"Classic Ginger" Interview with Dancing Fawn (Grace Cummings) by Ginger Simpson

Interview with Grace from Dancing Fawn

Today my guest, Grace Cummings, the heroine in Dancing Fawn is here to tell us how she survived being held captive by Indians.  So, without further ado, let's begin the interview:

Just for clarification, HOST will indicate the interviewer’s questions below:

HOST:   It must have been a very traumatic ordeal for you.  Can you tell us about it?

GRACE:  It was horrid. (She shudders) I still hear my mother's screams in my head.  I…

HOST:  Do you need a moment to compose yourself?

GRACE:  No, I'm fine.  (Deep breath)  It was 1874. My family had moved around a lot because my father, bless his departed soul, was a restless man.   It was hard for a girl my age to make friends, not living in one place for very long, and just when Ma, Kevin and I thought we might settle down, General George Armstrong Custer made an announcement about gold being discovered in the Black Hills of Lakota territory.  That's all it took!  Pa loaded everything back into our Conestoga and insisted this was his chance to strike it big. 

HOST:  Why didn't you mother put her foot down?

GRACE:  You have to understand that back then, women were expected to know their place.  Ma pretty much did as Pa said.  Besides, he promised her that when he hit the mother lode, he would buy us a new house; new furniture and we'd never have to move again.

HOST:  I can see how that might have sounded pretty enticing.

GRACE:  It was.  We all had visions of putting down permanent roots, so being out on the plains, cooking over a campfire again and roughing it for a just a little longer was worth it if Pa and my brother, Kevin, found gold. 

HOST:  Tell us more about your experience, please.

GRACE:  All right.   We had made camp at the base of the Black Hills, near a sparse stand of trees.  There was a small stream nearby, so water was plentiful.  Ma and I slept on a pallet of blankets in the wagon, while Pa and Kev slept in a makeshift tent.  We had just finished breakfast one morning and were laughing and talking before Pa and Kev went off to the mine, when I happened to spy some riders on the horizon. It soon became clear from the whooping and hollering that they were being attacked by Indians.

HOST:  Oh my goodness, what did you do?

GRACE:  Pa immediately yelled for Ma and I to get back in the wagon and he and Kev grabbed their rifles and crawled underneath.  I hunkered down behind the tailgate, waiting for Ma, but she never came.  I was so scared, hearing the sound of gunfire and those blood-curdling war cries, I covered my ears, but it didn't help.  When I got the courage to peek outside, I saw the Indians circling our hiding place and Ma running in the opposite direction.  I think she was trying to draw them away from me.  I didn't realize it at the time, but Pa and Kevin were already dead.  They were easy pickings with no real shelter.

HOST:  How awful. 

GRACE:  You have no idea!  (Stopping to bite her knuckle, then staring straight ahead). They…they shot my ma down in cold blood right before my eyes.

HOST:  Oh you poor thing.  What did you do then?

GRACE:  (Dabbing at eyes with hanky) I curled myself into a ball and prayed that it was all just a bad dream, and that I'd wake up.   When I didn't hear anything for a while, I found the courage to rise to my knees and peer over the tailgate again.  I almost had heart failure when I came face-to-face with the ugliest sight I'd ever seen.

HOST:    Oh my gosh, I have goose bumps. What was it?

GRACE:  It was the person I later learned was Black Crow.  His face was painted with bright yellow lightning bolts, and he had a scar that ran from ear-to-ear.  He pulled me out of the wagon, barking orders in a strange language, and threw me to the ground.  I felt like my heart was going to pound its way right through my chemise. (Holds hand against chest)

HOST:  Oh my goodness, what was going through your head?

GRACE:  I was certain he was going to kill me, too.  I think he might have had it not been for one of his friends.  The one, called Little Elk, seemed to step in and calm Black Crow down.  Still, it was an awful thing to go through, wondering if you were going to live or die.  After Black Crow tethered my arms together and dragged me along behind his horse, like I was nothing more than an animal, I almost wished I had died.  I fought to keep up all the way to the Indian village.

HOST:  How far was it?

GRACE:  (Holding out her wrists).  I'm not sure, but you can still see the scars where the rawhide bit into my skin.  I didn't have time to get my shoes on, so my feet were pretty raw, too.  I'm used to walking beside the wagon every day, but being dragged is quite different.  It took forever.

HOST:  What happened when you got to the village?

GRACE:  I was so tired I could barely stand, but I dared not drop to the ground when it seemed like the whole village stood in a circle around me, staring and laughing.  I thought for sure I was about to meet my maker, but something very surprising happened.

HOST:  Don't stop now!

GRACE:  A beautiful green-eyed woman walked into the midst of things and protected me.  She spoke their language and dressed in their clothing, but it was evident from her flaming red hair that she was white.  If it hadn't been for her I would never have survived to tell this story, that and the fact that Black Crow's mother didn't like having a white woman share her home.  (Grace gives a half-hearted chuckle)

HOST:  What happened?

GRACE:  After only one night in her tepee, Black Crow handed me over to Little Elk. He, at least treated me with kindness, allowing Green Eyes to help me bathe and wash my hair.  I was still scared, but not nearly as much.  Pa always said I was headstrong, and it almost got me into  trouble when Little Elk gave me a new name.  (Sitting up straighter, squaring shoulders)

HOST:  Oh gosh, we're almost out of time and I hate to make you stop.  Can you give us a brief summary, and quickly?

GRACE:  Although there is so much more to tell, I'll just say that Little Elk played a big role in the decision I made when the white soldiers raided the camp. Unless you want to invite me back for another visit, I guess you'll just have to read the book.  (Holds out a copy)

HOST:  Is this for me? How nice, and it's autographed.  Grace Cummings, thank you so much for spending time with us and sharing your captivating story. I'd like to remind our readers that Dancing Fawn by Ginger Simpson is offered at http://bookswelove.com/authors/simpson-ginger/.  It’s also offered on her Amazon page, but you won't get the BOGO sale going on right now.  Buy one, get one Free.  What a holiday deal.  Happy reading!

WIP and Future Book Ideas by Connie Vines #Round Robin 74

What book (or type of book) are you currently working on? Do you have ideas for future books?

At the moment, I’m working on revisions for my anthology, “Gumbo Ya Ya” for women who like romance Cajun.
The anthology is comprised of 5 stories with the common element being the setting (New Orleans, LA) with one of the main characters of each story being a Cajun.

From Wikipedia:

The Cajuns (/ˈkeɪdʒən/; Louisiana French: les Cadiens), also known as Acadians (Louisiana French: les Acadiens),are an ethnic group mainly living in the U.S. state of Louisiana, and in the Canadian maritimes provinces as well as Québec consisting in part of the descendants of the original Acadian exiles—French-speakers from Acadia (L'Acadie) in what are now the Maritimes of Eastern Canada. In Louisiana, Acadian and Cajun are often used as broad cultural terms without reference to actual descent from the deported Acadians. Today, the Cajuns make up a significant portion of south Louisiana's population and have exerted an enormous impact on the state's culture.

While Lower Louisiana had been settled by French colonists since the late 17th century, the Cajuns trace their roots to the influx of Acadian settlers after the Great Expulsion from their homeland during the French and British hostilities prior to the Seven Years' War (1756 to 1763). The Acadia region to which modern Cajuns trace their origin consisted largely of what are now Nova Scotia, New Brunswick, Prince Edward Island plus parts of eastern Quebec and northern Maine. Since their establishment in Louisiana, the Cajuns have developed their own dialect, Cajun French, and developed a vibrant culture including folkways, music, and cuisine. The Acadiana region is heavily associated with them.


Since I write cross-genre fiction, my stories will each be a romance, however, each story will reflect a different type of romance. Sweet Romantic Comedy, Sensual Romance, Romantic Suspense, Time-Travel, and Paranormal—all of which reflect Cajun culture and New Orleans, LA elements.

Since I always immerse myself in the WIP, I’m brewing chicory coffee, making gumbo and jambalaya.  Since my husband is from Louisiana, he’s loving it!

Ideas for future books?  Of course.  Always.

I’m plotting books 2 and 3 of my Sassy and Fun Fantasy Series.  I’m also working on a contemporary romance novel, too …well, you will just need to wait and see (I’m keeping this one under wraps for the moment).

Happy Reading,

Remember to stop by and see what these wonderful authors have to share with out:

Skye Taylor http://www.skye-writer.com/blogging_by_the_sea

Marci Baun  http://www.marcibaun.com/blog/

Dr. Bob Rich https://wp.me/p3Xihq-1EW

Beverley Bateman http://beverleybateman.blogspot.ca/

Helena Fairfax http://www.helenafairfax.com/blog

A.J. Maguire  http://ajmaguire.wordpress.com/

Victoria Chatham http://www.victoriachatham.com

Judith Copek http://lynx-sis.blogspot.com/

Fiona McGier http://www.fionamcgier.com/

Rhobin L Courtright http://www.rhobincourtright.com

May Day Romance

She was moth to his flame...

An excerpt for May Day from the historical romance, My Mozart

http://amzn.to/1TDh07s

...The forest was a living cathedral, the great columns bearing a roof of green. All the time we gradually ascended, following a path. In one place we forded a lively stream, balancing on mossy rocks that barely kept us above the chattering water.

Topping a final rise, we came at last upon the Waldhut. It sat in a small clearing, dwarfed by the biggest pine trees I had ever seen. Smoke trailed from the chimney and a fire also crackled out front, snapping sparks. From the greasy cloud rising from a blackened, steaming rock pile, I knew that a pig had already gone into the pit. There was another smell, too, the welcome fragrance of coffee.

Among the musicians and dancers were handymen and servants, all sharing in the cheerful equality of the day. As Barbara and I laid blankets at the edge of the clearing atop a thick blanket of pine needles, I spied, further back in the woods, a green tent. Stage shrieks emanated from it.

"Gott! The usual bawdy house atmosphere." Barbara took me by the arm and pulled me toward the fire. "You, Blumechen, are to stay far, far away from that tent."

The clearing had the look of an impromptu marketplace, with stacks of rugs and laden baskets. Three children suddenly bounded out the door of the summerhouse, pushing past like unruly dogs. Two boys and a girl, they wore bright lumpy peasant’s clothing.

Who did they remind me of, with their broad laughing faces and thick wild hair?

"Schikaneder's." Barbara answered my unspoken question. "Three different mothers, but look at them, alike as peas in a pod. He keeps a regular herd at some farm near Josephplatz."

Turks, I thought, weren't the only men to keep harems.

Going into the Waldhut with Barbara, we found a trestle table set with breads, butter, cheese and those expensive luxuries, coffee and sugar. With cups in hand we stood around the table with the Schacks, who were already inside eating. At last, in spite of the strong, sugary coffee and so many gay companions, I was sleepier than ever. Barbara and I, after looking at each other and yawning, agreed we couldn't keep our eyes open much longer.

Going into the yard, we collected our things and carried them to an area screened from the clearing by flowering trees. Here, close to the prone form of an ancient pine, we spread our blankets. Ferns and clusters of tiny white and lavender flowers dotted the ground. Barbara fussed at me to hurry and settle, but I spent time carefully finding a spot where the blanket wouldn't crush them.

"Shall I sing my little girl a lullaby?" Barbara leaned back against the fallen tree and kicked off her shoes.

"Yes if you please, Frau Gerl."

Behind us, the clearing grew quiet. There seemed to be a unanimous decision that it was time for a nap. While Barbara softly serenaded me with an old nursery song, I bunched up my shawl for a pillow. A root that felt like a big toe stuck into my side, so I moved my hips. The last conscious thought I had was that I'd never be able to fall asleep here...
 ~~~

I stood with a group of women among the pines. I could hear a bright tune, perfect for a romp, but my companions were still as statues. In their midst was a man, an angel of a man, a man I almost recognized.
Golden curls haloed his face and he wore a crown of laurel leaves, like Apollo. When he beckoned, one of my companions would rise and walk like a sleepwalker into his arms, where she would be embraced and kissed. Melting, the woman would crumple to the ground at his feet and remain there, eyes raised toward his shining face, apparently quite stricken with love..."

~~Juliet Waldron

MY MOZART:

http://amzn.to/1TDh07s

See all my books @

http://www.julietwaldron.com

                                                                 http://amzn.to/1UDoLAi

What does NaNoWriteMo Mean? by Connie Vines

National Novel Writing Month (often shortened to NaNoWriMo, "na-noh-RY-moh"), is an annual Internet-based creative writing project that takes place during the month of November.

National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) is a fun, seat-of-your-pants approach to creative writing. On November 1, participants begin working towards the goal of writing a 50,000-word novel by 11:59 PM on November 30.

To win you must write a 50,000 word novel—from scratch—in one month. To break it up, you have to write 1,667 words a day, every day, for thirty days straight.

That’s a lot of words. If you’re participating in NaNoWriMo this year, how do you win? Here are five suggestions.

1. Write With Friends

Community can provide positive reinforcement.  I belong to Romance Writers Of America and my Orange County Chapter and others have this contest every year.


2. Write Fast

Today, writing fast is the most important thing you can do. Quantity begets quality, so write quickly today.

3. Don’t Edit

Editing is essential. Don’t be one of those writers who submits their unedited NaNoWriMo novel to publishers on December 1. But November isn’t for editing. November is for writing. The Oxford Comma and misuse of your/you’re  can wait for December.

4. Use a Timer

Your inner procrastinator may try to convince you otherwise, but there are only so many hours in November. Spend your time wisely by using a timer.

Set it for thirty minutes and see how many words you can write. Take a five minute break. Then, set it for another thirty minutes and see if you can beat your word count from last time.

5. This Isn’t Just About 50,000 Words

This is about mastering the craft of writing. Intrinsic motivation is always more powerful than extrinsic rewards, and becoming a master at something like writing is intrinsically good.

Every time you feel your energy flagging and procrastination taking over, ask yourself, “How can I get better today? What can I do to become a great writer today?”

Are you participating in NaNoWriMo? Please post a comment and let me know how you are doing. If you have any writing tips, please share.

I must confess that my day job prevents me (yes, it is an excuse) from meeting my daily word count. UNLESS unless I am writing a novella (this year's personal challenge), or a YA novel.  I know this keeps from participating in an actual contest but that isn't my real reason for participating.  I participate to complete my stories.

Happy Writing!

Connie

"Classic Ginger" HER Body, HIS Nightmare...Culture Shock by Ginger Simpson

Cynthia massaged her temples. "God, there's too much to remember. You can't expect me to store all that information in my brain. You went to an academy for months to learn all this stuff..." 

Suddenly her eyes widened. "I'm not going to have to shoot a gun am I?" 

"No! I've never even taken mine out of the holster. Don't worry. You'll do fine. Just remember the basics. You'll be surprised how things sink in even if you don't think they did. You'll remember what you need to know when you need it." 

"That's easy for you to say. I'm the one that has it the toughest." 

He scrunched up his face. "You? How can you say that? I haven't the first idea about how to be a woman, and we all know how complex they are." 

"We are not! Being feminine is very simple. Let me show you." 

She struck a pose that looked ridiculous and walked across the room. "The walk is the most important thing. Take small steps and lead with your hips. Let them be your guide.''

Alex's flinched at the sight of his masculine frame sashaying around the floor. Even more annoying was the way she made feminine gestures with his hands. 

He rolled his eyes. "There's no way I can walk like that, and I wish you'd stop. You're making me look ridiculous. Promise me you won't walk like that as long as you have my body." He jumped to his feet. "Real men walk heavy and hard ... and pull your shoulders back." He grabbed her forearms from behind, forcing her chest forward. 

She jerked out of his grasp, turned and glared at him. "Don't worry. I'll play up the macho thing, but I want to see you walk like I just did." 

He blew out a loud breath then reluctantly took one step, then another. The swivel didn't come naturally, but he tried following her example. Having a woman's form and a man's thought process was tough. The two didn't work well together. He walked across the room then turned. "Well, what do you think?" 

"I think you look like someone who just had casts removed from their broken legs. But, we'll keep working on it. I also need to show you how to sit properly, drink with poise, and how to be graceful." 

He grabbed two handfuls of her blonde hair and yanked in frustration. "Just kill me now." 

"I can't. You promised I wouldn't have to shoot anyone, and I don't want to be the first to un-holster your gun." Her giggle sounded forced. 

He sagged down on the sofa. "I guess I'll be spending the night again. Looks like we have a lot of ground to cover."

http://www.amazon.com/author/gingersimpson

"Classic Ginger" Murder Most Shocking - A Novel Murder

The superintendent, a frown winkling his jowls, unlocked the apartment and then moved aside as Michelle batted away the yellow crime scene tape. Before she had a chance to step inside, fingers bit into her shoulder. She jerked around and turned an icy stare on the small-statured man “What…?” 

“Yeah….” Tony stepped forward and peered down his nose. “Keep your hands to yourself, Bernie.” 

Deeper ruts furrowed the super’s already craggy brow. His flushed cheeks puffed out with a mock smile. “Sorry, but I need to know how much longer you cops plan to be poking around here? Every day this apartment goes without a tenant, I lose money.” 

“Really?” Michelle’s mouth gaped. “That’s your biggest worry? A young woman in the prime of her life was murdered in your building, and all you can think about is money?” She 

shook her head and pointed down the corridor. “Get out of my sight before I order the whole place locked down until we find out exactly what happened.” 

The plump, ugly little man scurried away without another word. 

“Can you really do that?” Tony’s brow arched. 

“Do what?” She stepped inside, Tony following close behind. 

“Shut down the entire building?” 

She smiled over her shoulder. “Probably not, but he doesn’t know that.” 

Tony laughed. “Well, you sure scared the crap out of him. Did you see how fast he moved?” 

“Yeah.” She sighed. “I wish it was that easy to take care of all pests.” She paused for a moment and then cocked her head toward her partner. “Bernie?” 

“Yeah, his name is Bernard Goldman.” 

Michelle moved to the bed, noting the indention in the pillow upon which the victim had breathed her last breath. Haunting visions of the woman’s face while struggling with her attacker crept into Shell’s head. How the poor woman’s neck veins bulged as her very last gasp of air was denied her—the twisted agony shadowed the sky blue eyes that once sparkled. A shudder crept along Michelle’s spine. Why was the message delivered to her so incomplete? Why show her what was happening as the crime unfolded and never give details of how the information was supposed to help her save anyone if she couldn’t get there beforehand? All her visions did were taunt her and point out how helpless she really was. 

“What are you staring at?” Tony nudged her, while pulling on his gloves. 

“Just thinking. If the guys didn’t find any prints or clues to the murderer, we’re going to have to rely on asking lots of questions and delving into the victim’s background. Who had a grudge against her? Who hated her enough to kill her? Who did she trust enough to let inside?” 

Michelle bent and examined the linens but still glove free, allowed only her gaze to wander the crumpled sheets and blanket. Visually, nary a stray hair or stain gave any promise of gathering the perp’s DNA. Of course, if there had been anything worth checking, the CSI guys would have found it. 

She straightened, tamping back the longing to make the bed—wanting to hide the obvious and make the world right again—to deny what really happened. She may have failed to prevent Cara’s murder, but standing there, looking at the very spot where the dead woman heaved her last breath, Michelle vowed to find the person responsible and make them pay. 

“Hey, Meesh.” Tony appeared from the bathroom, tugging off his blue plastic gloves. “I can’t find anything. There’s only the usual stuff in the medicine chest. Evidently, she took pride in her appearance. I found tons of hair care products, skin creams and make-up, but nothing out of the ordinary not even a prescription drug.” 

Shell wandered the room not bothering the gaping bureau drawers the police already rifled through or daring venture into the closets they’d searched. The small desk beneath the window displayed a dusty outline of where a laptop had been, and the drawer handles and edges around the oaken surface still bore the powder left from fingerprinting. Atop a stack of papers lay a recently dated paycheck. Drawn on a corporate name she didn’t recognize, the only thing she made out from the scribbled signature was someone’s first name and last initial: “C”. 

http://www.amazon.com/author/gingersimpson

Sunday Snips and Stuff #snipsand stuff

I apologize for missing last week.  I ended up with my mother at the ER and spent a good part of the day there.  She's still recuperating.  At 91, it takes a while.  :)

Today I'm sharing a portion of my upcoming "Mail Order" bride story, Desperation's Bride.  I'm really excited to have a new project and I hope you enjoy today's offering.  Remember, this is a first draft and not perfect by any means:

Clara sat at the splintery kitchen table, her bare toes curled against the hard-swept dirt floor while she peeled potatoes for dinner's stew. Two weeks had passed since she’d made an excuse to mail her last response to Jason, and now time spun a web around her, making her anxious.  “Ma, have you ever seen the train station in Marysville?”

Her mother looked up from the cupboard where she rolled out dough for a dried apple pie. “Why would you ask such a strange question?”

Continuing with her peeling, Clara calmed her breathing.  “Just curious, that’s all.  I’ve not been in that part of town since the railroad began operating.  I’ve always wanted to take a trip in one of those fancy windowed cars.”

“Don’t see that will ever happen.”  Ma floured the dough and rolled it flat with her wooden cylinder. “This is our home and we have no plans to leave.”  

“Do you have any idea how far it is to Beatrice, NE?”  Clara tried to make her query sound casual.

“Why ever would you ask that?  I’m not sure I understand all these questions.”

“I…I saw a flyer in the mercantile the other day and it made me wonder…no particular reason.”  The lie tasted bitter on her tongue.

Ma shrugged.  “I’ve not traveled except from Independence to here with your father, but I did hear women at Church discussing that the Burlington and Missouri River Railroad now runs from Lincoln to Beatrice. Not sure when that happened.”  She plopped her dough into a round tin.  “We should be proud to be witness to such advances in travel.  I suffered coming here on a wagon train with your Pa, and it was definitely not as comfortable as I imagine a train would be.”

“Oh, tell me about it, Ma, you’ve never shared that story.”  Clara put down a potato and her knife and leaned on her palms.

Ma sighed. “It was a long and tiring ride.  We had to leave many of our things behind because the oxen couldn’t stand the strain of pulling a big wagon and all the other weight. The days were long, hot, and filled with work from sun-up to sundown.”  Her gaze lowered.  “A lot of good folks died on that trip in the short distance we came…drownings, illness, even a few run over by their own conveyances.”

“What do you mean by short distance?”  Clara cocked her head.

“Your Pa and I joined up in Independence, which is where most wagon trains depart for Oregon and California.  In fact, the trail has been named the Oregon Trail for the many people seeking new lives out west.”  Her eyes brightened.  “Luckily, you’re father had researched Kansas and knew we would pass right through this place.  We dropped off here because your father believed the Overland Stage and the Pony express would put Marysville on the map, and they have.   I’m just sorry he didn’t live long enough to see and do all he wanted.”  She turned her attention back to the pie, placing cross pieces of dough over the dried apples.  “Oh well,” she said.  “That was another lifetime, and I’m just thankful to have a home and family again.”

Clara stifled an inward gasp.  Now was not the time to share her intentions.  Ma would be very upset at the prospect of her daughter leaving.  The silence begged for words.  “I’m glad you made the trip safely, Ma, and I’m certain Pa would be very proud of you today.  You’re a strong woman and a good wife.  I love you very much.”

******

I'm making good progress on this one and look forward to announcing a release date soon.  Stay tuned...and in the meantime, jump on over to the following blogs and see what's up today:

ttp://connievines.blogspot.com (Connie Vines)

http://yesterrdayrevisitedhere.blogspot.com/ (Juliet Waldron)

http://triciamg.blogspot.com (Tricia McGill)

Sunday Snippets with Ginger Simpson #sundaysnips

This week, I'm sharing a little from my book,Discovery.  I for one love short stories....something to read during an appointment waiting period or right before I fall to sleep.  I absolutely hate waiting to find out what happens, so shorts fill my need.  Each of the stories in this book were published individually by another publisher.  I've combined them into one book for your reading entertainment.  This is a portion from Joy's Revelation:

Joy didn’t mean for the door to slam when she walked into the front foyer.  Her mother, clad in her apron and flour on her hands, appeared in the kitchen doorway.  “Oh, you’re back so soon?  Did you forget something?”

With a big inhalation, Joy steadied herself.  “We need to talk, Mom, and right now.”

Her mother’s eyes grew wide beneath arched brows.  “All right, but you’re scaring me with such a serious look on your face and the tone of your voice.  Did something happen?”

“Please, can we just sit?  I need to ask you something very important…and you need to tell me the truth.”

Her mother’s mouth drew into a thin line.  She stared at her hands, back at Joy, and then released a loud breath that showed her frustration.  “I suppose supper can wait. Let me clean up and I’ll be right back.” 

Joy tossed her purse aside and sat on the edge of the sofa, sorting through her options.  Was she doing the right thing in confronting her mother alone?  Should she wait for her father…even include Scott in the conversation?  Nerves churned her insides into knots.  She clasped her hands in her lap and waited.  Sand in the Sahara couldn’t be any drier than her mouth.  She wanted answers and she wanted them now.

“Okay, okay, here I am.”  Mom appeared, running her just-washed hands down the front of her apron.  “Now, what’s got you in such a dither?”  She sat in her rocker and stared across at Joy.

Joy fluttered her lips with an exhalation.  “I don’t know where to start.  I’m so upset.  I think I’m gonna throw up.”  She rubbed her hand across the furrows in her brow.

“What is it, dear?”  Her mother cocked her head.  “You’ve never had a problem talking to me.  We’ve always been able to discuss everything.”

“Have we really?”  Joy leveled an icy stare at her.

“Well, I thought we had a pretty open line of communication between us.”

“I thought so, too, until I found the secret you’ve been keeping from me in your cedar chest.”

Her mother leaned forward, confusion clouding her eyes.  “Whatever are you talking about?”

Joy steeled herself.  “Who is Joey Andrew Garrett?”

A gasp sliced the silence.  Her mother’s mouth gaped.

“Well?” 

Tears welled in her mom’s eyes and her throat wobbled with a hard swallow.  “I-I can’t discuss this right now.”  She bolted to her feet and raced upstairs.  The slamming of her bedroom door wobbled the glass panes in the front window.

Stunned, Joy stared at the floor.  So much for open communication, but this wasn’t over.  Someone was going to offer up some answers, and if it had to be her father, then so be it.

Her familiar ringtone sliced the silence.  She reached for her pocketbook and retrieved her cellphone.  “Hello.”

“Hi, Sweetie.  Rough day?  You sound down.”

“You might say that.  Can you stop by on your way home from work?”

“I suppose so, but what’s going on?”  His voice held a nervous tone.

“I wish I knew.  I guess we’ll find out together when you and my father get here.”

You can find all my books on Amazon.  After you check out my short story collection,  then hop over to my friends and check out their posts today.  See you next week.

http://connievines.blogspot.com (Connie Vines)

http://yesterrdayrevisitedhere.blogspot.com/ (Juliet Waldron)

http://triciamg.blogspot.com (Tricia McGill)

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