Reading by Season by Eileen O'Finlan

                                                                                                                                                                   

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Over the years, I have noticed an interesting phenomenon. At certain times of the year, usually at the change of seasons, I get the overwhelming urge to read specific types of books. Often, just as we are sliding into summer, I get the hankering for historical fiction set during either the American Revolution or the American Civil War. I've no idea why the warmer weather induces such a fancy. After all, those are hardly what most people would call beach reads, but there we are. 

I've never been into the typical "beach read" anyway. The last time I read a book on the beach (many, many years ago), it was The Shining by Stephen King. I was so into it that I completely lost track of time - a common occurrence when I'm reading a good book - and didn't realize that four hours had gone by. I'd been laying on my stomach, propped up on my elbows. I got a massive sunburn and wore the outline of it on my back from my low, scoop-back, one-piece bathing suit for the next two years! Yes, Stephen King books can be dangerous!

Now that we are heading into fall, the temperatures here in New England are beginning to dip, the days are getting shorter, and autumn is definitely on its way, my book cravings are turning to the supernatural. I'm beginning to amass a "to be read" pile of such books, having just finished two of the genre's classics - Shirley Jackson's The Haunting of Hill House and Henry James's The Turn of the Screw.

I'm sure I'm not alone in turning to these types of books at this time of year. It makes sense. (Certainly more than yearning for Revolution and Civil War books just because it's summer.) Come the holidays and the long, cold winter, I'll probably start looking for something more cozy. But from now through Halloween, bring on the vampires, ghosts, and haunted houses. 

While it took a year to write The Folklorist, (after at least six months of research), I really got into it the most during the fall. It was exciting to craft a novel that could have been on my own autumn TBR list at the same time I was craving that type of book. I think it helped me write the kind of book I most wanted to read at that moment.

Included in this fall's reading will be books from BWL's Paranormal Canadiana Collection. If Nancy M. Bell's Night at the Legislature is any indication, they are sure to induce plenty of spine tingles!

Of course, I might throw a book or two by Stephen King into the mix. At least at this time of year, I won't be risking a sunburn.

The beginning of my fall TBR

Place by Paul Grant

 

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Place

 Across its empty miles pours the pushing and shouldering wind,

a thing you tighten into as a trout tightens into fast water.

 

Wallace Stegner - Wolf Willow (1955)

 

 

Place is a critical element in storytelling.  It’s the stage on which characters perform, the environment they must navigate, and it shapes who they are.  In Wolf Willow, Wallace Stegner painted an indelible portrait of the prairies  – a place with images that “…lie in me like underground water; every well I put down taps them.”

 

My adopted home town of Moose Jaw is centre stage in Astraphobia, released in July as part of BWL’s Paranormal Canadiana Collection.  In the story, lightning stalks three generations of the McKenzie family as they carve out a place for themselves in the growing city of Moose Jaw.  Saskatchewan has some of the most extreme weather in Canada, including violent thunderstorms and more than 600,000 lightning strikes a year – not the ideal place for someone who is astraphobic.   

 

Moose Jaw also plays a starring role in my new novel Notorious, about murder, meth, and money-laundering in Canada’s Friendliest City.   Notorious is due out in November from BWL.  Stay tuned.

 Paul Grant

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Special Order, a short story by Victoria Chatham

 

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SPECIAL ORDER

By

Victoria Chatham

 

 “I’m sorry, darling, but I’m going to be late.” Royce Pinnell’s deep voice echoed in her ear.

“Oh, Royce! No, not tonight, please.”

“Sweetheart, it can’t be helped. I need to sort out some loose ends on the Blanchard account. I won’t be any later than seven thirty, I promise. Grab a taxi and go ahead. Paul will look after you.”

Carolyn closed her phone.

Seven o’clock at O’Keefe’s, Royce told her last night, with that little boy grin she so loved pulling at the side of his mouth. It was going to be a celebration; he said, a double celebration in fact.

Promises, promises. She’d heard them all. And yes, she knew that Paul, the maitre d’ hôtel at their favourite restaurant, would look after her. He’d had plenty of practice, she thought bitterly.

Carolyn headed upstairs. There was no point in feeling sorry for herself, she thought as she stepped into the shower. But today of all days. Couldn’t he, for once, have been on time? She pampered her hair with a freesia-scented shampoo, cleaned her lightly tanned skin, and when everything was rinsed, reached for her robe and towel.

Once in her bedroom, she opened her wardrobe and took out the hanger with her dress, bought especially for tonight. She held it up, admiring the midnight blue slipper satin beneath an overlay of navy lace, with the round neckline, short sleeves, and empire waistline. She thought it stunning in its simplicity as she slipped the dress from its hanger.

A smile of anticipation lingered on her lips as she pulled the dress over her head and shivered with sensual delight as the cool satin whispered against her skin. She fastened the side zipper and smoothed the fabric over her hips. With the dress on, she reached up and took out the pins from her hair. It tumbled over her shoulders in a mass of blue-black waves subtly streaked with silver. She shook her head, glanced in the mirror again, and grinned at the rumpled, windblown look that she knew Royce adored.

Reaching once more into the closet, she pulled out a pair of stiletto sandals. They consisted of just a few thin straps of leather attached to the heels, which raised her height by three inches and highlighted the curve of her well-toned calves. She slipped her feet into them, fastened the tiny buckles, took one last look at herself, and allowed her smile to broaden into one of satisfaction with her reflection.

 

***

 

The taxi dropped her right outside O’Keefe’s restaurant. Paul, smiling, opened the door for her.

“May I say how charming you look tonight, Mrs. Pinnell,” he said, with a slight bow.

“Thank you, Paul, yes, you may.”

Carolyn smiled at him with genuine pleasure as he guided her to a candlelit table which, she noticed, was set for four. A martini was already waiting for her as Paul pulled out a chair to seat her.

Carolyn lifted her martini. “Thank you.”

He departed with a slight bow. The smile faded from her face as she placed her glass on the table.

The sting of disappointment that Royce could be late today of all days lingered slowly in her heart. Their first meeting had been purely by chance, she sitting with coffee at a busy little sidewalk café, he asking if he could take the only free seat and join her. She hadn’t intended to start a conversation with anyone but couldn’t help but notice how attractive he was.

  Tanned skin and closely cropped hair. Long, black, silky eyelashes beneath well-defined brows. His chin was square, and his jaw was firm. A man who knew what he wanted and would pursue it relentlessly, she had thought then, and she had been proved right.

“Penny for them,” a voice whispered in her ear.

“Royce!” Startled, she looked up, then her blue eyes widened, and she stood up.

Royce took her in his arms, his lips firmly stopping her protests of surprise. Behind him, their son and daughter waited, and when Royce released her, they crowded in with hugs and kisses of their own.

“Happy twenty-fifth wedding anniversary,” they said.

Still stunned, Carolyn gazed at Royce across the table. “So you being late had nothing to do with any of your accounts?”

Royce shook his head. “I had to collect Tracy and Brad from the airport, but I couldn’t tell you that.”

“And Mom,” Tracy chipped in, “you would not believe the trouble we had coordinating flights for Brad from New York and me from San Francisco.”

“But we wouldn’t have missed that look on your face for the world,” Brad said

Royce picked up his menu. “Have you had a chance to decide what you’re having, sweetheart?”

Carolyn looked at her children and husband, still bemused by his little deception, and shook her head. The buzz of conversation faded as she opened her menu. Inside, she found a long, slim envelope addressed to Mrs. Royce Pinnell. Her family watched as she withdrew it. She lifted the flap of the envelope and took out two tickets for a luxury cruise in the Bahamas. The pink, heart-shaped post-it attached to them declared, ‘To Mom and Dad. Happy Anniversary’. There was something else in the envelope too, and she tipped into her hand a diamond tennis bracelet.

Carolyn clutched the tickets tightly as Royce secured the bracelet around her wrist. Her thoughts darted through the years they had spent together. She brushed aside the frustrations and arguments, tuned out the annoyances, relished the pleasures, and smiled at the memories of fun. Tracy and Brad watched her expectantly.

“I don’t know how you managed this,” she said, waving the tickets in one hand and letting the light catch the diamonds circling her wrist. Under their delighted gazes, she pretended to peruse the menu. “I will have,” she spoke slowly, running her finger down the page as if making a selection. She looked at her husband and whispered, “A special order of at least twenty-five more years with the man I love.”

Royce took her hand in his. The promise she saw in his grey eyes brought a smile to her face, then Brad and Tracy caught her attention again with noisy questions, and they were all soon engaged in lively conversation. The smile still lingered on her lips as she pictured Royce unwrapping his gift.

But that would have to wait until much, much later.

 

END

It's All About Relationships

Relationships are a major theme in my writing. Each of my books focuses on how relationships are integral to the making of a good, or possibly bad, human … or possibly non-human. Quirks, uniqueness, or oddities are what I love to focus on. Those weird, non-nuclear familial concoctions inspire me in real life, so that’s what I write. In the end, isn’t it relationships that so many of us seek when we open a book? New friends and family sprawled vulnerably in ink across the page? 

Yes, plot is important. Heaven forbid we stray too far from the ever-present chokehold of the mountain graphic organizer, neatly placing the exposition at the foothills that lead toward the treeline ridge of rising action, which brings us seamlessly up to the climax (or high point if you’re in my 8th-grade classroom), then cascades beautifully downward into the falling action, only to nestle sweetly in a pool of resolution. (Oh my. Was that all just one sentence?) 

We pick our way through the bramble of grammar and syntax, trimming and pruning a neat little path up and down the mountain. But if I’m being honest, and I am always honest, I want to feel something. I want to struggle but trust the author. I want to fight my way through words and paragraphs and chapters with my emotions, relating somehow to at least one character in a way that feels real and a little raw, perhaps. 

I want to see the characters in such a clear light that, if I met them on the street or in a coffee shop, I would recognize them and feel confident to carry on a meaningful conversation with them. Maybe even share a deep, dark secret or dream. I want to know them. And for me, the only way to try to make that happen on my pages is to foster a relationship between each character and their potential readers.

This is a difficult task for me. It takes me time, so so so much thought, and more empathy than I ever believed I was capable of. But, as I have said before, I can do hard things. I might not be able to pump out two or three books a year, but at least I will know with each new story I offer up to the scrutinous eye of readers out there, that I did my best to find them new friends, heroes, families, and maybe even a villain or two.

Inspiration for writing A Killer Whisky, my historical novel from the Canadian Historical Mysteries collection by Susan Calder

 

Remembering the young soldiers, from an article published in Calgary’s newspaper, The Herald, Nov 10, 2018, to commemorate the official end of World War I on November 11, 1918. 

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       Author Susan Calder remember an article in the Calgary Herald about the Vimy Memorial commemorating 100 years since the end of WWII.  

The Canadian National Vimy Memorial towers above the Douai Plains in northern France. The author of the original Calgary Herald article, shares her memories of a trip she made with her husband and grown-up son where she approached the ridge from the west, as the Canadian troops did over 100 years ago. Her description of that trip, served as my inspiration for my WWII novel, A Killer Whisky. 

An Excerpt from A Killer Whisky by Susan Calder

Detective Bertram Tanner strode into Calgary Police Headquarters, his steps lighter than they’d been this morning.  

“How was your walk?” Julia, the receptionist, asked.

“Reflective.”

“I often think while walking too.”

It was too soon to tell his colleagues he might be leaving the police force. “How was your lunch hour?”

“Busy,” she said. “I tracked down balloons for my son’s birthday celebration tonight.”

“Which son?”

“The oldest. He’s ten years old. We decided to limit the party to family due to the flu. He’s disappointed his friends can’t come, but it will be lively with all of us there.”

Julia, a war widow with three children, lived with her parents—the police chief and his wife.

“I phoned my mother after lunch,” Julia said. “She went to every confectionary in town and managed to find all the children’s favourite sweets despite the sugar shortage.”

The chief’s wife was a ball of energy. A leader in the local suffragette and Prohibition movements, she claimed personal credit for Alberta women gaining the vote and the province going dry in 1916.

Bertram went into his office, closed the door, and draped his coat and hat on the coat tree. What work could he do this afternoon? Reports of the Spanish flu’s arrival on a train from Eastern Canada were keeping people away from the pool rooms and dance halls. Calgary hadn’t had a brawl or knifing in a week. Even the criminals seemed to be staying home.

He took out an old file, a robbery scheduled for trial next week. A man broke into a house in the Sunalta neighbourhood and stole $2.75. Disturbed by a noise, he fled through a window but foolishly returned an hour later. Caught red-handed by three residents, the robber could be sentenced to up to a year of hard labour. Bertram tried to organize his trial notes, but his thoughts kept shifting to his plan to leave the police force when the war ended and soldiers came home to replace him on the job. After fifteen minutes, he set the robbery file aside and decided to take a methodical approach to his lunch hour reflections about leaving.

He took out a clean sheet of paper, drew a vertical line down the middle, and titled each side “pro” and “con.”  

The first positive was that his parents would be thrilled when he phoned them to say that by spring, at the latest, he’d move back to Beiseker and fulfill his father’s dream of his only son taking over his grocery store. At thirty-eight, Bertram was no longer bewitched by city charms.

He wrote simpler, quiet life as positive number two. Number three was a question—safer from the flu in the countryside? Number four was look after parents.

While his father had fully recovered from his heart attack last winter, the experience had made Bertram aware that his parents were aging and would increasingly need help. It would be unfair to leave the entire burden to his three sisters, who had all stayed in the Beiseker area. Bertram foresaw hours spent hunting with his father and nephews, numerous birthday parties, daily dealings with people who weren’t criminals. Family connection and better people were reasons five and six.

Seven. The most important. Beiseker was a mere two-hour drive to Calgary and the graves of Nellie and their son. Bertram could still visit them on Sundays, as he did now. Yet he’d be farther geographically from them—farther from his lonely home with its constant painful reminders. That was reason number eight.

The negatives? A year ago, he’d have said his work. But since the death of his wife and son last November, he didn’t give a pat of cow manure about catching criminals and bringing them to justice. He shuffled by rote through cases like the home robbery. What was the point of this job without heart? He liked his colleagues, most of them at any rate, but his friends had all been couple friends. Now, he was the outsider, the third hand in their card games, Nellie the glaringly missing fourth– especially when the friends invited female players to fill her place. He hated their efforts to convince him to move on.

Bertram left the negatives column blank and dragged his attention back to the robbery file. Someone knocked on the door.

Julia poked her head in. “The chief wants to see you in his office.”

Bertram gladly set the file aside. He nodded at constables and clerks on his way to Chief Wilson’s office. The front was glass so the chief could survey the activity at headquarters. He’d been in his position ten years, and no one used his surname anymore. Even his daughter referred to him as “chief” in the context of police work.