Friday, May 13, 2016

May Sale


Including my own Hailey's Comments!


From some secrets, just like from some men, there’s no escape. 

No one knows that sassy but shy Emma Clements is the voice of her grandmother’s advice column, Hailey’s Comments, until handsome Ryan Everett discovers the truth. To avoid his teasing questions and his you-can’t-fool-me remarks, Emma and her ugly dog Wyeth flee to sparsely populated Lister Island in the Puget Sound, where Emma intends to devote the summer to her painting and art. 


On Lister Island, Emma encounters a pistol packing priest, a pair of greedy organic food farmers, an octogenarian jail keeper and Ryan Everett. Soon, Emma is much more concerned about her heart than her art. After a series of disturbing coincidences, Emma suspects that the life of Helen Dunsmuir, Lister Island’s recently deceased grande dame, is tied to her own. As she unravels the secrets of Helen’s life—and untimely death—Emma learns that problems are rarely solved with a quip or platitude, and that it’s better to love than to comment. 



Hailey’s Comments, a romantic suspense reminiscent of Mary Stewart, was a quarter-finalist in the Amazon Breakthrough Contest.




Monday, May 9, 2016

My First Author School Visit

My sister is a reading specialist at Polaris High School, a school for high risk students. She asked me to come and speak to an English class. It made me nervous. (You can read about my introverted ways here.) But I'm so glad I did it. Not only was it fun, but the story the kids plotted is now my work in progress! Here's some of the notes I got from the kids (and teacher.)








Friday, May 6, 2016

When Dead Friends Visit

I had a dream last night that a dead writer friend came to visit me. (You can read more about Marilou here) We were in the home of another more successful (alive) writer. The house was chaotic, food-on-the-floor messy, and full of readers and writers--most of them argumentative and generally unhappy.



But I was so happy to see Marilou. We talked about my books and I told her I had started a new one. I was excited about it, but, for some reason, yesterday I wasn't able to focus. It took me several hours to write what I can usually write in one. She was encouraging and when she hugged me goodbye, I was surprised that she felt the same in my arms as before.

After she left, a woman from my church told me how inappropriate it was for Marilou to visit when she was dead. "She needs to stay dead." That was really sad for me. And not even true. People who have truly lived leave behind a legacy. Especially writers. Talking to Marilou reminded me of a quote I heard once that goes something like this: People will forget and ignore the thou shalt nots, but they'll remember and love the once upon a times. (That's why some fairy tales have been around for thousands of years.)

Our world, just like my friend's house in my dream, can be chaotic, messy, and contentious, but talking to Marilou reminded me that we write to try and make sense out of our world and hopefully make it a better place to be.

Here's the first chapter of my novel, A Ghost of a Second Chance. It's the story of a woman who, with the help of her grandmother's ghost, goes in search of her missing but also dead grandfather.

                          Only $0.99



The Chinook wind stirred the fallen leaves and tossed them around the deserted street. An eastern wind carries more than dust and ashes, Laine’s mother had told her; it uproots secrets. And everyone knows once one secret is told, no secret is safe.
Hers included.
Laine paused in front of the Queen Anne Hill Chapel doors. The sun, a faint pink glow over the eastern hills had yet to shine, but Laine hadn’t any doubt that it would rise to another scorching Indian summer day. She looked out over sleeping Seattle. The dark gray Puget Sound stretched away from her. On the horizon, distant ships bobbed and sent quivering beams of light over the water.
She turned her back on the ships, on any dream of sailing away, and inserted the key into the heavily carved wooden doors. They creaked open before Laine turned the key. Odd. The chapel, built in the 1930s, had a musty, empty smell. She stepped into the cool shade of the foyer and the door swung shut, closing with a click that echoed through the cavernous room. The morning sounds of birds, crickets and insects disappeared when the doors closed. Laine’s sneakers smacked across the terracotta tile, her footsteps loud.
She had thought she’d be alone, which is exactly why she’d chosen to come near dawn. Not that she’d been able to sleep. She hadn’t slept for weeks, which may explain why at first she’d thought the girl standing in the nave, facing the pulpit, her face lifted to the stained glass window, might be a ghost—or, given her surroundings, an angel.
Although Laine couldn’t see her face, the way the child’s head moved, it looked as if she was having a conversation with the Lord trapped in the glass, or one of the sheep milling about His feet, giving Laine the uncomfortable sense of interrupting. The meager morning sun lit the glass and multi-colored reflections fell on the girl, casting her in an iridescent glow. Slowly, she turned and Laine realized she wasn’t a child, but a young woman, around twenty, maybe half her own age, wearing the sort of thing her grandmother would have worn. Vintage clothing, Laine noted, incredibly well preserved.
“Good morning,” Laine said, smiling. “I’m sorry to intrude. I wasn’t expecting anyone…” She let her voice trail away. Laine had certainly never felt any peace through prayer, but that didn’t mean she wanted to interrupt anyone seeking grace. Pastor Clark had given her the key, so naturally she’d assumed the chapel would have been locked, and that she’d have this time to practice alone.
“Well, where is he, then?” the girl-woman demanded, placing her balled fists on her hips. She had yellow blonde hair, cut in a curly bob, and wore a pale blue sleeveless dress that fell straight to her knees. Laine considered the young woman. Given the scowl and hostile eyes, she didn’t look like a humble Christian follower, but she did seem oddly familiar.
“I’m sorry—who are you looking for?” Laine tucked her hands into her pockets, feeling inappropriately dressed. She’d thrown on Ian’s sweats, one of the few sets of clothes he’d left behind. Perhaps he didn’t exercise at the hotel, or, more likely, he’d just bought himself a new pair of running clothes. Now that her grandfather had died, making Ian The-Man-In-Charge, Ian could afford new running clothes, the hotel suite, and room services of all sorts. Which didn’t explain, really, why Laine wore his cast-offs. Just because he’d left them behind didn’t mean Laine should wear them. And yet, she did. Frequently.
“Sid!” the woman spat the name. Her gaze raked over Laine, making her uneasy.
Laine tugged at the drawstring holding up the sweatpants, wondering why this woman would be looking for her grandfather. “He’s still at the funeral home.” She swallowed. “They won’t bring the casket here until tomorrow morning. There’s the viewing tonight at the house…” She heard her own sadness in her voice.
“Then what are you doing here?” The woman’s eyes matched the color of her dress and as she drew closer, Laine saw she wore a necklace of the same steely blue. Laine’s hand instinctively crept to her own necklace, a gift from Sid, an emerald he’d said matched her eyes.
“I’ve come to practice the organ.” Laine shifted on her feet. A tingle of déjà vu ran up her spine. Looking at this woman was like watching a rerun of an almost forgotten and yet beloved television show. They must have met some other time at some long ago, forgotten place; Laine was sure they’d been friends. Although, at the moment, this woman was not a friendly person.
The woman looked at the massive organ and then back to Laine. “Why are you playing the organ? I’m sure Georgie could spit out the money for an organist. No need for freebie-family members to play.”
Laine opened her mouth to ask how this woman knew her father or her relationship to Sid, but then remembered her family had never lived a quiet life. Well, except for her. Her own life had been, until now, ungossip-worthy. Her breath caught in her throat and then she let it out slowly, bracing herself for the difficult weekend. She’d weather the rumors and the chit-chat. She could be strong.
Even if she’d never been before.
“I wanted to play,” Laine told the woman, lacing her voice with resolve she didn’t feel. “As a gift to my grandfather.”
Why are you here? How did you get in? How do I know you? Laine wanted to ask, but years of social training held back her questions.
The woman snorted. “Not much of a gift, that.”
“Yeah, well, it’s something I want to do.” Laine let a little of her social training slip and she brushed past the woman. She marched up the aisle toward the organ, lifted the massive cover, turned on the switch and adjusted the bench.
“A gift to your grandfather, or an excuse not to sit by your husband?” The woman appeared beside her.
Laine squared her shoulders and bit back a rude retort. She’d have to get used to the questions. Even if they weren’t asked so bluntly, they’d still be asked. Maybe not to her face, maybe behind her back, but the questions would be there, either in people’s eyes or on their lips. Laine would not provide answers.
The woman stood at her elbow. “If you’ve come to practice, where’s your music?”
Laine gave her a tight smile as she settled onto the bench. “I memorize.”
“If it’s already memorized, why are you practicing?”
For the first time Laine caught a hint of the woman’s French accent. “Who did you say you are again?”
“I didn’t say and you didn’t answer my question.”
 Laine began adjusting the stops. “Every instrument is different. A pedal may be broken, the bench could wobble… I’ve learned from sad experience that it’s best to give every instrument a test run. I mean, an organ’s not like a violin. You can’t just bring your own.”
The woman cocked her head. “What would you know of sad experiences?”
Most people would say her life was charmed, but if she lived such a fairytale, why was she so sad? Because the prince she’d been kissing for most of her life had turned into a toad?
“Do I know you?” Laine asked, her fingers pausing above the keys.
The woman leaned against the organ. “I don’t know, do you?”
All of Laine’s politeness drained away. “I’m sorry. I don’t know you. And because I don’t know you, I don’t feel I need to share.” Laine hit the keys, a D minor chord, and music reverberated through the deserted chapel.
“Good for you.” The woman chuckled and hitched herself up on top of the organ. She had reed-thin legs, pale as porcelain and covered with silky hose. She swung them back and forth, like a child pumping a swing, her heels rap-tapping the organ.
Laine lifted her fingers, horrified. The sudden cessation of music filled the room. “You can’t sit on this organ.” Her words echoed.
The woman cut her a sideways smile. She wore bright red shoes with ribbon ties on the ankles and the red heels continued bumping rhythmically against the organ. “No?”
No. It’s a 1930’s Wurlitzer, solid walnut. It’s extremely valuable, and you’re kicking it.”
“You’re very rich.” The woman smiled, but didn’t budge or stop swinging her legs. “You could replace it.”
Laine hated being reminded of her money. It made her feel guilty and dirty. She supposed that’s why she worked so hard at the foundation. She pounded out the first line of Pie Jesu and said, through gritted teeth, “Get off!”
And to her surprise, the woman did. Laine almost stopped playing, but after watching the woman wander down the aisle, her hands trailing along the pews, Laine turned her full attention to the music swirling through the chapel and, for a moment, she felt better than she had in weeks.
***
Walking down Lily Street past the turn-of-the-last-century mansions, Laine pulled her blazer close, as if by buttoning it she could hold in all her broken pieces. The suit hung on her. She’d had to pin the back of the skirt to keep it from sliding off. At least wool breathes, she told herself, refusing to consider that wool, heat, nerves and sweat could, and most assuredly, would, cause a smelly combination.
When had she lost so much weight? How had that happened? Had she discovered the miracle weight-loss program? Could she market it? The Lose Your Guy, Lose Your Gut diet?
Because she’d walked, she’d worn her flats, but stopping at the gate, watching her relatives, friends, and business associates climb from their cars in their suits, dresses, and heels, she considered going home and changing into something less worn. It’d seemed ridiculous to drive such a short distance, ridiculous to walk the three hilly blocks in heels, and it would be equally ridiculous to walk back and forth just to change her shoes. Of course, she could walk home and then drive for the return trip. But—then where would she park?
I’m stalling, she thought. Her eyes flicked over the cars lining the tiny street. This was supposed to be a private viewing, family and close friends only, and yet, somehow, her stepmother had managed to turn it into a celebrity photo opportunity. She told herself she wasn’t looking for Ian’s Mercedes, but she stopped checking the cars when he pulled up.
She stepped behind a mammoth rhododendron, and through the petals and branches, she watched him climb from his car. Despite the suit and graying hair at his temples, from a distance he looked nearly the same as he had in high school. Which just wasn’t right. She’d aged, why hadn’t he grown old beside her? The sprinklers had recently shut off and Laine’s flats sunk into a patch of mud. Her feet slipped slightly in the muck and she felt off balance and shaky.
A voice spoke in her ear. “Why are you hiding in that bush?”
Laine jumped and put her hand on her heart to slow its beating. She turned and scowled at the tiny woman at her elbow. “You!”
“You’ve got mud on your shoes and plant rubbish on your jacket.”
Laine looked down at her shoes and brushed twigs and petals off her blazer.
“I thought your outfit this morning was perhaps the ugliest thing I’d ever seen, but now,” her gaze swept over Laine, “I can see I was wrong.”
Laine cast Ian another look to make sure he hadn’t noticed her standing behind the bush and then whispered, “What’s wrong with my suit?”
“You mean besides the fact it’s ugly and must be incredibly itchy and hot? Well, for one thing, it doesn’t fit you. Where did you find it?”
“In my closet.”
“That explains a lot.” The woman fingered the pleats on her own blue silk dress. She’d changed her shoes. The red heels had been replaced with a pair of black pumps that would have been sedated if not for the faux diamonds on the toes. “You obviously need a new closet.”
“This is a viewing, not a fashion show.” Laine folded her arms, studied the woman and used the voice she only trotted out when donors tried to renege on their pledges. “Who are you? Did you work for my grandfather?”
The woman looked sly. “Sometimes.” So, that’s who she was—one of her grandfather’s girls. Laine didn’t deserve abuse from one of her grandfather’s ladies. She looked too young for even Sid. And she thought that it had been years since Sid’s Romeo days, but with her grandfather—it was hard to know who was who in his revolving love life.
Sid hadn’t been a paragon of virtue, but Laine had tried to live her life by a strict code. Insulting grieving granddaughters at funerals breached that code.
“Oh hello!” Ian called.
Laine’s head snapped up. Even from a distance, the timber in Ian’s voice made her quiver. She’d thought he’d seen her, thought he was speaking to her, but now she saw him cross the grounds, his arms open, his eyes kind, warm and generous—he could afford all those emotions now—as he approached a girl in a white sheath dress. Mary or Marie somebody from the reception desk. So much for family and close friends. But then Laine remembered, vaguely, something about Mary or Marie being related to Denis Openheimer, of the Openheimer Weiner fame. Of course, her stepmother would invite an Openheimer.
“Who wears white to a funeral?” the woman asked, before bringing her gaze back to Laine. “Although, it’s better than your frumpy suit.”
Laine turned away from Ian, not wanting to watch him embrace Mary or Marie, and looked at the woman just in time to see a fistful of mud flying.
“Hey!” Laine called out as the mud splattered across her chest. Clods of dirt stuck to her blouse as she pulled it out of her waistband, trying to prevent the mud from running down her skirt.
“I think the proper response would be ‘thank you’.”
Thank you?”
“You’re welcome.” The woman brushed off her hands, spun on her heel, and headed toward the back entrance of Sid’s house. “Now, follow me.”
Laine looked down at the disaster of her shirt. “I will not follow you.”
The woman stopped in the driveway by the white catering van. “What, you’re going to walk three blocks to change into something equally dowdy? You’re going to risk being late or possibly even not showing your face at your grandfather’s viewing? Think of the gossip, the rumors. Everyone will know for sure that Ian’s left you. He will think you weren’t brave enough—”
“Stop it!” The words and emotions flew out of Laine’s iron-clad control.
A teenager holding a large pink pastry box stepped from around the corner of the van. “Ma’am?” He had freckles dotting his nose and he looked hurt and surprised by her outburst.
“Not you,” Laine said, her voice sounding weak. “I wasn’t talking to you. I was talking to—”
She looked around, but the tiny woman had disappeared.
The kid edged toward her, as if she were a wounded Doberman in need of help and yet still capable of doing serious injury. “Can I help you? Get you some water or something?”
 Laine sighed and put her fingertips on either side of her temples. “Look, I hired your company.”
The kid began to back away from her. His hands, clutching the pastry boxes, turned white around the knuckles.
“I just…” Laine swallowed, following him. “There’s a short, blonde woman hanging around here. She’s about this high.” Laine held up her hand so it was even with her chin. “If you see her, I want you to come and get me immediately.” She’s going to pay, Laine thought, for at least my dry cleaning.
The mud seeped through her blouse and felt cold and oozy. What to do? Totter home, change into something, anything, clean? Go into town and buy something? She didn’t have her purse. She glanced at Sid’s house. It had rooms and rooms and closets full of stuff.
She looked out over the lawn. Ian stood on the front porch, pumping hands with Uncle Harry. Ian had on a dark, well cut, custom-made suit. Even as a teenager he’d been fashion conscious. Other girls had shopped with their boyfriends, selecting their clothes, dressing them as if they were the Ken to their Barbie. Laine had always been too busy studying, working on the student council, organizing the next fundraiser. Even then, she’d been raising money for somebody, or something else.
Laine stomped into her grandfather’s kitchen and the catering staff, who had been bustling around the counters and mammoth oak table turned to stare at her, their conversations and chatter coming to a sudden and stunned stop.
“There’s a crazy short lady here,” Laine said. “If any of you see her, I want you to tell me immediately.”
Most of the staff gave her blank stares, but a few turned away, smirking. Short, crazy lady, Laine thought as she kicked off her muddy shoes. Yeah, right. Short and crazy are both subjective adjectives and could just as easily be applied to me.
Laine ran up the back stairs and turned into what was once her aunt Claire’s room. The room still smelled of violets, her aunt’s smell, and Laine’s heart clenched with the sudden memory. Softly, she closed the door behind her and went to sit on the bed. The room hadn’t been redecorated since the eighties. Tiny yellow and blue flowers covered everything—the walls, the bedspread, the host of pillows, the dress of the Cabbage Patch doll resting against the brass headboard.
What would happen now to Sid’s house, to Claire’s things? Why hadn’t she thought about this? Had anyone? Perhaps her stepmother and her dad had plans. Although, thinking and planning had never been their fortes.
Ian would now officially run the company. He’d been Sid’s puppet for years, until slowly, almost imperceptibly, he’d begun pulling the strings as Sid had aged. No one had expected Sid to live to ninety-seven, especially not his string of ex-wives. He’d outlived all his spouses and two of his children.
Thinking about spouses, exes and current, Laine unfolded from the bed and went to the closet. She had known her aunt Claire as a fussy old lady and didn’t expect to find anything other than flowery muumuus, Claire’s favorite daywear. A muumuu or a dirt-crusted suit? Laine had to find something without mud clinging to it and she didn’t need a whole outfit. Her suit was fine, thank you very much. She just needed a blouse.
She glanced out the window and saw Ian talking to a circle of her employees from the foundation. Marie laughed and placed her hand on Ian’s sleeve. White heat flared through Laine and she closed her eyes against the pain and anger.
When she opened her eyes she saw a dress hanging in the closet. Long sleeves, high neck, black lace over a strapless taffeta under-bodice, a pleated band at the waist. The sort of thing she’d never buy.
And yet.
She looked back out the window. Marie had on an impossibly short skirt, something no one over the age of thirty should ever wear. Allison, a mother of four children, had on a blouse that lifted when she moved her arms and exposed a bright strip of white belly. In a world of inappropriateness, Laine, the good daughter, the philanthropist, could wear a black lace dress.
She took off her suit, kicked it into the closet’s corner, and stepped into the dress. To her surprise, it didn’t smell of violets or mildew, but of Chanel Number 5. The lining felt luxurious against her skin and the lace clung slightly as she moved.
Considering her reflection in the mirror, she decided she couldn’t wear the muddy flats. Tearing into the shoe boxes on the closet shelf, she discovered black lace shoes with pearl buttons and three-inch heels. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t be able to walk. With the shoe box tucked under her arm, she went to the bed, sat down and slipped on the heels. They fit perfectly. Odd.
Looking at her herself in the mirror, she wondered when and where her aunt had bought the dress and matching shoes. She tried to imagine the woman she’d known, the wearer of shapeless muumuus and of the collector of Cabbage Patch dolls, wearing such a dress, wearing Chanel Number 5 perfume. There are so many things we don’t know about the people around us, even the people we love, she thought, and we pass so quickly through our lives, briefly colliding before sailing away.
 On an impulse, she reached up and took the pins from her hair. Her curls spilled down her back. Remembering the handkerchief in her suit pocket, she drew it out and promised herself that she wouldn’t use it. No one would see her cry, but if they did, they would think she cried for Sid. Not Ian. Perhaps Ian would cry and she could magnanimously lend him her handkerchief and give him a condescending smile, accompanied by a conciliatory pat on the shoulder. She smiled at her reflection, braced her shoulders, and left the room.

Tuesday, May 3, 2016

Tuesday Teaser, Menagerie, Chapter One


This is a teaser of my latest work in progress, Menagerie. It's the story of seventeen-year old Liza Woods who has spent her life cloistered on an island in the Puget Sound with her mom and a menagerie of animals--some domesticated and some not. 

Chapter One

The birds heralded the storm, as they always did. They liked to be the first in the know, although, as Liza 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 that ability or cunning, but rather in their haste to be the first in the know, some blurted out misconceptions and half-truths.
Not that Liza had much familiarity with liars—or people in general—but she’d read of several, as Rose, her mother, had accumulated an impressive library since her arrival on the island. Not that Liza was in any position to know what was and was not impressive library-wise, or any otherwise, since Liza herself had never been off the island she and Rose called home.
The howling wind drowned out the calls of the birds and squirrels’ and chipmunks’ chatter. Opossum, skunks, and fox sought shelter in the forest’s thickets. Rats and mice scurried to find hidey-holes. Liza 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 ways they didn’t wish to go.
“A man approaches,” Wilson whined, terror tainting his words.
Liza 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 unseen hand. Liza couldn’t see anyone, but her heart quickened as it always did when a boat wandered into their cove. “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?”
Wilson shook his head. His ears flattened and his tail drooped when another flash of lightening lit the sky. He cowered as the thunder boomed.
“Come,” Liza said, “let’s go inside. Only an imbecile would be out on the water today.”
“He’s no longer on the water,” Wilson whined. “His boat has landed.”
Liza peered into the storm, saw nothing more than before, added another log to her collection, and headed for the house. Their cottage was made of stone, but the adjacent shed which sheltered the woodpile, gardening tools, and chicken feed, 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.
Wilson whined again. Liza knew he longed for the comforts of the house as much as she did, but she also understood Wilson had an important job to do and he would never back away from protecting her from strangers.
“There’s no one there,” Liza 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 smell of ginger cookies.
Rose stood at the large pine table, stacking the cookies onto a plate. Liza stared at the amount, knowing that she and her mother would never be able to eat so many.
“There’s a man in the cove,” Liza said, wondering if her mother already knew, and if so, why hadn’t she told her she expected company.
Rose kept her gaze focused on the cookies and blushed.
“Are you expecting someone?” Liza demanded.
“No, not really, but I…” Rose’s voice trailed away.
Liza stomped through the kitchen and passed into the living room. She deposited her logs onto the hearth, stood, 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 a few times a month.
“He’s someone that I used to know,” Rose said without meeting Liza’s eye.
“Why is he coming? Will he bring books?”
Rose laughed, but it sounded strange—strained and nervous. Liza decided that she already disliked this man. She plucked a cookie off the plate.
Rose looked up sharply, an expectant look on her face.
Liza studied her cookie, suddenly suspicious. Her mother studied and experimented with herbs and she’d taught Liza a variety of recipes. Lilies to lighten the mood, lavender to soothe worries, dandelions to bring sleep, basil to stimulate energy, and gingerroot to make one forget. Liza sniffed the cookie and touched it with her tongue.
Her mother watched her.
Liza 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. Liza ignored the wind, stuck her head out the window and spit the cookie out into the storm. She slammed the window closed.
“What are you doing?” Rose asked.
Liza started. She hadn’t heard her mother come in. Wrapping her arms around herself, Liza said, “I was looking for the man.”
Rose’s lips lifted into a smile. “Don’t worry about him. Here, I’ve brought you some tea.” She set down a steaming mug on Liza’s bedside table. “Gingerroot, your favorite.”
“Thanks.”
“Want to come and read by the fire?” Rose asked.
Liza 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, Liza sipped from the teacup, but she didn’t swallow it.
Rose lifted her own mug to her lips and watched Liza.
Liza set the mug back down and met her mother’s gaze. After an awkward moment, Rose lifted her shoulder in a half-hearted shrug and headed down the hall.
Liza bounced from the bed, closed the door, and spat the tea back into the mug. She poured the entire cup down the toilet, flushed, 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, Liza practiced her corpse pose and didn’t even flinch as she heard her mother steal into the room. Rose tucked a quilt around Liza’s shoulders before softly closing the door.
Liza peeked open an eye and met Wilson’s steady, brown-eyed gaze. “Who is he?”
“I don’t know,” the dog whimpered. “He isn’t scared.”
“How can you tell?” Liza asked.
“The smell. All emotions have a smell.”
“My mom—what’s her smell?”
Wilson jumped up on the bed beside Liza and nestled beside her. “She loves you.”
“I know that. But I don’t know what that has to do with anything.”
Wilson 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.”
Wilson blew out a breath, stood, shook himself, and jumped off the bed. He went to the door to bark and whine. It didn’t do any good. Her mother ignored him, which told Liza a number of things. One: the potion Rose had given Liza must have been so strong that Rose didn’t worry about Wilson waking her. Two: Rose didn’t want to be interrupted. Three: Rose must have been expecting this man.
Liza sat up as a thought assaulted her.
Wilson, as if reading her mind, jumped back up beside her and gazed into her eyes.
“This man is my father!” Liza blurted out.
“You cannot know this,” Wilson whimpered.
“She loves him enough to drug me just to spend time with him! Of course, he’s my father!”
Wilson moaned a disagreement.
Liza had a lot of questions—mostly because she was only seven, but also because she lived a solitary life with her mother on an uninhabited island in the Puget Sound. She had a faith that her questions would eventually be answered, but the biggest questions in her heart and mind all centered around her father.
Liza kicked off the quilt her mother had tucked around her and crawled off the bed.
Wilson placed his nose against her thigh, stopping her. “There must be a good reason why your mother doesn’t want you to meet this man.”
“She never said she didn’t want me to meet him.”
Wilson snorted. “If she had wanted you to meet him, she wouldn’t have drugged you.”
Suddenly Liza hated her mother. “She can’t keep me from my own father.”
Wilson parked his butt against the door like a giant hairy roadblock. “You do not know he is your father.”
“Of course, he’s my father. Now move.” She grabbed Wilson’s collar to pull him away.
His fur bunched up around his collar, but he wouldn’t budge.
Liza tried the door knob, but since Wilson outweighed her by nearly fifty pounds the door wouldn’t open. Liza flounced to the window.
“Where are you going?” Wilson asked, his ears poking toward the ceiling.
“To meet my father.” Liza threw open the window. The wind spat rain in her face and carried a breath of bone-chilling cold into the room.
Wilson stood, shook himself, but didn’t move away from the door.
Liza had one leg thrown over the sill, and her exposed foot was already wet from the rain.
“You’ll look like a drowned cat if you go out into the storm,” Wilson said.
She sent him a dirty look. He gazed back at her. She clambered out the window. The rain hit her like hundreds shards of ice. The cold stung her face and pierced her clothes. She ran around to the side of the house so she could look in the windows.
Inside, sitting side by side on the sofa, snuggled together in front of the fire was her mom and a man. Liza knew she’d never seen him before—not that she could remember, at least—but there was something about him that spoke to her, and called out to him.
But as she watched him laughing with her mother, Liza had another realization. She knew that even if she introduced herself to this man, because of the cookies on the platter, in time, he would forget her. She’d only be a vague recollection—a face he couldn’t place.
Liza never drank gingerroot tea again.