Ah, now you're all going “but you published a book titled While Passion Sleeps.” Yeah, you're right, I did—my third book. You'll just have to be curious about the original title for the third book, but in between the time I had submitted the book and the date of publication, there had been another book by a different author who had used a title extraordinarily similar, so my first title went out the window. It was crunch time, and we had to come up with a new title in a hurry (like now), so we stole the contemporary's title and Beth and Rafael's story came out as While Passion Sleeps.
By the time I had finished that third book and was ready to start the fourth, the Shah of Iran was old news and the plot of the contemporary was no longer current. I still wanted to write a contemporary, but since I was doing so well with historicals Avon was against the idea of a contemporary from me at that time. Maybe just as well, because for the fourth book I ended up writing is one of my personal favorites: Deceive Not My Heart. Guess things work out like they're supposed to—whether we like it or not.
The longing to write a contemporary novel never went away—which isn't to say that I didn't thoroughly adore writing my historical romances—I just wanted to try my hand at something different. Think of it this way—even if you eat filet mignon every night, after a while, say twenty years, a change of diet would be greatly, dare I say, desperately desired.
When Warner Books offered me the opportunity to write a contemporary I leaped at it (and for a fat lady it was quite a sight). Of course, we had artistic differences: I wanted to do a serial killer novel…in Oak Valley. In the end, since we all loved the general idea of a place like Oak Valley, we compromised and my beloved serial killer got the, er, ax.
Not having a nice, nasty killer lurking around in the background to add drama and excitement gave me some rocky moments with Return to Oak Valley. Not only was it a new direction for me, but I didn't have the safety net of a creepy villain to get me through—you have no idea how many times I thought Oh, man, if only I had a killer…. I never realized before how much I relied on my bad guys—or how much I enjoyed them. On the other hand, I never realized how wonderful it was to be able use the language and mores of everyday people.
OK, to answer the burning question: Is Oak Valley a real place? Well, it is and it isn't. The terrain is real. The atmosphere is real. But that's it, folks: Everything else is simply my imagination. Really.
Next burning question: Will I ever write another historical romance? Are you kidding? Give up filet mignon…forever? Never happen.
But until I finally get around to writing that next historical, I invite you to travel along with me, as we meet new characters and renew old acquaintances, and explore the gravel roads, the flatland, and the forested foothills that surround Oak Valley. Settle back, put up your feet, grab a lemonade, or whatever, and prepare to be, I hope, entertained.
Now let's see, where was I? Oh, that's right, working on Coming Home and serving up the romance of Roxanne and Jeb….
Ta,
* * *
Herewith a preview of Coming Home by Shirlee Busbee available wherever books are sold.
* * *
Standing on the small deck at the rear of her house and staring out at the hot, dry landscape below her, Roxanne Ballinger decided that she hated September in Oak Valley. And August and probably July, too. The valley was seared by the heat, the hay fields shorn of their crops lay fallow and burnt amber and yellow by the sun, except, as she reminded herself, in those places in the valley where the water table was high and the land stayed green all year. She made a face. Too bad her newly acquired house didn't overlook that area—it'd be nice to stare out at green fields this time of year. Then she shrugged. But if she overlooked those fields, she wouldn't have such a majestic view of Mount Sebastian in the distance and all the other smaller mountains and hills that tumbled down to the valley floor.
This was not, she admitted, the valley's most attractive time of the year…at least she didn't think so. And she wondered, not for the first time, what the hell she was doing here. And with a house of her own. She glanced back at the small A-frame building and amended her thought: a cabin of her own. She should be in New York. Tucked comfortably away in her elegant air-conditioned Park Avenue penthouse apartment. Looking forward to all the fabulous, sophisticated entertainment the city had to offer: anticipating the pulsating excitement she'd find on the crowded streets, ready to be seduced by the glamour and vitality of the city. Everything she could humanly want would be at her fingertips. And if she didn't want to venture out, a telephone call would bring all that the city had to offer right to her doorstep: clothes, food, jewelry, handsome men…
Thinking of the last handsome man who had shared her life, she grimaced. Todd Spurling was an executive editor at one of the major New York publishing houses, and their affair had lasted for a grand total of almost five weeks. They'd met this past June at one of the glittering pub parties being held for the launch of some celebrity biography, and it had been, she admitted, lust at first sight. As one of the top models in the business, her face had often adorned the covers of such magazines as Cosmo, Vogue and the like, and justly famous for the generous display of scantily clad limbs in the Victoria's Secret catalog, she was often seen at these sorts of parties. The life of a celebrity, she had discovered, was as much about seeing as being seen, and since she was considered one of the “beautiful people,” she was invited everywhere. She had nearly refused to attend the party. She'd been unsettled and restless, having just returned from Oak Valley and her brother Sloan's wedding. The idea of being just another body in another scintillating crowd didn't exactly appeal to her—a feeling she had been experiencing more and more over the past couple of years. But in the end she had decided that a night of rubbing shoulders with the famous and want-to-be-famous might be more enjoyable than staring at the walls of her apartment and thinking black thoughts about Jeb Delaney. The jerk.
She had not gone to the party looking for romance. She snorted. Good God, no! In fact, she had been in a surly mood and rather off men in general. Jeb Delaney in particular. Cretin. Then she'd been introduced to Todd Spurling…Todd who was everything that Jeb Delaney was not: urbane, considerate, polite, and utterly smitten with her. Todd had also been tall, handsome, blond, broad-shouldered, and had the bluest eyes she'd ever seen. The moment their eyes had met…Her lip curled. The moment their eyes met, she started thinking with a different part of her anatomy than her brain. Apparently Todd had, too, because in less than two weeks after meeting, they'd been living together in her apartment. And three weeks after that, she'd tossed him out on his tight buns, his tight married buns, disgusted as much with herself as with him.
Roxanne shook her head, her glorious mane of hair glistening blue-black like a raven's wing in the hot sunlight. You'd think at my age, I'd know better, she thought wryly. You'd think that after nearly twenty years of living in the fast lane that I'd learn not to be so impulsive, that at the wise old age of thirty-eight, I'd not be so willing to fling caution to the winds and just leap into the nearest brawny pair of arms.
Finding out that Todd had been married, something he had conveniently forgotten to mention when they had been falling into bed together, had been a blow to her pride and her esteem. She had been horrified. For all of her wild reputation, and despite gossip and innuendo to the contrary, married men had been completely off her list. And while gossip and rumor had her sleeping with a new lover every week, the truth of the matter was that there hadn't been that many. She thought about it. Fewer than a handful. Maybe. She'd always been more cautious about sex than some of her contemporaries. She grimaced. Being raised in Oak Valley did that to a person. Even amongst the wealthy and powerful Ballinger clan. Values considered these days to be old-fashioned had been the rule, and though she had shaken the dust of the valley from her feet at nineteen, the mores of the valley had been a little harder to put behind her. Besides, with all the diseases out there, she'd never jumped into bed with just a
nyone. So why had she acted differently with Todd?
She bit her lip. She wasn't promiscuous. She'd never been promiscuous, not even in her rambunctious twenties when she'd been so greedy and eager to experience life and all it had to offer—so eager to gain polish and sophistication, determined to show the world that she wasn't just a beautiful bumpkin from some hokey place in the sticks. Sure, she'd made some mistakes. She wouldn't deny that. She'd been young, confident, OK, maybe arrogant, certainly convinced that the world was hers for taking. She'd been like a kid given free rein in a candy store, and, face it, New York was some kind of candy store for a young woman raised in a place without a stoplight, let alone neon lights, and nary a Burger King in sight. She could justify some of those early mistakes, but the affair with Todd Spurling bothered her. She'd simply taken one look into those mesmerizing blue eyes of his and…She snorted. And acted like a silly teenager in love for the first time. But it hadn't been love—she'd retained enough sense to realize that fact. It had been, she thought viciously, all Jeb Delaney's fault. The arrogant prick. Who the hell was he to look down that oh-so-handsome nose of his at her? Most people, especially men, fell over themselves trying to attract her attention, but not Jeb. Oh, no. He couldn't even be polite. And the contempt in his voice when he called her “Princess”…Her jaw tightened and her hands curled into fists at her sides. What right did he have to condemn her lifestyle? She'd like to bloody that handsome nose of his and slap that derisive smile off his mouth and into next week.
Roxanne took a deep breath. OK, enough of that. And if she was fair, she really couldn't blame Jeb for the fact that she had fallen into Todd's arms. Maybe a little. If she hadn't been so irritated, and face it, hurt by Jeb's manner and comments…if she hadn't gone back to New York grimly determined to show the world that she was Roxanne, darling of the media, the ideal sex goddess of half the panting male population, she wouldn't have given Todd Spurling a second look. Her lips twisted. She'd gone back to New York, defiant and dead set on showing Jeb Delaney that his words meant nothing to her. She sighed. And look where that attitude had gotten her. Right into Todd's bed. Ugh.
Her gaze fell to the valley floor. So here she was. Back in Oak Valley. A place she couldn't get away from fast enough nearly twenty years ago, but now…It was odd, she thought, how after all those years of happily being swept along by the glamour and excitement found in all those famous cities in the world she had visited and worked in, she found herself drawn more and more to the tranquillity and predictability of Oak Valley. Where once she had forced herself to return home for a short—very short—visit only every other year or so, the past couple of years, those visits had been increasing in both frequency and duration, the longing for the valley reaching out across the distances and tugging at hidden places in her heart. She had discovered amusements that had once held her enthralled were now boring and mundane. She smiled crookedly. Words she had once used to describe Oak Valley. Funny how life turned around on you. Now it was everywhere else that was boring and mundane and Oak Valley that held an irresistible appeal.
At first, she'd put this longing for the valley down as a whim, but instead of the need to be there decreasing, she'd found that it had grown. She was, she realized, tired of being Roxanne—the face and body that sold millions of magazines, and no doubt an equal number of pairs of scanty underwear—she wanted to be plain old “Roxy,” the oldest Ballinger daughter. Sloan's sister. And Ross and Ilka and Sam's sister. She wanted to wear worn blue jeans and scuffed boots and wander into Heather-Mary-Marie's and be greeted by a half dozen people who had known her since she had been born and who were not the least impressed by her face, body, and reputation. She wanted a life that didn't involve being always “on,” always photographed, always gossiped about…. She grinned. Well, that was going too far. The valley gossip was legendary, and she was quite certain that her purchase of a dead, reputed marijuana grower's property was currently the hot topic of conversation everywhere in the valley. Her grin widened. At least she'd taken some of the heat off of Sloan and Shelly and given the residents something new to speculate about.
The marriage of Sloan Ballinger to Shelly Granger in June had set the valley on its ear. Not only because of the swiftness with which the courtship had progressed but the very fact that a Ballinger was marrying a Granger. The Ballinger/ Granger feud was the valley's favorite legend, and though most of the ugliness had happened decades ago, every time a Ballinger and Granger came face-to-face, the valley collectively held its breath and with bright, eager eyes watched to see if sparks would explode out of thin air. Mostly they did, but sometimes, as in the case of Sloan and Shelly…Roxanne smiled wistfully. In the case of Sloan and Shelly magic happened.
She gave herself a shake and turned back to the house. Cabin, she amended, and again wondered what the devil she'd been thinking of when she'd bought it. It wasn't as if the Ballingers didn't own thousands of acres in the valley and foothills and mountains surrounding the valley that she could have chosen to settle on. Nor was it as if she wasn't more than welcome to stay as long as she pleased in the family mansion and childhood home on the valley floor—her parents would be thrilled. And if she had wanted, her father, Mark, would have built her a place of her own on one of the many parcels of land owned by the family. She hadn't needed to buy 160 acres of mostly useless, mountainous terrain on the west side of the valley. It wasn't, even she would admit, a fabulous piece of land—altogether she probably had only about twenty acres that could be called flat. The rest was sheer, forested hillside with a small bench here and there. It wasn't even great timberland—too much underbrush, blackberry vines, buck brush, manzanita with oaks and madrones intermixed with the pine and fir. But it was hers, she thought with pride. Hers. Bought with her own money. Not family money. She didn't have to share it with a damn person. It was hers. And as for the cabin that came with the place…
Roxanne was positive that no other self-respecting Ballinger, except herself, would have considered the rough wood-framed building a prospective home. She laughed to herself. Call her crazy—her sister, Ilka, already had, and her parents, their expressions askance, had asked her at least a dozen times if she was sure that this was what she wanted? She had assured them that yes, she really did want the place. The land had its own beauty, but she loved the cabin. It had, she had pointed out to her stunned family, potential. It was small, but it had everything she wanted. Built at the very edge of one of those benches, the cabin was perched over two thousand feet above the valley floor. From the deck and from the east-facing floor-to-ceiling windows, she had stupendous views; the main level was one spacious room, except for a tiny bathroom tucked in one corner. The upper floor had a larger bathroom and two rooms. The decor left something to be desired, but she had no doubt that with a lot of elbow grease and a full checkbook, she'd have it looking just the way she wanted in no time at all.
At the moment, with the exception of a chaste twin bed, a battery-run lamp, an oak end table, a portable CD player, and a new side-by-side almond-colored refrigerator/freezer that had been set up to run on propane, the place was empty. The kitchen consisted of a stainless sink, propane stove, and a couple of metal cabinets shoved against the north wall of the cabin. Her nose wrinkled. Marijuana growers apparently didn't do much cooking.
Of course, she reminded herself, it hadn't been proven that the former owner, Dirk Aston, had really been a marijuana grower—that had merely been the conclusion of the valley residents. How else, they had asked, did someone unemployed and with no outside income earn enough money to live up there all by himself ? And what about that new truck he drove? Where did the money to buy it come from? And why did he have those two greenhouses and black plastic piping running all over the place? Don't tell me he wasn't growing dope! When she argued that if his profession was so obvious that surely he would have been busted and the property confiscated, the sages had looked wise. Dirk was smalltime, they'd said. Not big enough for CAMP and the DA's Office to go after, t
hey'd said. Lots of guys like Dirk around, they'd said. Sheriff's Office knew who they were, but there were worse offenses than growing a little marijuana to keep them occupied. Sheriff's Office might harass guys like Dirk now and then, but no one took them seriously—bigger, more important fish to fry.
Roxanne didn't doubt that the valley had the correct reading of the situation, but it hadn't deterred her. In fact, if Jeb Delaney had kept his big mouth shut and hadn't warned her not to buy the property, she'd probably have gone looking for a different piece of land to buy. Probably. She grinned. But probably not. She loved this place. It was isolated, yet town was only about three miles down a dusty, twisting gravel road that took at least twenty minutes to traverse—in good weather. Her nearest neighbor was a couple of heavily forested miles away, and after the packed, surging humanity of New York, it was a great feeling to know that she could walk stark naked out her own back door and yodel at the moon, and no one would see or hear her. Not that she was going to do that. But she could. If she wanted.
Grinning to herself, Roxanne walked inside the cabin. Crossing to the new refrigerator, she took out a bottle of water and, after twisting off the cap, wandered out the back door of the cabin. It opened onto a small deck, too, this one covered, and she had a charming view of a small, meandering meadow before the ground rose, and forested hillside met her gaze. Like many places in the country, the rear of the cabin was both the entrance and the back door. It had always struck her as strange to drive up to the back of a house, until she took in the fact that the front had the views and no one in her right mind would sacrifice view for a front yard or driveway. The much-speculated-about greenhouses were situated to the south of the cabin, and, sipping her bottled water, she had just started to amble in that direction when the sound of an approaching vehicle caught her ear.
Return to Oak Valley Page 39