Jenyfer Matthews

Terry makes her home in Orlando, Florida. To find out more about Terry visit her website or her blog.

Please welcome EPPIE award winning author Karen McCullough!

Karen McCullough has published six romantic mystery/suspense novels, two romantic fantasy novels, a Middle-earth RPG tie-in book, and most recently a paranormal novella, “Vampire’s Christmas Carol” in the Christmas paranormal anthology from Cerridwen Press, Beneath a Christmas Moon. Her most recent full-length novel release is also from Cerridwen Press, a romantic mystery/suspense thriller titled Shadow of a Doubt. Karen invites readers to learn more about her at her web site and her Myspace home.

Karen tells the story behind the story of Shadow of a Doubt:

When I set out to write Shadow of a Doubt, I planned it to be a pretty simple, straightforward mystery, with a twist. (No, I can’t tell you what that is.) I knew I wanted to set it in a small city in the Blue Ridge Mountains, with a heroine who was the only actual detective in the small police department and a hero who might or might not be involved in the crime she was investigating.

I did a lot of research for this story, including quite a bit about police procedures in general and homicide investigations in particular. I talked to a number of police officers, not just to get information but also to get a feel for how they think, how they approach both the job and life. Being a police officer is more than just a job and their attitudes spill over into the rest of their lives. I wanted to capture some of that.

I was aware that this was a risky book to write. As a police officer and a detective my heroine, Liz Ramsey, should not be romantically involved with a suspect. It’s a serious breach of ethics and any cop would know it.

One of the themes I’ve found recurring in my stories is the conflicts among duty, honor, loyalty, and love. I wanted to put my heroine in a position where she would have to wrestle with the conflicting demands of all of those things. To keep Liz from looking either stupid or morally questionable, I had to set up the situation carefully.

At the beginning of the story Greg Conyers wasn’t a suspect in the murder she’s investigating, and there was absolutely no reason to think he might become one, so there’s no reason she can’t date him and shouldn’t be attracted to him. By the time the first hint surfaces to connect him to the crime, she’s well on her way to being in love with him.

At the same time, Liz is beginning to realize the case is not as simple as it appears on the surface. The obvious answer to the mystery may not be the right one.

When it becomes clearer that Greg does have more than a casual connection to the murder, Liz is put in a terrible position. She knows she shouldn’t continue as the investigator in the case, but she also knows that the person who would take it over is just barely competent. Given that there’s more to the situation than appears on the surface, she fears that relinquishing it would result in a terrible miscarriage of justice. She believes herself capable of facing and dealing with the truth, no matter how devastating to her personally, so with the support of her captain, who trusts her as much as he can, she continues her pursuit of justice for a murdered girl.

The following scene is from fairly early in the story, when Liz is just beginning her investigation:

Shadow of a Doubt

by

Karen McCullough

Excerpt:

The fire popped softly. Warmth surrounded her and sank into her bones. She was trying to work up the energy to rise from the soft, warm, comfortable seat, leaning forward and rubbing her eyes when Greg Conyers come back into the room. He carried a tray laden with teapot, cups and condiments, which he placed on a table beside her chair.

“Detective? Tea?” he asked. “A soothing, herbal brew. You look like you could use it.”

“That bad?” she asked.

He studied her for a moment. “Not bad. A bit worn, maybe.”

“Probably. I’ve been up since one-thirty this morning.”

“Does that happen often?”

“Three or four times a year, maybe.”

He poured a cup of tea and passed it to her, then offered cream, sugar and lemon. She accepted the tea but declined the rest.

“You mind if I join you?” he asked, taking a cup himself and heading for an adjoining chair.

She laughed a little. “Mr. Conyers? This is your home, I believe?”

His lips quirked into a crooked, short-lived grin. “Your investigation, though. And your privacy I’m invading right now. Would it be unprofessional to call me Greg?”

“Only if you don’t dispense with the ‘Detective’ bit.”

He sat down and crossed one long leg over the other. “I heard one of your coworkers call you Liz this morning.”

“That’ll do,” she agreed.

He swirled the tea in his cup and looked down into it for a moment before he said, “Is it bad form for a layman to ask how an investigation is going?”

“Natural curiosity, I’d say. And technically, of course, you’re my employer.”

He looked up, startled, but she didn’t have to explain it to him. “I suppose so,” he agreed. “But the police don’t tell the public everything.”

“Nope. It’s always a bit of a tightrope, balancing what you owe the public against what you owe to the requirements of the job.”

He nodded slowly.

“I spent too much of today ducking reporters or talking with them,” she continued, “trying to be careful exactly what I told them. But they’re just doing their jobs too.”

“I suppose every job has its share of walking tightropes.”

“You ran a successful business once. I expect you know the drill.”

His eyes widened and she saw surprise and a hint of alarm, quickly hidden. “You checked my background.”

“Sheer, brazen curiosity,” she admitted. “And it wasn’t hard. Half the people I talked to remembered the article about you a couple of years ago.”

“That thing.” His eyebrows angled a bit. “Speaking of trying to duck reporters.” He shifted uncomfortably.

“I got a copy of the article. I’d say you were pretty good at avoiding journalists.”

He shrugged and took a sip of his tea. “I’ve learned how to guard my privacy.”

“Can I ask you a question? One that might impinge on it?”

He gave her an ironic look. “You’re the detective.”

“This one is personal.”

“Then I don’t have to answer it.”

“No one ever has to answer any questions. People with nothing to hide don’t seem to mind doing it as much, though.”

He might have been reading her mind when he asked, “Are there really people who have nothing to hide?”

“You’d make a good cop. You’ve got the right mindset.”

“Maybe.”

“What made you decide to sell the business and paint full-time? They’re so different, the world of commerce and the world of art. It’s hard to imagine a man who was happy in one being happy in the other.”

“How do you know I was happy in the one?” He set the teacup aside, stood and moved to stand behind the chair he’d just vacated, leaning on the back.

“Were you?”

He ran a hand through his silver hair, leaving it intriguingly disarranged. “Actually, to be honest, I guess I was. When I was running Conyers Properties, I was content in my way. Driven, always on the aggressive, always looking for opportunities, chances, connections. There was purpose in it and a goal, the challenge of finding ways to succeed. It was interesting. And satisfying, in a way. But it wasn’t very deep. And after a while it was almost too easy.”

He straightened and paced around the room. “There was still a thrill in it but I got tired of the effort. It was just about making more money and I already had enough. More than enough. I’d actually dabbled in art all my life, but I realized after a while that I was finding painting more satisfying than negotiating land deals. There are more interesting challenges than figuring out how to earn the next few million. And a way to say things I never could in business. I actually had the arrogance to believe I had something to add to the world besides new office buildings.”

“I understand you’re very good at painting too.”

He shrugged off the compliment. “Getting there, maybe. There are things I could do better. Some techniques I haven’t mastered yet.” He stopped in the middle of the room and turned to her. “What about you, Liz? What led you into police work?”

“I don’t know. Actually, I can’t remember ever not wanting to be a cop.”

“Anyone in your family?”

“No. It just seems like I was always watching a detective show on television or reading mystery novels when I was growing up. I cut my teeth on Nancy Drew and The Hardy Boys. Went on to Agatha Christie, Rex Stout, Spillane, Hillerman, Ed McBain, all the others. The police procedurals were my favorites. That didn’t change as I got older, I just became more practical. I badgered my parents to let me practice shooting, I took a few martial arts classes and I spent a lot of time at the gym working out. I went to college and got a degree in criminal justice. And here I am.”

“You’re fairly young to have made detective, aren’t you?”

“You’re pretty young to have started, built and sold a business for enough money to let you retire in state, aren’t you?”

“That’s a point,” he admitted.

“But you’re right. I am fairly young. And I’m female. And it creates problems. But I’ve done my time on the street, issuing traffic tickets and breaking up rowdy parties. The degree helped and the fact that I had some training with the FBI a few years ago. Plus, this being a small town meant the competition wasn’t as fierce.”

“And you’re very intelligent and very competent.”

She sighed and rubbed her temples. “Right now, I’m very tired and frustrated.”

“It’s not going well?”

“It’s not going at all. No one heard or saw anything. The people who might know something are nowhere to be found, while the people I can talk to don’t know a damn thing.”

“So you talk to people tomorrow or the next day. Does it make that much difference?”

“Actually it does. The first twenty-four to forty-eight hours after a murder are critical. Memories are fresh, people are still rattled, stories haven’t been coordinated yet.”

She closed her eyes for a moment and leaned her head back, drinking in the soothing aromas of the wood fire and fragrant tea. She didn’t realize he’d moved in behind her until she felt his hands fall gently on her shoulders and begin to knead her tense, knotted muscles.

“You’ve done all you possibly can for today. Let it go for a while.”

What his hands were doing to her made it easier to forget about murder cases and her job and everything else but the sensation of his fingers rubbing her back and neck. She sighed. “That feels terrific.”

“Good.” For the next few minutes, she let him knead, easing the tension. A small voice in the back of her mind whispered that this might not be a good idea, but even the rational part of her was hard-pressed to come up with an exact reason why it wasn’t.

He stopped and came around the chair to stand in front of her and drew her to her feet. He bent over and kissed her, gently at first, then not so gently. After a few minutes, though, they split apart, almost by mutual consent.

“Was that wrong?” he asked her. “It’s hard to know.”

“Know what?”

“Where the police officer ends and the woman begins.”

“It can be a problem,” she agreed. “Sometimes I’m not sure I know myself.”

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I’m extremely pleased to have Liz Jasper, author of the 2008 EPPIE Award winning mystery Underdead, with me this week. Liz is a frequent contributor to Lady Jaided Magazine and blogs regularly at The Pink Fuzzy Slipper Writers. To learn more about her Underdead mystery series, and for updates on the upcoming release of Underdead in Denial, visit her website.

Underdead

When she finds a body on her classroom floor with teeth marks in his neck, she must figure out whodunnit before her Underdead secret gets out. But she’s running out of time. The detective in charge of the case is dogging her every move, her vampire traits are evolving in new and embarrassing ways, and someone wants Jo dead…the traditional way!

Now sit back and let Liz tell us why perfect heros and heroines are b-o-r-i-n-g…

One of the temptations of a writer is to make one’s “good” characters a little too good. But the irony is no one actually likes a character who is good to the core and perfect in every way.

Imagine a stunningly beautiful heroine with shiny, golden hair that, without the slightest effort on her part, curls becomingly from the moment she awakens (with a charmingly dainty yawn) until her thick, black lashes flutter closed once again over her lovely violet eyes. She has a flawless 36-26-36 figure, drives a convertible Bentley and — lest you think wealth has spoiled her character — works hard every day running a charitable foundation to which she herself has donated millions. Her ready laughter is the musical tinkling of water running down a stream. She’s dating an equally handsome, muscular demi-god, a blond Ken to her Barbie–only he has his own money and runs his own charitable foundation. The fact that he is anatomically incorrect is only a literary device representing his manfully chivalrous restraint around our beautiful heroine, who is saving her virtue for the moment the glittering, rare, pink, two-carat diamond he has put on her left ring finger is joined next July by a platinum wedding band.

Everybody in the book loves our heroine, save one. She has one enemy, whom no one in town likes, as Ms. Evil is mean, spiteful, works for a for-profit corporation and has black hair. It is page 135 in our story and our unflappable, flaxen-haired heroine is curling ribbons on Easter baskets for the poor. It is nine-o- clock on Easter Sunday and– look! With her usual, impeccable planning, our unflappable heroine finishes the last curl on the last basket just in time to meet her fiancé for brunch. For being tardy is a rudeness to which she would never impose on another living soul.

Now. Who’s with me wanting to push her over a cliff? Raise your hand if you find yourself rooting for her dark-haired nemesis.

Though we all instinctively want our heroes and heroine to be “good”, a character without flaws is inhumanly so. Worse, they are boring. We can’t relate to someone is perfect in every way and, more the point, we don’t want to.

For it is often one’s flaws that give one character. That make one memorable. That, oddly enough, make one lovable.

Take, for example, my cat. (Stay with me, here.) For the past two weeks, I’ve had a beast of a cold. It was so horrible that I spent a couple of days in bed battling a high fever and a barking cough, slathered in menthol ointment I couldn’t smell and with a box of tissues under each arm. My cat, who is possibly the cutest cat on the planet, was there, on the bed with me. But she wasn’t cuddling close, in that fabled display of catly love one always hears about. (“It was so sweet — as I lay there sick and miserable, my darling cat somehow knew I needed her then more than ever and, purring, never left my side!”)

Not my cat. She wasn’t even in her usual day-time spot, at the foot of the bed on my side. My cat spent the entire 48 hours over on the other side, on the farthest possible corner of the bed for me. There was no purring. Most of the time I saw only the back of her. And when she did turn her furry little striped face in my direction, its sweet perfection was marred by the sort of cold glare only a cat can master. A look of co-mingled disgust and irritation that said clearly, “What are you doing in my bed? It is daytime. What about our agreement, that you work while I sleep, do you not get?”

And though I could have used some affection from the little turd, it is her innate crankiness that makes me like her so much. I entertained myself by inching closer, just to watch her crane her neck farther away to maintain the distance between us.

And, like my cat, whose sour disposition doesn’t mar the promise of her physical cuteness but makes her inexplicably more appealing, in a book, a character’s flaws pitted against their good points is often what makes them likeable.

Would you have liked Cinderella quite so much if at one point she hadn’t vented to her animal friends about how much she resented her step-family? Would Harry Potter have been as well-written a hero if he’d been universally-liked, the brightest student in his class, and happy all the time? And in Gone With The Wind, isn’t it because Scarlett O’Hara has so very many flaws burdening her character that we spend hour after hour fascinated by her, and, despite the parting words of Rhett Butler, we really do give a damn?

I happen to agree with Liz – characters with layers and complexity are more interesting to me. What do you think? Do you like perfection or are a few warts okay?

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I’m pleased to welcome to Cerridwen author Mona Risk to my blog this weekend. Mona had a very unique inspiration for her first novel To Love A Hero:

It all started ten years ago. In a different life, I was Director of the Analytical Division of an environmental company. I supervised a staff of chemists performing analytical tests and I worked on various government contracts. A monotonous predictable life that suddenly changed when I won a contract to refurbish a military laboratory in Belarus.

I traveled fifteen times to Minsk, capital of Belarus, and was well received by everyone. I worked with colonels and generals, chemists and engineers, and even journalists. I was invited to theirs homes and became friend with their wives. During the inauguration of the lab we were featured on their national TV. Needless to say, I fell in love with the country.

Five years later, I took an early retirement to write my first book, To Love a Hero. Through my novel, a fictional story about an American chemist and a Belarussian officer, I lived again my fantastic trips to Belarus. My story highlights the hospitality and warmth of the gorgeous and gallant Belarussians officers who sing, toast with vodka and make a woman feel like a goddess.

Keep an eye out for Mona’s next book French Peril which has just been accepted by Cerridwen
Press!

And as an added bonus, post a comment and you could win a St. Patrick’s Day Mug! Check back on Monday to see who won!

“Mona Risk writes heroes with heart, heroines with spunk in stories and settings that are simply unforgettable!” – Roxanne St. Claire

Praise for To Love a Hero:

“Author Risk has presented an interesting tale of passion and politics.”

Literary Nymphs

“To Love a Hero has a complex plot. There are twists and turns that the reader will not expect. Mona Risk is a talented author. She knows how to weave intrigue and romance into her story. The characters are well-developed. Sergei and Cecile play well together. Roussov is the perfect antagonist. Fans of romance and suspense will enjoy To Love a Hero.”

ReviewYourBook.com

Blurb:

Raised in boarding schools, Cecile buried her loneliness under long hours of study and work. On the rebound of a broken engagement, she is determined to excel in her first international contract, the refurbishment of an environmental laboratory in Belarus.

BUT… In Belarus, a Russian country dominated by male chauvinism and intrigues, Cecile finds more chemistry than she bargains for.

Admired by men and adored by women, Major General Sergei is a true hero in his country. The widowed Sergei has pledged to clean his country of the pollution left by the Chernobyl disaster.

BUT… With a glass of vodka in his hand and the lovely Cecile nestled in his arms, Sergei has more on his mind than patriotic duty and nuclear pollution, and Cecile soon learns that chemicals are not the only things that generate heat.

Can she betray his trust to save his career? Would her love cost him everything he values?

To Love a Hero

by

Mona Risk

Available from Cerridwen Press

Excerpt:

Cecile surveyed the elegant place. A mirrored sphere flickered with silver glints over the small dance floor at the end of the room. On a raised podium, a gorgeous singer with long golden hair sang while swaying to soft piano music played by a tuxedo-clad man.

The drinks came. They clinked their glasses, mingling the cheers and nazhtrovias.

Cecile struggled to concentrate on the conversation. Not an easy task with the general sitting so close beside her.

“It’s a pleasure to have you with us. I hope you’ll enjoy your stay in Minsk,” the general said, his gaze warming her cheeks like a soft caress.

“I’m sure we will. You have welcomed us with incredible hospitality. We appreciate your kindness,” she replied with a smile.

Elena asked through her husband if Cecile’s fall on the escalator had left any lasting bruises.

No lasting bruise but it was a fall Cecile wouldn’t forget as long as she lived. She smiled at Nicolai’s wife. “Thank you for your concern. The general caught me just in time. I felt better right away.” Oh my God. What had she said? She hoped no one thought she enjoyed being in his arms.

Cecile glanced around furtively. While the others drank and talked, the general’s lips curled to one side. He hadn’t missed the possible double meaning.

Another wave of heat spread over her throat. Dang, there was definitely a lasting bruise on her senses. She took off her jacket and smoothed her skirt. As dinner was served, she fiddled with a lump of bread and avoided his penetrating gaze. She ate little, preferring the potato pancakes to the greasy meat. With the strong presence beside her, a different hunger built in the pit of her stomach. Suddenly thirsty, she gulped her beer and forced herself to participate in the general conversation.

Nicolai stood and tugged at his wife’s hand. “Please, excuse us. I want to dance with Elena. We don’t often enjoy the luxury of such expensive places.”

John followed suit and pulled Tania to her feet. “Come on. Let me shake my old legs.”

Cecile remained at her place. She took a piece of bread and balled it between her fingers. No one had mentioned dancing as part of this evening. She felt the general’s gaze on her. No please. Don’t ask. She was here to work. Only to work.

The general stood and extended an open palm “May I have the honor?” She placed her hand in his and steadied her wobbly knees.

He swept her away from their table, toward the dance floor. He wrapped an arm around her waist, branding her with his touch. Blazing heat penetrated through the silk of her blouse. They mingled with the crowd, gliding around. Cecile floated on a cloud. She was back in his arms. And not by accident, this time. At first, they moved slowly to the music, then he brought her closer and her body recognized with pleasure the rock-hard chest. He tightened his hold. She almost groaned, her senses focused on the taut biceps pressing on her side. “Crassiva,” he whispered in her ear.

“Pardon?”

“You’re so lovely, Cecile. Crassiva means pretty.”

“General, please. I’m here on business.”

“I’m not about to forget it. But can’t you relax and enjoy the evening, the soft music?”

“I am enjoying myself. Really, your hospitality is amazing.”

“Our hospitality?” He shook his head. “Cecile can’t you stop being the Program Manager for a few hours? I’m trying to talk to you, to the beautiful woman I’m dancing with. Is it an unforgivable mistake?” His breath fanned her earlobe. She had trouble making sense of his words. Was it the result of the morning’s vodka, the beer she drank a moment ago, or the strong arms holding her pressed against his muscled chest? “Tonight we should have fun. Tomorrow we will work.” He smiled at her, such a beguiling smile that she sighed. Her legs turned into jelly and her insides melted into delicious, hot syrup.

“Tomorrow?” she repeated in a whisper. Tonight she wanted to have fun, to forget Rob, her project and the many obstacles waiting for her. Her hand slipped from his shoulder and curled around his neck.

“Yes. Tonight we celebrate, we drink and we dance.” The charm and sultry sexiness in his voice held her motionless. His finger traced a line along her forehead, circled her cheek and swept over her lips in a gentle caress. She guessed he expected her to raise her business flag, to hide behind the contract and their professional relationship.

For the life of her, Cecile couldn’t pull back. She wanted to feel—just one more time—the strength of powerful arms holding her against the shelter of his solid chest. Linking her fingers around his neck, she leaned against the muscled torso and relaxed, secure in his embrace.

He whirled around and danced them to the darkest corner of the dance floor. His lips slid from her temple to her closed eyelids, brushed her cheek and rested for a fleeting second achingly close to her mouth. Her breath caught in her throat as she waited and yearned for his kiss. But he pressed his cheek on top of her head and held her tightly. She swallowed a frustrated groan as she listened to the comforting thump of his heart and hung on his neck, almost forgetting to dance.

After a couple of dances, she thought she recognized an old classical music. “Is it by any chance Strangers in the Night?”

“I don’t know the name in English but it’s your Frank Sinatra’s famous song. Do you like it?”

“Well it’s kind of old.”

“Maybe old but special for us now. We are still strangers tonight. I’ll sing it for you in Russian.” Cecile forgot the goal of her trip and the illustrious identity of her companion as he hummed the classic melody with words she didn’t understand but felt deep in her heart.

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Yes, it’s me. I’m my own feature this week. It’s my blog – I can do that if I want to.

I run across discussions about book covers from time to time. Everyone seems to agree that they want a cover that accurately depicts some aspect of the contents of the book. If there is a dog on the cover, there better be a dog somewhere in the story. Otherwise, the discussion seems to divide into two camps:

Some people like covers with a people – a sexy clinch or a hot man. A lone woman seems to be the last choice. Having sexy people on the cover is seen as a guarantee that the story will indeed be a romance.

Others don’t particularly care for people on the cover. They find those sorts of covers embarrassing and don’t want to be seen carrying them on the bus / train while they commute to work and they don’t want to leave them out around the house if they have small children in residence.

I’m lucky enough at the moment to be with a publisher who lets me have some say in what sort of cover I get for my books. Take a look at my three covers and you can probably guess into which camp I fall. In spite of the fact that I’ve heard some say that covers that depict generic scenes with no people at all are the most boring of all, I love love love my covers. How could I not? The colors are so pretty!

And just so you know, the car on my cover does play a big part in the story.

Don’t be shy. Tell me what you think about covers and I’ll enter in a drawing to win a copy of my book All The Way Home. Can’t wait to hear your opinion.

And if you want more chances to win, visit me at Shelley Munro’s blog and at Liz Jasper’s Pink Fuzzy Slipper’s blog. I’m all over the place this weekend! If you’re really feeling lucky, check out the Cerridwen Spring Contest (the link to the rules is in the sidebar) – you could win an e-reader FULL of great books.

Good luck!

Blurb:

After enduring her parents’ loveless marriage and coming home to help her sister pick up the pieces of her broken one, Maggie isn’t interested in relationships. Sam Callahan is not only still gorgeous, but he’s still available. Neither Maggie nor Sam can deny their attraction but they’re still at odds. Maggie’s down on family life – can Sam be the one to convince her to settle down?

Available Now from Cerridwen Press

Excerpt:

“Melanie! Where are you?” Maggie called as she stormed into the kitchen, letting the screen door slam behind her. Even the scent of freshly baked blueberry muffins didn’t soothe her temper.

“I’m here, hang on,” Melanie answered as she came down the stairs. “Where were you? I made breakfast for us.”

“I took the dog to the vet. By the way, did you know that Sam Callahan — Sam Callahan from high school — was the vet?” Maggie demanded.

Melanie didn’t bother to suppress a smile. “I did actually, yes.”

Maggie gaped at her. “Then why didn’t you tell me, for god’s sake? You could have at least warned me.”

“I thought it would be more fun this way,” Melanie answered. When she saw Maggie’s scowl, she laughed. “Oh my god, you don’t still have a crush on him do you?”

Maggie stared. “What are you talking about? I never had a crush on Sam.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“I was just surprised to see him. So surprised that I couldn’t remember how to speak properly and made a fool of myself,” she complained.

“Maggie at a loss for words, now there’s a first. You do still have a crush on him,” Melanie said as she got down two coffee mugs from the cupboard.

“I do not! And why are you saying ‘still’? Who said I ever did?” Maggie asked as she paced.

“Oh, come on, Maggie. I read your diary. Why else were you writing ‘Mrs. Maggie Callahan’ over and over and over?”

Maggie felt like she’d been hit in the head with a brick for the second time that morning. “You read my diary? My private and personal diary? How could you?”

Melanie shrugged. “Isn’t that what little sisters are for?”

Maggie was so angry couldn’t speak. She left the kitchen and let the screen door slam behind her, stalking across the driveway back to her room over the garage.

Melanie followed her. “Come on, Maggie, it was years and years ago. Don’t be mad.”

“It may have been years ago, but I only just found out that all of my private thoughts weren’t so private after all. So, did you have fun? Did you share them with all your friends?” Maggie fumed.

Melanie bit her lip. That told Maggie all she needed to know.

“Try to understand what it was like for me, Maggie. I was the little sister always two steps behind you. I just wanted to see what it was like to be grown up. I’m sorry if you feel like I invaded your privacy. I didn’t do it to hurt you.”

Maggie harrumphed. “Well, I guess it’s no good denying I had a crush on Sam. But ‘had’ is the operative word. As in past tense.”

Melanie held up her hands. “Okay, whatever you say. I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you about him. I never thought you would get so worked up about it. He’s still pretty hot, huh?”

Maggie only glared at her in reply.

Melanie moved toward the boxes that were still stacked up near the small bookshelf. “Hey, you didn’t unpack your books yet. Need some help?”

“What? Oh, no, thanks. I’ll do it later on sometime. I’m not really in the mood to read that stuff right now anyway.”

Melanie sat down in the reading chair. “Okay, now I know something is wrong. You don’t want to work? What gives?”

Maggie sighed and sank down on her bed. She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. “I guess I’m just burned out at the moment. I’ve been working so hard to finish up my degree and have been focused so long on writing and then defending my dissertation that I just don’t even want to think about any of that stuff for a little while.”

“Are you saying that you don’t want to be a professor anymore?” Melanie asked incredulously. “It’s all you’ve been working for all these years.”

“What do you care? You always thought what I was doing was boring anyway,” Maggie replied.

“That’s not the point,” Melanie answered. “I can’t deny I couldn’t see the appeal of studying all those long dead artists and all the dull and dry history that went along with it —“

“Thanks a lot.”

“Let me finish. You obviously saw something in all that stuff that I didn’t. So why are you just tossing all that aside now? Do you want to just quit?”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying,” Maggie answered. She fell back and lay on the bed. “At least I don’t think that’s what I’m saying. Hell, I’m tired. I don’t know what I want to do anymore. But what I do not want to do is read those books. Not now anyway.”

“I have an idea.”

“This ought to be good,” Maggie muttered.

“Smart ass. I should just let you lie there and wallow,” Melanie said, preparing to leave.

Maggie sat up. “Okay, I’m sorry. What’s your idea?”

“Why don’t you paint? You were so good at it, and it’s what got you interested in studying art in the first place. Why not get your hands dirty again? It might be just what you need to get over this rough spot.”

Maggie smiled. “You know, you’re pretty smart for a bratty little sister. Thanks.”

“Now that your problem is solved, it’s my turn. I need a favor,” Melanie said, suddenly looking a little pensive.

“What is it?”

“I’ve been reading those books you brought me and I was hoping, that is, I wanted to ask you… if you’ll be my labor coach,” Melanie said in a rush. “I won’t have to start birthing classes for a while yet, but you’re supposed to have a coach to help you practice your breathing exercises and to help you during delivery. So? Will you be my coach, Maggie?”

“But, but — what about Adam?” Maggie asked. “I’m not sure I —“

Melanie nodded. “I know how squeamish you are, but I really need you there, Maggie. As for Adam, at this point, I don’t know where he is, how can I count on him being back in time for the baby’s birth? What do you say? Will you do it?”

Maggie closed her eyes. She couldn’t stand the sight of blood or other… stuff. She even waxed her legs so she wouldn’t have to worry about nicking herself shaving. She didn’t know how she was ever going to get through childbirth herself. But she’d made Melanie a promise and she intended to keep it.

“Okay. I’ll do it. I’ll be your labor coach,” Maggie agreed.

“Okay, great. Thank you,” Melanie answered with a relieved smile. “Now let’s go eat, I’m starved. After breakfast, we’ll go to the library and get you a couple of big juicy romance novels. That should clear the cobwebs out,” Melanie said, wiggling her eyebrows.

“Sure,” Maggie said half-heartedly. But she didn’t think she’d get any romance novels. That was the last thing she on her mind right now.

Buy This Book!

I’m pleased to have Cerridwen author Dorothy McFalls here this weekend talking about her historical romance, Lady Iona’s Rebellion – it sounds wonderful. Leave a comment for Dorothy and you might just get lucky and win a copy for your very own.