy. Never unhappy.

He hesitated a split second and then came forward and gripped her hand—-briefly.

He was still as buttoned-up as his black wool winter coat. Last December, she'd glimpsed him at Trish Franklin's wedding, another of his rare visits. And now she thought she knew his reason for appearing here today. "Are you looking for Ben?" she asked. "He's running an errand for me."

Ridge digested this in several moments of silence. "My mother said he doesn't come home after school. Every day he walks here from the bus stop."

Yes, going home to your parent's house is way too depressing for any kid. For a long time, the Matthews' home had been nothing but a house, merely four walls, a roof and floor. That was why Ridge had forsaken Winfield.

"Thanks for being kind to Ben." His low tone curled through her.

Resisting his effect on her, she forced another smile. "Ben's a good kid. Are you here to visit him for a few days?" she added, hoping his answer would be yes.

"I'm moving him away this weekend."

She stiffened with shock. "With you to Madison? Now?"

The door opened behind Ridge. More frigid air rushed in.

"No," Ridge said, "an opening has come up unexpectedly in a good military school near Milwaukee. Ben was next on the waiting list. He's scheduled to start bright and early on Monday."

Just inside her door, blond-haired and freckle-faced Ben halted, looking as if he'd just received the death sentence.

She took an involuntary step toward him. Military school? For Ben? No.

"Military school?" Ridge's orphaned ward echoed her aloud. "Monday?"

Sylvie wanted to pull Ben, now white-faced, into a protective hug. But at twelve years, he was too old for that.

Caught between the two of them, Ridge shifted sideways, eyeing both. "Ben, you know I told you that my parents are too old to keep you."

Besides being too self-centered, too self-absorbed, Sylvie amended silently. The constant ache in her damaged hip twinged at this thought. Ridge, don't be so cold. He's just a kid and he's been through so much.

"I thought—" Ben's voice thinned. "--you were going to get a place big enough for me to come live with you."

Ben's plaintive tone stung Sylvie.

Ridge had enough conscience to look uncomfortable. "My job doesn't make me good guardian material, Ben. I travel all over the state on homicide cases. Or I get embroiled in local ones that keep me out all hours of the day and night. This way you won't be shifted around from house to house while I'm tied up on a case. You'll be at school and I'll come and get you at least one weekend a month."

"What about this summer?" Ben asked, an edge of panic in his voice. "Sylvie said she'd teach me how to snorkel."

Ridge looked distinctly uneasy now. "I've signed you up for summer camp—"

"No!" Ben burst out.

"Ridge," Sylvie overrode Ben's heated stream of objections, "my dad and I want Ben to spend the summer with us. I meant to ask you."

Silence.

"Really?" Ben asked, approaching her.

The spur-of-the-moment invitation had been forced out of her. She reached for Ben and he came to a halt beside her. She rested a hand on his shoulder. "Yes, and Milo planned to hire you to help him at the bait shop." Her father hadn't said so in so many words, but he liked kids in general and Ben in particular.

"Really?" Ben repeated, color coming back to his cheeks.

"Really." She squeezed Ben's shoulder and then glanced at Ridge, reading his chagrin, wanting to shake him, reach him. "You trust us with Ben, don’t you, Ridge?" She knew this last phrase would make it impossible for him to say no. He wouldn't stir the murky waters of the past.

"Of course," he said brusquely. "Time for us to go, Ben." Peremptorily, he turned toward the door.

Again, some imp prompted Sylvie to refuse to let Ridge have his way completely. Perhaps it was Ridge's aloof, almost insensitive handling of Ben that made her want to throw another speed bump in his path.

"Just a moment," she said, "let me shut down my computer and we'll go upstairs. Ginger's back. She'll want to see you. Just got in last night."

"From Alaska?" Ridge asked, showing that he wasn't completely out of touch with Winfield.

"Yes, she plans to 'hole up' and finish her master's thesis. I haven't seen her at all today. She's probably still glued to her laptop upstairs in her apartment. I need to pry her loose. Then we'll go to pick up the pizza Ben just got back from ordering for me at Audra's Place and I'll then take her home with me to eat it." Sylvie bustled around turning off her computer.

Ben, who'd spent every afternoon after school with her since he'd moved into the Matthews' house last fall, went around turning off lights, helping her close up as usual.

Within minutes, Ridge and Ben huddled around her outside, protecting her from the stiff wind. Ridge's presence made her feel everything more intensely. But without revealing this, she locked up the front door of the two-story Victorian that she rented from Ginger's parents. Then the two males followed her limping gait over the narrow shoveled sidewalk around the side of the house. Their footsteps crunched loudly in the clear night.

The only other sound was the cutting wind blowing from Lake Superior at their backs. Sylvie tried to think of some way to hint to Ridge that she wanted to discuss Ben with him. But if the past was any guide, she knew Ridge would do anything to avoid being alone in her company.

The threesome reached the rear door of the enclosed two-story porch that shielded the back staircase. Sylvie unlocked and opened the door, ready to call up the stairs to her cousin. Then her heart stopped for one beat.

At the bottom of the steep staircase lay her cousin, crumpled. The early winter dusk made Sylvie doubt her eyesight. She hurried over the threshold. "Ginger! Ginger!"

No response.

Sylvie threw herself onto her knees beside Ginger's body. No one alive would lie in that rigid twisted position. Sylvie knew she must be dead. "Ginger!" she keened. "Ginger! No!"

Ridge heard the hysteria in Sylvie's voice. Taking the scene in a glance, he recognized all the signs of death and death that had taken place hours before. He shoved Ben back out the door. "Go home. Now!"

"But, but," Ben sputtered.

"She's dead," Ridge hissed beside Ben's ear. "You need to go home and stay there."

"Sylvie—"

"I'll take care of her." Ridge pushed Ben farther away. "Go. I'll handle this. I'll take care of Sylvie. Go."

Looking fearfully over his shoulder, Ben fled, letting the outside door slam.

Ridge turned and knelt beside Sylvie. He went through the motions of checking Ginger Johnson's non-existent pulse. He lifted her eyelids. Her irises were dilated. But . . . her eyes were closed. The thought made his insides congeal. Not just for the sorrow, death always brought but because that meant . . . he didn't want to go there. For so many reasons.

He snapped open his cell phone and punched in the emergency number. He gave the details as simply as possible to the responder. He snapped it shut again. "Sylvie," he said gently, "help is on the way."

"She's dead, isn't she?" Rocking on her knees, Sylvie had wrapped her arms around herself as if she might fly apart.

"It looks like it." He didn't mention Ginger's eyes being closed. It hit him then. This was the second time he and Sylvie had together confronted the body of a relative, lying dead. He felt sick in the pit of his stomach. In spite of himself, he laid a hand on her slender shoulder.

She covered his hand with hers. "Ridge, Ginger must have fallen last night," she pleaded. "I think I would have heard her fall if . . . if it happened while I was in the store." She looked up at him, her woebegone face pale and fringed by her short silvery blonde hair.

He read in her huge blue-violet eyes the silent plea for exoneration. Had this event taken her back too, back to the night Dan had died? "Yes, you're right. From what I see I think Ginger must have fallen last night." You didn't fail your cousin. She was dead before you came to work this morning.

But he didn't let any of his suspicions about Ginger's fatal tumble color his tone or expression. If only her eyes had been open. How easy everything would have been.

With relief, he heard a police siren. Gently he grasped Sylvie by the upper arms and drew her to her feet. She felt unsteady to him. So one arm under hers, he guided her to the door. "I'm going to ask you to go back into your bookstore. Why don't you make a new pot of coffee?"

She looked up at him. Her lips were pressed so tightly together they were as white as the swirled frost on the single-pane window behind her. "I want my dad."

Another sting. She'd said those exact same words to him on that long ago night too. "Call Milo. He should be here. Ginger's mom Shirley still lives here year-round in her Victorian, right?"

She nodded. "But she and Tom away in Arizona for a delayed honeymoon, a break before the tourist season starts in May." Tears filled her eyes. "I'll go . . . I'll go make coffee."

After giving her a heartening squeeze, Ridge nudged her through the doorway. That was all she could do, anyone could do now. Make coffee for the very long night ahead. He couldn't help himself, his gaze followed Sylvie until she disappeared around the corner at the front.

#

The long night of investigating the crime scene had finally come to an end. Ridge glanced at his watch, his eyes watered with fatigue. Nearly three o'clock in the early morning. Sheriff Keir Harding whom Ridge remembered stood, facing him at the bottom of the stairwell. Ginger's body had been taken away hours before.

"I don't think we can deny that Ginger's death is suspicious," Keir said. "But I don't want to start rumors."

"Having an autopsy done--people will hear about it and talk," Ridge said, rubbing his forehead. As they stood here talking, the coroner was probably wrapping up the autopsy at the local funeral home.

Keir grimaced. "Ginger was well liked. This will hit everyone hard."

I couldn't agree with you more.

"Let's send Milo and Sylvie home then." Keir led Ridge to the door he'd entered hours ago with Sylvie and Ben. "We'll lock this place uptight and I'll make sure a deputy checks around here every hour so the crime scene isn't tampered with." The sheriff made a sound of exhaustion.

Outside in the silence, in the stark icy night, they walked single-file on the path between the waist-high mounds of snow around to the front. Sylvie's bookstore was still alight on the quiet street of darkened shops and homes.

"I'm so glad you were already in town. This saves me calling for state help." After delivering these unwelcome words, Keir bid him good night and headed for his sheriff Jeep.

Ridge fumed in silence, but his fatigue even dulled this reaction. This was supposed to be just a quick trip home to take care of the problem of Ben. But Ginger hadn't gotten herself killed just to trouble him. Keep this in perspective. My problems are nothing compared to Ginger's family's.

Now he had to face Sylvie. Ridge stiffened his defenses and moved inside. Visibly despondent, Sylvie was draped over a well worn tweedy sofa along the wall in the foyer. She glanced up at him, her appealing face drawn.

"Where's Milo?" he asked, forestalling her questions.

She sat up. "Dad went home hours ago to call Shirley to break the news to her about Ginger and to make the flight arrangements for her and Tom on his computer while they packed."

He watched her slip her small feet back into her fur-topped boots. "Rough."

"Dad wanted to tell his sister Shirley himself, not the sheriff."

Their eyes connected. And he sensed that everything that he wished to conceal about Ginger's death and about everything else that lay between him and Sylvie, she read with ease. His jaw clenched. He tried to relax it. And failed.

A tear trickled from Sylvie's right eye. She brushed it away and stood. "I take it I can go home now."

Ridge nodded, unable to speak. Images from the scene of Dan's untimely death had slid in and out of his conscious thoughts during the night-long investigation. Bringing Sylvie along with them.

She went to the coat rack and Ridge hurried forward to help her don her long plum-colored down coat the second time tonight. In her evident fatigue, she wavered on her feet. He steadied her, a hand on her upper arm.

"I'm fine," she whispered.

Her frailty belied her words. He admired her nerve. Nothing was fine tonight and nothing would be fine for quite a while. "My car's out front."

He escorted her through turning off the foyer lights, locking up, and then out in the winter cold so dry the air almost crackled with static electricity. After helping her into his SUV, he went around, got in, and turned the key in the ignition. Nothing. He tried again. Not even grinding. Sudden aggravation flamed through him. With his gloved palm, he slapped the steering wheel once. Nothing ever went right for him in Winfield.

"You left your lights on," Sylvie said, pointing to the dash where sure enough his lights had been switched on and left.

He let out a slow breath. "I'm used to the automatic ones but I must have turned them on and forgot."

"And when you arrived, the street was still lit by shop lights along with the street lamps, you wouldn't have noticed you'd left them on. No one did." She opened her door. "It's only a few blocks for me. I always walk to work. And your parent's house is within walking distance. Leave it till morning."

Not willing to let her out of his sight, he got out and joined her on the sidewalk. The icy temperature nearly took his breath away. It was probably quite safe for her to walk home, but after finding Ginger dead, he didn't want to leave Sylvie alone in the dark early morning. He's only leave her when she was in her own home safe with her father. "I'll walk you home first."

"That's not necessary. This is Winfield, remember?" She stopped speaking--abruptly.

Her face was turned away from the street lamp so he couldn't see her expression, but her sudden silence and immobility told him that Ginger's death had hit her afresh. Yes, this was Winfield, but Ginger had died not in faraway Alaska, but here in hometown Winfield.

Without mentioning this, he looped Sylvie's arm around the crook of his and began leading her down the street he knew so well. He didn't need to ask her where her house was. Walking beside Sylvie made him very aware of the stark white of the snow mounds left by the ploughs. Also aware of the way the cold, along with being in Winfield, was nibbling away at him bit by bit.

After a couple of steps, he adjusted to accommodate her halting gait. This nipped his conscience. He'd been able to walk away from Dan's accident, unscathed. But did every limping step remind Sylvie of the past? If it did, how did she stand it?

"What took the sheriff so long?" she asked. "I mean why did they spend so much time up in her apartment?"

Uneasiness twitched through him. He didn't want to face this. No, he did not. They reached the end of the block and started up the next. How to avoid this bullet?

"Ridge?" she prompted.

"Sylvie, it's late. We can talk about this tomorrow."

Sylvie halted. "You're frightening me. What aren't you telling me?"

"Come along." He tugged her.

She resisted. "I'm not moving until you tell me why they took so long up in Ginger's apartment."

He'd had it. Why didn't anything ever go the easy way? Why couldn't she just accept what he said? "Ginger's death has been deemed suspicious."

"Suspicious?"

The low temp was numbing his bare ears. "It's freezing out, don't you feel it?" He tugged her elbow. "Come on. I'll tell you everything. Let's just get out of this cold." He drew her along.

"Tell me," she insisted, even though she began walking again.

He walked faster, urging her along. "Ginger's apartment had been ransacked."

"What? You mean someone broke in?" She slowed, pulling against him.

He tugged her. "Someone tore Ginger's apartment apart," his voice turned savage. I wanted to leave in the morning. What's the chance of that now? "We think the point of entry was a rear window on the back porch."

"What could they have been looking for?" she asked. "Ginger didn't have anything worth stealing."

That only made it more suspicious. Didn't Sylvie see that?

"Maybe you've got it wrong," Sylvie said. "Ginger might have been looking for something and had everything turned upside down and inside out. Ginger wasn't always very neat."

Ridge didn't want to respond to this excuse. Let her come up with ways to avoid the truth. He just plodded on, the cold filtering through all his layers of protection.

"Don't you think it could be that? Ginger might just have been unpacking and—"

The sheriff's words came back to Ridge: It's good you were with Sylvie when she found the body. She might have closed her cousin's eyes without thinking or I might have assumed that she did. But we both know— Suddenly Ridge had had it. He couldn't take any more waffling, any more lame explanations. "Ginger's eyes were closed," he snapped.

"What does that mean?" Sylvie halted again. "You're not making sense."

He urged her along again. His face was stiff not just from the bitter temperature but from irritation. "It means that someone closed her eyes."

"Someone . . . what?"

His patience evaporated. "Sylvie, if a person falls to their death, their eyes will remain open. Someone was there after Ginger fell and shut her eyes."

Sylvie exhaled—deeply and loudly. And then began breathing very fast.

In the scant light from the street lamp, he glimpsed her eyes and mouth wide in shock. Then he realized she wasn't getting her breath. "Sylvie." He shook her arms. "Sylvie."

She was hyperventilating. If he didn't get her breathing, she'd faint on him.

He pulled her face close to his and blew into her open mouth. Once. Twice. He shook her again. Three more times he blew carbon dioxide into her mouth. "Breathe. Breathe."

She shuddered once and then leaned her head against him. She was gasping now, but was getting air. "This," she whispered, "can't be happening."

Not wanting to, but unable to stop himself, he put his arms around her delicate form. "It's freezing. I've got to get you home."

She raised her pale face to him, visible now in the street lamp glow. "What happens now?"

EXCERPT: Shadow Living…Paintings of Grief

Shadow Living…Paintings of Grief
by Deborah Slappey Pitts

Edifying the World Thru Words

Shadow Living…Paintings of Grief is the enthralling sequel to I Feel Okay, Deborah Slappey Pitts’ debut bestseller. In Shadow Living…Paintings of Grief, the author shares her intimate story of grief and survival after her husband's death to a silent killer disease, primary amyloidosis.

Drawing from personal experiences of pain, depression, and unnerving despair, Pitts identifies the perplexing stages of grieving and shares her tale of faith and healing. Readers will discover the many stages of the grieving process and how to embrace the light of hope. It’s a must read—an unforgettable story; written with soul, candor, and love.

Website address: http://www.dslappeypitts.com/

Chapter Six…Retreat into the Shadows

I was overwhelmingly lonely and I missed Clyde so much. I missed holding hands with him and sitting down on the sofa discussing current events. I missed sitting with him at the kitchen table, laughing and having fun together. I would see couples walking and holding hands together. I wanted to walk with my husband again, too. It reminded me of my loss as I had to relive the day Clyde died a thousand times.

T wo weeks had passed since we buried Clyde and I still couldn’t sleep well at night. I tried my best to fall asleep around 11:00 p.m., sometimes 11:30 p.m., but my body wouldn’t have it. My eyes would routinely pop open early in the morning, sometimes 3:00 a.m. and on a bad night even 2:00 a.m. I would stay awake the rest of the early morning.

I wanted to be strong. I tried so very hard, but the pain was relentless, razor sharp as if someone was deliberately pulling back my skin, slicing my insides without mercy; exposing the delicate layers of my anatomy. The weight of the despair throughout my body was dreadful, especially at night. I began to despise nighttime. I dreaded seeing the sunshine leave the sky. I wanted daylight to last forever. If I could manipulate the night into day, I would have.

What do you do at 2:00 a.m., other than stare at a man pointing at a map of the United States with potbellied grey clouds, seemingly pregnant, waiting for the birth of rain. It was all too unreal as I watched the man wave his hand from one side of the U.S. map—from east to west, from north to south, and back to east and west again. The meteorologist kept reiterating the same thing as my body starved for sleep. But my mind couldn’t rest; it was constantly moving from one thought to the next.

I pulled the composition book from my bottom bedside table and began to write these words…

I feel so alone, nothing is the same. I don’t have much to give. I try hard, but I don’t have much left in me. I am trying to keep my health intact. But it’s not working. As the days pass by, the reality seems to set in more and more…

“If only I could have gotten Clyde to the Mayo Clinic one month earlier,” I said, “he would be alive today, Lord. I would nestle close to him and we would be all right together. I would take care of him. I would make sure he took his medicines. Oh Lord, I would take care of him forever. I would. If only I’d known about the Mayo Clinic earlier in December. Everything would be different. Clyde would be here. He wouldn’t be lying in a cemetery. He would be smiling and laughing because he knew he had escaped the jaws of death. Lord, how can anyone make it through this?” I asked. “How can I make it through this agony? How will my family make it through this?”

…

During the first few weeks, I would cry myself to sleep in hope that for just a few hours I would escape the reality of death. But as always, I kept praying. I couldn’t read because I couldn’t concentrate. But I could pray, and I did. God always comforted me in my tears and He took care of me in my sorrow.

The next morning, I decided to go in and check on Alex Keith, hoping he would be sound asleep. To my relief, he was asleep. I was simply amazed at the way he had pushed Clyde’s death far from him so he wouldn’t have to deal with it. I knew it wasn’t good. He appeared to be acting as though nothing had happened. Clyde was more than a daddy to Alex Keith. Clyde was Alex Keith’s hero. I gently stroked his forehead back and forth and whispered softly to God:

“Lord, please protect him. Please watch over him. I know he’s in a lot of pain, losing his father at such a young age. I know he’s hurting, but please comfort him in his sorrow. Please help him deal with it. Help Clyde Daryl to deal with Clyde not being here, and please help me. We don’t have anywhere else to go. We only have you. Please help us now Lord. Help us. We miss Clyde terribly.”

I shut my eyes tightly and stood motionless for a few seconds. I couldn’t pray. I couldn’t speak and I couldn’t move as I stood in Alex Keith’s room. Finally, I mustered the strength to place one foot in front of the other and walked out of his room into mine. I slumped my body on the bed, closed my eyes, and wept silently in the darkness of the night. I felt so bad for Alex Keith, Clyde Daryl, and myself. I didn’t know how we would ever make it through without Clyde or even if we could. Sleep was a welcome relief. There were rare moments when I felt we would be okay. Clyde would want us to keep going, I would say, even though he wasn’t with us physically. I knew that fact with all of my heart, but most of the time, it wasn’t enough. All I knew was that God was with me and my family. I knew this fact without a shadow of a doubt, but still the pain was unbearable.

Mourning my better half was worse pain than having a baby. It was worse than having a toothache or any physical abnormality or condition on this earth. Grieving someone in death takes on a life of its own. It takes over physically, mentally, and even spiritually. It’s a mind-absorbing pain that penetrates the essence of one’s mental abilities to discern reality from dreamland. I was a walking zombie—living in the shadows of death while fighting desperately to remain with the living. For the first few years of living as a widow, I walked through the motions of living day by day, but deep within I wasn’t doing much living at all. I was existing—simply existing in the wind. I felt part of me had been cut off; my best half had been torn, ripped from the rest of my body.

That’s the kind of pain I experienced throughout the days, the weeks, even the years. There was no one prescription to ease the pain. My mind dripped with sorrow. I tried to read, but I couldn’t decipher the words. But I could listen. Anything would trigger my pain. I would experience fond family memories. Sometimes I would be watching TV, listening to the radio, or just cooking in the kitchen. I remember on one occasion when I was watching a movie and someone died. Had I known the person was going to die, I wouldn’t have watched the show. The experience of seeing someone die on television was devastating to me. I would be “out of things” for days—crying, hoping the sorrow would leave me. Many times I thought I was losing my mind. As years passed, I learned more about grief and the stages of grief and began to protect myself from situations that would trigger episodes of anguish and pain. I learned that grief is a journey to the other side. It takes hard work to work through the stages of grief, because you naturally don’t want to work through your pain and sorrow.

…

Three weeks had passed since Clyde’s burial. I didn’t plan to go back to work so soon, but Mattie, Clyde’s oldest sister, talked with me and told me that I needed to keep busy. I did appreciate her wisdom.

“Debbie,” she said, “you need to go back to work. It’s not good for you to be in the house alone. It’s just not good. You need to go back and keep yourself busy.”

I heeded her advice and went back to work three weeks after the funeral. Even though I hadn’t been able to sleep much most nights, I knew I needed to go back anyway. Maybe work, I thought to myself, will help me sleep better at night.

I had already spoken to my manager earlier in the day to let her know that I would be returning to work on the following Monday. I knew Clyde wanted me to take care of everything—the children, the house, and I knew that he wanted me to keep things together. I wanted to respect his wishes. I wanted to do all the things he would have wanted me to do.

I was trying to rely on God, but the pain still remained. I didn’t understand it. There were so many questions and thoughts, and I had very few answers. The pain was insistent and at times I felt there was nothing I could do. I felt helpless, but not hopeless.

The grief was feverishly painful as if it was determined to drive me out of my mind. Sleep, when it welcomed me, was a sigh of relief for my soul, and a quiet moment was an escape from my dismal reality of living without my better half. And Clyde was the better half of me. The pain would be unbearable and there was nothing that I could do about it.

No matter how much I screamed at the top of my voice or threw furniture from one wall to the other, the reality was Clyde had gone away and left me to suffer a miserable existence. So, I began to feel sorry for myself. I didn’t know at the time that I was progressing into another phase of grief—leaving the shock of seeing Clyde die before my eyes and now facing true reality that Clyde would no longer walk into the door saying, “Hi honey, I’m home.”

I couldn’t bear this thought. Not yet. I just wasn’t able. How would I ever survive the next stage—anger? The first stage of grief, shock, had nearly killed me.

…

Darkness overwhelmed the daylight once again as I found myself surrounded with sadness, watching the darkness engulf the daylight whole. I felt choked with pain and agony as I tossed and turned each night. I tried desperately to go to sleep. I would have given anything to simply close my eyes and drift into a deep sleep, but I couldn’t.

“Oh Lord,” I spoke very loudly this time. “Help me,” I said as I stared at the ceiling, hoping that God would answer me quickly as he’d done numerous times.

“Clyde, where are you, sweetheart? You need to be here with me; with Alex Keith and Daryl, with the whole family, sweetheart. It’s lonely without you being close to us. It’s so lonely. Please come to me. Please let me see your face. I need to be with you. I need to touch your handsome face.”

I kept looking at the ceiling and rubbing my forehead. I became very aggravated, even agitated.

“It’s lonely without you, sweetheart. I’m so lonely. I need for you to come home to me. Please come home now. Please!”

I clenched my fist and began to beat against my face furiously and yelled at the ceiling.

“Clyde, why did you leave me here? I can’t do this without you. I can’t keep going without you. Please come back. Don’t leave me here alone. It’s just too painful. Why didn’t you stay with me?”

Tears streamed down from my eyes as I lay against the blanket that night to remember our beautiful family.

“I miss you being here. I miss you Clyde,” I said as I wrapped myself into one of his crisp white cotton shirts. “I’ve cried for you, but God won’t bring you back to me. He won’t.”

I buried my face into my hands and pulled Clyde’s pillow close to my face. Finally around 12:30 that night, I drifted into sleep. Sadly, I would have many nights of pain-wrenching hours of agony and despair of trying to come to grips with the reality that Clyde was gone and wasn’t coming back. I couldn’t feel his presence against his pillow anymore. His scent was fading and even though I wanted desperately to hold on to his scent. It was fading away.

The Telephone Call to the Mayo Clinic

For some reason, I was drawn to call the Mayo Clinic just to see how everyone was doing. I felt a connection to the hospital and staff and I still do to this day. I knew they had done everything possible to save Clyde, and I would always appreciate their service, their generosity, and their very special compassion for our family. I decided to call the transplant unit. The nurse told me that every patient had received a heart transplant, and was doing well. She asked me how I was doing and I told her we were taking it one day at a time. I also told her to tell everyone that I was very happy for all of them. Now everyone would be able to go on with their lives with new hearts.

After a few minutes, I hung up the telephone and closed my eyes in devastating pain. My face displayed the sheer horror and anguish as I replayed her words in my mind: Everyone received a heart transplant. Everyone…Everyone…Everyone... Everyone except Clyde got a heart! He was the only one who didn’t.

I was totally devastated by the news. I was very happy for the patients who had waited for months on end to receive heart transplants, but I was stricken in throbbing horror that Clyde was the only one who didn’t get a chance to receive a life-saving heart. Instead Clyde, the youngest of all of them, had died a few weeks earlier.

“If only, Lord, he could have lasted a few more weeks! Clyde would be smiling with everyone else in the transplant unit. If only, Lord, you could have allowed him to receive his heart. He would be here with us. He would be here. Lord, he was only 43 years old.”

I cried and cried, and before I knew what was happening, I lifted the lamp from the nightstand and threw it violently against the wall.

“It’s not fair! It’s not fair!” I said screaming. “Why Lord, why did You let him die? What are we going to do?”

I was alone and Alex Keith was at school. Thank God he didn’t see me this way. I was devastated. My beautiful love story, my Innisfree for life, had left me here.

“Tell everyone I’m happy for all of them,” I said as I said my goodbyes to her.

After that day I didn’t speak to them again until nine years later.

I was never the same after that day. Older patients had waited for a heart and received it. Clyde was the youngest patient in the transplant unit, and he didn’t get a new heart. His body was riddled with the amyloid tissue. I was deeply disturbed that my husband wasn’t one of them. It just wasn’t God’s will that Clyde would have another heart. It wasn’t God’s will for Clyde to live. As the afternoon turned into evening, darkness covered my heart in despair.

I became angry with Clyde because I felt he should have been able to hold on, even by a thread, so he could be with his family. He was a strong man. I remember him being so strong…so why didn’t he hang on? My anger dissipated because I knew deep down that Clyde held on as long as he could. And if it was God’s will for Clyde to recover from the debilitating effects of amyloidosis, he would have done so. I believed that without a shadow of a doubt.

But still my anguish kept returning, and it hovered over me as a dark, rain-soaked cloud. I began to retreat into the shadows of my pain. “Oh Lord, I failed him! I failed Clyde and it’s my fault. All my fault! Clyde, please forgive me!” I yelled out in pain.

I paused for a moment and longed to hear Clyde’s voice in my ears. I yanked myself from the bed and walked over to the other side of the bed to reach the telephone answering machine. Clyde’s voice was still on the answering machine, so I pressed the recording to hear his voice:

“Hello, this is the Slappey residence. We’re not at home right now. Please leave a message and we’ll get back with you. Have a nice day.”

His voice was very comforting. I pressed the answering machine again and again that afternoon:

“Hello, this is the Slappey residence. We’re not at home right now. Please leave a message and we’ll get back with you. Have a nice day.”

Calm descended upon my face as I listened to his voice. I began to feel a sense of peace as I felt his presence near. His voice calmed my soul. I felt at ease and began to smile. I started to remember our good times together. Clyde always had a tremble in his voice. I played the recording over and over, and after awhile I laid down across my bed, sensing his warmness close to me. I turned over, lay on my back, and drifted quietly off to sleep.

TRAILER: Across Time: Mystery of the Great Sphinx

Across Time: Mystery of the Great Sphinx

O. J. Harp III

Sci-fi; Romance

1-59526-601-1 Paperback pp.268
1-59526-602-X Hardcover pp.268

Llumina Press

June, 2007

History is fascinating any way you slice it. When it's brought to life, with an enigmatic and magical twist, it's just that much more captivating. Across Time: Mystery of the Great Sphinx, bridges the ages, expertly pulling you into the diverse realms of the future as well as the distant past. The novel answers the question: What might happen if modern-day science decides to clone an ancient Egyptian Mummy? Both the young and the young in heart can sit back and become entranced with this exciting tale of love and adventure.

For more information visit: www.acrosstime.info

Check out the trailer: http://ojharp.com/buynow.shtml