Luke and Lena, a marriage on the brink of disaster by Diane Scott Lewis

In 1956, Luke dredges illegally on the river, while his restless wife considers a risky affair. A marriage in turmoil.

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Yelena, 'Lena,' married for passion right out of high school. But her husband doesn't aspire to something better; his job as an oysterman keeps them in poverty. She loves their little boy, but her life is dull, and restrictive due to lack of money. She craves excitement.

The once thriving resort town of Colonial Beach is falling into decay, destroyed by the Great Depression, then World War II. Yelena longs to leave it behind and visit exotic places.

Her husband's illegal activities on the river pushes her further away.

A stranger with a silky accent catches her attention, or rather, she catches his. Is this the excitement she sought, or a danger to both her and her husband?

Luke is ashamed he can't earn more for his family. Oystering is all he knows, and his gruff father encourages him to dredge for oysters in the night. Dredging is illegal, due to the destruction of the oyster beds, but the increased haul brings in additional money. Luke wants to please his wife, but her unhappiness, his guilt, drives them apart. 

And now the Maryland Oyster police, who have authority over the Potomac River, are shooting at Virginia dredgers; men are being killed. Luke is caught up in Virginia pride and tradition. Will it be the death of him?

What of the other sinister murders happening out on the river?

"A tale fraught with intrigue, hardship, murder, and a marriage in turmoil.  The author paints a vivid picture of life on an oyster boat and a fishing village on Virginia's Potomac shore."

*History and Women*

Excerpt: “Tell me what’s wrong, Luke.” Yelena said it tenderly, moving up close to him. These actions had always worked before. “I know something is bothering you. You shouldn’t hide things from me.”

His eyes searched hers, his sigh deep. “They fired on us. Ern caught it this time. Damn!” He hugged her against him, his shirt dampening her breasts.

“What? Are you serious?” Her stomach clenched. Her worst fears. “I can’t believe—”

“Shhh, don’t scare the boy. Let’s not talk about this now.” Luke tried to kiss her, but she pulled back.

She glared at him. “Was Ernie hurt badly?”

“Mostly a flesh wound. We ran him over to Doc Baker’s.”

“I want you to stop this. Please.” She clung to his shoulders, almost pinching them. “I’d like to work, to help out. You go back to tonging. You did it before this mess with Maryland started again. Why did you decide to take up these illegal activities?”

"Enough, Lena. You got our boy to care for. You don't need a job." His order was a low grumble. "Leave this business to me."

But she couldn't. Was it her anxiety for him, or her determination to rescue her family, that left her feeling so dissatisfied?

To find out more about me and my books, please visit my website: DianeScottLewis

Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with her husband and one naughty dachshund.

A Greek Adventure and Research by Diane Scott Lewis

Recently we took a trip to Greece, where I met my husband many years ago while stationed at a navy base (closed in 1990).  We attended a reunion of former navy personnel stationed at the base in the waterfront town of Nea Makri. The famous town of Marathon is a few miles to the north.

Author and Husband, navy base front gate

Before we left the U. S. I had an epiphany to write a novel set in Greece, ala Mary Stewart. She wrote so many wonderful romantic suspense novels set in Greece, including my favorite The Moon Spinners. My story, A Spark to the Ashes, takes place in 1955. A running away (from whom?) American woman with a small child seeks employment with a burned-out Englishman, to research ancient Greek pottery. She needs shelter yet desires freedom, he dislikes children and had expected a 'male' assistant. He's scarred from his experience in WWII. Both their pasts will haunt them and put their lives in peril.

I scoured the countryside to get my geography correct, now much research on the era remains.


Cape Sounio, Greece



It was sad to see the neglect of the base (where I married my husband at the base chapel), but wonderful to connect to former Nea Makri buddies, and meet new ones.

Former navy base, Nea Makri, Greece

Greece has a poor economy, but it's a beautiful country with much to offer. The restaurants in Nea Makri are fantastic, with fresh seafood and views of the gulf that flows into the Aegean Sea. The people are friendly, and most speak enough English to make you comfortable.

But to speak of writing--soon my Revolutionary War novel, Her Vanquished Land, will be available from BWL (September), then I dive into the Greece of 1955. Good thing I love research!

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Just a sampling of my novels, mystery, suspense, romance, adventure, with strong female heroines, mostly set in the later eighteenth century.

 

For further information on me and my books, please visit my website: www.dianescottlewis.org

 Diane Scott Lewis grew up in California, traveled the world with the navy, edited for magazines and an on-line publisher. She lives with her husband in Pennsylvania.

TURKEY TALK, 1964



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After 51 years of marriage, I still wouldn't dare claim all-knowledge. I have stuck with my own for a long time, and it continues to present enough twists, turns and drama to satisfy the need of any writer.   

This holiday season, I look back on small events now half a century distant. They were not as exciting as the life the young Hamilton's lived, with a revolution still to be fought and won. However, like the Paul McCartney song, these days I often feel like a "relic of a distant age." So here's my little newlywed's story:

The first turkey I ever cooked was in 1964. I was a young married, an ex-student, as was my husband. We were living in a dismal basement apartment in NYC, whose front window looked out upon the back of the building’s garbage cans. Needless to say, we kept the blinds closed. We shared a bathroom with some elder ladies who we never saw, but who, no matter how loudly I scrubbed the place after using it, would arrive soon after I'd left and vigorously wash the entire bathroom all over again. I suppose I can’t blame them, for lots of old people in the city lived in fear of their neighbors.

We’d managed to buy the turkey, a small one, although it took some financial planning to get the cash together, as I didn’t have a job. Only my husband, Chris, did.  As a nineteen year old with zero skills, it didn’t pay much and rent took the lion's share. As for me, I’d left the hospital I’d been working in back in Philadelphia and come to NYC in order to be with him. At the time, I was violently morning sick—to the 9^th degree. I mean, Rosemary, in Rosemary’s Baby, had nothing on me! The only things I could reliably keep down were weird cravings: green pea soup, grapefruit, and sardines. Anything else—upchuck! Maybe that’s why the invisible ladies next door were so diligent about scrubbing our shared bathroom.

On the big day we cleaned up our turkey as I’d seen my parents do, slapped it in a big bakeware pan that we’d found in the kitchen, turned on the oven to 350 and then walked over to Broadway to see a little of the Thanksgiving Day parade. We were so far uptown that there wasn’t much to see, but there were bands and high school kids from out of town feeling really proud of themselves, and people wrestling with a couple of balloons—my favorite, Dino the dinosaur—being dragged about in the gusty wind. The other big event for me was seeing Fess Parker of Davy Crocket fame, waving and smiling from the back of an open car. Like a zillion children from my generation, he’d been my hero back in the fourth grade.  I’d wept while watching the Walt Disney show the night “Davy” died at the Alamo.

 

Now that little girl's life seemed incredibly distant. Chris and I looked at each other. We were married, pregnant and close to broke. Whether one or either of us would ever get back to college—and how the heck we would manage it--was still up in the air. Nobody’s parents were happy. With all this drama swirling, the parade, so very pointedly an event for kids, got boring fast. 

We turned and walked back through the wind and grimy uptown streets to our little pad. When we got there, the place was redolent with roast turkey and baked potatoes. The bird made snapping noises as the juice splattered about inside the oven, casting a smoky pall around the kitchen. We decided that this must mean it was cooked. Chris fetched it out, and lo and behold, it was done, all crispy, juices running clear. 

I was surprised because I was, for the first time in months and all of a sudden—genuinely hungry. It was quite a fine meal, our first Thanksgiving—meat, potatoes, squishy store bread and a freshly opened can of cranberry sauce. For a change, it went down and stayed there. 

Who knew I’d be remembering it fifty-one years later?

 ~~Juliet Waldron~~

Historical Novels at:

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A MASTER PASSION, the story of

Alexander Hamilton & Betsy Schuyler

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Life's Path by Eleanor Stem

Me in a past life

What makes us chose certain things in life, or walk down a particular path? I married my high school sweetheart after some thirty odd years, but it took a long time for us to reunite. Apparently, he had things to do, and I know I had things to do. I married a completely different person, had two children by him. It was a difficult time. I was glad when he suddenly left. 

Back in high school, I told my sweetheart I wanted to write, but life got in the way, like the unhappy marriage and subsequent divorce. After almost a decade, I went from a homemaker to being suddenly thrust into the business world. 

Because of what I went through and the resulting memories, I loathed the area I lived in with the crime and heat. Suddenly, women started to knock on my door who said they thought my ex-husband would marry them after the divorce, but didn’t. “If you want revenge,” more than one confided, “I will help you.” 

Life experiences force us to learn. I wanted nothing to do with revenge, even though my ‘ex’ had one helluva mean streak. He played ugly mind games, manipulated others, and lied. I knew to seek revenge would only lower me to his level and harm my spirit. At any rate, he didn’t care how his actions affected me. Any karma he garnered, he would have to work out on his own. I would not help him. 

I said, “No thanks” to those women and closed the door. I changed my phone number, had it unlisted, then when it became too difficult to bear, I sold everything, lock, stock and barrel, and moved. During a weak moment, the ‘ex’ gave me permission to take my children out of the country for a year. This generosity didn’t last, of course. 

Me at the psychic's

The preparations to leave took a solid six months. I went to a psychic who told me we would live on a hill and I would find love. 

I retained a few things and sent them to my brother across country. Once school was out for the summer, I packed the boys in the car and followed my goods to my brother’s house. From there we flew out of the country. 

I made an effort to separate myself from the hurt, the betrayal. The long distance helped a great deal. The boys and I settled into our new home, far from the strife of rejection. I finally started writing that book. 

If one is on their correct life path, experiences come effortlessly, as if dropped from the sky. It was that way for the preparation to leave and relocate. The area in which we moved was in a recession. People were out of jobs. For lack of housing, grown children lived with their parents. Within a week, we found and moved into a furnished house located on a hill, the owners of which were on a year’s sabbatical in the country I had just left. Our paths had coincided. 

 I did what I had wanted to do all my life—write. The boys could run and play as I had done when a child, and as my parents demanded of me, I told them, “Return when the streetlights come on.” 

Yes, I may have run away, but the experience was liberating. I was no longer reminded of my ‘failings’, how ‘stupid’ or ‘slow’ I was. I could concentrate on my novel. I immersed myself in the past, walked the cobbled lanes, and fell in love with my hero.  

After a year, the boys and I moved back, but we went to the area my brother and his wife lived. I had started healing from an abusive marriage. I went to work, and my boys went to new schools. Life moved on and I eventually ran into my high school sweetheart. We are now married. 

My high school sweetheart & me

So what does this mean?

My high school sweetheart and I were meant to be together, but it took a while. Before we could be with each other, I had to put closure to a few past life experiences. One was the relationship with my first husband in a difficult marriage. Where I had once treated my spouse poorly, this life I was treated poorly by the same entity. I did not want to make this a cyclical matter (what goes around, comes around) scenario, just wanted closure to the bad Karma I had created. I forgave ‘ex’ but I’ll never give him another chance. I’ll never be with that spirit in another life. 

My high school sweetheart and I did what we had to do between high school and our empty nest years. I dance through life now because I truly hope the bad slate from a past life is scrubbed clean. As hard as it was, I feel my spirit is much brighter for it.  

~~~~~~~
Many thanks to Wiki commons, Public Domain

 

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ANOTHER WIFE'S STORY

 Schuyler Mansion Historic Site

Alexander Hamilton has been my hero since I was a ten year old, which means I’ve been imagining him for a long time. When I decided to finally write “his” book, I’d just finished a novel about Wolfgang A. Mozart, as told by his wife. It would be a familiar approach, I thought, to tell the Hamilton story from the same womanly angle.  Or, so I thought—until I realized I didn’t know much about Alexander’s wife, Betsy.

Was she just another Colonial Dame? Well, Not exactly. The big house in Albany where Elizabeth Schuyler had been brought up was “American with a difference.” 

Elizabeth Schuyler Hamilton by Ralph Earle

Historical fiction readers are familiar with the customs of the Scots, Irish and English immigrants. But New York school children—me among them—also learned about the Dutch, who had given place names all along the Hudson and founded NYC,  as well as inspiring Washington Irving to write his winking ghost story: “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.” Although Betsy’s father, Major General Philip Schuyler, successfully “English-ified” himself, she probably learned Dutch at her Daddy’s knee. (During the Revolution, she and Baron von Steuben would find it their common language.) Hamilton’s wife, my novel’s heroine, had been born and raised folkways which retained some notable differences from those of her downstate predominantly English neighbors. 

Miss Schuyler’s female Dutch ancestors enjoyed rights greater than those of any other European women. They were full legal persons, a position American women would not enjoy again until the early 20^th century. They could own property and conduct business, enter into contracts and buy and sell for their own profit. Some of the richest families in old New York could trace their fortune back to the business savvy of one of these “She Merchants.” In Holland, and, briefly, in later New Amsterdam (now NYC) a woman could chose a unique form of marriage which kept her financial dealings and property separate from her husband’s.  Although these exceptional rights withered after the English took over the colony in 1664, there remained a certain independence and self-reliance in these Dutch women.

Even the wealthiest ladies were inclined to hands-on. They were taught how to cook and garden, how to spin, to keep fowl, to weave and sew—as well as keep household accounts.  An old family friend, James McHenry, wrote tellingly to Hamilton: “Your wife…has as much merit as your Treasurer as you have as Treasurer of the wealth of the United States.” It was no secret who kept afloat the daily affairs of this often-preoccupied Founding Father.

Dutch women were also not so quick to hand their babies—messy, inconvenient creatures—off to servants or slaves for nursing and day care. Despite the then commonly fatal water-borne and childhood diseases, Mrs. Hamilton bore eight children and raised every one of them to adulthood, something of a feat in those times.

The more I learned about her, the more she impressed me, this quiet, domestic woman behind the man. Betsy lived to be 97. Almost to her last breath, she performed her duties as co-founder of the first New York City orphanage, a cause dear to her heart.

She  also remained determined that ‘Justice shall be done to the memory of my Hamilton.’” In this aim, she never wavered, preserving his papers and facing down important men who had been Hamilton’s political enemies with calm dignity.  

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~Learn more about Elizabeth’s life and the “odd destiny” of her beloved Alexander--orphan, immigrant, genius, and nation builder, in A Master Passion~~

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Sources:

Jean Zimmerman’s The Women of the House, Mariner Books, 2007

David Fischer Hackett’s Albion’s Seed, Oxford University Press, 1989

Washington Irving’s Knickerbocker’s History of New York, GP Putnam & Sons, 1894

Mary Elizabeth Springer, Elizabeth Schuyler, A Story of Old New York, 1903