by Molly Cannon
Lana and Warren Sanders danced by. “Hey, Marla Jean,” they said in unison.
“Hey guys. Have y’all seen Donny Joe?”
“Donny Joe Ledbetter?” Lana asked, not hiding her surprise. “Not lately. Sorry.”
“That’s okay. Thanks, anyway.” She moved on around the room asking if anybody had seen him, but she finally gave up and walked over to the far end of the bar, the end farthest away from where Jake still sat surrounded by women. The bartender spotted her and moved down to her end.
“What’ll it be, Marla Jean?” An older man with gray hair pulled back in a ponytail and an eye patch over one eye, Mike Benson was as much a part of Lu Lu’s as the gravel parking lot and the odor of stale beer.
“Mike, have you seen Donny Joe? I know he was here a minute ago.”
He picked up a bar towel and started polishing glasses. “Yeah, he was dancing with Irene Cornwell, and I saw them leave together.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Oh, I don’t know. A few minutes, maybe.”
“Damn it, I’ve got to catch him.” Hitching up her skirt she took off toward the front door. She burst outside, skidding to a stop on the gravel, and scanned the parking lot for his truck. If she was lucky Donny Joe and Irene would just be going at it like squirrels in his front seat. It wouldn’t even bother her to catch them in flagrante delicto. She’d ask them to forgive the intrusion, grab her purse, and tell them to carry on. They probably wouldn’t even notice.
She hurried toward the place where he’d been parked earlier, but she could see before she got there the spot was empty. Son of a bitch. She couldn’t believe this. The sound of a racing engine caught her attention, and she spotted his truck at the far exit getting ready to pull out onto the highway.
“Wait, Donny Joe, come back,” she yelled, waving her arms about wildly. Hitching her skirt even higher, she took off at a sprint. If she could just get his attention it would save her a world of trouble in the long run. “Donny Joe, hey, Donny Joe, don’t leave yet,” she hollered at the top of her lungs, but it was no use. She stumbled to a stop and watched his red taillights recede into the dark night. “Crap, horse feathers, and double doo-doo.” Cursing her luck and panting, she stood bent over with her hands braced on her knees, trying to catch her breath.
“For God’s sake, Marla Jean, don’t chase after the guy. Have some pride.”
She whirled around at the sound of Jake’s voice. He’d followed her out of the bar, obviously, and now he thought she’d lost her mind.
“You!” She pointed a finger and started marching toward him. A smart man would have shown some concern, but he stood his ground until her finger was poking him in the chest. “This is all your fault, mister.”
“My fault?” The idea seemed to amuse him.
“Entirely, altogether, and completely your fault.” She crossed her arms and stomped her foot like a bratty kid.
He moved closer and leaned down until they were nose to nose. “You should be down on your knees thanking me, missy. I kept you from making a God-awful mistake with Donny Joe earlier this evening. And now this? You go racing across the parking lot screaming like a banshee when he’s got another woman in the truck with him? Come on, Marla Jean. You’re obviously not yourself.”
For the second time that night she marched across the parking lot with Jake hot on her heels. “At the risk of repeating myself, I’ll make all the God-awful mistakes I want. And what I am, you big dolt, is stuck.”
“Hold up, Marla Jean—”
“I was chasing after Donny Joe, because thanks to you,” she turned to glare at him for emphasis, “I left my purse and my car keys in his truck. If I don’t seem properly grateful, you can bite me.”
“Does that offer involve your rosy, pink butt?”
She marched on, trying for the umpteenth time that evening to yank her skirt back down where it belonged. “Go to hell.”
“Before or after I offer you a ride home?” He stopped by his little yellow Porsche Boxster. “Hop in.”
“Yeah, right. I’ll go ask Harry Beal for a ride.”
“That should make his night. He’ll think he’s hit the jackpot.”
She hesitated. She didn’t want to give Harry the wrong impression. “I’ll call a cab.”
“That’d be a waste of good money, if you had any on you. Just get in the car.”
She stopped and let out a strangled groan. “Maybe I’ll walk. It’s not that far.”
“Were you always this stubborn? Let me explain something to you, Marla Jean. I don’t care if you call a cab, hitchhike, or crawl on your hands and knees—but I’ll be driving right behind you, no matter what.”
“Now who’s being stubborn?”
He shrugged. “I’m not about to tell Linc that because of me, you walked home from Lu Lu’s at eleven-thirty at night.”
“Linc’s got you on a pretty short leash, doesn’t he?”
“I owe Linc a lot, and he never asks for much, so for everyone’s sake, please get in the car.”
She sighed for what seemed like the millionth time that evening, a world-weary, put-upon sigh, and then stalked over to the car. He opened the door for her and didn’t even try to pretend that he wasn’t looking at her legs when her skirt rode back up to mid-thigh. She was going to go home and burn the stupid dress in the fireplace. After closing her door, Jake loped around the car, and she watched while he managed to fold his big frame into the compact driver’s seat. “Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in a bigger car?”
“This isn’t a car. She’s a beloved member of the family, and she handles like a woman in love.” He started the engine and turned to face her. “Marla Jean, meet Lucinda.”
“You name your cars?”
“Don’t you?” He backed out of the space and headed for the nearest exit.
“Of course not. Well, I did have that clunker in high school we called ‘Buck’—for bucket of bolts—but these days I try not to get personally involved with my vehicles.”
“Hmm.” He looked at her as if her answer gave him some important insight into her character before returning his attention to the road.
After the divorce she’d moved into her parents’ old house on Sunnyvale Street. They’d retired a few years back and moved to Padre Island. After that, her brother Lincoln lived there until his recent marriage, and then he moved into his bride’s place since it was newer and bigger.
The last thing Marla wanted to do was stay in the house she’d shared with Bradley, and her folks’ house was empty, so it seemed like the perfect solution until she could find a place of her own. Sometimes, though, moving back to the house she’d grown up in made her feel like she’d failed her first attempt at being an adult.
It was a short drive home, and since Jake grew up on the same street, he knew the way without being told. She closed her eyes and tried not to think about the man sitting by her side. Even when they were kids, he’d always been able to throw her off balance with a look or a word. Apparently, that hadn’t changed.
He pulled into her driveway, and she let him walk her to the door. She figured he’d insist anyway, and she was too tired to argue. On the way up the walkway, she remembered her keys, and the fact that they were spending the night in the floorboard of Donny Joe’s truck. Jake seemed to realize the problem at the same time. Without missing a beat, he reached into the third hanging basket from the left and pulled out the spare key—the same place the spare key had been hidden the entire time they’d been growing up.
“It’s nice to know some things never change.” He unlocked the front door and pushed it open. “If you need any help picking up your car tomorrow, let me know.”
“Thanks, but I’ll manage.” It suddenly felt so familiar to be standing in the dark talking with him on the front porch. He was bigger and taller now, but he was still Jake. “Good night, Jake.”
“Good night, Marla Jean.” He reached for her hand and pressed the spare key into her palm. “Try t
o stay out of trouble.”
She pulled her hand out of his and resisted the urge to stick out her tongue. “Try to mind your own business.”
He laughed and brushed his thumb across her cheek. “You haven’t changed, either, Marla Jean.”
Before she could ask what that was supposed to mean, he bounded off the porch and was gone.
THE DISH
Where Authors Give You the Inside Scoop
From the desk of Lily Dalton
Dear Reader,
Some people are heroic by nature. They act to help others without thinking. Sometimes at the expense of their own safety. Sometimes without ever considering the consequences. That’s just who they are. Especially when it’s a friend in need.
We associate these traits with soldiers who risk their lives on a dangerous battlefield to save a fallen comrade. Not because it’s their job, but because it’s their brother. Or a parent who runs into a busy street to save a child who’s wandered into the path of an oncoming car. Or an ocean life activist who places himself in a tiny boat between a whale and the harpoons of a whaling ship.
Is it so hard to believe that Daphne Bevington, a London debutante and the earl of Wolverton’s granddaughter, could be such a hero? When her dearest friend, Kate, needs her help, she does what’s necessary to save her. In her mind, no other choice will do. After all, she knows without a doubt that Kate would do the same for her if she needed help. It doesn’t matter one fig to her that their circumstances are disparate, that Kate is her lady’s maid.
But Daphne finds herself in over her head. In a moment, everything falls apart, throwing not only her reputation and her future into doubt, but her life into danger. Yet in that moment when all seems hopelessly lost… another hero comes out of nowhere and saves her. A mysterious stranger who acts without thinking, at the expense of his own safety, without considering the consequences. A hero on a quest of his own. A man she will never see again…
Only, of course… she does. And he’s not at all the hero she remembers him to be.
Or is he? I hope you will enjoy reading NEVER ENTICE AN EARL and finding out.
Best wishes, and happy reading!
LilyDalton.com
Twitter @LilyDalton
Facebook.com/LilyDaltonAuthor
From the desk of Shelley Coriell
Dear Reader,
Story ideas come from everywhere. Snippets of conversation. Dreams. The hunky guy at the office supply store with eyes the color of faded denim. THE BROKEN, the first book in my new romantic suspense series, The Apostles, was born and bred as I sat at the bedside of my dying father.
In 2007 my dad, who lived on a mountain in northern Nevada, checked himself into his small town’s hospital after having what appeared to be a stroke. “A mild one,” he assured the family. “Nothing to get worked up about.” That afternoon, this independent, strong-willed man (aka stubborn and borderline cantankerous) checked himself out of the hospital. The next day he hopped on his quad and accidentally drove off the side of his beloved mountain. The ATV landed on him, crushing his chest, breaking ribs, and collapsing a lung.
The hospital staff told us they could do nothing for him, that he would die. Refusing to accept the prognosis, we had him Life-Flighted to Salt Lake City. After a touch-and-go forty-eight hours, he pulled through, and that’s when we learned the full extent of his injuries.
He’d had multiple strokes. The not-so-mild kind. The kind that meant he, at age sixty-three, would be forever dependent on others. His spirit was broken.
For the next week, the family gathered at the hospital. My sister, the oldest and the family nurturer, massaged his feet and swabbed his mouth. My brother, Mr. Finance Guy, talked with insurance types and made arrangements for post-release therapy. The quiet, bookish middle child, I had little to offer but prayers. I’d never felt so helpless.
As my dad’s health improved, his spirits worsened. He was mad at his body, mad at the world. After a particularly difficult morning, he told us he wished he’d died on that mountain. A horrible, heavy silence followed. Which is when I decided to use the one thing I did have.
I dragged the chair in his hospital room—you know the kind, the heavy, wooden contraption that folds out into a bed—to his bedside and took out the notebook I carry everywhere.
“You know, Dad,” I said. “I’ve been tinkering with this story idea. Can I bounce some stuff off you?”
Silence.
“I have this heroine. A news broadcaster who gets stabbed by a serial killer. She’s scarred, physically and emotionally.”
More silence.
“And I have a Good Guy. Don’t know much about him, but he also has a past that left him scarred. He carries a gun. Maybe an FBI badge.” That’s it. Two hazy characters hanging out in the back of my brain.
Dad turned toward the window.
“The scarred journalist ends up working as an aide to an old man who lives on a mountain,” I continued on the fly. “Oh-oh! The old guy is blind and can’t see her scars. His name is… Smokey Joe, and like everyone else in this story, he’s a little broken.”
Dad glared. I saw it. He wanted me to see it.
“And, you know what, Dad? Smokey Joe can be a real pain in the ass.”
My father’s lips twitched. He tried not to smile, but I saw that, too.
I opened my notebook. “So tell me about Smokey Joe. Tell me about his mountain. Tell me about his story.”
For the next two hours, Dad and I talked about an old man on a mountain and brainstormed the book that eventually became THE BROKEN, the story of Kate Johnson, an on-the-run broadcast journalist whose broken past holds the secret to catching a serial killer, and Hayden Reed, the tenacious FBI profiler who sees past her scars and vows to find a way into her head, but to his surprise, heads straight for her heart.
“Hey, Sissy,” Dad said as I tucked away my notebook after what became the first of many Apostle brainstorming sessions. “Smokey Joe knows how to use C-4. We need to have a scene where he blows something up.”
And “we” did.
So with a boom from old Smokey Joe, I’m thrilled to introduce you to Kate Johnson, Hayden Reed, and the Apostles, an elite group of FBI agents who aren’t afraid to work outside the box and, at times, outside the law. FBI legend Parker Lord on his team: “Apostles? There’s nothing holy about us. We’re a little maverick and a lot broken, but in the end we get justice right.”
Joy & Peace!
From the desk of Hope Ramsay
Dear Reader,
Jane Eyre may have been the first romance novel I ever read. I know it made an enormous impression on me when I was in seventh grade and it undoubtedly turned me into an avid reader. I simply got lost in the love story between Jane Eyre and Edward Fairfax Rochester.
In other words, I fell in love with Rochester when I was thirteen, and I’ve never gotten over it. I re-read Jane Eyre every year or so, and I have every screen adaptation ever made of the book. (The BBC version is the best by far, even if they took liberties with the story.)
So it was only a matter of time before I tried to write a hero like Rochester. You know the kind: brooding, passionate, tortured… (sigh). Enter Gabriel Raintree, the hero of INN AT LAST CHANCE. He’s got all the classic traits of the gothic hero.
His heroine is Jennifer Carpenter, a plucky and self-reliant former schoolteacher turned innkeeper who is exactly the kind of no-nonsense woman Gabe needs. (Does this sound vaguely familiar?)
In all fairness, I should point out that I substituted the swamps of South Carolina for the moors of England and a bed and breakfast for Thornfield Hall. I also have an inordinate number of busybodies and matchmakers popping in and out for comic relief. But it is fair to say that I borrowed a few things from Charlotte Brontë, and I had such fun doing it.
I hope you enjoy INN AT LAST CHANCE. It’s a contemporary, gothic-inspired tale involving a brooding hero, a plucky heroine, a haunted house, and a secret that’s been kept for years.
>
From the desk of Molly Cannon
Dear Reader,
Weddings! I love them. The ceremony, the traditions, the romance, the flowers, the music, and of course the food. Face it. I embrace anything when cake is involved. When I got married many moons ago, there was a short ceremony and then cake and punch were served in the next room. That was it. Simple and easy and really lovely. But possibilities for weddings have expanded since then.
In FLIRTING WITH FOREVER, Irene Cornwell decides to become a wedding planner, and she has to meet the challenge of giving brides what they want within their budget. And it can be a challenge! I have planned a couple of weddings, and it was a lot of work, but it was also a whole lot of fun. Finding the venue, booking the caterer, deciding on the decorating theme. It is so satisfying to watch a million details come together to launch the happy couple into their new life together.
In one wedding I planned we opted for using mismatched dishes found at thrift stores on the buffet table. We found a bride selling tablecloths from her wedding and used different swaths of cloth as overlays. We made a canopy for the dance floor using pickle buckets and PFC pipe covered in vines and flowers, and then strung it with lights. We spray-painted cheap glass vases and filled them with flowers to match the color palette. And then, as Irene discovered, the hardest part is cleaning up after the celebration is over. But I wouldn’t trade the experience for anything.
Another important theme in FLIRTING WITH FOREVER is second-chance love. My heart gets all aflutter when I think about true love emerging victorious after years of separation, heartbreak, and misunderstanding. Irene and Theo fell in love as teenagers, but it didn’t last. Now older and wiser they reunite and fall in love all over again. Sigh.