Why You Need a Critique Group

 I meet with OCFictionaires bi-monthly. I found and joined the group about 15 years ago. You can read more about them here and here.

They make me a better writer (and also a better person.) I love what they do for my stories, and the bonus is I enjoy their company. I'm posting what I read last night followed by their feedback.

First, a brief recap:

This is from chapter two of book four of my Small Town series. There are dual timelines. There’s a modern-day story and also the story of when Max and Bailey first met twelve years earlier. In the first chapter, we’re introduced to Max and Bailey in current day. Bailey has shown up at a community fundraiser, The Policeman and Fireman’s Ball, looking for Max. She tells Jamie and Belle, the couple from book three, that she’s Max’s wife. There’s also a flashback to twelve years prior to Bailey trespassing on a piece of property Max’s family owns and considering asking if she could rent the abandoned barn. While there, she sees Max, a guy she knows from the university, and runs away without speaking to him. It’s also important to note that Bailey’s sister and brother-in-law had died six months earlier. The brother-in-law had broken all contact with his family because he thought they were crooks. Six year-old-Layla had been left under Bailey’s grandmother’s care, but Lady G, Bailey’s grandmother, is sickly. (Lyme disease.)

 

CHAPTER TWO FOR FICTIONAIRES

They say still waters run deep. Which is another way of saying don't judge a book by its cover. The bible says it this way, The Lord does not look at the things people look at. People look at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.

I wish I had done a better job of studying my scriptures all those years ago when I first met Max, because I could have used that counsel. Sure, the Lord was talking about King David, but he could have been talking about anyone.

 Max seemed quiet and laidback, but inside, he was a bundle of deep thoughts and strong emotions. A super complex personality. So, just because his face looks as impassive as Mount Rushmore, that doesn't mean he’s shallow. Appearances can be deceiving. There's a lot more going on beneath Max’s beautiful surface. I should have dug a little deeper and really gotten to know him before marrying him.

Max had always been an impossible poker opponent. Not that we played much poker, but he’d also been an impossible read during Scrabble—a game we had often played during our brief time together.

I placed my fingers on my lips to keep them from trembling, because I wasn’t as good at hiding my emotions as he was. Why had I ever thought that meeting him again in the crowded setting would be a good idea?

But it hadn’t been my idea. I blamed Jess. Her degree in operational behavior led her to believe she knew all the best techniques in handling awkward social situations. And this was definitely awkward. Until Max smiled and held out his arms for a hug.

I fell against him. He was solid. Safe. Warm. And still smelled of leather and cloves. His arms held me against him and my thoughts went back to that one night. The last night.

Max drew away and took my hand. “Come on. Let’s talk outside.”

The curious gazes of his brother, friends, and neighbors followed us through the barn’s wide doors.

Max pulled me to the dark side of the barn. The cold December air bit my skin. Moonlight sparkled on the snow and an owl called from the nearby woods.

“So, twelve years later and you’re finally ready to admit to marrying me?” He didn’t sound as angry as I thought he might, but he did drop my hand, sending a chill up my arm.

Why had I let Jess convince me this was the best course of action?

Take the upper hand, she had said. Start in a place of power.

But I had always been the weak one in our relationship. I had hoped that now, after all these years, it might be different. I might be different. And, yet, here I was, feeble-kneed and tongue-tied standing in front of him, ready to ask another impossible favor.

“You’re here for a divorce,” Max said, his voice steady and as conversational as if he were asking if I wanted a cup of coffee.

“N-no,” I stammered. “Unless, of course, that’s what you want. I owe you that much…”

“You don’t owe me anything,” he said, smiling at me, looking genuinely happy to see me.

Why did he always have to be so nice? I had forgotten that too-good-to-be-true quality that had made it so easy to make all of those long-ago mistakes…

I swallowed hard. I wasn’t that person anymore, and, yet, here I was and here he was…

“It’s Layla,” I said. “She’s missing.”

 

TWELVE YEARS EARLIER

 

I loved my sister. Her death left a huge, gaping hole in my life. I missed her every day when I heard or saw something funny I wanted to share with her. I missed her every day when a disappointment hit and I wanted her to commiserate with me.

But as much as I loved her, as much as I missed her, there was a small evil part of me that resented her for upending my life. For abandoning me and leaving me myself to care for the two people I loved most in the world. One of whom trotted by my side, holding onto me with one hand, and clutching her ridiculous Frisbee with the other.

Together we navigated through The University of Washington’s bustling quad. Sunlight filtered through the towering trees, casting patterns on the manicured lawns. I took a deep breath when we rounded a corner and the Fine Arts Building came into view. Meeting my professor with my niece in tow wasn’t ideal, but what choice did I have?

Layla tugged at my hand and used her Frisbee to point at a group of students gathered on the lawn. Their laughter and Cold Play’s A Sky Full of Stars coming from a vintage boombox made my heart skip.

A friend had played the song on his cello at Danica and Parker’s funeral. An unconventional choice, but since it had also been sung at their wedding, it seemed more appropriate than any of the hymns the funeral director had suggested.

Layla’s stiffening told me she recognized the music, too.

Lost in memories, I barely noticed Max emerging from the nearby tech center. His presence caught me off guard.

Layla, ever perceptive, gave him a shy smile.

"You again,” Max greeted, his voice a familiar echo from the physical science class we’d shared my sophomore year.

"Max," I replied, a mix of surprise and uncertainty lingering in my tone.

As if sensing my roiling emotions, Layla looked up at me with questioning eyes, reminding me I had somewhere to be.

“I’m Layla,” she said, extending her hand in a formal gesture that made her seem like an old, very short, business man.

“Max Haywood.” His big hand engulfed Layla’s small one and he stooped to look her in the eye.

My gaze went back toward the Fine Art’s Center. "I've got a meeting with Professor Anderson," I explained, my gaze drifting toward Layla.

Max's eyes softened as he looked at her. "No worries. I can watch her for a bit.”

“You would do that?”

“Sure. If you’ll tell me what you were doing on my property yesterday.”

Of course, there had to be a catch…everything and everyone has a price…I hesitated, but Layla took a step toward Max.

“I like your watch.” She pointed at the Mickie Mouse attached to Max’s wrist.

“And I like your Frisbee,” Max replied, nodding at the space ship designed toy cradled in Layla’s arms.

“I found it at the dog park,” Layla told him. “All of the other dogs had left and Buster told me I could have it.”

“Buster?” Max asked.

“He’s George’s boxer. Do you like boxers?”

“I’ve never met one that could talk,” Max said.

“George says all dogs communicate, but most can’t talk, like Buster.”

Max and I exchanged glances.

The bell tower sounded, reminding me I was going to be late. Unlike Buster, it really could talk—or at least tell time.

"Thank you, Max," I said, the gratitude genuine.

Layla and Max strolled toward a sunny spot on the lawn, and I jogged toward the Fine Arts Center. Cold Play’s music followed me, a happy song, but a grim reminder of the funeral and the pastor’s words.

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:

The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,

                      Hath had elsewhere its setting,

                         And cometh from afar:

                      Not in entire forgetfulness,

                      And not in utter nakedness,

But trailing clouds of glory do we come

                      From God, who is our home:*

William Wordsworth. Ode: Intimations of Immortality.  A sleep and a forgetting. Sometimes, I wished I could sleep and forget…But then I thought of Layla and Lady G. Without me, who would look out for them?

 

*MAX

Who was this child? Was she Bailey’s? Where was the dad? Anger for this unknown, irresponsible loser ripped through me.

“Will you introduce me to George and Buster sometime?” I asked the child. I didn’t tell her I wanted to beat George to a pulp.

Layla had Bailey’s creamy pink skin and caramel colored hair. They were related somehow. Bailey couldn’t be that much older than me, could she? Teenage pregnancies did happen, but I hoped it hadn’t happened to Bailey. Not that I would wish Layla out of existence, but Bailey had a whip-smart wit and, when we had worked together in Physical Science, she’d been in class as steady as the Bunsen burners. But I hadn’t seen her recently.

And then she’d shown up at the farm—and took off without speaking to me. What was that about? Maybe the child knew…

Layla held the Frisbee up. “Wanna play?”

“Huh, sure, but not here. We’ll have to find an open space.” My gaze swept over the quad and the clusters of lounging students. This happened whenever there was a rare sunny Seattle day, the students sprouted like mushrooms over the lawns.

Layla planted her tiny sneakers on the cement. “We can’t go too far or Bailey won’t be able to find us.”

Bailey…not mom. So, who was George?

“I’ll go easy on you,” Layla marched onto the quad as if she knew I would follow.

I did.

Layla found a patch of unclaimed lawn and pointed at it. “You stand here.”

I followed her instructions and watched her back away from me.

“You have to focus,” she informed me. “Keep your eyes on the Frisbee.”

“I’ve played before.”

“Not with me,” she said in a serious tone.

“True. But I play football with some really big guys.”

Layla placed her hands on her hips and gave me a don’t be stupid glare. “Do I look like a big guy?”

“No, but—”

“The trick to playing Frisbee is paying attention. Buster is really good at Frisbee. Do you think you can be as good as Buster?”

I had a mental image of a boxer flying and snatching the Frisbee out of the air. “Probably not.”

“Do your best. That’s all anyone can do,” Layla said, sounding a lot like my mom.

Layla contemplated me for a long moment, then tossed the Frisbee behind her and over her head.

I sprinted past her, but, of course, couldn’t reach it before it crashed to the ground.

Layla chortled and dashed for the Frisbee. She plucked it up and wiped off a few free-loading grass shoots. “Max is a loser!”

“You cheated.”

“I did not!” she said, looking indignant.

“You threw it behind you.”

“So what?”

“That’s not how you play.”

“Say’s who?”

I waggled my fingers. “Give to me, and I’ll show you how it’s done.”

“You have to earn it,” Layla announced. “It’s still my turn to throw it because you’re a loser.”

“I am not—” I began.

“You didn’t catch it, did you?”

“No, but—”

Without waiting for me to finish my sentence, Layla tossed the Frisbee toward a couple spread out on a blanket.

I darted after the Frisbee, but the guy easily caught it before me.

“Loser!” Layla called out, laughing.

“Sorry, dude,” the guy said. “Looks like you need to up your game.”

“Thanks for the tip,” I grumbled.

“We’re rooting for you,” the girl said, flashing her dimples at me.

Layla gave the couple a hostile glance. “This is our game,” she informed them. “Max needs to learn how to focus,” she said, as if I was a puppy that needed to be house broken.

After fifteen minutes, I had yet to catch the Frisbee, but I had worked up a sweat, and we’d gained an audience. The crowd cheered every time Layla tossed the Frisbee and, with even more enthusiasm, booed when I missed the throw. Spurned on by her fans, Layla’s throws grew increasingly ridiculous.

Bailey emerged from the Fine Arts Center and my heart lifted at the sight of her. Her smile warmed when she caught sight of Layla. She trotted toward us.

When Layla spotted Bailey, her demeanor completely changed, she dropped the Frisbee, and she ran toward Bailey with her arms extended.

Bailey swept her up and swung her around. “We’re going to be okay,” she said, and I wasn’t sure who she was trying to convince—Layla, or herself.

“Thanks, Max,” Bailey said with a smile.

Layla encircled Bailey’s waist with her legs and laid her head on Bailey’s shoulders. I had a fleeting image of Bailey clinging to me that way and it hit me so sudden and sharp, it took my breath. “Any time.” The two words came out strangled and breathy.

I watched them walk away, Layla still clinging to Bailey like a koala. The child mouthed the word, loser, as her head bounced against Bailey’s shoulder.

Mike Payne (fantasy writer) was worried about the placement of the Frisbee. So I rewrote a couple of sentences. 

Layla placed her hands on her hips so the Frisbee stuck out a ninety-degree angle like a lever. She gave me a don’t be stupid glare. “Do I look like a big guy?”

AND:

Layla encircled Bailey’s waist with her legs and laid her head on Bailey’s shoulders. The Frisbee dangled from her fingers like a flag at half-mast. I had a fleeting image of Bailey clinging to me that way and it hit me so sudden and sharp, it took my breath.

Biff (who is writing a literary novel about stolen Russian gold) questioned I'd chosen the word ridiculous to describe the Frisbee. Since my goal was to illustrate how desperate their financial situation was that Layla's favorite toy was a Frisbee she'd rescued from a dog park, I reworded the sentence to:

One of whom trotted by my side, holding onto me with one hand, and clutching a half-chewed and dog-mangled Frisbee with the other.

Greta (author of the Mortician and Seven Deadly Sins murder mysteries) was concerned about Bailey trusting her young niece with a man she barely knew. Since this seemed like something that would also give me pause, I added this:

Max, the oldest of seven children, had tried to lead a group project without being interrupted by his host of younger siblings. The project had ended when a member of the class, Marc-someone, had attempted to demonstrate the properties of invisible ink using lemon juice. But, when it came time to reveal the messages under heat, Marc-someone accidentally set the paper on fire, sending smoke billowing across the kitchen and prompting a hasty evacuation as the smoke alarm blared. What stuck with me was how when everyone else went scrambling out the door, Max quickly marshalled his siblings into a well-oiled battalion, directing the next older brother to take his little sisters outside while the another was sent in search of the fire extinguisher. Max used a pitcher of water to put out the flames. By the time his parents had returned, only a whiff of smoke lingered in the air to tell of the near disaster.

I knew I could trust Max with Layla, but could I trust Layla with Max?

Terry (a horror writer best known for writing the screenplay Dead Heat) wondered if a six-year-old was too big to carry. I assured him that six-year-old girls, if they're small, are indeed portable.

These might not seem like monumental changes, but even small things can wrench a reader out of story. The more engaged the reader remains, the more satisfying the story.

How about you? If you were in my critique group, what suggestions would you offer?

 

Wednesday's Words: MAYOR. An excerpt from Small Town Shenanigans

  Welcome to Wednesday's Words where I share a snippet from one of my stories using yesterday's word from the New York game Wordle. Yesterday's Wordle was MAYOR. 

FREE IN KINDLE UNLIMITED

The search and rescue team had restarted their hunt at dawn. According to Mayor Ellsworth, a tall formidable woman who looked as if she’d descended from an African queen, Sydney’s mom and Reagan had hired a local crop-duster so they could conduct an aerial search. It killed me I had to be here holding Mr. Gerard’s hand when every part of me was screaming to help find Sydney.

“You ready for this?” Mayor Ellsworth asked. She wore a cranberry-colored pantsuit that brought out the warm tones in her skin.

“Yes, indeedy,” Mr. Gerard said.

The news van rolled up in front of the city hall steps, and a tall, thin blonde dressed in a pair of no-nonsense blue pants and a crisp white shirt climbed out. A pair of men head-to-toe in black followed. The woman flicked her hair over her shoulder and studied her reflection in a small hand mirror. One man retrieved a camera from the back of the van while the other set up a tripod holding a light.

The mayor held open the door for Mr. Gerard and Brit. I followed in their wake.

The blonde seemed confused by our appearance.

“Miss Miller,” Mayor Ellsworth stuck out her hand, “I’m Inez Ellsworth, mayor of Cascadia. Let me introduce you to Mr. Gerard, aka MaryLu Bellmont.”

Miss Miller’s gaze flickered over Brit and came rest on me.

Mayor Ellsworth pushed Mr. Gerard to the forefront and Miss Miller’s eyes dimmed with first disbelief and then disappointment.

“Mr. Gerard,” Miss Miller said in a valiant attempt to cover her shock. “This is a surprise.”

“Surprises make for good TV, right?” Brit asked.

“Excuse me, who are you?” Miss Miller asked Brit.

“I’m his grandson.”

“Aw,” Miss Miller said. “Can I have you stand over there?” She motioned at a distant step. “And who are you?” she asked me. “Another relative?”

“My attorney,” Gerard said.

Miss Miller simpered. “I guess I can’t get rid of you as easily.”

“I would guess not,” I returned. “If Mr. Gerard wants me, I’m here.” Even though I really wanted to be somewhere else.

After a few minor adjustments to the lights and cameras, Miss Miller stuck her microphone in Mr. Gerard’s face. “I’m Maisie Miller with Channel four news and today we’re in Cascadia, home to the Musing saga. We have Tommy Franklin! The actor who played Camden in Musings.” Miss Miller waved for Tommy to join her on the steps. “Tommy, does this place bring back happy memories for you?”

Tommy preened in front of the camera. “Why yes, Maisie, of course it does.”

“How would you feel if there were another Musings movie in the works?”

“The same as everyone else,” Tommy said. “Thrilled.”

Mr. Gerard frowned at this strange turn in the interview, but he didn’t say anything.

“And what if I were to tell you that the author stood beside you?”

Tommy shot me a quizzical glance.

Miss Miller put her hand on Mr. Gerard’s arm and drew him forward. “Tommy, ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce the real MaryLu Bellmont, Mr. Bob Gerard!”

 Mr. Gerard’s cheeks had turned an ugly shade of red and he glowered at the camera.

“Tell us Mr. Gerard, what made you step forward now?” Miss Miller asked.

“These shenanigans have gone on long enough. The crowds, the noise. The contest.” He made air quotes around the last word. “Some idiots set off a smoke grenade at one of the clue sights and now a woman’s gone missing. That should be the real news story. Not me or my silly books.”

Miss Miller ignored everything he said. “And you contend that you have had nothing to do with the contest.”

“I had nothing to do with any of this,” Mr. Gerard growled.

“I believe the woman responsible for setting up the contest has been arrested?”

Mayor Ellsworth leaned in. “That’s right. She’s being detained.”

“There’s a gal missing,” Mr. Gerard said with a harrumph. “A woman who works for my publisher—”

Mayor Ellsworth stepped forward again. “It’s unknown if her whereabouts has anything to do with Mr. Gerard. She’s from New York,” she added, as if creatures from New York were capable of just about anything.

“And we won’t know until we find her!” Mr. Gerard said.

A ripple of excitement rose from the crowd. People turned to stare when Sydney, with her flaming red hair, wearing some sort of lacy nightgown, came riding into town on a horse.

I bolted off the steps. The crowd parted for me. The horse pawed the ground when Sydney pulled on the reins. I reached for her and she slid into my arms.

I held her against my chest with one arm and used my hand to brush the hair out of her sleepy eyes with the other. “What happened?”

“You’ll never believe me,” she said.

Wednesday's Word: HEAVE. An excerpt from Small Town Escape

 Welcome to Wednesdays where I share a snippet from one of my stories using the previous day's word from the New York Times' game. WORDLE. Yesterday's WORDLE was HEAVE. 

Here's an excerpt from Small Town Escape, the third book in the Small Town Series.

NOW AVAILABLE ON AMAZON

FREE IN KINDLE UNLIMITED

I followed the twisty road through a forest. The sun flickered through the trees, and the limbs casting shadows on the asphalt. I stopped and pulled over and stopped when I got to a wrought-iron gate. The name on the adjacent mailbox read Taggart.

“Are you here, Faith?” I asked.

Atticus answered with a small woof.

I debated what to do for a moment, but then decided, given the sturdiness of the gates, there was little I could do, unless I was willing to climb my way in.

Gates exist for a reason, and that reason is they either want to keep people in or out. If I wanted to find Faith, somehow, I would have to scale the gates.

I put the car back into motion and headed for town on the two-lane road.

More trees.

A couple of logging trucks passed me. A man driving a bright red tractor waved at me to drive around him. The forest gave way to a pasture filled with horses and cows.

Ten minutes later, a thrill of excitement tingled down my spine when I pulled up to the Dollhouse Inn. It was as creepy as Donovan had promised.

Tucked away in a forgotten corner of town, and hidden by a Hansel-and-Gretel-type -forest, the weathered and dilapidated house was covered in peeling paint covered the weathered and dilapidated house. Gangly trees cast eerie shadows across the lawn. A rusty sign hanging above the entrance announced its the inn’s vacancy.

The classic Victorian-style house had multiple stories. Gables and dormers interrupted the roof lines and stared off in different directions. Gingerbread trim and scrollwork hung from the eaves. There was not one, but two turrets. One wrap-around porch. Two balconies. Three chimneys. It was both hideous and glorious.

I loved it.

I parked the Jeep and pressed my finger to my lips, telling Atticus to hush. I gave him a treat for good measure. Gathering up my bag, I shouldered it, and climbed out. The damp air smelled of pine and a neighboring farm. My excitement mounted with every step across the fallen leaf-strewn lawn. The porch groaned when I took the steps, and a bell jingled when I pulled open the door.

I had found The Dollhouse Inn.

Now I just needed to find Faith.

It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the gloom. Floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with dolls in all shapes and sizes lined the walls.

A grizzled silver-haired woman reading Edgar Allen Poe’s ‘The Tell-Tale Heart’ sat behind the desk. She looked up and gazed at me with swimmy eyes. “May I help you?”

“Señorita Martinez. Reserva?”

"No English?"

I adopted my grandmother’s thick Hispanic accent. “Just a little.” I held up my fingers in a near- pinch.

She slid a bookmarker between the pages and put her novel on the counter with a thud. "Well, I don't care as long as your money is good."

I fished out my wallet and found a hundred-dollar bill.

The woman cackled, and her eyes gleamed. “You’re a pretty thing. I wonder what brought you out here. Guess I'll never know. I’ll give you my favorite room, the one with the largest collection."

Perfect.

The woman simpered and handed over the keys. “Room 14fourteen. Don’t touch any of the dolls. It has an outside entrance. Just follow the porch around to the back."

I hesitated, unsure how to respond.

The woman heaved out of her chair, and her knees popped. "I guess I'll have to show you." She waddled out from behind the desk.

I smiled, tried to look clueless, and followed her. Outside, I breathed a little easier, appreciating the fresh air after my few minutes in the dusty foyer. I prayed my room would be cleaner.

The woman paused at a red door, inserted a key, and pushed it open.

The musty smell of old fabric and decaying wood greeted me. Like the reception hall, the walls were lined with shelves upon shelves of dolls. Some big. Some small. All of them creepy. I had to tuck my hands in my pockets to keep from covering my nose.

The woman glowed with pride. "It's something, isn't it? My aunt started the collection, but I added these babies from all over the world." She stopped. "What am I saying? You can't understand me." She pressed her hand to her chest. "My name is Phyllis." She pronounced each word slowly and distinctly.

I mimicked her. "My—" I caught myself. “Belle.”

"It's nice to meet you, Mabel. I like a girl with an old-fashioned name. I hope you'll be happy here."

Should I correct her? I decided to let the slip pass. "Gracias."

I wandered into the room and dropped my bag on the bed.

"Just ring if you need anything, but don’t try calling anywhere but the front desk." Phyllis motioned to the old-fashioned phone hunkered like a squatty toad on the bed stand before going out and pulling the door shut behind her, leaving me alone…almost.

Most of the dolls had porcelain heads, with delicate features and lifelike hair that seemed to shimmer in the dim light. Others were made of stuffed fabric, their once- vibrant colors faded and worn with age. And then there were the dolls made of plastic, their cheap material giving them a hollow, soulless quality.

But it was the eyes that made the dolls so unsettling. Glassy and lifeless, they seemed to follow me, watching.

My gaze wandered the room, taking in the high ceilings, the crumbling molding, the ornate woodwork surrounding the windows, and the sturdy but stained, wooden floors. The furniture was a n eclectic mishmash —–an Art -Deco armoire, a Mid-Century dresser, a pot-bellied grandfather clock.  I nearly skipped into the bathroom, where I found a claw-footed tub, a black and white checked tile floor, a pedestal sink, and a small stained-glass window above the toilet.

My imagination soared.

How many more rooms were there? Did every room have a private bath? How much would a place like this cost, and how could I convince Phyllis to sell?

Desperate to show someone my find, I went back to the car to fetch Atticus. I knew he wouldn't be impressed, but he was glad to see me. Of course, I hadn't mentioned the dog to Phyllis. I hoped she wouldn't care, but I wasn't about to ask. Atticus stopped to pee on the lawn. I took the moment to further inspect the house.

I had to renovate it. My followers would eat it up.

Atticus barked, reminding me of Tom.

I couldn't buy this place, even if it was for sale. I couldn't renovate it, and I most certainly couldn't post pictures on my website.

What was I going to do?

The answer was almost immediate, as if someone had whispered it in my ear. Find Faith.

Wednesday's Word: STATE. An excerpt from Irish Wishes

    Welcome to #WednesdayWords where I share a snippet of a story using yesterday's word from the New York game, WORDLE. Yesterday's WORDLE was STATE. 

Available on Amazon

He trolled past the Dublin shore, and as they moved closer to the dock, the waves kicked up and blew saltwater into Gillian’s face. The boat gained speed as Pete increased his efforts. He jiggled his eyebrows at her and grinned. Gillian laughed and took in the stunning cityscape and the eclectic mixture of modern and ancient. To their left, a fish jumped high into the air and landed with a splash that sent a spray as crystalline as diamonds into the air. Gillian itched for her camera, and wished she could capture the sky and river on her blog.

Pete, a little sunburned, looked rugged and handsome. The brisk weather had turned his cheeks pink, the wind tossed his honey-blond hair, and he glowed in the midday sun.

She looked down at the crevice where the side of the boat met the floor. An inch of water had seeped in from somewhere. Was Pete splashing as he rowed? Maybe a little, but not enough to explain the growing puddle on the boat’s floor.

Gillian searched the river for the closest place to dock. She glanced around the boat. Maybe if it’d been a proper boat there’d be compartments, nooks or crannies holding a repair kit, maybe a flare, a first aid kit, or a whistle. She slipped off her shoe and tugged on her bandage. She bit her lip and looked at the distant shore again. The boat ride had lost all pleasure.

Pete watched. “What are you doing?”

Holding the bandage in one hand, she used her other hand to try to find the source of the leak. She felt Pete’s gaze on her back.

She hoped the problem would be an innocent fraying of a seam, but where the side met the bottom, a small, clean slit let in a growing stream of water. The bandage proved useless.

Pete stopped rowing, and without the rhythmic splashing, everything was quiet and still. “Don’t stop!” Her voice verged on panic. “We need to go as fast as we can before we sink.”

“You should probably take off your clothes,” he said, lifting off his own T-shirt.

“What is it with you? I seem to be in a constant state of partial undress.” Gillian tried to sound like she was joking, but the last person that had asked her to remove her clothes had been a nurse practitioner with black chin hairs.

Despite the breeze, sweat dotted Pete’s brow and glistened on his chest. He reached for a coil of rope and tossed it aside to reveal a pair of orange life jackets. He flipped a vest at Gillian.

She felt jumpy and began to sweat.

“It’ll be easier to swim without our clothes,” Pete said.

Or underwear from Cleo’s Closet, she thought, slipping off her shirt, exposing the lime green bra with hot pink flamingos. She still couldn’t believe she’d let Flora talk her into ever setting foot in that store.

Pete quickly looked away, but his lips quirked as he slipped on the vest and tugged at the straps that barely fit around his chest. He kicked off his shoes and took off his jeans, exposing a pair of boxers that resembled Spiderman’s suit.

“A gift,” he said, catching her looking.

“From who?”

“Do you really want to have this conversation right now?”

Gillian pulled off her jeans and told herself that Pete had seen her countless times in her swimsuit...when she’d been a kid. While she put on her vest, Pete rowed as fast as he could to the shore.

The water rose above her knees and then her thighs. Soon, she was treading water. Pete swam to her right, with one arm stroking through the water while the other held the rowboat’s rope.

She’d grown immune to her throbbing ankle. The mild breeze had taken a mean turn and it whipped along the surface, splashing water in her face. She kept her mouth firmly shut to keep from swallowing the brackish water.

“We’re almost there,” Pete lied to her in a ragged voice. She admired him for towing the partially afloat boat. It couldn’t be easy.

She hoped Barney would appreciate his efforts to rescue the boat. Beside her, Pete grunted, turned, and stood up. The water reached his mid thighs. The partially submerged Spidey undies filled with air. He gave her a tired smile and reached out to pull her to her feet. She stood close to him for a moment, enjoying his warmth, but then he moved toward the shore, towing the boat behind him.

Gillian shivered and went after him. A flock of seagulls stood sentry on a crop of black rocks, and a fence with a rusty railing guarded the bank above the strip of shore.

Pete turned to look at her. His hair was wet and matted, he had dried salt in his eyebrows, and a piece of kelp was tucked behind his ear. She threw her arms around him anyway.

And he kissed her.

Her world stopped. Everything around her froze. The sights and sounds of Dublin fell away and she sank deeper and deeper into his kiss.

Wednesday's Words: Sense, an excerpt from my current work in progress

    Welcome to #WednesdayWords where I share a snippet of a story using yesterday's word from the New York game, WORDLE. Yesterday's WORDLE was SENSE. 

Before Bailey’s arrival and strange proposition, I’d been considering dropping in on Hillary Hale and asking if she wanted to go riding. I had even considered taking Poncho out to the back thirty—the property where I’d found Bailey yesterday. But now, I wanted, maybe even needed, to be alone. Something that couldn’t happen in my dorm or the farm. I gathered up my backpack, not sure of where to go from here. Just two days ago on my twenty-first birthday, my parents had announced they were giving me property for a graduation present. Could I ask for property with a barn on it? A barn that Bailey wanted to rent?

Could this be the windfall I was hoping for? She could rent the property, and I could earn enough to update the farm’s online presence. Build a website. Set up a direct mailing system. Of course, I’d run my ideas past Dad a number of times, but he wasn’t interested.

We’re doing just fine, Dad insisted.

And maybe we were, but what if we could be doing great? I growled in frustration, and Sean, overheard.

Glancing up, Sean grinned. “Girl problems.”

“No,” I said through gritted teeth.

“So, that girl dropping in on you.” He cocked his head at the door Bailey had passed through. “She’s not giving you grief.”

“No,” I said, and the word came out harsh, much harsher than I had intended.

“So, can I ask her out?”

“No,” I said with even more force, even though Sean could ask out whoever he pleased, and Bailey, of course, was free to go out with whoever.

Just not Sean.

Not that I had anything against Sean. He seemed like a good enough guy. Rumor had it, he had a job lined up with Microsoft and if Bailey hooked up with him, she probably wouldn’t have to live in a barn with her niece and grandmother.

Why did she want to live in a barn, anyway?

I puzzled over this all the way to my car. Inside my truck, I went in the opposite direction of the Hale’s house, even though Hillary Hale was a very pretty girl with a brilliant mind and a royal fortune. I enjoyed her company, mostly, and whenever I needed a date to one thing or another, she was top on my list, but Hillary Hale would not appreciate my funk nor explain why Bailey living in a barn—my barn! should bother me. If I told her about it, she would laugh and maybe even turn her barbs and sarcasm on Bailey. She would never understand. I couldn’t make her understand—especially since I didn’t understand any of it myself.

All I knew was someday soon that barn would belong to me and Bailey wanted to camp out in it.

I revved the truck’s engine and pulled off campus, threading my way through the congested portion of the city and out into the comparatively empty highways, until at last I found myself in the suburbs.

Why not go back out to the barn? I tried arguing with myself. After all, I had just been there yesterday.

I began to look about and try to see things through Bailey’s eyes.

Most of the fields were green with spring. Pastel colors painted the horizon, and a few tall, lank trees sprouted blossoms. Dusk brought a chilly air, and, with the truck’s windows down, I drew in a long breaths.

Behind a copse of old willows, age-tall and hoary with weather, their extremities just hinting of green, as they stood knee-deep in the brook on its way to a larger stream, I caught sight of the old barn.

Was it habitable? I found it both regal and shabby. Substantial. I could see it just as Bailey had seen it, and something in me responded to her longing to live there and make it into a home. I pulled up beside the barn and got out.

The sun was just going down, touching the stones and turning them into a lustrous gold. I stood in the evening air, listening and looking. I could see the romance of it, and somehow I could see Bailey’s face as if she stood there beside him.

 She was right. It was beautiful, and it was a magic soul that could see it and feel what a home this would make in spite of its being nothing but a barn. Some dim memory, some faint remembrance, of a stable long ago, and the glory of it, hovered in the back of my mind, just beyond reach.

I went to the doors, practical, even if I was a dreamer. I tried the big padlock. Who locked this up and why? Was there anything to steal? How had Bailey gotten in? Would I be forced to break into my own barn?

I walked down the slope, around to the back, and found the entrance close to the ladder; but the place was dark within the stone walls, and I peered into the basement and took in the dirt and murk. She couldn’t live in this, could she? She wouldn’t want to, would she?

A crack looked toward the setting sun. A bright needle of light sent a shaft to pierce the inky shadows. Then I spotted a ladder. Had Bailey gone inside? And if so, if she could do it, so could I. The sense that she was stronger tickled at the edge of my confidence.

I got out my phone, flipped on the flashlight ap, and stepped into the gloom. Holding the flash-light above my head, I surveyed my property with a frown; then with the light in my hand, I climbed up the dusty rounds to the middle floor.

I stood alone in the center of the big barn, with the blackness of the hay-loft overhead, the darkness sliced by the flash-light and a few feebler darts from the sinking sun. A shudder ran through me.

Why live here?

Yet, that same feeling that Bailey had more nerve than me forced me to walk the length and breadth of the floor, peering into the dark corners. I climbed part way up the ladder to the loft and sent my flash-light searching through the dusty hay-strewn recesses.

Disgusted, I headed down the ladder, through the dingy basement, and out into the sunset.

The smell of damp grass enveloped me and it felt clean and pure after the barn’s dustiness.  The charm of the place stole back over me; and I stood and wondered about Bailey, Layla, and the Lady G. Where were Layla’s parents? Where were Bailey’s parents? Didn’t Layla have relatives on her father’s side? How would they feel about their granddaughter living in a barn?

Could I somehow make my barn habitable? What did I have to do? Because if it were in my power to help Bailey, Layla, and this Lady G person, I wanted to do that.

At dinner that night I brought a few pieces of the puzzle to Dad. "Did Grandpa Haywood ever live out on the old Glenside Road?"

"Sure!" he said, putting down his fork. "Lived there myself when I was a kid. I can remember rolling down a hill under a great big tree, and your Uncle Billy pushing me into the brook that ran at the foot. We boys used to wade in that brook, and build dams, and catch little minnows, and sail boats. It was great. I used to like to go out and stay at the farmhouse. After your mother and I married, we rented it out to a prepper; but his wife was a hoot, and made the best apple turnovers for us kids—and doughnuts! The old farmhouse burned down a year or so ago. But the barn is still standing. I can remember how proud your grandfather was of that barn. It was finer than any barn around, and bigger. We boys used to go up in the loft, and tumble in the hay; and once when I was a little kid I got lost in the hay, and Billy had to dig me out. I can remember how scared I was when I thought I might have to stay there forever, and have nothing to eat."

I leaned forward and propped my forearms on the table. "You said I can have an acre when I graduate. Would you mind if I have that old barn in my share? Can we arrange it? The others won't care, I'm sure." 

Dad blinked at me. "I guess that could be fixed up. Although, you haven’t graduated yet.”

“It’s two months away.”

“Geez. Time flies. Seems like you were just starting kindergarten.” Dad returned to his steak. “See Mr. Dalrymple about it. He'll fix it up. Billy's boy got that place up river, you know. Just see the lawyer, and it’ll be a done deal. No reason in the world why you shouldn't have the old place if you care for it. Not much in it for money, though, I guess. The property's way down out that direction now."

The conversation turned to my plans for grad school, and I didn’t mention Bailey or my visit to the old barn. Instead, I took Dad’s advice, and saw the family lawyer, Mr. Dalrymple, the first thing in the morning.

Book-tubers: 10 Clean and Wholesome Recommendations

 I'm fairly new to the YouTube world, but I'm loving it so far! I have five stories up (more coming every Friday.)

Recently, I came across a Facebook post recommending clean and wholesome booktubers. I can't wait to dive into these channels!

How about you? Do you have any YouTube channels to recommend?

Oceana Gotta Read Em All

Book Lover Amanda

Books and Jams

Chrissies Purple Library

Tales and Treats with Tay

Wandering With Stacy

Wandering With Stacey

Jane Reads

Chantel Reads All Day

Paperbacks and Pony Tails

Wednesday's Word: Match. An excerpt from Carly and the Christian Cowboy

   Welcome to #WednesdayWords where I share a snippet of a story using yesterday's word from the New York game, WORDLE. Yesterday's WORDLE was MATCH. 

Christian listened for Carly’s lock to turn before heading for home. He strode across the pasture thinking about Carly. Why would she wear contacts? She was stunning, even with those contacts hiding the most remarkable thing about her.

Who was he kidding? Everything about Carly Wentworth was extraordinary. She was brilliant, beautiful, kind…

Christian spotted a hulking form lying in the shadowy tall grass and his heart sank. “Hey there, Bessie,” he called out.

The creature didn’t stir.

Christian crept forward and still the animal didn’t move. He knew the cow, a brown and white Hereford, was dead even before reaching it. It lay in a puddle of blood and its neck and gut had been torn open. Christian pressed his fist into his mouth to keep from gagging.

He would enlist Seth to help him clean this up. It would have to be done tonight, so as not to attract more even predators and endanger the rest of the herd.

Christian glanced around, expecting to find a pack of coyotes or the golden eyes of a mountain lion. He put his hand on his belt, where he kept his knife. His gaze snagged on the Wentworth house and his breath hitched.

Should he tell Carly to stay inside? Was it his place to warn her?

Without even being aware of having made a decision, he found himself striding back across the pasture. He climbed the steps and rapped on the door.

Carly peeked at him through the window before opening the door. She wore a white gauzy nightgown, her hair was loose around her shoulders, her face scrubbed clean of makeup, and she’d taken out her contacts.

Christian stared at her mismatched eyes. They were as stunning as he remembered, but they widened in fear.

Christian realized he was still holding his knife. Hastily, he tucked it back into his belt. “There’s a mountain lion, or maybe a bear, could be coyotes, though…” he wasn’t sounding coherent. He took a steadying breath. “I just wanted to warn you. Make sure you stay inside. Whatever it was, it took down and killed a Hereford.”

She probably didn’t even know what a Hereford was.

“A cow,” he said. “It’s dead. Just over there.”

Her eyes grew even wider.

“I didn’t mean to scare you, but I thought you should know. In case you decided to go for a walk, or something.”

She smiled. “Thanks. I’ll wait for daylight before venturing out.”

Christian’s gaze slid over her, before shifting away, embarrassed to be caught staring at her almost see-through gown. “That’s good. Well, goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Christian. And thank you.”

He nodded before turning away and schlepping off the porch. An idea struck him even before he reached home.

You can listen to me read Carly and the Christian Cowboy for FREE on YouTube.