I zipped through this book. A page turner I couldn't read fast enough. A beautiful, thought provoking story for anyone who believes in timeless love. Unabashedly Christian with plenty of scriptures thrown in, I loved it. The villain was a shade too evil--not because I don't believe such evil exists--but because I found him hard to believe. But bad-guy aside, I thoroughly enjoyed this book.
Here are the rules of the game. Below, you'll find an excerpt from Isolation's first chapter. Pick your favorite sentence from the excerpt, copy and paste it on social media along with the Amazon buy link, and tag me @katietateauthor. So, for example, your social media post will look like this:
"Wordsworth parked his butt against the door like a giant hairy roadblock." https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0948NQGTS @katietateauthor
(You can even copy this one, if you like, but I think it'll be more fun to see different lines.) I'll choose and notify a winner on Monday. Good luck and thanks for playing! Here's the excerpt
ISOLATION
CHAPTER ONE
The
birds heralded the storm, as they always did. They liked to be the bearers of
scuttlebutt. Although, as Lizbet had learned long ago, not all birds were
created equal, and some species were much more reliable than others. Not that
they lied, very few creatures had the ability or cunning, but rather in their
haste to be the first in the know, some blurted out misconceptions and
half-truths.
Not
that Lizbet had much familiarity with liars—or people, in general—but she’d
read of several, as Rose, her mother, had accumulated an impressive library
over the years. Not that Lizbet was in any position to know what was and was
not impressive library-wise, or any otherwise, since Lizbet herself had never
been off the island she and Rose called home.
The
howling wind drowned out the calls of birds, and the chatter of squirrels and
chipmunks. Opossum, skunks, and fox sought shelter in the forest’s thickets.
Rats and mice scurried to find hidey-holes. Lizbet fetched an armful of wood
from the shed to stoke the fire while her mother gathered candles.
Wind
rustled the tarp protecting the woodpile. The pine trees, used to standing
straight and tall, moaned as the wind whipped through their canopy, and bent
them in directions they didn’t wish to go.
“A
man approaches,” Wordsworth whined, terror tainting his words.
Lizbet
looked over the German Shepherd’s furry head to the storm-tossed sea. The
Sound, normally a tranquil gray-blue slate, roiled as if shaken by an invisible
hand. Lizbet couldn’t see anyone, but her heart quickened. “Are you sure?” She
saw nothing but a curtain of rain, an angry sky, and churning tide. The gulls,
who generally swooped above the bay, had wisely found shelter. The otters, too,
had disappeared, and for once the noisy, boisterous sea lions, were silent.
The dog
nodded. “He’s lost, but hopeful.”
“Hopeful?
Of what?”
Wordsworth
shook his head. When another flash of lightening lit the sky, his ears flattened
and his tail drooped and he cowered as the thunder boomed.
“Come,”
Lizbet said, “let’s go inside. Only an idiot would be out on the water today.”
“He’s
no longer on the water,” Wordsworth whined. “His
boat has landed.”
Lizbet
peered into the storm, saw nothing more than before, and added another log to
her collection. Their cottage was made of stone, but the adjacent shed which
housed the woodpile, gardening tools, and bird seed, was constructed of
recycled wood. Wind blew through the slats and rattled the shake roof. The
cottage would be warm and dry in a way the shed never could.
Wordsworth
whimpered again. Lizbet knew he longed for the comforts of the house as much as
she did, but she also understood he had an important job to do, and he would never
back away from protecting her and her mother from strangers.
“There’s
no one there,” Lizbet said, stomping toward the cottage. She climbed the steps
and pulled open the Dutch door. The warm comforting scent of the crackling fire
mingled with the aroma of ginger cookies welcomed her in.
Rose
stood at a large pine table, stacking the cookies onto a plate. Lizbet stared
at the number of cookies, knowing that she and her mother would never be able
to eat so many. Her mother was waif-thin with flyaway blond hair as
insubstantial as her slender frame.
“There’s
a man in the cove,” Lizbet said, wondering if her mother already knew, and if
so, why she hadn’t warned her.
Rose
kept her gaze focused on the cookies and blushed the color of her namesake. She
was as fair as Lizbet was dark. We are as night and day, her mother
would say, Together, we are all we need.
“Are
you expecting someone?” Lizbet demanded.
“No,
not really, but I…” Rose’s voice trailed away.
Lizbet
clomped through the kitchen to the living room, weaving through the stacks of
books to the fireplace. She dropped her logs onto the hearth, placed her hands
on her hips, and marched back into the kitchen. She hated surprises, but she
was also curious.
“Who is
this man?” Not Leonard, the postman—her mother would never blush for the
potato-shaped letter carrier. Besides, Leonard would never venture to the
island in a storm. He only came every other Tuesday. Today was Saturday.
“You
don’t need to worry about him,” Rose said without meeting Lizbet’s eye.
“Why is
he coming? Will he bring books?”
Rose
laughed, but it sounded strange—strained and nervous. Lizbet decided that she
already disliked this man. She plucked a cookie off the plate.
Rose
looked up sharply, an expectant look on her face.
Lizbet
contemplated her cookie, suddenly suspicious. Her mother studied and
experimented with herbs and she’d taught Lizbet a variety of recipes.
Dandelions to lighten the mood, lavender to soothe worries, chamomile to bring
sleep, basil to stimulate energy, and gingerroot to make one forget. Lizbet
sniffed the cookie and touched it with her tongue.
Her
mother watched.
Lizbet
smiled, took a big bite and left the kitchen. In the privacy of her own room,
she went to the window and pulled it open. A cold breeze flew in, ruffling the
drapes, and blowing about the papers on her desk. Ignoring the wind, Lizbet
stuck her head outside and spat the cookie out into the storm. She slammed the
window closed.
“What
are you doing?” Rose asked.
Lizbet
started. She hadn’t heard her mother come in. Wrapping her arms around herself,
Lizbet said, “I was looking for the man.”
Rose’s
lips lifted into a smile. “Please don’t worry about him. Here, I’ve brought you
some tea.” She set down a steaming mug on Lizbet’s bedside table. “Gingerroot,
your favorite.”
“Thanks.”
“Want
to come and read by the fire?” Rose asked.
Lizbet
glanced back at the storm on the other side of the window. An idea tickled in
the back of her mind. “In a second,” she said. After plopping down on her bed,
Lizbet sipped from the mug, but she didn’t swallow. Instead, she let the tea
warm her tongue.
Rose
lifted her own mug to her lips and watched Lizbet.
Lizbet
set the mug back down and met her mother’s gaze. After an awkward moment, Rose
lifted her shoulder in a halfhearted shrug and headed down the hall.
Lizbet
bounced from the bed, closed the door, and spat the tea back into the mug. She
poured the entire cup out the window and climbed back onto her bed. She lay
perfectly still, waiting for her mom to re-enter the room. She didn’t have to
wait long.
A few
moments later, her bedroom door creaked open. With her eyes firmly closed,
Lizbet practiced her corpse pose and didn’t even flinch as she heard her mother
steal into the room. Rose tucked a quilt around Lizbet’s shoulders before
creeping back out and closing the door with a whisper click.
Lizbet
peeked open an eye and met Wordsworth’s steady, brown-eyed gaze. “Who is he?”
“I
don’t know,” the dog whimpered, “but
he isn’t scared.”
“How
can you tell?” Lizbet asked.
“The
smell. All emotions have a smell.”
“My
mom—what’s her smell?”
Wordsworth
jumped up on the bed beside Lizbet and nestled against her. “She loves
you.”
“I
know. But I don’t know what that has to do with anything.”
Wordsworth
whimpered again and snuggled closer. “You have to let me out so I can
meet this man.”
“I
can’t. If I do, she’ll know I’m awake. You’re on your own.”
Wordsworth
blew out a breath, stood, shook himself, and jumped down. He went to the door
to bark and whine. It didn’t do any good. Her mother ignored him, which told
Lizbet two things. One: the potion Rose had given Lizbet must have been so
strong that Rose didn’t worry about Wordsworth waking her. Two: Rose didn’t
want to be interrupted.
Lizbet
sat up as a thought assaulted her.
Wordsworth,
as if reading her mind, jumped back up beside her and gazed into her eyes.
“This
man is my father!” Lizbet blurted out.
“You
cannot know this,” Wordsworth whimpered.
“She
loves him enough to drug me just to spend time with him! Of course he’s my
father!”
Wordsworth
moaned a disagreement.
Lizbet
had a lot of questions—mostly because she lived a solitary life with her mother
on an uninhabited island in the Puget Sound. She had faith that all of her
questions would eventually be answered, but the biggest questions in her heart
and mind all centered around her father.
Lizbet
kicked off the quilt and crawled off the bed.
Wordsworth
placed his nose against her thigh, stopping her. “There must be a good
reason your mother doesn’t want you to meet this man.”
“She
never said she didn’t want me to meet him.”
Wordsworth
snorted. “If she had wanted you to meet him, she wouldn’t have given
you the ginger root tea.”
Suddenly
Lizbet hated her mother. “She can’t keep me from my own father.”
Wordsworth
parked his butt against the door like a giant hairy roadblock. “You do not
know he is your father.”
“Of
course he is. Who else could he be? Now move.” She grabbed Wordsworth’s collar
to pull him away. His fur bunched up around his collar, but he wouldn’t budge.
Lizbet
tried the doorknob, but since Wordsworth outweighed her by nearly fifty pounds
the door wouldn’t open. Lizbet flounced to the window.
“Where
are you going?” Wordsworth asked, his ears poking
toward the ceiling.
“To
meet my dad.” Lizbet threw open the window. The wind spat rain in her face and
carried a breath of bone-chilling cold into the room.
Her body hummed with energy. She found
the quiet dark relaxing and rhythmic motion hypnotic and soothing. Crickets
chirped and a breeze stirred the trees. Somewhere, an owl called out. The
clip-clop of the horses…
Wait.
Horses?
Celia’s eyes popped open. She sat in a
carriage. An obese woman draped in satin and furs sat directly in front of her,
snoring, her mouth ajar.
Celia’s own mouth dropped open. She sat
up and took note. Same putrid pink dress. Same pinchy shoes. But the wedding,
Mia, her mom and grandmother? All gone. Replaced by a grotesque snoring woman
wearing a satin tent.
Celia ran her hands first over the
velvet seat cushion, then the burnished wood walls, and finally, the black,
smooth drapes. It all felt real.
She must be drunk. Or hallucinating.
Had she had too much champagne? No. That drink! That Jason person!
He must have put something in her water! But it had looked and tasted like
water. Celia ran her tongue over her teeth, trying to find an aftertaste, or a
hint of something dangerous.
She drew back the curtain and peered into
the night. A brilliant, star-studded sky gazed down on her. No street lights.
No lights at all, except for the one bobbing on the front of the carriage.
Leaning forward, she craned to see the driver, and saw nothing but a horse’s
butt and its swishing tail. As if the animal knew she was watching and he
didn’t appreciate her stare, he lifted his tail.
Celia sat back, closed her eyes, and
let the cadence sway of the carriage lull her back to sleep. When she woke,
she’d be at home in her bed, and she’d never have to wear this dress again.
Crack!
Celia’s eyes flew open. She sat up
straight and glanced at the woman across from her. The woman snorted and
nestled her double chin into her fur collar. What was that sound? Was the
carriage breaking beneath the woman’s weight?
Crack!
Was it gun fire? The carriage lurched,
stopping so quickly that the portly lady slid off the seat.
“What the devil?” the woman moaned, righting
herself. She gave Celia a narrow-eyed look as if Celia had knocked her off the
bench.
Crack!
“Gunshots!” the woman hissed. She
pursed her full lips, yanked off an enormous emerald necklace and shoved it at
Celia. “Hide this.”
Celia stared stupidly at the jewels. If
they were real, she could use them to buy the shop! Wishing she had a pocket,
her mind sought options. In her bra? No. The stones were too big and the bodice
too tight. Not knowing what else to do, she lifted her skirts and tucked the
necklace into the lace garter Mia had insisted all the bridesmaids wear. She
patted her skirts back into place just before the door flew open.
“Stand and deliver!” A deep and
somewhat familiar voice demanded.
Deliver what? And how could she stand
inside of a carriage? Celia crouched in her seat. Slowly, she lifted her head
and saw nothing but the silvery end of a gun pointing at her forehead. None
of this is real, Celia told herself. It’s the champagne asking me to
stand and deliver something. I’ve read one too many Jane Austen novels.
“Come, come, ladies.” The familiar
voice sent a tingle down her back.
The man stepped out of the shadows and
his gaze met hers, but not an ounce of recognition glistened in his eyes. She
thought she knew him, but since a black mask hid half his face, she couldn’t be
sure.
“My lady.” He swept his arms in a low
bow.
Celia gave the gun another glance. It
looked real enough.
He lifted one eyebrow and the corner of
his lips in a slow and lazy smile, but continued to point the gun at her
forehead.
She tried not to think about the
emeralds pinching her leg. She couldn’t look at them. She couldn’t adjust them.
She couldn’t call his attention to them in any way.
His gaze traveled over her horrid dress
and stopped at her mid-thigh as if he could see through the layers of sateen
and frilly slip to the garter smashing the emeralds against her.
“Are you in need of assistance?” He
held out his hand—the one not holding a gun—to help her out of the carriage. Again,
that trill of recognition poured over Celia. She knew him. Somehow.
She shook her head, knowing she couldn’t
touch him. If she touched him and he was real, tangible, then she would…well,
she didn’t know what she would do. Nothing like this had ever happened to her
before.
“Are you mute?” he asked, cocking his
head. His grin deepened. “Or is my charm rendering you speechless?”
“Have you considered that maybe I’m put
off by the gun you’re holding to my head?”
“Ah, so you can speak after all. Pity
that. I do love a quiet woman.” He placed his hand on his heart. “Please, my
dears, join me.”
But Celia refused to budge, and since
her companion cowered behind her, they both stayed in the coach. She stared at
his mouth—the only part of his face she could see—other than his eyes. She
found both his eyes and lips hypnotizing. Her gaze traveled from one feature to
the next, wondering which one she liked the most.
He’s
a highwayman! Her inner voice of reason told her. And a figment of your imagination! Those are the best kind of men, she told
her reasonable voice.
“I’m sure you understand this is not a social
call.” His gaze flicked over Celia and rested on her va-va-voom bodice. “At
least, not entirely, although I do enjoy mixing business and pleasure.”
“Where’s Eddie?” the woman barked over
Celia’s shoulder. “What have you done with Eddie?”
As she leaned over Celia, Celia’s foot
caught on the door’s lip. She would have tumbled and fell if the highwayman
hadn’t shot out his arm to steady her. His hand tightened around her, and in
one fluid movement, he lifted her out of the carriage and placed her on the
ground.
She felt breathless and warm from his
sudden, brief contact. Her breath came in ragged huffs. Not knowing whether she
was grateful or disappointed when he stepped away, she hugged herself to keep
warm.
A snapping twig drew her attention to
three men in the shadows. They stood as silent and watchful as the trees. All
three had weapons drawn.
“Where’s Eddie?” the woman barked out
again.
“Have you hurt the driver?” Celia
asked, with a hiccup catching in her throat.
The highwayman flicked his head toward
a cluster of trees. “He’s unharmed, except for, perhaps, his sense of self-worth.”
“What is your name?” the woman
whispered.
“My name?” Celia asked, her voice
coming out in a surprised squeak.
“Not your name, you goat head! I know
your name.”
Funny, because Celia had no idea who
this woman was.
Or who Celia was to her. Celia wondered
what her name might be, or her role, or position. Was she a maid? A paid
companion? A relation? She shivered, and told herself that she needed to wake.
This dream had gone on way too long already. She should have come-to as soon as
she saw the gun. That’s what normally would have happened. Nightmares typically
ended with a major scare.
She tried pinching herself. It hurt,
but not enough to wake her.
The woman fixed her attention on the highwayman.
“Who are you?”
“Why would he tell you that?” Celia
asked, more than a little stung at being called a goat head.
The man chuckled. “You do not need my
name, but I do need your valuables.”
Quiet descended, and Celia took note of
the clamor of crickets, the hooting owl, and a nearby tumbling river. Country
night sounds—so foreign in Connecticut and usually masked by the roar of
constant traffic on the nearby parkway.
“Do you really need them, or do you just want them?” Celia asked.
“What difference should that make?” he
asked.
“It makes a very big difference—it’s
the difference between greed and—”
He waved his gun in her face,
effectively silencing her. “That ring, if you please,” he said to the woman.
Celia watched, wondering what her
companion would do.
Slowly, the woman batted her eyes,
looking unsure.
The horses stamped their feet
impatiently and shook their reins. For a second, Celia thought about jumping on
one and riding away. But then she remembered she knew nothing about horses,
their massive size terrified her, and getting one loose from the carriage might
be tricky. Besides, even if it wasn’t real, the gun looked like it might be,
which meant that the bullet might possibly feel real, and she didn’t like
pain—real or imaginary.
The woman drew the ring off her finger.
“I have a reticule in the carriage,” she told the man. “If you’d like, I’ll
give it to you.”
The man barked a laugh. “Not likely.”
He motioned to one of the henchmen, his gaze never leaving the two women.
“Search the carriage. Tell me if you find any hidden pistols.”
Celia slid a quick glance at the woman,
wondering if she was cunning or just stupid.
The second man passed by. He smelled
unwashed and earthy. The woman reached out and shoved Celia into him. “Take
her!”
The man stumbled under Celia’s sudden
weight, but the highwayman reached out and caught her in his arms. He drew her
to him and held her close. She felt safe there, although she knew she
shouldn’t.
“Hold her hostage! Kill her if you
must!” The woman clambered into the coach and slammed the door.
Celia fought to breathe. She knew she
had to leave, she knew that staying pressed up against the highwayman was
stupid. He had his hand on her belly, his fingers splayed across her. He
smelled of cloves, and when he spoke, his breath warmed her.
“That was most unkind.” He sounded
surprised and disapproving.
The second man scrambled after the
woman and flung open the door. Amid the screams, the carriage rocked back and
forth.
“I won’t harm you,” the highwayman
whispered, his lips brushing against her hair.
Celia glanced at the gun. In the
moonlight, it looked very real and very lethal. Almost as devastating as the
man holding her in his arms.
He shifted, bringing her in front of
him. In one quick moment, he captured her lips.
Celia’s knees buckled. Her thoughts
raced back to all those Regency romance novels of her grandmother’s that she
had read as a girl. Georgette someone. Hideous, Horrendous, no, Heyer.
Yes, that was it. Georgette Heyer. What would Georgette call this? A seduction?
A ravishing? Oh my gosh! That was it! She was being ravished by a rake!
Wake
up! her mind screamed. No
more kissing!
Oh, but it felt so good. So very, very
good.
Panic gripped her. Breaking loose, she
ripped off his mask.
Jason West stood in a pool of moonlight,
gun dangling at his side. Surprise filled his eyes. He touched his lips,
clearly dazed. Taking two steps back, his gaze shifted to the dark, shadowy
woods. “Forgive me,” he muttered. “I have erred.”
And with those parting words, he turned
and disappeared into the forest.
#
Celia lifted her head off the table, dazed.
She must have fallen asleep. How embarrassing. She checked the
tablecloth to make sure she hadn’t been drooling. It felt dry. What if she had
snored? She cast a nervous glance around.
The party continued as if she had never
left/slept. She wasn’t sure, but it seemed as if the band was even playing the
same song. That wasn’t possible. The dream seemed longer than a few seconds, more
than a few minutes even. But no one was looking or staring at her.
Becca was chatting up some guy over by
the bar. Lacey had her arms wrapped around someone wearing a purple bow-tie and
they moved to the music. Celia twisted and caught the gaze of Jason West.
Flushing, she looked away. Touching her
cheeks, she tried to quell the heat flaming her
face. So grateful no one, and by no one she meant Jason West, could read her
thoughts, Celia slipped off her pinchy shoes and fled.
Later, she would have to try to explain
her sudden departure to her mom and sister. But there were some things she
would never be able to explain. Or understand.
Like the garter pressing something
sharp into her upper thigh.
The Highwayman Incident is free in Kindle Unlimited
I've struggled with body issues most of my life. Between pregnancies (eight of them) and menopause, my adult years have been a rollercoaster. Fortunately, after seven grueling years of hot flashes, I'm beginning to feel (somewhat) stable physically as well as emotionally. Here are the habits that have really helped me. (Maybe they'll help others, as well, although, I really think everyone should choose and embrace the habits that will work for them.) These are in no particular order because I think they're all critically important.
1. Sleep at least seven, if not eight hours, every night.
2. Drink 4 24 ounces of water every day. I try to drink one 24 ounce water bottle before 10 am, 1 pm, 4 pm, and 7 pm.
3. I can eat whatever I want, but I have to plug it into a calorie counter program. I try to eat at 7, 10, 1, 4, and 6:30. Ideally, each meal consists of 200 calories or fewer and has about 10 grams of protein. Dinner has a slightly higher calorie count of 400-500 calories. (I use My Fitness Pal, but there are lots out there. I like it because it has a pie chart showing my nutritional values.)
4. I spend at least 20 minutes outside every day. Typically, I walk 4-7 miles a day, which, of course, takes much longer than 20 minutes. But even if I can't, for some reason, exercise, I need time outside, even if I'm just sitting in a chair and staring at a tree. To be honest, this is more for my mental health than physical health.
5. Occasionally, I'll set a health goal and reward myself when I meet the goal. At the moment, I'm working toward a pair of gray alligator heels. A year ago, I went on the Optivia program. I absolutely loved it. I miss it, not the food, although some of that, and not the structure--because I can do that on my own, but I mostly miss the tremendous sense of accomplishment that came with the rapid weight loss. Thanks to Optivia, I lost the 25 pounds that came with menopause. And thanks to these habits, I'm healthier and happier than ever.
Turn on music
I like long walks outside.
I'm lucky because I live in Southern California where the weather is almost always gorgeous. To avoid the heat of the day during the summer months, I may have to go in the evenings or mornings, but since that is my preferred walking-time, I don't find that a problem.
Last year, I quit my gym. I feel for gym-owners everywhere (especially my brother who owns Stilliguamish Athletic Club) along with restaurant owners, and so many other small business owners who were hit hard and laid low by COVID-19. But I can say since my gym attendance is down, my walking hours are way up, and for that, I'm grateful.
There's something healing about being outside. Today during my scripture study, I came across this verse:
Genesis 24:40
The LORD, before whom I walk, will send his angel with thee, and prosper thy way.
Long walks, I believe, can do this for me (and you.)
