Wednesday, October 22, 2014

Chat or Chore? The book group


I'm Clare and I used to belong to a book group. (Chorus of "hello, Clare" LOL).

I gained a tremendous amount from it. I read books that I would never have considered buying on my own. I read in many different author styles - in many historical periods - in many different genres. It was also a great way to get together with friends each month, and chat about something other than the jobs we hated doing, the news that had depressed us, and the families driving us mad LOL. We'd extend the agenda to movie adaptations, other books by the same author etc etc.

It was a joy to discuss books with other readers when it was fresh in our minds. Okay, sometimes we disagreed with the overall opinions - or was that just me?! - but that made the evening even more interesting.

And then came the cracks.

"We should try a thriller next time," someone said with cheerful brightness. "Clare can choose that one for us." Understand this, I'm not ashamed of loving thrillers and crime novels. I'm Lee Child's greatest fan, at least in my house. But it seemed my taste for suspense and romance wasn't on anyone else's list.

We read a particularly emotionally harrowing one, which I didn't enjoy. "Have you read any others of his?" I was asked. I decided not to take that as patronising. (Not yet, anyway). "I don't think you appreciate his wonderful sense of time and place." It was still harrowing and an unpleasant read, I wanted to say :(. There are other ways of absorbing the same time and place, surely?

Then we read a Booker Prize nominee. Everyone raved about it, except me. Did I agree with them to keep the peace? In the spirit of tolerance and friendship? I'm afraid not :). Letting mischief take over, I announced that I had found it to be the worst waste of paper I'd ever read. Contrived setting, unfulfilling plot, self-indulgent characters ... I bit my tongue at everyone's disapproval.


Oh, Provocative Me! I left the book club soon after. All very amicably, don't worry. My friendships are intact :). And in fact the club fizzled to a halt soon a few months later, anyway. (And I haven't used actual conversations or details of my book group, so as to protect the innocent LOL).

I've decided that although I like to have my horizons stretched now and then - and I LOVE to talk books with people! - I read such a wide and varying range of books, good, bad, life-changing and DNFs, that it's difficult to find regular soulmates. It's also not easy to commit to any kind of club when my life is up and down with writing deadlines. The best I can do is overlap on some books with friends, as and when I read them. But the real benefit of my wide reading tastes is that I can overlap with all kinds of people, not just my immediate circle of friends, and that makes for some fascinating conversations.

Fiction is fiction, I often say! If you love reading, you love A LOT of it :). And although many of us can crit a book intelligently and constructively, it's not always easy to explain exactly WHY you feel the way you do about it. Sometimes it's enough for me that a book moves me emotionally, without it having to be dissected, or indeed, prove "worthy" to be so.

So have you ever been in a book group? Online or in real life? Enjoyed it? Or not?

It's always interesting to hear how people like to share their responses to a book. Tell us what you think! :)


Monday, October 20, 2014

SUPERSTITIONS: ARE YOU A BELIEVER?



I grew up in South Florida and spent many a happy vacation going to the beach and/or visiting with family and friends along the Florida Keys and Key West.  Imagine my surprise when I found out that after a day combing the shore for spectacular seashells that I wasn't allowed to bring them inside the house.


Why?  Because it's bad luck to have real shells in your house.  Bet you didn't know that (unless you were brought up by a very superstitious grandmother and mother.)  

Most of you know the superstitions or omens which are fairly common.  Don't walk under a ladder.  A black cat crossing in front of you is bad luck.  Finding a 4-leaf clover is good luck.  Always hang a horseshoe pointing up, so the good luck doesn't run out.

But those are only the beginning.  Here are a few you may or may not have heard of:

·      It's bad luck to put your shoes on top of the bed. 
·      Never let someone sweep under your feet, or you'll never get married. 
·      Putting your purse on the floor is bad luck.
·      A bird in the house means a death in the family.
·      If the palm of your right hand itches, it means you'll unexpectedly receive money.  But, if the palm of your left hand itches, it means you're going to spend money you weren't planning to spend.
·      If the bottom of your foot itches, you're going to take a trip. 
·      Don't open an umbrella in the house, its bad luck.
·      Never kill a spider inside the house, again bad luck.

Seems like a lot of superstitions point toward bad luck, although some predict good fortune.  So, how do you feel about superstitions?  Do you believe in omens or have a ritual that you do, hoping for good things.  Share it with us in the comments. 

Kathy Ivan is an award-winning author of romantic suspense and paranormal romance, currently working on her next romantic suspense when she's not checking to make sure she hasn't left her purse on the floor or put her shoes on the bed.  You can check out all her releases on her Facebook page at www.facebook.com/kathyivanauthor. 


Friday, October 17, 2014

THE SENSES



Photo courtesy of David Monniaux The Three Wise Monkeys Toshogu Shrine

     The three monkeys are reputed to hear no evil, see no evil, and speak no evil, but we—a band of writers—employ all our senses. We see, hear, taste, touch, smell and employ evil in our work.
     As a city girl, my senses are engaged whenever I ride on the transit system feeling the heat of people jammed together during rush hour or the whack of someone’s backpack as the owner barrels past me. The icy breeze from air conditioning on a hot summer day or the slam of a stranger’s body against mine launched by a person who’s gotten up late and is determined to get on an overcrowded train.
     Smell comes to the fore when the homeless need a place to sleep and have had no place to wash or a starving teenager wolfs down a hamburger complete with onions and a side of fries or someone who is standing much too close and had prepared and eaten a healthy Mediterranean dinner the night before and used a tad too much garlic.
     I watch—fascinated—when someone late for work is able to make-up her face complete with eye shadow, mascara and pencil without putting one of her eyes out. Her lipstick—though I don’t like the shade she’s chosen—glides easily on her lips. As easy as an Olympic skater’s glide across the ice. Then there are dancers who stand on one hand, form pyramids and manage to swing from pole to pole without kicking in one commuter’s head. People absorbed in cell phones are everywhere—when I peek most seem to be playing the latest game. Others listen to music and turn off the world and sometimes the sound leaks out of their ear phones—and wakes the sleepers who have an inner alarm clock that will wake them when they reach their stop.
     Singers, guitar and mandolin players and magicians who ask us to hold pieces of cord can be heard every day along with preachers practicing their chosen profession and beggars—the truly down and out and the professionals who’ve worked at gathering alms for years. Listening to conversations often introduces a new character or a sentence or two of dialogue and when I don’t hear the ending of a story, the line becomes part of a mystery to be solved or an ending to make up.
     By the end of a long trip, my throat feels dry and I pop a mint offered at the end of a lunch in my mouth. The mint brings my taste buds refreshment and when I come to my destination, I feel I’ve put the ride to good use. Observations are stored in my brain and I’m sure will appear next time I need to recall an image, a sound, an odor, a sight, a taste or a feeling of revenge.

  

Wednesday, October 15, 2014

Parking Lot Mystery

Weird week. Lemme tell you what happened.
I arrived early.
Some of you (anyone who’s ridden in my car, for example) may be surprised by that. (Move on, people.)
The building was on a busy street. It was 1970’s construction, red brick, rectangle. Two floors. No windows facing the street. The parking lot was nearly empty. Deserted. Cement cracked. Weeds knee-high toward the edge, where I parked.
The only other car in the lot was a sleek, black Lexus.
The back of my neck began to prickle.
Okay. This is where I have to admit. I grew up on the Southside of Chicago. This is the point in the story where my life experience began to…engage.
I was there to deliver books to a group of women for an ESL class. I lugged two heavy bags of children’s books to the front door of the building. It was hard to see anything through the glass door. Someone had covered the inside with a reflective cling-film. The door was locked. I’d ventured to say, it was more than "locked." It was super, ultra-locked. I could see the metal dead-bolt through the gap in the aluminum door frame. 
I rang the bell.
Nothing.
I knocked.
Nothing.
I turned around and stared at the empty lot and my 12 year old mom-van...
...the Lexus.
Back in the day, kids would say, “You know he didn’t inherit the money.” A Lexus? Hmmm.
I reminded myself I was still a wee bit early. I knocked again.
The door opened suddenly. A man appeared. He was a foot shorter than me. Older maybe? He had a bushy white beard and his teeth had not had the benefit of American dentistry. He was wearing traditional Middle Eastern clothing, including a knit cap on his head.
“What?” the man says to me. 
I picked up my bags of books. Immediately, he held up a hand. “No.”
“I have books for the ladies. The meeting?”
“No. Not here. No. You can’t come in.”
He was brusque. He hardly looked at me; his gaze was fixed about three feet to the left of my head.
I could feel myself getting irritated. I pulled myself up taller, which is useful. I'm six feet tall in shoes. Seriously? I’m bringing books, dude. Who was this guy?
For half a second, I had the urge to crowd him. To push forward. Are you talking to me? Are you using a tone…with me?
Instead, I stepped back. “I’ll wait in the car.”
“Yes. You wait. In car.” He shut the door in my face. I heard the lock snick.
The books were heavier on the way back to the car.
About two minutes after I sat down in the car to think, the building door opened, and the man came out. He got into the Lexus and drove off.
Now, I was alone in the parking lot. The neck prickles were back. I imagined the man picking up the phone to report to his associates the strange, white woman in the parking lot.
This is the point I must pause to remind you, I write fiction.
So what happened?
The ladies drove up. They were sweet and welcoming. I carried the books back to the door and into the building. They didn’t seem as heavy.
What did you think would happen?
   

Monday, October 13, 2014

What Is Your Cadence?

Less than three weeks ago I woke up from a scary dream.  Many authors are inspired by dreams, but the impact of this was so vivid it bordered on absurd. I literally got out of bed and went to my desk (not even stopping in the bathroom, which is unheard of!), and began to write. I wrote like someone posessed--a crazy woman in her pajamas with hair sticking straight up. In just over 14 days I'm more than halfway through a novel! That is as preposterous as not stopping in the bathroom first thing in the morning!

The pace of the writing is an indication of the pace of the book. It's like someone was standing behind me, banging on a base drum. 

We all know that poetry has a cadence, but did you know that books do as well? You may not be consciously aware of it, but if you are reading a book and you find yourself going, blah, blah, blah, blah. Well, that pretty much sums up the books' cadence.

The cadence to this book is BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM. Definitely a double-time.

What type of cadence do you enjoy in a book? A marching band? A rock beat? The gentle strum of a cello? 

Or have you read one of those books that possesses the monotonous beat of Newton's cradles?

Maureen (Crazy author desperately wiggling in her seat because she hasn't had time to get up to go to the bathroom)
www.MaureenAMiller.com


Friday, October 10, 2014

Sex and Politics

Like a lot of writers, I write with an agenda.


Because I write about gay men falling in love, my agenda might appear more transparent than most. When I first began writing gay fiction, my focus was simply on showing how absolutely UNextraordinary such relationships were. Normal was my catchword. Because when I first found a publisher for these stories, most of my mainstream readers and writing friends still found gay mysteries unusual, surprising, and occasionally uncomfortable. They were most certainly -- and correctly at that time -- viewed as non-commercial.


Aside from the sexual orientation of my characters, I've mostly tried to avoid getting political in books. I don't like to be preached to, and neither do readers. This isn't to say that my characters don't have political or religious affiliations. They do. The things that we believe in, trust in, have faith in, think are worth fighting for define us. So a well-drawn character should have views on religion and politics and, yes, sex. Because it is rare to find a human who doesn't.


Fair Play is the first really political story I've written. It's difficult to write about a former radical on the run from his past -- or to discuss the 1960s -- without getting somewhat political. The story is a mystery-romance, so politics aren't the focus, but it's still feels a lot more political -- and personal -- to me. Just the mention of Vietnam riles up people in my family, so I imagine it will rile up a few readers.


Or maybe not. It was a long time ago, after all. I'll be interested to see if there is a reaction or not. Anyway, Fair Play comes out November 10th, but you can preorder it now through Amazon, Kobo, and Barnes and Noble.

So what do you think? Do you write with an agenda? Or if you're a reader, do you find a noticeable agenda off-putting?


Fifty years ago, Roland Mills belonged to a violent activist group. Now, someone is willing to kill to prevent him from publishing his memoirs.


When ex-FBI agent Elliot Mills is called out to examine the charred ruins of his childhood home, he quickly identifies the fire for what it is—arson. A knee injury may have forced Elliot out of the Bureau, but it’s not going to stop him from bringing the man who wants his father dead to justice.
Agent Tucker Lance is still working to find the serial killer who’s obsessed with Elliot and can’t bear the thought of his lover putting himself in additional danger. Straightlaced Tucker has never agreed with radical Roland on much—“opposing political viewpoints” is an understatement—but they’re united on this: Elliot needs to leave the case alone. Now.


Tucker would do nearly anything for the man he loves, but he won’t be used to gain Elliot access to the FBI’s resources. When the past comes back to play and everything both men had known to be true is questioned, their fragile relationship is left hanging in the balance.















Wednesday, October 8, 2014

Falling For ...

What’s the first thing that comes to mind when you hear “fall”?  This time of year, I still automatically go with a Currier & Ives image of a perfect New England foliage explosion. 

Out here in the Pacific Northwest, fall is quieter. In town, yard trees are selected for spring flowers, summer shade, and fall color. Our mountain place leans toward towering evergreens, although we can do sepia tones quite nicely. (Le sigh – I keep planting Aspen and the deer keep eating them.)
 
“Fall” can conjure other images: People fall up and down the stairs, in and out of love. We choose to free-fall on carnival rides or in any number of outdoor sports. We enjoy the beauty of waterfalls and falling leaves.

Emotional falls can be beautiful, romantic, sad, painful, and exciting—or “d” all the above. Those emotional triggers seem fraught with so much more peril. A broken bone heals, but is a broken heart ever truly mended? What’s a writer to do? Remember the phrase going around for a while? Want to write? Open a vein and bleed onto the page. That’s emotional vulnerability.

In my current WIP, I’m struggling to knock my protagonist down emotionally. I’m taking bigger risks, digging deeper into the character. And in digging deeper, I’m risking revealing more of myself as I tap into my own emotional reserves. In order to entice my readers to fall in love with my character, to follow him along and through his internal and external journeys, my character has to not just face down challenges, he has to fail—and fail big, falling flat on his face. He has to hit rock bottom and leave the reader wondering if he can get back up. As I push myself as a writer, I’m pushing this character to peel back layers, figure out what he really wants, and go for it, even if at times he’s hanging by his fingertips over a chasm that will kill him if he falls.

What about you? Fall/falling–love it or hate it? Are you taking risks—as an author or personally?


Monday, October 6, 2014

Homeland's thoroughly dislikable heroine

I'm writing this in front of the TV, where I'm anxiously awaiting the first episode of the fourth season of Homeland, one of my all time favorite shows. I don't watch much television – I can't deal with sitcoms or shows that feel formulaic or predictable. I also dislike characters that are simply "too too:" too good, too bad, too beautiful, too ugly.

Now I'm the first to admit that the characters in my novels are very good-looking and sexy, but they're imperfect all the same. Most of them have a past they're not proud of (kinda like all of us, right?), but they evolve and do the right thing in the end. That's what romance readers expect, and it makes us feel good.

Enter Carrie Mathison, the bipolar CIA agent (played brilliantly by Claire Danes) on Homeland who spends at least half her time on screen behaving unpleasantly (read: acting like a total b--ch), alienating her coworkers, exploiting her family and sleeping with the enemy. She insults people, yells and curses a lot, drinks way too much and has sex with strangers. She looks ordinary most of the time and downright ugly when she cries. 


In other words, she's the real deal.

The most extraordinary thing about Carrie is her freakishly spot-on intuition. Lots of super intelligent, highly analytical people work for the CIA, but they don't have her gift for seeing what no one else is willing or able to see. She fully intends to save the world and will use any method—illegal or unethical if necessary—to do it. If Carrie were a real person I wouldn't want to put up with her snark or her craziness to be her friend, but I think she's an incredible woman.


If you're a Homeland fan I'd love to know what you think of Carrie. If you're not, is there a character from another TV show or movie you don't like but admire the hell out of?

-- Ana Barrons

Friday, October 3, 2014

COMING ALIVE


One of my critique partners, a fellow writer and an editor, has the most endearing habit.  She speaks of my character as if they were alive.  She’ll say things like:  “Deva’s too strong to give in to that kind of bullying,” or “I think the new hairdo looks terrific on her, it emphasizes her cheekbones,” or “Green is definitely her color (Deva’s a redhead), but bronze tones are good too.” 

Stuff like that, girl talk you could call it.  I love it when she does that and my biggest hope is that readers who pick up one of my Murders by Design stories and get to meet Deva Dunne will relate to her in the same way.

Deva’s an interior designer plying her craft in Naples, Florida.  While her business is growing, and she’s gaining clients all over town, she also has a habit of running across dead bodies.  It’s kind of a talent of hers.

In the 5th book in the series, The Design Is Murder, due for e-book release on November 17th, Deva has help in solving the crime, studly Lt. Victor Rossi, of course--and a five pound Matlese puppy named Charlotte.  (The principle at play here is small car, big key; small dog, big name).  Anyway, with Charlotte’s cocktail dog walks and pythons slinking in from the Everglades, the book was fun to write. 

 

And oh yes, since the setting’s Florida, there’s a critical pool scene too.  Here’s an excerpt from the book:

Sprawled on her back in the center of an ultra-king lay a naked blonde, her hair fanned across a pillow, her legs spread apart in open invitation. I wanted to leave and give her some privacy but, fascinated, I stood and stared as Stew strode over to the bed and grabbed a handful of sheet.

“Look at that,” he said, gazing at the girl, whether in admiration or disapproval, I

couldn’t tell. He draped the sheet over her and, bending down, shook her shoulder.

“Come on, babe, rise and shine.”

Connie Rae didn’t move.

“Is everybody around here deaf?” he asked of no one in particular. He patted Connie Rae’s cheek, and no doubt would have patted more than that except for the designer looking on from the foot of the bed.

Pale all of a sudden, he glanced up, stricken. His eyes wide, he said, “You know

something? She’s cold. Ice cold. And she’s a funny color too. Kind of blue looking. I think she’s—”

He never did finish what he started to say, for without any warning at all, he passed out, falling belly first, right on top of Connie Rae’s breasts.

 
The Design Is Murder is now available on Amazon for pre-release ordering. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 

Wednesday, October 1, 2014

I SPY: Creating Great Characters (People)


Join the authors and friends of *Not Your Usual Suspects* for an occasional series of posts about their world of reading, writing and publishing. Short and sweet, hopefully both informative and entertaining - join us at I-Spy to find out the how's and why's of what we do. *TODAY'S POST:* Creating Great Characters (People) by Julie Moffett.

Today I get to talk about one of my favorite subjects, creating great characters. Characters are the most important part of your story. Everything revolves around them. In fact, they are so important, I'm going to give you a big secret right up front...creating memorable, unforgettable characters will make just about anyone's novel (or screenplay) publishable. But you can't just create characters, you must create people. Real, relatable, lovable, and yes, even despicable people.

Now, here's a little quiz to test your character knowledge. How many of the following fictional characters do you recognize? Can you name the book or movie they come from?

1.) Han Solo
2.) Neo
3.) Scarlett O'Hara
4.) Harry Potter
5.) Indiana Jones
6.) Marty McFly
7.) Voldemort
8.) Captain Jack Sparrow
9.) Sherlock Holmes
10.) Romeo and Juliet

I bet you knew most, if not all, of them. That's because these are a few examples of characters who came alive. They became people. All ten of them all had unique quirks, flaws, frustrations and joys. Some were good, some were evil, and the rest were somewhere in between. They were absolutely different and yet absolutely relatable to us. 

Characters are the centerpiece, the foundation, of your story. The action, the plot, the dialogue all begins and ends with your characters. They are the most important part of your story. Therefore, your #1 job as a writer is to establish early reader identification with the characters in your novel. You must make your readers care about your characters and become emotionally invested in their success or failure. In turn, your characters must care about something in order to drive the plot. Now, here's a tip: if you have two major characters who are passionate about opposing things, you have created instant conflict. That's a good thing!


Because I'm a Star Wars geek, I'm going to use Luke Skywalker, Princess Leia and Han Solo as character examples. Hopefully, you're familiar with the basic plot. Han Solo cared about money, while Princess Leia and Luke cared about freeing people from an evil empire. Opposing goals = character conflict, even among the good guys. Luke's and Leia's goal drives the plot, while Han remains as an obstacle of sorts. Han doesn't care about oppression, he's all about the cash. But Han is a critical figure, nonetheless, because by the end of the story HE becomes changed by the plot. He grows, develops, does the wrong thing, the right thing, and sometimes nothing. He makes mistakes, he tries to fix them. He lives. He is a person. Luke, the hero, represents us, the every man/woman. He cares about his family, about goodness, about doing the right thing. We can relate (or at least aspire) to that noble goal, so we can identify with his goal. That makes us feel as if we are part of the story. Luke has become more than just a character, he has become a person.


The best characters have flaws, quirks and are relatable in one way or the other. No person (or character) should be perfect. Characters that are portrayed as perfect are not considered relatable. So, as you sit down to pen your story (or edit one already written), ask yourself, what do my characters care the most about? What makes them real? Relatable? What makes them people? Once you are able to craft an answer, make sure their words and actions align to their uniqueness. Voila! You've created great characters.




FUTURE POSTS will cover:
Kindlegraph / the art of research / writing male/male romance / rejection and writer's block / building suspense / writing love scenes / anti-piracy strategies / audio books / interviews with editors and agents / using Calibre.
We welcome everyone's constructive comments and suggestions!


Monday, September 29, 2014

Happy Book Birthday to Murder in Real Time!!!

Today is the official release day! MURDER IN REAL TIME, the final installment of my debut cozy series is loose in the wild and I'm having enormous emotional conflict. The experience is surreal, bitter-sweet and mind-boggling. The debut in this series, MURDER BY THE SEASIDE, released one year ago this month and way back then, today seemed impossibly far away. Now, today is here, the series is ending and I'm whirling between euphoria over my baby's release and utter bereavement over the ending of an era. 

To celebrate this wonderful day, I thought I'd share a sneak peek of MURDER IN REAL TIME, then offer a digital copy of all three books in the series to one commenter. So, if you like the excerpt and want to read more, leave a comment with a way to reach you and I'll select a winner at random on Friday.

Happy Book Birthday to my baby, MURDER IN REAL TIME, and if you're wondering how this babbling author completed an 82,000 word novel when this tiny blog post is a total mess, so am I.

Enjoy!

MURDER IN REAL TIME: Sneak Peek!


Chapter One

My phone vibrated on the Tasty Cream table between a dish with four French fries and a bowl that once contained the world’s greatest hot fudge brownie sundae. I glanced away from the bowl and placed a paper napkin over the chocolate carnage to cover my shame.

“Covering that bowl won’t erase the fifty thousand calories you ate. You know that, right?” My best friend, Claire, smiled and sucked on the straw of her chocolate malt, unaffected by the damage we’d done to our waistlines by ordering half the Tasty Cream menu.

“It wasn’t fifty thousand calories.” My guilty gaze swept over the napkin barely concealing the enormous bowl. “It was maybe a day’s worth of calories. I can skip eating tomorrow and it will be like this never happened.” Lies. Skipping meals wasn’t in my repertoire of practiced disciplines.

“Mmm-hmm.” Claire shook her cup and poked the straw in and out of the lid. “Or,” she smiled wider, “you could train with me. We can rock and run together.”

I rolled my eyes and rubbed my tummy. “I can’t run a marathon, even if there is live music.”

My phone buzzed again and I flicked it with my fingertips.

“The Virginia Beach Rock ’n’ Roll Mini is a mini marathon. It’s right there in the name. Only three-point-one miles. You could run that far without breaking a sweat.” She made a sad face. “It’s no fun alone. Please?”

“Stop making that face. I swear, when you’re sad a little fairy dies somewhere. It’s not natural.” This time I lifted my phone when it buzzed. Telling Claire no was tougher than keeping my internal promise to only eat half the sundae. I read the text display and scrolled through the few messages I’d ignored during dinner.

“Sebastian?” she asked.

“Adrian.” I smiled, though I shouldn’t have. Adrian had been my one true love, until he left me for college. I plotted my revenge for a decade and then moved home when the FBI downsized me in July. Guess who’d also moved home? Yep. Adrian. We sorted things out after I saved his well-toned heinie from a murder charge and again after he saved mine from a crazy lunatic. Somehow, the saving and the sorting left things…complicated. In some ways it had been easier when I wanted to shove an ice cream in his nose and be done with him. Now, I alternated between wanting to squeeze his middle or squeeze his neck. I shifted in my seat. “He probably has another crazy plan to garner votes.”

I needed to make peace with my waffling emotional attachment to my ex. The flipflopping was exhausting, plus he was the town’s homegrown golden boy and running for mayor. We were going to be sharing our little three-by-seven-mile island for the foreseeable future.

Most of the locals had watched Adrian and I grow up together and some still pined for us to reconcile.

“Adrian runs three point one miles before breakfast.” Claire sighed. “I’ve seen him. It’s nice to watch.”

“So, ask Adrian to run with you.” I sipped the tepid water in my glass, regretting my over-indulgence more by the minute. I blamed the Tasty Cream’s inviting old-time soda shop ambience. The minute I treaded over black-and-white checkered tiles and pulled up a little red cushioned chair, anything was possible. Except eating only half my sundae.

“Uh-uh. Adrian’s your man.” She held a palm up between us. “I don’t care what you say. You loved him once and that means I can say hi to him and we can have fun together, in your presence, but I’m not running a marathon with that man, mini or otherwise, if you aren’t there. It’s not cool.”

I loved her so much.

“Besides, I need time to talk to you.” Claire’s long dark bangs fell over her eyes and she pushed them away without making eye contact.

“About what?” My phone buzzed in my hand.

“Answer the poor man. You know how excited he gets about things. What’s going on now?” She crossed and uncrossed her legs, shifting in her chair.

“He says he has a surprise for me.”

Claire clucked her tongue.

“It’s not that.”

“What?” Her large brown eyes widened in faux innocence. “I didn’t say anything.”

I pulled a few dollars from my purse and placed them on the table. “I know what you’re thinking, and it’s not that.”

“You can’t know what he has for sure. It wouldn’t be a surprise if you knew.”

I followed Claire to the register to pay the bill. Her sea-green pedal pushers were amazing with black platform heels and a black silk blouse. I’d break my neck in anything higher than a three-inch heel, but Claire could outrun me in stilettos. It had happened more than once in Macy’s. With heels, she was average height. Without them, she was stretching for five foot two. Her posture, confidence and general disposition screamed runway model. All those cotillions her parents forced her through gave her a taste for self-respect and fashion. The rest was lost in translation. Like the part where they thought she’d settle down and start a family. Claire had the crazy idea it wasn’t 1955 anymore.

That reminded me. “Do you have plans to see the SWAT guy again next weekend?” She’d waited months for a member of the FBI’s SWAT team to ask her out. They turned up at my birthday party together last weekend, but she hadn’t mentioned him since.

She shook her head before I finished the question.

I handed the teen at the register my bill and some cash but fixed my attention on Claire. “Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?”

She shrugged. “That’s part of it.”

“I love talking about guys with you. Why on earth would you try to make me run three miles for that? Meanie.”

Claire huffed while I stuffed the change from my bill into my wallet. “It’s a mini marathon. Three miles, not thirty, and it’s at the beach.”

“I live on an island. I see the beach every day.” Chincoteague, Virginia, was a delightful costal town adjoined to the mainland by a bridge, the harbor and the sky. The bridge seemed to attach us to the world but, in all honesty, Chincoteague was its own planet. We had a long history of traditions and customs. Some were quaint, and some were odd by mainland standards, but Chincoteague was the epitome of small-town living. Peaceful. Beautiful. Islanders were family. Granted, every family had its quirks, especially one with twelve hundred people.

“Come on. Virginia Beach.” She threw her arms wide and held the door with one hip as I passed. “They play live music. There will be tons of people there. It’ll be like college all over again.”

“I’m too old for college.”

“Speak for yourself.” She stopped short and sighed. “You’re right. Never mind. It was dumb.”

I touched her elbow. “It’s not dumb. I just ate a gallon of ice cream. I should be begging you to make me run a marathon. Look,” I lifted my shirt. “I had to unbutton my pants.”

She laughed. “Put your shirt down before someone takes a picture.”

A flash illuminated the evening.

I blinked through the dots floating in my vision. A man speed walked away from us, wearing a navy-colored windbreaker and khakis.

“Who was that?” Claire asked. “I think he really took our picture. Unless he was shooting the Tasty Cream.”

I turned to examine the ice cream parlor behind us. Its cone-shaped roof interrupted the beautiful island sky. The sun set earlier since fall had arrived and though it was barely past dinnertime, deep hues of smoky gray and violet above us suggested the hour was much later. A few stars shone in the distance over the water. I rubbed my eyes and turned in a circle, seeking some other item of interest a tourist might photograph. A family pressed open the Tasty Cream door and a heavenly mixture of sweet and salty scents drifted on the air to meet me. Fries and ice cream rolled in my tummy. A tummy now captured on film, popped button and all.

“If I find him, I’m demanding he delete that picture.” I stepped off the curb and crossed the street to my apartment, with Claire at my side.

“Tell me about the SWAT guy. Wyatt. What happened with him after you left my birthday party?”

Claire sighed but didn’t answer.

I rented the only available space on the island when I moved home during the summer. Thanks to Adrian and a silly rumor about the house being haunted, no one ever wanted to live there. The owner hadn’t rented the space in a decade. Not the upstairs apartment I now called home, and not the downstairs unit, which had housed numerous failed businesses over the years. Now I lived in the apartment for next-to-nothing rent and Adrian owned the building. He used the downstairs for his campaign studio. Lucky me, living upstairs from temptation.

Except, I wasn’t tempted. Not really. Not normally. Possibilities for a future with Adrian had dissolved long before our reunion this summer. Destiny had already dropped six-foot-sexy, Special Agent Sebastian Clark into my life. Sebastian, my personal hero. When Adrian was accused of murder this summer, I’d called Sebastian for advice. These days, I also called Sebastian my boyfriend. I adored him. In fact, I expected to see him soon. He rented a room by the month at Island Comforts, the local bed-and-breakfast, but spent more nights at work or my place than at the B&B.

My tummy gurgled.

Claire looked at me. “You better hope that picture doesn’t end up in the paper tomorrow.”

I shook off her comment. Weirder things had happened to me since moving home. “You’re dodging my question. What happened with the SWAT guy and what do you want to talk to me about?”

“I need your advice.” She braced her palm on the exterior railing to my apartment and began climbing the wooden stairs. “Not as my best friend, but as, you know, the other thing.”

Before the FBI downsized me from my human resources position, I’d finished my counseling degree and planned to work with agents under stress or those who had discharged their firearm or been injured in the line of duty, etc. It was a good plan. The FBI paid big money to contractors for those services. I thought hiring me would save the bureau a ton of money. They thought firing me would too. So, I moved home to chase my dream and open a private practice, which proved more complicated than one would think. Small towns. Nosy neighbors. Those sorts of things weren’t always a counselor’s friend.

“You want me to counsel you?” I worked to keep my voice flat. Any inflection on my part might be misinterpreted by her, and our friendship would take the hit. I slid my key into the lock, opened the door and motioned her inside.

“A little.”

“Finally!” Adrian rushed from my kitchen to meet us at the door. “I texted you four times. I was ready to come and get you. What were you doing over there for two hours, anyway? Never mind. I don’t care.” His stormy blue eyes were wild with pleasure. “I have a surprise.”

“You mentioned that.” I normally complained when he let himself in through the secret staircase hidden in the wall of my bedroom closet, but clearly this wasn’t the time. I hadn’t seen him so excited since he won the state spelling bee in third grade and got a new Nintendo with all the games.

“Sit down.” He motioned us to the couch.

“Is he okay?” Claire whispered. “He looks a little crazed.”

Adrian stood before us, rubbing his palms together. A sudden frown replaced his eager expression. “Where’s Sebastian?”

“He had a deposition with internal affairs.” Claire still worked with Sebastian at the FBI in Norfolk.

I envied that sometimes.

“What’s going on?” A deep tenor sent tingles over my spine, and my cheeks ached with a sudden smile. Sebastian stood in my open doorway with flowers and a bottle of champagne.

Adrian’s jaw fell an inch before he recovered some of his enthusiasm. “I have something to tell you guys.”

“It’s a surprise,” Claire added.

Sebastian widened his stance. As a general rule, special agents didn’t love surprises. “Go on.”

Adrian cleared his throat, evidently thrown by Sebastian’s entrance and gifts.

“Fine. I rented my home through Halloween night and it’s all very hush-hush. I can’t give you all the particulars yet, but details are coming, I promise.”

“And?” Sebastian leveled his gaze on Adrian, who rolled his shoulders back.

“And I hoped I could stay here.”

“With me?” My voice hitched on the second word.

“Yes.”

“No.” Sebastian moved inside and shut the door. He got a vase from under the sink and put the flowers in water.

Adrian gawked at me, waving his palms as if I could change Sebastian’s mind. His panic compelled me to intervene, though I wasn’t sure whose side I was on yet. I took a few deep breaths. Was the air thinner in the upstairs apartment? Getting in the middle of these two always made it hard to breathe.
I stood and faced the kitchen. “Um, well, let’s think this through.”

Sebastian turned narrowed eyes on me. I shook my head at Adrian. He motioned wildly again. I stood back up and stepped toward the kitchen. Sebastian glared from Adrian to me.

Claire giggled. The sound snapped me back to reality. This was my apartment. I decided who stayed here, not Sebastian. I anchored both palms over my hips and turned on Sebastian. Adrian took my seat on the couch and nudged Claire with his elbow.

“I don’t see why he can’t stay here. Is there a reason you have a problem with that?” I cocked a hip for good measure.

Sebastian looked past me to the couch, his expression blank.

I moved forward until the toes of my goddess sandals bumped Sebastian’s shiny dress shoes. “Fine, then it’s agreed. Adrian stays here. You can stay here, too.”

The corner of Sebastian’s mouth pulled down. “What if only I stay here with you and Adrian stays in my room at Island Comforts?”

Oh. Yeah. That was better. My moment’s pause was enough to settle it. Sebastian tossed his key over my head.

“Sweet.” Adrian jumped up and headed for the door.

“Hey,” I turned to Adrian. “What was the secret you texted four times to tell me about?”

“I told you all I can.”

“You didn’t tell me anything.”

He flashed his politician smile. “That’s because it’s a secret.”

Adrian disappeared and Sebastian popped the cork on his champagne. “I’m glad that’s settled. Tonight we celebrate.”

“What are we celebrating?”

Claire sashayed across the floor and leaned over the little island in my kitchen. “I take it the deposition went well?”

Sebastian slid a glass to Claire. “Internal affairs closed my case. I was cleared of all culpability. The board determined I’d followed every protocol on the operation and justice prevailed again.”

“Congratulations.” She lifted the glass in a toast motion and sipped.

Relief flooded through me. “What about Jimmy the Judge?”

Jimmy the Judge was the mob boss who wanted Sebastian dead. Sebastian had worked undercover for eight months in Jimmy’s operation, infiltrating his crew and leading a bust that resulted in the death of five members of Jimmy’s crime family. Jimmy somehow turned to vapor and slipped between Sebastian’s fingers in the kerfuffle. Sebastian had moved onto the island to hide while he hunted Jimmy, and Jimmy hunted him. I got an ulcer.

“We have fresh intel suggesting Jimmy’s in Vegas. I’m headed there in a few days to follow up on a couple decent leads.”

I tipped my head and tossed back the alcohol. I didn’t want to think of Sebastian chasing Jimmy, but I didn’t want to open my mouth and ruin his good news either.

Claire set down her glass. “Well, congratulations, Sebastian. Thank you, Patience, for a lovely dinner. Now, I’m heading home. It’s a long drive, and I have to get up early. I’ll leave you two to celebrate.” She winked.

“Hey, how’d it go with the marshmallow from SWAT?” Sebastian asked.

Claire screwed her mouth into a knot. “It’s funny you call him that because he was kind of like talking to a marshmallow.”

I scrunched my brows together. “I thought when you called people marshmallows it meant they were soft and weak.”

“I don’t know about that,” Claire said. “He was all muscle. Unfortunately, his head was one big muscle too. Hard as a rock.” She wrapped her knuckles against the side of her head.

I pushed my bottom lip into a pout. “Bummer.”

“Yeah, but it’s okay. Can we talk later?” She lifted a brow.

“Anytime.”

Sebastian lifted my glass with his and followed us onto the stoop outside my door. He sat. I walked Claire to her car, enjoying the cool night air.

We reached the sidewalk as the Sheriff Fargas climbed out of his car. “Evening, Patience.” He took off his hat when he saw Claire. “Miss Claire.”

Claire blushed on cue, accentuating her flawless mocha latte complexion, and lowered her long curly lashes. “Sheriff Fargas.”

Those two had started flirting a few weeks ago and it still confused me.

“I was on my way to the Tasty Cream for dinner,” he said. “Would you like to join me?”

“I don’t know.” Claire looked at me. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do. Make an excuse for her? Encourage her?

“Your phone’s ringing,” Sebastian called to me.

At the same moment, Sheriff Fargas pulled his phone from his pocket. “Fargas.” His eyes shut for two quick beats before turning to Sebastian. The set of his jaw and rigidity in his stance was grim when he returned the phone to his pocket.

Sebastian waved my phone in the air. “It’s still buzzing.”

“Mine?” I called up the steps.

“Yeah. Double-oh-seven.” Sebastian read the display.

“That’s Adrian,” Claire interjected.

Sebastian answered my phone.

“I’m afraid I need a rain check.” Fargas touched Claire’s hand lightly and turned for his car.

Sebastian bounded down the steps two at a time, keys in hand.

“What’s going on?” Claire demanded as Fargas tore away from the curb in his cruiser.

“Adrian found two dead bodies in my bed.”
Grab your hat and pail, you guys! Let's go!

Murder in Real Time, The Patience Price Mysteries, book 3

With the chaos of summer tourists and fall birders out of town, counselor Patience Price is looking forward to the quiet life she remembers. She longs for some peace. And an apple fritter. But the calm is cut short when a reality show sets up camp to film a special about ghosts on her little island. Now fans, reporters and crew have flocked to sleepy Chincoteague. Who knew ghost hunters had an entourage?

When two cast members are killed in a room at the local B&B—a room usually occupied by Patience’s FBI agent boyfriend, Sebastian—she finds herself on the case. Sebastian doesn’t want Patience ruffling any feathers but, as always, she can’t help herself.

Patience promises to let Sebastian handle the investigation—he is FBI, after all—but after a drive-by shooting, her wicked curiosity gets the best of her. And with the TV show forging ahead with filming, the list of suspects (and the line of food trucks) only grows. But has the shooter already flown the coop? And how do you find a killer when you don’t know who the target is?

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