The Chapter of A Villa in a Small Town and Other Writerly News

 It's been almost ten years since my youngest daughters left for college. That was a pivotal time for me. The last of my children leaving sent me into a dark depression. I wish someone had told me how wonderful my life was going to be--even without children in my home. How much I would love my children's spouses and my grandchildren. How so many of them would remain close. And how even though those who live far away are not really far away at all because of modern technology. So, this is my message to all of you who may be dreading the empty nest. Life without children in your home can be wonderful. 

If you're not interested in motherly reflections and are just all about the books. No worries. Skip ahead to an excerpt of my current work in progress set in Southern France!

Why is it set in Southern France, you may ask? Because I'm going there in a few weeks! My daughter, Miranda, is an amazing wedding photographer and she has a shoot at a villa in Nice. I'm going with her! And since her twin, a brilliant business consultant is currently working in Paris, I'm going to visit Natalie, too.

Miranda Tate Photography

 

Natalie and Cody in Paris

When these girls left for school, I didn't know who they would grow to be. They surprised me. I guess that's my message to all of you who might be where I was ten years, grieving because all I could see were empty bedrooms. At that time, a wise friend told me your children aren't your reason for living, God is, and He never leaves you.

So true.

Here's a link to the blog post: How Not to Take Your Kids to College

And here's a question for you--when you read a romance, do the hero and main character need to meet in the first chapter? What do you think? They say when you read a mystery, the villain needs to be in the first chapter. Again, what do you think?

Here's the first chapter of my current work in progress, A Villa in a Small Town. It's the fourth book in my Haywood Family series, sweet romances with a hint of suspense.

Blanchett peered over the edge of the sheet at mem his eyebrows looking like bristly caterpillars resting on his wrinkled brow. His cheeks sunken and gray and his lips blue. “Luc is most undoubtedly and indisputably a beauf—a ridiculous beauf.” His black eyes skated away from mine. “His mother’s fault,” Blanchet went on, “it’s not so bad in a woman, and she was pretty, which Luc isn’t. Pretty and a prig, my sister Sarah——”

There was a faint emphasis on the word sister, and I remembered having heard my mother say that both Julien and William Blanchett had been in love with the girl whom William married. “And a plain beauf my nephew Luc,” continued the old gentleman. “Curse it all, I, why can’t I leave my money to you instead?”

“Because I wouldn’t take it.” I sat, unprofessionally, on the edge of my patient’s large four-post bed. If Blanchet hadn’t been so frail, I would worry about him kicking me off, but in his weakened condition, I was safe.

Blanchett scowled at me. “You’re a fool. How much would you take—eh, Gabriel? Come now—say—how much?”

I laughed. “Not a euro.” I swung my arm over the great carved post beside me. There were cherubs’ heads upon it, a fact that I found amusing.

“Nonsense,” said Blanchett, and for the first time his thin voice was tinged with earnestness. “Nonsense,” he repeated, “you’ll see. I’ll have my way.”

I started at his earnestness, wondering what he could possibly have in mind.

Blanchet’s eyes changed. They were very deep-set eyes. It was only when he laughed that they appeared grey. When he was serious, they were so dark as to look black. Apparently, he was moved and concerned.

My voice took a pleading tone. “I can’t take it, you know.”

“And why not?” Blanchett folded his hands on his chest as if praying.

I rubbed a hand over my face, tired of the argument. “I appreciate the gesture,” I said. “But I can’t benefit under a patient’s will. I haven’t got many principles, but that’s one of them. Doctor Renee drummed it into me from the time I joined him.”

Blanchett lifted his prickly coal black eyebrows that made his shock of white hair seem like a lie. I would have found the old man’s vanity amusing if it wasn’t also very sad. “Your morals offend me,” he said with a sniff. “No one likes a saint, Gabrielle.”

“Then you will have a hard time in heaven.”

“Maybe I’m not going there.”

“You are,” I said with absolute conviction.

“You don’t know all the things I’ve done,” he said.

I wrapped a hand around his foot and gently squeezed it. “Can we talk of your death. This cold will pass. There’s not reason for you not to live another three to six years.”

Blanchett barked out a laugh that turned into a cough. I leaned over to snag a couple of tissues from the box and handed them to him. The laugh-coughing shook the old man’s slender frame and when the fit ended, he leaned back against his army of pillows and pressed the tissues to his lips. He closed his eyes, exposing the blue-veins on his lids. “You won’t take a thousand?” he asked without opening his eyes.

“Not a centime.” I grinned, even though the old bastard couldn’t see me with his eyes closed.

Blanchett opened his eyes to glare at me. “Beauf,” he observed with great conciseness. Then he pursed up his lips, felt under his pillow, and pulled out a long folded paper. “All the more for Luc,” he said. “All the more for Luc,” he repeated, “and all the more reason for Luc to wish me dead. I wonder he hasn’t poisoned me. Perhaps he will. Heavens, I’d give something to see Luc tried for murder! Think of it, I—only think of it—Twelve French Citizens in one box—Luc in another—all the citizens looking at Luc, and Luc looking as if he was in church, and wondering if the moth was getting into his collections, and if anyone would care for ’em when he was dead and gone. And Nicolette—like Niobe, all tears——”

I had been chuckling, but at the mention of Nicolette, my stomach twisted. I interrupted my patient, “You mustn’t tire yourself.”

“Like Niobe, all tears,” repeated Blanchett, obstinately. “Sweetly pretty she’d look too—eh, I? Luc’s a lucky dog, isn’t he?”

Any laughter within me died. I studied the old bastard.

“You think me beast?” Blanchett cocked one of his eyebrows and occupied himself with arranging the bedclothes in an accurate line across his chest. As he did so, his hand touched the long folded paper, and he gave it an impatient push. “You’re an idiotic fool,” he said. “I’ve made my will once, and now I’ve to make it all over again just to please you. All the whole blessed thing over again, from ‘I, Julien Morell Blanchett,’ down to ‘I deliver this my act and deed.’ Oh, heavens, what a bore.”

“Do you wish me to call Fenwick?” I asked.

Blanchett flared into sudden wrath. “Don’t talk to me of lawyers,” he barked. “I know enough law to make a will they can’t upset. Don’t talk of ’em. Sharks and robbers. Worse than the doctors.”

I shifted uncomfortably at the insult to my profession.

“Besides young Fenwick talks—tells his wife things—and she tells her sister.” Blanchet paused for a long, labored breath. “And what Aimee Bowden knows, the town knows. Did I ever tell you how I found out? I suspected, but I wanted to be sure. So I sent for young Fenwick, and told him I wanted to make my will. So far, so good. I made it—or he did. And I left a couple of thousand pounds to Bessie Fenwick and a couple more to her sister Aimee in memory of my old friendship with their father. And as soon as Master Fenwick had gone I put his morning’s work in the fire. Now how do I know he talked? This way. A week later I met Aimee Bowden in the Grand rue, and I had the fright of my life. I declare I thought she’d ha’ kissed me. It was ‘I hope you are prudent to be out in this east wind, dear Mr. Blanchett,’ and I must come and see them soon—and oh, heavens, what fools women are! Aimee Bowden never could abide me till she thought I’d left her two thousand pounds.”

“Fenwicks aren’t the only lawyers in the world,” I said, trying to calm him.

“Much obliged, I’m sure. I did go to one once to make a will—they say it’s sweet to play the fool sometimes—eh? Fool I was sure enough. I found a little mottled man, that sat blinking at me, and repeating my words, till I could have murdered him with his own office pen-knife. He called me Moral too, instead of Morell. ‘Julien Moral Blanchett,’ and I took occasion to inform him that I wasn’t moral, never had been moral, and never intended to be moral. I said he must be thinking of my nephew Luc, who was damn moral. Trying to save some species of larvae from extinction. Oh, heaven, here is Luc. I could ha’ done without him.”

The door opened, and Luc crept through as if apologizing for his existence. He was a slight, fair man with a well-shaped head, a straight nose, and a chin that disappeared into his shirt collar. He wore Dexter glasses because he was short-sighted, and high collars because he had a long neck.

“If he hadn’t been for ever blinking at some bug that was just out of his sight, his eyes would have been as good as mine, and he might just as well keep his head in a butterfly net or a collecting box as where he does keep it. Not that I should have said that Luc did keep his head.”

“I think you make him nervous, sir,” said I, “and——”

“I know I do,” Blanchett.

 

Luc, looking like he was entering a boxing ring without a mouth guard, shut the door.

 

I'm waiting until I have the first three books in the series written before any are published, so if I need to make tweaks, I can. But you can read book one on the Kindle Vella Platform here: *The first three episodes are free.)