Book Birthday: Spectral Evidence

                                                           Find my books here!

 

I love book birthdays!

My latest, written with my wonderful partner in crime, Jude Pittman, is Book 8 of the Canadian Historical Mysteries: Newfoundland, entitled Spectral Evidence.

Imagine learning about a specific historical setting in each of Canada's provinces and territories through a thought provoking mystery? What fun!!

Ours is set in 1692-93 Newfoundland, which had historic trading ties to New England, and specifically Salem, Massachusetts. Well, THAT got our creative juices flowing, because it was the time of the notorious Salem Witch Trials and their tragic aftermath.

Our sleuth and storyteller is 17 year-old Charlotte Jaddore, the daughter of a merchant ship captain and his Beothuk/Mi'kmaq wife. Both heroine and content make our novel appropriate for YA readers as well as adult mystery fans. 

Jude and I are most pleased to present this excerpt. We hope you'll enjoy Spectral Evidence, and the entire series of Canadian Historical Mysteries.

Chapter 1 

Home from the Sea

The first name given to me by my mother, Rising from the Wave came because I was born in Lampok, the water world’s swell, on board my father’s ship. He insists the gale becalmed to hear my coos and suckling sounds. He sometimes calls me ma petite onde, his little wave. I’m a good person to have around in a storm still, he says. 

But I am also deeply rooted here, on the island my father’s people call Newfoundland. They came from across the wide Atlantic in ships with great white wings. My mother’s peoples, the Mi’kmaq and the Beothuk, who call me many variations of my first name, were watching from shore. They were not surprised by the new people’s arrival. Long ago a holy woman had a vision of islands of trees floating towards us, So, we greeted the tall ships with joy, eager to trade. We even added their spirit world of Christianity within our own. 

My father sought refuge here, away from wars and kings. Newfoundland is a good place, full of the bounties of earth and sea and sky. But the wars followed. 

We were in one of those wars in that Spring of 1692 as I scanned the horizon on a cold and fog laced spring day before dawn.  My companions on our cliffs above St. John’s, were gulls, our colorful sea parrots, and rough-legged hawks. And soon came the sound of Randall Kelly’s step assisted by a walking stick.

“You are up before the sun,” I said quietly.

A gusting, like the one our island ponies make through their noses, came out of him. “I tread toes first in the moccasins you made for me, Charlotte Jaddore,” he complained, loud enough to turn the head of a curious gull.

I turned. “Aye, but you took a winding way, giving me more time to hear your approach.”

Randall Kelly grinned. “Straight paths make for dull stories. I hope you have reaped some stories for me over the winter with your grandmothers.”

“I have. How did you know I was returned from the inland?”

“The dust has been flying out your windows.”

“Ah. Spring cleaning.”

“And the praise of your hired helper, after you noticed her hurting arm and took to your concoctions for help. What kind of a crier would I be to not know the comings and goings of St. John’s and all of Avalon beyond? You cut me to the very quick, lady!”

My smile ran away from me as we sat together on a nearby outcrop of rock. I miss our past together when Randall called me “child” and “sprite.” The “lady” had begun after my return last year. It honors me and my growing into my womanhood, but it feels strange still. 

I have known Randall Kelly since I was not much more than a toddling child and he an orphaned immigrant of ten years. Because of the injury he suffered over his Atlantic crossing, he was judged unfit for his indenture-contracted seaman’s duties. But he was more than fit to nurse my family through the smallpox that descended soon after, killing my mother and her babe, driving my father near madness in his grief. We all bear the marks of that terrible time. Randall Kelly bears them the lightest, showing us the way, for he had already survived the loss of his own family in a place called Waterford, Ireland. 

My father bought out the terms of Randall’s indenture. In the years that followed, others saw him as our lame servant, doing the work of women, the cooking and cleaning and household management. But he became my brother as he sat beside me at my lessons. We gained our love of books and knowledge together. Soon, we’d formed a new family—Randall, my father, and I. His literacy, combined with his sanguine humor and curiosity made it natural for our small community of St. John’s to offer him the brass bell of Town Crier.

Randall had his own rooms now, in an old storage barn he acquired because it had a window that faced north. He carved more windows in that wall so that he could get that beautiful artist’s light, even on our many cloudy days. When my father brought paintings from Amsterdam to our shores, Randall was in their thrall. The portraits and landscapes became his teachers as his drawings acquired color and skill. His barn is his home now, and he sleeps below its rafters. 

The sign above our tavern-the Sea Parrot- bears Randall’s portrait of the nesting birds that live on our cliffs. Those seeking to decorate their dwellings with more than fishing tackle and clothes hooks are happy to keep our artist fed and clothed in exchange for the products of his craft. 

Randall leaned his dear face against the leaping dolphin he’d carved into his walking stick. He looked at me with his artist’s eye now, as if judging how well I fit into his mind’s new composition, along with land and sea, shrouded in morning fog. Suddenly, his brow quirked up, the way it used to when he suspected me of keeping a secret. “Are all shelves and storerooms made ready for this year’s new goods?”

“They are.”

“Aye, then. And now, Charlotte Jaddore, with your powers beyond mere mortal ken, might ye know when the winds will blow the Esperance in?”

“Do not you tread over that territory with me,” I admonished him. “George Wyatt already thinks I have dried up his cow.”

“Does he? And have you?”

“Pish. What do I want with her calf’s food? You are a strange people who steal eggs from the birds and milk meant for the young of others.”

He laughed. “Now you sound like your grandmothers. How did those fine women fare over the winter?”

“They are well. Their message for you is to study the weasel over our coming crowded months.”

Randall Kelly is one of the few my grandmothers have allowed close to the inland camps of the Beothuk and Mi’kmaq. He is a smallpox survivor. That is part of the reason they feel safe. The other lies inside our artist crier himself, who both my grandmothers consider a holy person. Holds Two Spirits is their Medicine name for him. They send me back to St. John’s every spring with another animal for Randall Kelly to study, to gather around him, to give him strength and protection. 

Randall’s laughing eyes, the color of seagrass in summer now stilled. “Tell the grandmothers that I will risk the weasel people’s bites of displeasure to follow their advice.” He looked at his hands then. “And thank them for me, will ye?”

“Of course,” I agreed.

“It’s glad I am that they see me as a scholar studying the world around.”

We had achieved twenty-five and seventeen years of life on Mother Earth, Randall and I. But I suspect we both missed our free childhoods, before I ran my father’s house and business. Before Randall took up his paints and the crier’s bell, back when we were welcomed like unruly puppies into all the communities of Avalon—the English and Dutch of St. John’s, the French at Plaisance, and the Irish dory fishermen of our many bays and coves. We were welcomed even into the high valleys of the mountains and barrens, where our trading partners, the Mi’kmaq and the reclusive earlier people of my great-grandmother, the Beothuk, abide.

The east wind picked up suddenly, blowing away the night’s fog. Randall reached into his pouch for his spyglass. He scanned the horizon, past the harbor bay, just as the sun was appearing over the eastern edge of the world the Mi’kmaq call Turtle Island.

“I knew it! I knew trudging up here after you would bear fruit!”

He handed me the glass, took up the shell horn that he used for long-distance summoning of the town’s attention, and blew. I stood beside my friend, letting my blue apron fly like a flag of welcome. For out there, among the last of the icebergs, was a ship we both knew well. The Esperance.  My father was home from the sea.

The gathered people at the dock parted upon my approach. I lifted my skirts and ran to the Esperance as the gangplank was set in place. Every mother’s child of them knew they would not get a first look at the wines, the lemons and oranges, the stockings, and French silks. Not until my father had given his heir and business partner a proper greeting. His arms, his salt tang smell mixed with clove, the quill and bead decoration that dangled from his ear- all were home to me. My world was not returned in balance until his quartermaster began a reel on his pipe and we’d danced a swinging circle in each other’s arms.

As the tune finished, we heard Randall Kelly’s bell, then his powerful voice.

“Hear ye! Hear ye! Be it known that by the grace of Divine Providence and the skill of her officers and crew, the good ship fashioned of fleet Bermuda cedar known as the Esperance, in their Majesties King William and Queen Anne’s port of St. John’s in the Colony of Avalon, has landed this eleventh day of April in the year of our Lord sixteen hundred and ninety-two! As first of the season into port, Martin Jaddore is hereby declared Fleet Captain and Fishing Admiral!  Is this not a day to bring our poor wintering souls joy? A day altogether calling to mind the words of our own gracious late and lamented governor poet?

‘The air in Newfoundland is wholesome good,

The fire as sweet as any made of wood,

The water, very rich, both salt and fresh,

The earth more rich, you know it is no less

Where all are good, fire, water, earth and air,

What man made of these four would not live there?’”

Loud cheering followed his recitation of Robert Hayman’s verse. Amid the jubilation, my father growled before he whispered in my ear, “Poetry? More like royal sanctioned versifying lies out of that Devonshire pirate! Did we not have Randall Kelly recite enough Shakespeare in his youth to know the difference?”

Ice & Hikes

 

                                          Please click this link for book and author information

On January 25th, I fell on an icy Calgary sidewalk and injured the muscles around my hip. During the following week, I thought I was recovering enough to do a hike in the mountains and then a long walk on ice-covered Lake Louise. Two days later I couldn't hobble across my kitchen without feeling pain. This prompted me to see my doctor and a physiotherapist.  

An X-ray determined no fractures, broken bones, or misalignment. The physiotherapist thought my injuries were relatively minor and said they should resolve in a few weeks with rest, exercise, and physio treatments. The problem was that I was scheduled to leave in two weeks for a hiking holiday in Arizona with 33 members of my Calgary hiking club. The physio and I doubted I'd be able to hike by then and, if I could, the exertion might set my recovery back, as it had done on the earlier hike and Lake Louise walk.

I still planned to go on the trip but prepared to spend some or all of the days resting my hip in the Airbnb house my husband Will and I were renting with some other club members. I downloaded numerous books to read and organized writing work to do on my computer. It wouldn't be terrible to relax outdoors in warm sunshine and I'd still enjoy evening dinners and entertainment with the group, but the prospect of missing the main purpose of the trip was disappointing. 

My progress through four physio sessions was slow. I faithfully did my exercises and barely stepped outside for two weeks. The weekend before we left, I tried a few neighbourhood walks. After half an hour, my hip was sore and I couldn't wait to shuffle home. 

Will and I flew to Phoenix on February 20th and spent the next day walking around Scottsdale. My hip was fine but tired by the end. I still decided to try the shorter version of first hike the following day. To my surprise, I felt no discomfort with my hip. Nor did my muscles bother me much the next morning. So I joined my fellow hikers again and then again on day # 3. All of these hikes involved clambering over big rocks. How many rocks could there be in Arizona? 

Day # 4 featured a hike along Saguaro Lake, which I'd done seven years earlier and recalled as being relatively easy. The elevation was less than that of first three hikes and the lakeside trail was mainly dirt with small rocks to step around. A picnic lunch and relaxing boat cruise on the lake followed and then an evening at the Silver Star dinner theatre with 1950s & early 60s that brought back memories. 

The fifth day's hike was longer the previous ones (about 14 km vs 8 km). I suggested to my housemates that we do something shorter, but they wanted to go with the group and I went along. I'm glad I did and I enjoyed the first half of the hike, but my hip ached with every step of the last section. I decided 8 km was the limit for my hip. The highlight of this hike was a rare crested saguaro cactus. The abnormal growth formation at the top is found in one in roughly 10,000 saguaros. 

On day # 6, we drove to Wilcox, Arizona, our gateway to the Chiricahua National Monument. The first afternoon we did an 8 km hike over comfortable terrain to a view of Natural Bridge. 

For our final hike of the trip, the plan was to do a 14+ km long loop. After six straight days of hiking, nine of us opted for a shorter loop through fabulous scenery at a leisurely pace. It was the one day I wanted to keep on walking at the end. 

The forecast called for rain starting at noon, but the sunshine stayed in the park. Will and I enjoyed a late lunch at a beautiful viewpoint.  

Now I'm home and my hip still feels a little sore, but I can't say the seven days of hiking set my recovery back. I'm grateful I was able to experience so many wonderful sights and great companionship on the trails. These days, I'm giving my hip its well-deserved rest, doing my exercises faithfully (more or less), and trying to avoid another fall on Calgary's icy sidewalks. 

    

  

Gone to the Dogs - Barbara Baker

 

 

I grew up in a tiny place east of Banff. It was not large enough to be given hamlet status – hence they called us ‘a community.’ But it was the best place for a kid to grow up. There were no fences, no streetlights and once in a while we saw a car. Playing in the woods started at the end of our driveway.

And our family always had a dog. In fact, most families in our community had one.

When I played outside, I knew which dogs to avoid, which ones not to run from, and those who were sure to follow me home. Dog poop bags were not a thing back then. Having said that, I do not recall stepping in dog poop. Ever. But I am positive dogs still pooped.

Fast forward to 2024 – with spring coming and the freeze-thaw going on, I find loaded dog poop bags hanging off fences, branches or scattered on the side of walkways and trails.

It's wonderful that our urban and rural areas have gorgeous parks with off-leash and on-leash areas for dogs and green spaces scattered throughout neighbourhoods. There is signage, poop bag dispensers and garbage cans at most pathway entrances. Do the signs, which ask you to ‘pick up after your dog,’ really need another line added ‘and put it in the appropriate disposal bin?’ because if that is all it will take, I can get on it.

It’s annoying to find these deposits on city walkways and open spaces but when I find them hanging off spruce boughs or perched on a rock beside a hiking trail in our provincial and national parks, my piss-me-off meter escalates. Do the owners really think there are dog-poop-picker-upper fairies?

Yes, I realize the offenders had good intentions of picking it up on their return trip but it seems many dog walkers got distracted and forgot. Maybe they received a phone call telling them they won the lottery … or maybe their brother’s wife’s cousin had a baby. It’s possible, I guess. I remain hopeful these dog owners, who leave the poop behind, quit making responsible dog owners look bad.

Google says under perfect conditions, the compostable bags will deteriorate in up to 60 days. The ordinary plastic bags decompose in 20+ years. Thank you, Google.

Never in my life did I think I’d write about dog poop. Yet here I am, doing just that. And the issue is not the dog’s fault. The owners are the ones who need to attend obedience class.

When did my collection of sunrise pictures change to photos of poop bags?

I told my six-year-old grandson about this blog and asked him what he thought a 'dog-poop-picker-upper fairy' might look like. This is what he drew. Yup, all those extensions are fairy arms, doing their job.

Sometimes I miss the carefree old days when dog poop was not an issue. For now, I will step off my soap box, and go outside to find another sunrise … and I will never speak of this again. 

You can contact me at: bbaker.write@gmail.com

Summer of Lies: Baker, Barbara:9780228615774: Books - Amazon.ca

What About Me?: Sequel to Summer of Lies : Baker, Barbara: Amazon.ca: Books

A War of Words by Vanessa C. Hawkins

 

 

 Vanessa Hawkins Author Page

    

You ever hear of a word war? If your familliar with Nanowrimo or national novel writing month, then you probably have. Word wars are like the Olympics of writing, minus the spandex. They're a turbo boost for productivity, turning procrastination into a distant memory faster than you can say "writer's block." It's like a battle royale, but instead of wielding swords, we're armed with laptops and caffeine-fueled determination.

Not a word war... though accurate.

Imagine a room full of writers, all clacking away furiously on their keyboards, eyes wide with the thrill of the chase for word count supremacy. It's a frenzy of creativity, where the only rule is to write like the wind and pray your spellcheck doesn't fail you.

A real life depiction of a room of writers...

And let's not forget the camaraderie! Word wars are the ultimate bonding experience, where fellow writers become comrades-in-arms, cheering each other on through the highs and lows of the literary battlefield. Plus, there's nothing like the sweet taste of victory when you emerge with the highest count!

So far, word wars have gotten me through a few writer's blocks. Nothing beats a bit of competition, though I usually always lose... Lately I have been trying to turn by brain down a notch. Stop overthinking everything I write down and just get it on paper so I have something to work with during the editing phase. But I got to wondering if its only me who struggles. Obviously not.... but what do you do to get through blocks and obstacles? Wait till it passes, and hope the time is short, or power through it?

Surely some one else can relate, right? 

Creating a Home Library - A Labor of Love, Part 2 by Eileen O'Finlan

 

Click here for purchase information

In my February 7th post I wrote about how I was turning an unused room in my house into a long-desired home library. Good news - it's finished!

It was indeed a labor of love in more ways than one. I mentioned last month, how much I love being surrounded by my books. The other "love" part of this labor is that the room in question used to be my mom's bedroom. We lived together since shortly before my dad passed away in 1996. About three and a half years ago my mom had to move to a nursing home because of rapidly increasing dementia. She died on December 16, 2024. During the time she was in the nursing home I didn't do much with her room. Mostly, I just kept the door shut because I couldn't bear to look at her empty bedroom. 

Before Mom went to the nursing home, when she was still enough in her right mind, she and I talked about what would become of her room after she passed away. She was open like that. Talking about her own passing didn't bother her. Mostly, she wanted to know that the people she left behind would be alright. During one of those conversations, I broached the idea of turning her bedroom into a home library. At first she didn't say anything and I was worried that she didn't like the idea which was a surprise to me since she loved books and reading almost as much as I do. When I asked if she objected, she said, "No. I think it's a wonderful idea. I was just thinking that I wish I would be here to see it."

So, Mom, this library is in your honor! I truly believe that as I was creating it she was watching over my shoulder and nodding approvingly. If her gentle spirit is a presence in my new library, it will be a blessed place.

                 
    Table for doing research for novels                            Reading nook

   

Mom's shelf with her diploma in elementary education from the University of Vermont, 

her graduation program, and her name plate

March Madness

 

Available in print and ebook at 

https://books2read.com/Game-of-Love

            March has come in warm but windy, yet so much better than our February. And for those in the US, it brings with it March Madness, the annual NCAA men’s basketball scuffle to determine the national champion. Even those who never played the game usually have a favorite team and fill out brackets with friends; brackets that often run amuck after the first round as top seeded teams get upset before they really get started.

            When I started writing “A Game of Love” and realized it started in March, I couldn’t help but add a little bit of basketball madness, even though my main character, Megan, has no interest in the sport. She’s much more interested in her best friend’s older brother, and is soon entangled in romance, until a murder rather disrupts things. If that isn’t bad enough, she has to contend with a ghost who has chosen her to haunt.

            Enjoy the opening chapter of “A Game of Love”, a contemporary romance revolving around the history of Boston, a cyber treasure hunt and a two hundred year ghost longing to find her lover.

***

Megan tilted her head back as far as she could, and still the chimneys of the three story mansion were hidden from view. It stood separate and majestic among the brick row houses in the heart of Beacon Hill. More than two hundred years ago, it had been the only house at the very edge of Boston by the Charles River; home to a tea merchant during the Revolutionary War.

Stacy, her best friend since grade school, actually lived here now. When they were young they had called it the Castle and had often pretended a prince would ride up on his white horse and carry them away. Even now when she had outgrown childhood fantasies, Megan felt the house held secrets lost to time.

            The wrap-around porch and tall front columns were painted a dark cinnamon red to blend with the brick. Comfortable wicker chairs graced both sides of the door, their cushions covered in bright flowered fabric that coordinated nicely with the rest of the furniture. Stacy, or more likely her mom, had redecorated since her last visit. All along the front were the rose bushes for which the Castle, actually named the Blue Rose Bed & Breakfast, was famous.

The wind picked up, blowing her hair across her face and sending a shiver down her spine. March in Boston was not yet time for roses. Though there was no snow on the ground, it still felt like winter. She hurried up the steps to get out of the wind just as the door opened.

“Megan!” Stacy’s exuberant hug nearly knocked her over, which was hard to do given Megan stood six foot tall in her stocking feet. “Come in; come in!” She grabbed Megan by the coat and practically dragged her into the house.

“My suitcase.” Megan turned back but Stacy snagged it and rolled it inside, closing the door with a slam.

Stacy, only five foot two, with blonde hair and blue eyes, had always reminded Megan of Tinker Bell. Even more so now as she fluttered around. “I am so excited you’re here.”

“I can tell.” Megan shrugged out of her coat and automatically turned to hang it on the coat rack to the left of the door.

“There’s just so much going on,” Stacy continued. “After a rather slow winter, the Castle is starting to fill up on weekends, and the summer months are practically all booked. But all that can wait. Come on back to the kitchen so we can talk while I make a few appetizers for happy hour.”

Stacy turned and Megan followed, the Bed & Breakfast as familiar as her own home. A wide staircase ran along the right side of the hall up to the second then third floors. When they were little, Stacy’s bedroom had been upstairs along with her parents’, and her two brothers had shared the huge loft on the third floor. After everyone had grown and left, her parents had converted their home to a Bed & Breakfast, adding bathrooms and dividing the loft into two airy suites. When her parents retired and moved to Arizona, Stacy had used their room as another suite and had moved to the basement, which was just as roomy and well-appointed as the rest of the house.

Immediately to the left of the entryway was a small library with a desk and computer, complete with Wi-Fi connections. It allowed guests a little privacy and quiet. Next was a sitting room, open to the guests and housing a big screen TV and several sitting areas. Megan remembered the winter Stacy’s parents had taken out the wall between that and the dining room, opening the space to accommodate more guests when needed.

Now they cut through the dining room and around the table, easily able to seat twenty. The table held a pretty arrangement of foliage, complementing the dark wood of the buffet and sideboard. Their childhood nickname of the Castle was totally appropriate given the size of the house itself, full of antique furniture and gilt trimmed pictures. The spacious gardens to the back, complete with gazebo, added to its appeal. And everything was spotless.

She followed Stacy through the half door into the kitchen. This was the one room of the house that had been completely modernized. State of the art appliances included a sub-zero refrigerator, six burner range and two ovens. Here, too, everything gleamed and the scent of rich coffee filled the air.

“How do you keep up with all this?” Megan asked.

“Sheesh, it’s not like I do it,” Stacy saucily replied as she reached above the counter and grabbed two coffee mugs. “You know how much I like housework.” She handed Megan a cup and spoon then turned and grabbed a bottle of creamer from the fridge.

Megan laughed as she poured a goodly amount of creamer into her coffee and stirred. “If I remember right, your mom always made you keep your door closed, even if there wasn’t any company. And she didn’t even venture to the loft where Cal and Jeff slept.”

Stacy’s voice was muffled, head buried in the refrigerator. “I hate to say it, but we never changed. At least Cal and Jeff moved out after college.” She pulled out a tray of cheese and salami, and another of pickles, tiny carrots and olives, setting them on the counter in front of Megan.

She automatically reached for a black olive, munching slowly; hoping having her mouth full would keep her from asking about Cal, Stacy’s oldest brother and Megan’s teenage crush.

Stacy dumped a tube of fancy crackers into a pottery bowl that was lined with a pretty embroidered napkin. “Help yourself.” She shoved everything closer. “I know they don’t feed you on airplanes anymore and,” she paused, glancing at the clock, “what time did you leave California?”

Megan groaned. “Seven this morning. Even with the plane changes in Denver and Chicago, there wasn’t enough time to grab anything.” Stacking salami and cheese on a cracker, she munched happily as Stacy continued her preparations.

“You haven’t started serving all meals, have you?” she asked.

Stacy shook her head. “Just breakfast, but not long ago I started having happy hour. Most of our guests come back from their meanderings around four or five to change before they go out for the evening. Well, at least in the summer that seems to be the pattern. Right now, the three registered couples told me they had late lunches while they were out sightseeing. So now, they’re probably in for the night. They seem to enjoy having a little snack and a glass of wine.”

She cocked her head to the side, and when Megan listened, she heard the television and a lot of yelling. Stacy smiled. “I dare say the ladies weren’t as ready to return as the guys.”

Megan sent her a questioning look.

Stacy sighed. “Honestly, Meggie. March Madness; college basketball?”

Megan shrugged.

“I can’t believe you have lived this long; especially hanging around here with Cal and Jeff, and have no head for sports.”

“I did watch the Super Bowl this year,” Megan replied defensively.

“Only because you were on a date, as I recall from our texting.” She raised a brow as only she could. “How is Brad, by the way?”

Megan snagged another piece of salami. “I wouldn’t know. The Super Bowl marked not only the beginning and end of my foray into sports, but the end of our relationship, if you could even call it that.” She had dated Brad for six months and finally asked herself why? She decided that was enough.

“And you never called?” Stacy grabbed two of the plates and swept around the counter. “Hold that thought; I’ll be right back.” Megan thought to help, so picked up the cracker bowl and followed Stacy into the dining room.

“Hi, everyone. This is my good friend, Megan.” Stacy waved in her direction and Megan nodded in recognition of the “hellos” from the couples sitting in the adjacent room. “Here’s the wine. Please help yourself, but no throwing things at the TV. It’s only a game.”

“Only a game?” One of the guys echoed. “First time in years Iowa made it to the sweet sixteen.”

“But you’re from Chicago,” Stacy replied.

“I know, but I thought about going to school in Iowa.” He grinned as he stacked some of the snacks onto a plate and grabbed a napkin. A yell from his friends had him hurrying back to the TV.

“They’re good for now. Come on,” Stacy said as she went back into the kitchen, closing the top of the half door so they could talk in peace.

“You still like doing this, don’t you?” Megan could tell her friend enjoyed her role as hostess, as she had when her folks first opened their home to strangers.

“I love it, but don’t think you can change the subject so easily. What happened with Brad?”

Megan sipped her coffee before answering. “There was just no spark.”

“But he was a doctor,” Stacy exclaimed. “We were always going to marry doctors or lawyers, or international celebrities, remember?”

“Yes and here we are. You as the very congenial hostess of a very successful B&B, and me…” Her voice trailed off.

Her friend reached across the counter, her small hand covering Megan’s. “What is it, Meggie? You said when you left Boston after college that you’d never come back. Yet here you are.”

Megan scrunched up her face. Her parents had died when she was a teen. There had just been nothing here for her. But now, when push came to shove, the Castle was the only place she had to go.

“I quit my job,” she said. “Or rather, my job quit me.”

Stacy squeezed her hand, then spun around. “This calls for more than coffee.” She grabbed a bottle from the cupboard and two shot glasses from another. Quickly she poured two shots, held one up and nodded to Megan to get the other.

Only Stacy, Megan thought, picking up the shot glass, tapping it against Stacy’s and downing the clear liquid.

“God!” She gasped as liquid fire raced down her throat, hitting her near empty stomach with a splash. She nearly dropped the glass onto the counter.

“It gets better,” Stacy said as she poured them each another shot. “Bottoms up.” When Megan didn’t immediately pick up her glass, Stacy added the inevitable, “Dare you.”

She had no choice, and licked her lips after downing the shot, the peachy flavor lingering. When Stacy started to pour a third round, Megan put her hand over the glass. “No more; not until I get something more than crackers in my stomach. Besides, aren’t you on duty?”

Stacy shrugged. “Not really. I serve an evening snack as a little plus, so it’s not like they expect any special service. Actually we could go downstairs, but let me fix you some dinner first.”

“No, you don’t have to do that. Just no more shots.” Megan turned the bottle around. “Cruzan peach rum?”

“Who’s drinking that sissy stuff?” A deep voice came from the back porch just as the door opened. A tingle of awareness raced up Megan’s spine. She didn’t have to see his face to know it was Cal. A tall frame filled the doorway as he shrugged off his jacket.

 His voice had always drawn her; deep and gravelly and totally seductive. She hadn’t seen Stacy’s brother since high school, and his gangly but athletic high school physique had certainly filled out in the years since. As her heart thudded erratically, she thought some things never changed. The crush she had all those years ago still morphed her back into a tongue-tied teenager.

“Well, well. If it isn’t little Megan Sue, the fourth but unacknowledged Garrett kid. Hey, sis.”  He actually ruffled his sister’s hair as he headed for the sink, his back now to Megan.

Which was just as well because she knew she was staring. Cal had been good looking in high school, but now he was devastatingly handsome. Completely opposite of Stacy’s fair complexion and blonde features, Cal’s hair was darkest brown, wavy and just to the shaggy side of too long. Broad shoulders tapered down to a trim waist. Tight jeans covered a butt that was…oh, so fine. The glimpse she had gotten of his face was all she had needed to fully recall his dark eyes, high cheek bones and strong chin, covered with dark stubble that was so sexy nowadays.

“Megan?” Stacy’s voice broke through her reverie. Megan swallowed and forced her gaze from Cal’s back. It was the one secret she had from Stacy, because how could she ever tell her best friend that she had the hots for her brother for the past fifteen years?

“What made you bring out the hard stuff, Stac?” Having dried his hands and tossed the towel aside, Cal turned around to lean against the counter, long legs crossed at the ankles and arms crossed over his chest. He was casually dressed in jeans and a button down shirt, and while his pose might appear just as relaxed, Megan knew he was always watchful.

“Megan quit her job,” Stacy began, and Megan couldn’t see correcting her.

With a harrumph, Cal reached over Stacy’s head to the liquor cabinet and pulled down a different bottle. “Then you should be drinking this.” He quickly poured shots, raised his in salute and downed it. Megan lifted hers to delicately sniff.

“No way.” She set it back down. When Stacy shot her a questioning look, she added, “Do you remember the last time we drank tequila?”

Cal laughed when Stacy smacked him in the chest with her hand. “She just got here, Cal, don’t be chasing her away so fast. Besides, what are you even doing here? Aren’t you on duty?”

“It was quitting time so I just thought I’d stop by and see you.” He gave her a grin that would stop the heartbeat of most women, but his sister was immune.

“In other words, you didn’t bother going to the grocery story this week.” She just shook her head and rummaged in the refrigerator, coming up with a package of pork chops. “I was planning on Jeff, but he at least called to say he had other plans, so there should be enough for your hollow leg.” She began grabbing spices from the side cupboard and rubbing some into the meat. “But you have to start the grill and cook,” she added.

Cal gave Megan a casual wink before stepping through the door onto the back deck. Megan wished it had been Jeff coming over. Although the brothers looked extremely alike, Jeff was just three years older than she, whereas Cal was five. Megan didn’t know if it was the age difference or what, but Jeff had simply been her friend, whereas Cal had been her fantasy. Now, she had reservations as to whether moving back to Boston had been such a great idea.

***

For a complete copy of “A Game of Love, click the link below the picture or visit my website at http://www.authorsden.com/barbarajbaldwin  or my Amazon author site at https://www.amazon.com/author/barbarabaldwin. You will find not only this book, but others including historical and time travel romance.

            If you enjoy my stories as much as I enjoy writing them for you, I would love for you to leave a review on Amazon.