About the Author
Love Notes
www.lbdunbar.com
L.B. Dunbar has an over-active imagination. To her benefit, such creativity has led to over thirty romance novels, including those offering a second chance at love over 40. Her signature works include the #sexysilverfoxes collection of mature males and feisty vixens ready for romance in their prime years. She’s also written stories of small-town romance (Heart Collection), rock star mayhem (The Legendary Rock Stars Series), and a twist on intrigue and redemption (Redemption Island Duet). She’s had several alter egos including elda lore, a writer of romantic magical realism through mythological retellings (Modern Descendants). In another life, she wanted to be an anthropologist and journalist. Instead, she was a middle school language arts teacher. The greatest story in her life is with the one and only, and their four grown children. Learn more about L.B. Dunbar by joining her reader group on Facebook (Loving L.B.) or subscribing to her newsletter (Love Notes).
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Read on for:
1. Sneak Peek: Before and After You, Book #2 in the Leffersbee series by Hope Ellis
2. Sneak Peek: Silver Brewer, Book #1 of the Silver Foxes at Blue Ridge series by L.B. Dunbar
3. L.B. Dunbar’s Booklist
4. Smartypants Romance’s Booklist
Sneak Peek: Before and After You, Book #2 in the Leffersbee Series by Hope Ellis
Leigh
When I was in fifth grade, our teacher told us to choose a social crisis and prepare an oral presentation for the class. Most of my classmates presented familiar ills: hunger, homelessness, illiteracy. I decided on a different tack.
I chose a topic for which I’d already collected significant supporting data, thanks to my own direct observation. At ten years old, my adoration for my father had begun to curdle. Promises like “this time is different” and “I’ve turned over a new leaf” were no longer bright and burnished with the opportunity for a fresh start. I’d come to learn there was no escaping our family’s recursive loop, in which my father begged my mother for yet another chance and then temporarily subsided into good behavior. It was only a matter of time before the next woman came along. Maybe it was the lady who came to his garage to get her oil changed, maybe my mom’s Mary Kay rep. And then, inevitably, there was always the crushing discovery that he was lying his ass off, bringing the worst kind of chaos and upheaval to our family.
Given the uncomfortably cold state of affairs between my parents and my mother’s ban on any discussion of the infidelity that landed us in my aunt’s house, yet again, I didn’t hesitate in picking my topic. If being unable to trust your own parent wasn’t a crisis, what was?
“People don’t keep their word,” I informed the class, watching my classmates’ eyes glaze over as my teacher’s penciled eyebrows rose higher and higher. “And something needs to be done about it.”
In retrospect, I probably could have gotten away with the unconventional presentation inspired by my dysfunctional family. My teacher was known for her lax approach to classroom management, and for lunch hours spent frantically chain-smoking in her tiny, smog-choked car. But I’ve never done things in half-measure, so I drove my point home using one of the favored gristly expletives bandied about my father’s garage.
“Keep your fucking promises,” I said, capping off the speech. “Because when you don’t, life gets fucked up for everyone around you.”
Whoo boy.
Had I caught it for that one. My teacher took pains to ensure I enjoyed very little of the remaining school year. After suffering through a public apology to the class and writing an essay reflecting on my use of profanity in school, I was barred from recess. For the rest of the year, my lunch hour was spent inside under the glare of my teacher while I pretended not to hear the delighted shrieks of my classmates on the playground. My mother, who held the record for perfect attendance at mass, was horrified not only by my coarse language, but also by my unintentional airing of our family’s dirty laundry. My punishment had been swift and severe: six months without friends, television, the phone, or playing outside. It was a depressing, joyless summer. Yet even in the midst of my misery, I’d been grateful for my older sister, Lucia, who got my sentence commuted down from six months to three.
“Never be afraid to tell the truth,” she’d counseled me. “Nobody’s perfect, and it’s not wrong to hold someone accountable for what they’ve done. Next time, just try to find a way that doesn’t leave quite so much carnage behind.”
My sister’s advice still rang in my head whenever I felt a wildfire of rage threatening in my chest. And even after so many years, it still pissed me off when someone lied, didn’t keep their promise. Especially when it impacted a child.
Can’t help it this time, Sis, I thought. This time there will be carnage.
The same grim determination that had driven me to deliver that presentation in fifth grade powered each of my fury-filled steps across the pediatric in-patient wing of Knoxville Community Hospital.
When I finally get my hands on that kangaroo, I’m going to squeeze the stuffing out of his upholstered neck.
I pinned the corners of my mouth up in a benign smile for passersby, doing my best to convey a pleasant expression. After all, Child Life Specialists are harbingers of hope, purveyors of peace. Best not to telegraph my plans for Muppet murder.
Slowing to a more leisurely pace, I snuck furtive glances into each patient room I passed as I internally prayed for a miracle. On the wall above me, a massive analog clock screamed the time in garish primary colors, its furry red and yellow arms marking off each minute, each second that brought colossal disappointment that much closer to an expectant little girl.
All because Karney the Kangaroo hadn’t seen fit to show up. As promised.
Once I was sure the oversized, puke-green kangaroo wasn’t hanging out in a patient room, I detoured to the nurse’s station.
Time for a back-up plan.
I gathered the heavy weight of my unruly, corkscrewed dark hair and wound it into a bun using the elastic on my wrist to secure it in place. The wall-to-floor window at the end of the hallway reflected my swift approach, and I took a moment to stop and regroup as I looked out over the serenity garden below.
I’m calm now, I thought, lying to myself, struggling to slow the rapid tattoo of my heart. My reflection didn’t so much resemble an even-tempered health care professional as it did the angry, defiant kid who stalked the sidewalk in my old New Jersey neighborhood ready to meet the challenge of the neighborhood bully. That same battle-ready flush stained my neck and cheeks red, and my blue eyes were narrowed to slits beneath my dark heavy brows.
That kangaroo was going to pay today, I vowed to myself as I continued to the nurses’ station. I’d just made the first turn around the corner when a familiar voice called my name.
“Ah, look who’s here! General D’Alessandro.”
I swallowed back a growl of impatience and stopped. Layla and Aaron, kick-ass hospital chaplains who were also my coworkers and friends, crossed the hallway to
greet me. It took every fiber of my mental fortitude not to pretend I hadn’t heard them and dart away to finish my mission. But I didn’t have it in me to ditch a rabbi and a reverend. With the almost nonstop barrage of bad news about the hospital’s impending doom now besieging us on a daily basis, it was important for us to be present for each other. We were more than a team. We were a family.
“What regime are you about to topple?” Layla asked, her usual sunny smile in place. “I’ve seen that look on your face before. I’m worried about the other guy.”
“Don’t be,” I told her. “He has it coming. Trust me.”
“We were hoping we would run into you,” Aaron said. He ran a restless hand over his salt and pepper beard, always a sure sign he was circling a topic with an abundance of caution. “Layla should have been off hours ago. She stayed for a five-car pileup. Since she’s here, she wanted to get your opinion about something.”
“Guys, I really do need to go put out a fire—”
“It’ll be quick,” Layla insisted, waving her hand.
I bared my teeth in an imitation of a smile. “What’s up?”
“It’s my hair.” One of her hands stole up to pat awkwardly at her graying tight curls.
Seriously?
“I’ve got a hair appointment later today, and I wanted your honest opinion about whether I should re-do my perm.”
I couldn’t help wincing. Behind her, Aaron mimed washing his hands of the topic.
“That’s a spouse kind of question, Lay. Why don’t you ask Carla?”
“I tried. She chickened out. I don’t think anyone is telling me the truth. I know you will.”
I sent a desperate look back at the clock. “Is this one of those situations where I’ll end up having to do days of friendship repair work, or are you expecting me to be polite? You know I can’t read the difference. Please put me out of my misery and just tell me.”
She lifted her chin. “Give it to me.”
“I’ll do the aftercare,” Aaron promised.
I laid a hand on her arm. “No more perm. Not unless you plan to get a round office door and apply for citizenship in the Shire.”
She stared at me for a breathless moment before her face creased into a smile. I took off, striding away from Aaron’s strangled laughter.
“It’s just … when you first got it done the curls were so tight,” I heard him say as I finally made it to the nurses’ station.
The enclosed pod was a hive of activity. Patient care advocates fetched Styrofoam cups of ice water, nurses trailed back and forth to the dry erase board, casting brief glances to the roster of patients on the monitors overhead.
“Leigh. What’s up?”
The charge nurse, Ruth, headed in my direction. I felt the faintest stirring of reassurance … and worry.
Things were looking up if it was her shift. Ruth was an outstanding nurse, loved by all her subordinates, and a powerful ally of mine. She, like me, was perfectly willing to shank anyone that messed with one of our kids here on the floor.
My already outraged state escalated a bit when I remembered that soon she’d be waging war without me. Given the recent acquisition of KCH and the well-founded layoff rumors, I’d been proactively searching for other positions. Child life programs, good ones, weren’t that abundant. I’d been fortunate to score an interview in New Jersey later in the week. But what would happen to my kids here? And did I really want to go back? To New Jersey? My fingers itched for the cigarettes I’d given up five years ago. I’d have given anything to feel the numbing, soothing surge of nicotine in my bloodstream at that moment.
I waited until she drew closer before I dropped the bomb.
“The kangaroo is not here.”
My meaning took a moment to register, but then her blue eyes narrowed dangerously.
“What’s today?” She let out a little breath, making no effort to consult the wall calendar behind us or the monitors above our heads. I didn’t blame her. There is a great deal of solace in denial, but we couldn’t hide there for long. We had to deal with that was shaping up to be an ugly reality.
“It’s the fourteenth.” That’s all I had to say. We both knew all the other pertinent details. I knew the case file by heart because I knew the patient and her family by heart. Madison Bowers, age five. Hospitalized for three months to manage treatment for severe burns, scheduled for yet another skin graft. Today.
Which also happened to be her birthday.
If ever there was evidence that life was patently unfair, this was it. Over two weeks ago, I’d led the nurses, doctors, and Madison’s family members in a strategic social media campaign to lure Karney the Kangaroo to the hospital for a visit with Madison. She loved that hideous, high-voiced character on PBS Kids, proving once again how children could be amazingly intuitive while also having appallingly bad taste. But … she loved that ugly marsupial. And I wanted her to have something good to look forward to. She was only a kid after all, facing an ordeal that had already required herculean strength. When we’d gotten confirmation that Karney (or the reedy-voiced man inside Karney’s costume) was indeed confirmed for a birthday visit, we’d rejoiced.
But here we were at the appointed time. With no Karney.
“Maybe he’s just late.” Ruth’s eyes hadn’t moved from mine.
“Then he’s two hours late.”
“Damn it—”
“And a few cases got bumped in the OR and they want to send her down early.”
“I’m being nosy, but what’re y’all talking about? Who’s late?” Ebony, one of my favorite nurses, sidled up to us. In the taut silence, she looked between the two of us, frowning. “What’s going on? Y’all are scaring me.”
I studied my clogs. “Karney the Kangaroo. He’s MIA.”
She gaped at me, then said in a voice loud enough to halt all activity in the pod, “Say what? Did you just say that dingy kangaroo had the nerve to not show up? On that little girl’s birthday? Before she has surgery?”
Her expression hardened in the face of our answering silence. “Oh, hell no. This is some bullshit. I’m gonna need him to—”
“Hell no is right.” Simon, a ridiculously handsome, muscle-bound nurse flanked us on the other side. “I’m still washing all the glitter out of my truck and hair after working on that ‘How Many Sleeps’ calendar with Maddie. Where is he?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know where he is.” I lowered my voice, hoping they’d follow suit. Madison’s room was at the other end of the hall, but still. “I called Development, but they’re stonewalling. I’m going down there. Ruth, can you—”
“Already on it,” she said as she reached for the phone receiver. “As many times as we’ve dealt with their delays, OR can work with us for just a little longer. You go see what’s what.”
“Thanks, Ruth. Hopefully I’ll be right back. With a kangaroo.”
“I’m not surprised,” Ebony said through pursed lips. “I told you all before, people love to glorify overgrown rats. And everyone knows, you never trust a rat. Even if it’s dressed in a polka-dotted dress like Minnie or a tuxedo like Mickey.”
“It’s a kangaroo,” Simon returned, and I heard the trace of laughter in his voice as I started down the hall.
“It’s an overgrown rat that jumps,” Ebony countered, and I couldn’t help my reluctant smile as I hustled to the elevator.
Overgrown rat or not, I needed to get him to Madison’s room. Ruth would only be able to delay the OR for so long, and I doubted Madison would remember or enjoy Karney’s visit in the afterglow of recovery under a cocktail of anesthesia and pain meds.
Besides … I’d promised. I had to keep my word, even if Karney the Asshole didn’t keep his.
Five minutes later, I stood outside Development empty-handed and desperate. There had to be something that could be done.
No one had heard from Karney or the PBS representatives, but it seemed Karney had at least intended to show up. The kangaroo suit had been couriered to the
Development office the previous day.
Everyone in the office took turns trying on the suit—myself, the receptionist, and even an average-height Development Officer, but it hadn’t worked. The suit required someone well above average height to fill it out and stop the head from sagging and flopping forward.
There has to be another way.
I headed for the south bank of elevators further in the bowels of the hospital. I was so lost in my musing, my attention glued to the highly shined floor, that I didn’t see the man at the end of the hallway. Not at first. But when I finally looked up, I realized the man’s identity almost immediately as my gaze moved over his tall, solid form. I recognized that familiar tilt to his head, the one that meant he was in deep thought. His head was bowed, expression obscured as he studied the neon orange paper he held in one hand. His other hand was shoved into the pocket of his pants, and a sports jacket was neatly folded across his strong forearm.
I stopped in my tracks, my breath catching in my throat.
Walker Leffersbee.
Damn it.
Indecision glued my feet to the floor, halting my progress as I stared at his frozen profile. I briefly considered turning the opposite way and retracing the same route I’d used coming down.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want to see him.
That wasn’t the case.
Well, not exactly.
But there were several reasons why his sudden appearance was damned inconvenient.
First, Walker was the older brother of my best friend in the world, Zora Leffersbee. But I didn’t consider Walker to be my brother, not by any stretch of the imagination. Through all the years we’d known each other, our relationship had continually evolved. He was as supportive of me as he was of Zora. But we both knew he didn’t think of me as a sister.
Which led to the second problem.
Walker Leffersbee was sexy. Sexy as hell. The kind of sexy that always took my brain captive with the grimy bass line of a 90s R&B song and thickened my blood for the heat of inevitable battle. We were always locked in some kind of mental combat, our traded barbs and jabs never quite masking the powerful current of attraction between us. He would have been easy to ignore if my attraction to him were based solely on his physicality. I’d bounced on more than one pretty man in my day and managed to keep my brain cells unscrambled. But he was hot as hell with all those intriguing layers. Damn it. I didn’t have brain space to deal with Walker right now.
Love in a Pickle: A Silver Fox Small Town Romance (Green Valley Library Book 9) Page 32