Oh, how I love this time of year! These pictures are from my dad's house in Washington state, where I grew up. This is also the setting of my Rose Arbor novels, which I'll be totally revamping in the upcoming months.
Books are a lot like children--we're supposed to love them all equally--but if I'm honest, I love this book more than most. And I get that most people won't love it the way I do. It's not genre specfic, meaning that when someone wants to put it on a shelf in the bookstore, it's hard to decide where it goes. There's ghost, but I wouldn't call it horror. There's romance, but the couple are already married.
But one thing it does have is apple fritters. So here's a recipe and an excerpt from A Ghost of a Second Chance, which is free for the next three days.
Apple Fritters
Apple Fritters
Ingredients
35 m 24 servings 118 cals
1 quart vegetable oil for deep-frying
1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon white sugar
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
2/3 cup milk
2 eggs, beaten
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
3 cups apples - peeled, cored and chopped
1 cup cinnamon sugar
Heat the oil in a deep-fryer or electric skillet to 375 degrees F (190 degrees C).
In a large bowl, stir together the flour, sugar, baking powder and salt. Pour in the milk, eggs and oil and stir until well blended. Mix in apples until they are evenly distributed.
Drop spoonfuls of the batter into the hot oil and fry until golden on both sides, about 5 minutes depending on the size. Fry in smaller batches so they are not crowded. Remove from the hot oil using a slotted spoon and drain briefly on paper towels. Toss with cinnamon sugar while still warm.
A Ghost of a Second Chance
From Chapter 10
Laine walked down Olympic Hill to the
town green. She hugged her books against chest, her arm covering the Ghost Guru’s
intense face. All around her the townspeople bustled in and out of shops. Most
of the store fronts had preserved a turn of the century feel and according to
the marker in front of the large white gazebo in the middle of the green, Rose
Arbor had been incorporated in 1903. A number of the people on the street
looked nearly as old as the town, but not Bette. She emerged from Bernadette’s
Bakery holding a small white bag. Even from here, despite the blowing mower and
the swirl of cut grass, Laine thought she could smell apple fritters. The scent
took her back to her days at the university. She loved Bette and she loved apple
fritters. At that moment, she couldn’t say which she loved more.
Bette adjusted her sunglasses, looked
across the green, spotted Laine and waved. Laine sat down on a park bench and
waited for her friend. Other than the silver streaks in her fly away hair,
Bette looked remarkably like the college co-ed in constant search of a pencil.
Laine had at first found Bette annoying and then had grown to love her.
Personality wise, they were as different as a pair of comfy well-worn jeans and
a pair of Prada shoes. Laine’s prim and tidy
dorm room had curtains that matched pillows on the bed that coordinated with
the rug on the floor that were the same color as her bath towels that matched
the bedspread. Bette’s pillow often had chocolate on it because there were candy
wrappers on her bed. Laine had a calendar on the wall with all of her upcoming
school assignments marked in red, tests marked in yellow and social events
marked in blue. Bette had a calendar, but she often didn’t know where it was, and
her meager budget couldn’t keep up with her frequent loss of pens and pencils. Back
then their relationship had been symbiotic—Bette needed pencils and Laine
needed friends. Bette had a plethora of friends and Laine learned how to share
her writing utensils. Now, Laine hoped that Bette had brought apple fritters to
share.
Bette dropped onto the bench and opened
the bag. The pastries warm smell wafted out. Laine looked in the bag. Two
fritters. Bette smiled as she lifted one out.
“This,” she said, “is a bribe.”
Laine waited.
“I’ll give it to you, if you’ll answer
all my questions.” Bette bit into her fritter, and Laine scowled. “Oh, there’s
one for you. No worries.”
“How did you know I was here?”
Bette laughed. “This is a small town,
remember? Lots of people know you’re here.”
“But no one knows me.”
“They know you’re the new owner of the
Leon mansion.” Bette nodded at the grocery bags at Laine’s feet holding bottles
of cleansers, lemon oil, rubber gloves and a bundle of cleaning clothes. “And
that you’ve offered to build Missy Clements a
butterfly garden if she’ll help you clean it up. But it was the broken finger
that cinched it.” Bette took another bite and smiled like she’d tasted manna.
“How many rich, clean freaky, broken fingered tall, dark curly haired women can
there be in Rose Arbor?” Bette licked her fingers. “I’ve answered two of your
questions and you’ve answered none of mine.”
“But other people must have answered
some of them,” Laine said. “You know about the cottage.”
Bette lifted her eyebrow.
“Although, it’s more mansion than
cottage.” Laine corrected herself.
“What are you doing here, Laine?”
“Remember—I told you about my
grandmother’s photos and journals. I’m going to try to write her personal
history.” Laine paused. “Can I have my fritter now?”
Bette shifted the bag to the other side
of the bench. “Have you left Ian?”
“How can I leave him when he left me six
weeks ago?”
“Does he know you’re here?”
“I don’t know—does it matter?” Laine
held out her hand for the fritter.
Bette narrowed her eyes.
“He left me! Six weeks ago!”
Bette scowled. “There’s something you’re
not telling me. Is there someone else?”
“Not for me, no.”
“And Ian?” Bette’s voice turned soft.
Laine’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t
know.”
Bette’s gaze held Laine’s for a moment,
and then she relinquished the fritter.
“Thank you,” Laine said.
“You’re welcome.” Bette took a breath.
“You know, I left Greg once.”
Laine choked on her fritter and fumbled
for a napkin. Bette pressed one into her hands. Laine used it to wipe up the
crumbs that had escaped her mouth.
“You never told me that.”
Bette shrugged. “It was only for five
days. Now that he’s gone, I’d do anything to recapture that lost time.” She
folded the now empty bag into a square. “It was this time of year, early
autumn. Central Park was gorgeous—the changing leaves, the cold, crisp air.”
“You went to New York?” That must have
been expensive. Bette and Greg had always lived very modestly on Greg’s school
salary. Laine found it hard to believe Bette would pay for a trip to New York
as a lark.
Bette nodded. “To Julliard. I just hung
around campus, snuck into the practice rooms. I found a harpsichord in one….”
Her voice drifted off. “I think of that week whenever I hear Bach.”
“What made you go?”
“What made you kick Ian out?”
“I didn’t—”
“Oh, please Laine. Don’t lie.”
“Why did you go to New York?” Laine
pressed.
Bette sighed. “Because I was young and
stupid and I thought I was old and world-wise. Greg and I grew up together.”
She looked around. “We grew up, here together, and it became clear to me that
we were going to grow old, here, together. Same guy. Same town. If I didn’t do
something, anything, this was going
to be all I’d ever know.” She took a deep breath. “I thought I wanted something
else.”
Laine put her arm around Bette’s
shoulder and squeezed her tight. They shared this commonality, the love of boys
they’d known most of their lives. Laine knew that Bette still loved Greg, and
yet, here she was, in the middle of her life with a new man. The knowledge
fluttered in Laine’s stomach.
Bette leaned her head on Laine’s
shoulder. “I miss him. I miss him every morning and every night. It’s football
season, you know?”
“Do you go to the games?”
Bette shook her head no. “Errol likes
plays. He takes me to restaurants and tiny community theaters on Friday
nights.” She paused. “I love it, but it’s different.” She looked sharply at
Laine. “Are you sure you want something different?”
“I don’t want someone different, if
that’s what you mean.” Laine answered quickly, thinking of Sean Marks and his
lingering touch on her skin.
“Does Ian?”
Laine shrugged. “Carly,” she burst out,
“this woman Ian works with. She’s always at his elbow. Everyone at the office
talks about them—treats them like they’re a couple. They work together—eat breakfast,
lunch, dinner and probably snacks in between. Carly maneuvers herself into
ready and willing position whenever Ian entered the room. She laughs the
longest and loudest at his jokes and he acts differently around her—more
confident, wittier, smarter.” And that was what hurt the most.
“Do you think he’s—”
Laine shook her head. “I don’t know.
Maybe not, but he certainly hasn’t been sleeping with me.”
“That’s hard to do when you’re not
speaking to him.” Bette laughed. “Although you could try some cave woman
pantomime.”
Laine tried to smile. “The infertility—”
Bette nodded and squeezed her hand.
Bette knew. She understood the horrors of hormones and infertility treatments.
She also understood and sympathized with Ian’s reluctance to adopt, much better
than Laine did. It was something Bette and Laine had discussed relentlessly. Laine
turned her thoughts away from babies. Those thoughts only led to dark, unhappy
places.
“Don’t you think an emotional affair can
be just as painful as a physical one?” Laine asked. “Isn’t it just as much of a
betrayal? Back to the cave man—that whole pounding on-chest- me-man-and-must-have-woman
thing—isn’t that more forgivable and understandable than an affair of the heart
and mind?”
“No.” Bette snorted.
“Sex is more elemental—it’s easier to
control than your mind.”
“Says you,” Bette said, licking her
fingers. “I really don’t think you would make this argument if you thought for
even one tiny moment that Ian had slept with Carly.”
“Maybe he has. You don’t know.”
“Do you?” Bette asked.
“No.”
“Have you asked him?”
Laine gave her head a small shake. “I
can’t. We’re not—”
“You’re avoiding him.” Bette made it
sound like she was bludgeoning dogs and skinning cats.
“I can’t talk to him. Every time I see
him I clam up. I literally start to shake. My heart beats fast and then it’s
like the real me disappears and a phantom witchy me takes over.” She took a long
breath. “I wish I could disappear. Just fade away like I don’t exist…right now the
cottage seems like the perfect way to make that happen.” She took another deep
breath, desperate to change the subject. “Your trip to New York—it was just
five days.”
“I knew in three I wanted to go to home.
Home, for me, was Greg.”
And
now he’s gone, Laine thought.
“Yes, now he’s gone,” Bette said, as if
she’d read Laine’s thoughts. “And I’m still here. But unfortunately, the
fritters are gone too.” She glanced at her watch, a pretty silver and sea shell
thing that sparkled in the sun. It looked expensive and fragile, the sort of
thing that practical Bette would love but would never buy. Laine wondered if it
had been a gift from Mr. Prompt.
Laine used the napkin to wipe her sticky
fingers. “Do you want to come see the cottage?”
“I’d love to, Lainey, but Errol is
picking me up.” She looked at her watch again. “Oh, I’ve got to go. I’ll come
out tomorrow.” She cocked her head at Laine. “Do you think you’ll still be
there?”
Laine nodded. She wasn’t very sure of
most things, but she was quite sure she’d be at the cottage tomorrow. I’ll stay as long as I have Madeleine with
me, she told herself. Together,
they’d look for Sid, work on her grandparent’s life stories, and try to restore
the cottage to its former glory.
With those decisions made, Laine pulled
out her phone. She needed someone to take care of her cat.
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