Dear readers, it's time to help me out again. In the next few months I have opportunities to have authors for guest blogs. I have done interviews, but never guest blogs because of one main reason - the authors want you to select a topic. Here is where I am clueless - I keep thinking they are the authors, they know what to write, but I realize what they are asking is what my blog readers want to read.
So my readers, what would you like to see an author or other guest blogger write about here? I really do need your help here and to sweeten the pot, I will select one commenter to pick two books from my giveaway shelf. So comment and let me know a topic you would like to read about.
My giveaway shelf can be found here, it may change during the week as other giveaways end, but there will always be plenty to choose from. This giveaway ends on 4/23 and I will draw the winner and post on the next Weekend Wondering.
Thanks for your help!
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Friday, April 16, 2010
Author Interview and Giveaway with Monica Fairview (The Darcy Cousins)
Please welcome Monica Fairview, Author of The Darcy Cousins
(April 2010 - Sourcebooks) to My Reading Room - she is joining
us
today for an interview.
- How did you celebrate when you
received the first call that you would be published?
I called and e-mailed practically
every person I knew – and some I didn’t, guzzled down champagne, and went off
on a holiday weekend.
- Was it just as exciting to see your
newest book, The Darcy Cousins
published?
Yes, but it isn’t the same kind of
excitement. I loved writing The Darcy
Cousins, and I couldn’t wait for people to start reading it. As the covers
materialize, it becomes more and more real, and you realize – it’s a book, I’ve
written a book! It’s not just a bunch of words on the computer any more. Then
there’s a strong sense of anticipation as you wait to see how people react.
- Without giving anything away - what is
The Darcy Cousins about?
Without being facetious – it’s
about the Darcy cousins and the impact they have on each other’s lives.
Clarissa Darcy, one of the American Darcys, is a trouble maker, and she
certainly stirs things up when she arrives at Lady Catherine’s home because she
deliberately defies the rules of lady-like conduct. Georgiana Darcy, who’s
quite shy and quiet in Pride and
Prejudice, blossoms under her cousin’s influence, and even Anne de Bourgh
seems more willing to open up and interact with her. Beyond that, it’s a
romance, with Georgiana gradually realizing the value of a certain very
honorable gentleman.
Crystal: This sounds very interesting since I love the ones that defy the rules, especially around Lady Catherine.
- I see that The Darcy Cousins is the
second book in the series, do you feel the reader needs to read the first
book or will this book stand alone fine?
You don’t need to read the The Other Mr. Darcy to read The Darcy Cousins. The characters I
focus on here are completely different. It’s meant to be a stand-alone book.
- Where did the idea for The Darcy Cousins series come from?
The whole thing started when I
realized that Caroline Bingley got the short end of the stick when Elizabeth
- When did you first read
I first encountered Pride and Prejudice when I was fourteen
at school in England Lydia
- Have you seen both movie versions of Pride and Prejudice? If so which one is your favorite?
Yes, several times. Colin Firth in
the 1995 version is closer to my concept of an arrogant, aristocratic Mr. Darcy
than MacFadyen, and I think Jennifer Ehle captures the mischief of Elizabeth
Bennet much better than Keira Knightly. But I like the 2005 version because it
captures the reality of the time more accurately – the crowded dance scenes
(what they called “the crush” in Regency times), the sweat, the class difference
between Netherfield and Longbourne. I also like the fact that the teenagers act
like teenagers. Ehle in a way seems much older than Elizabeth Elizabeth
Crystal: I keep hearing how good the 2005 version is and it's different take on it, I am going to have to see this one soon.
Crystal: I keep hearing how good the 2005 version is and it's different take on it, I am going to have to see this one soon.
- Do you think you have found your niche in writing Regency Romance or is there some other genre you would like to explore some day?
I’d love to continue writing
Regencies/Austenesques because that’s what I’ve loved to read for years and
years. But I’m writing a novel set in a different time period now, and I’m
enjoying the research and the setting very much. I’d like to see where that
goes as well.
- Do you plan your books out or do you
just write and see where it takes you?
I’m a planner. I like to outline
pretty much every chapter before I start writing. Having said that, once my
characters come alive, they like to surprise me, and things don’t usually turn
out quite the way I planned.
- Do you get time to read? What are your
favorite types of books to read?
One of the disadvantages of
writing consistently, I’ve found, is that it’s harder to settle down with a
book and read. It’s quite frustrating, because my subconscious is working all
the time. I’ve just curled up on a sofa, ready to spend an evening reading,
when an idea pops into my head and I have to rush to the computer. I love
futuristic fiction and fantasy, but I like to read books on the bestsellers
list as well. I read across a range of subjects, but what I’m writing controls
what I can and can’t read. I don’t read Austenesque novels because I don’t want
to be influenced by them in any way. Before I start an Austenesque novel,
though, I go into Austen overload with her books and films.
- What is your favorite room in your
house?
The spare room where I write.
- What is your favorite spot to read in?
I mostly end up on the floor.
- What is your favorite snack food?
Nuts, especially hazelnuts and
almonds.
- What is your favorite season?
Summer. Give me the lazy heaviness
of the long summer day anytime, minus the mosquitoes.
- Do you have a schedule for writing each day or do you just do it when you can?
My schedule is defined by my
child’s school-day really. You have to write every day to produce books, so I
can’t just choose my time. Having said that, I’m not as disciplined as I should
be.
- Did you find writing The Darcy
Cousins to be difficult or did the book just take off with no
problems?
Writing a novel is always
difficult, full of hard work and hard choices, especially when you have to
chuck away all the pages that don’t work (that part’s heart- wrenching). I tend
to write in a bit of a frenzy, wanting to get the whole thing done as soon as
possible, but then I have to go back and rewrite almost all of it, and that’s when
you need slow and steady discipline. Having said that, writing The Darcy Cousins was very enjoyable. It
was far easier to write than The Other Mr.
Darcy. I chuckled my way through it,
and I really loved the characters.
17. Any book signings/conferences/public/blog appearances in the near
future?
Living in England US
- Do you have a new book in the works?
As I mentioned earlier, yes, I’m
writing a historical romance from a different era, but it’s still too early to
announce it.
- Anything else you would like to say?
I’d like to say that writing
Austenesque novels is very rewarding, because it feels like a link between the past
and the present. Jane Austen had a tragically
short life, and never knew how much people appreciated her writing. Writing The Darcy Cousins and The Other Mr. Darcy is my tribute to a very
original and unique writer, and a way of keeping her memory alive among us.
Meanwhile, thank you for this
excellent opportunity to meet some of your readers here on My Reading Room. If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask them: what do you find
most appealing about Pride and Prejudice?
THE DARCY COUSINS BY MONICA
A young lady in disgrace should at least strive to behave
with decorum…
Dispatched from America
to England
And there are more surprises in store for that bastion of
tradition, Rosings Park Ann e
de Bourgh, encouraged to escape her “keeper” Mrs. Jenkinson, simply…vanishes.
But the trouble really starts when Clarissa and Georgiana both set out to win
the heart of the same young man…
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Literature professor Monica Fairview loves teaching students
the joys of reading. But after years of postponing the urge, she finally
realized that what she really wanted to do was write. The author of The
Other Mr. Darcy and An Improper Suitor, Ms. Fairview lived a big
chunk of her life in America , and currently
resides in London
Thank you again to Monica Fairview for allowing me to interview her today and thanks to Danielle Jackson at Sourcebooks for my ARC of The Darcy Cousins and coordinating this interview.
Giveaway:
So, as Monica asked - what do you find most appealing about Pride and Prejudice? Simply comment and answer the question to enter. I think this is a great question and one I am going to think on myself.
Additional entries for tweeting about this giveaway, and being a follower.
Giveaway open to US/Canada only. Open through 4/23.
Review of The Darcy Cousins will be coming in the next few days.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Author Interview and Giveaway with Libby Malin (My Own Personal Soap Opera)
Please welcome Libby Malin, Author of My Own Personal Soap Opera (April 2010 - Sourcebooks) to My Reading Room - she is joining us
today for an interview.
- How did you celebrate when you
received the first call that you would be published?
That’s a terrific question! My first book was a YA mystery
published by a small press. I remember being very, very happy about it, but I
don’t remember what we did to celebrate. The next book was my Red Dress Ink
novel, Loves Me, Loves Me Not. I
think I got the call for that around my birthday that year. And I believe I was
in a kind of haze. I’m sure hubby and I opened a bottle of wine that night. And
later, my sister-in-law and brother-in-law bought champagne when we visited
them next.
- Was it just as exciting to see your
newest book, My Own Personal Soap Opera published?
Absolutely! In fact, in many ways I think the excitement is
more satisfying after you get past that first book. You know what to expect—the
joys as well as the disappointments—so you’re more able to appreciate the
highs.
- Without giving anything away - what is
My Own Personal Soap Opera
about?
MOPSO (don’t you
love that acronym?) tells the tale of soap head writer Frankie McNally who uses
her show as her own personal message board to the world. She has to deal with
one crisis after another—a leading man who broke his leg on Dancing with the
Stars, staff members who all want to be doing something else, abysmal ratings,
and a jewel thief imitating one on the show itself. Oh, and she has two men
after her heart—one who can give her everything she wants and the other who can
give her everything she needs.
Crystal: It's funny, I never thought a thing about the soap opera writers until I started reading this book - but you are right - they have a lot to contend with to bring their stories to life.
Crystal: It's funny, I never thought a thing about the soap opera writers until I started reading this book - but you are right - they have a lot to contend with to bring their stories to life.
- Where did the idea for My Own
Personal Soap Opera come from?
I’m a fan of soaps – Days of Our Lives, in particular, but
also Another World when it was on. When I watched them, I often wondered what
challenges the writers had to deal with—actor contracts running out, ratings,
staff writers, etc. I always wondered how those things had an impact on the
actual stories playing out on the small screen.
- Do you think My Own Personal Soap Opera appeals to readers of a certain genre (or genres) or do you think anyone can pretty much pick it up and enjoy it?
I think it’s definitely humorous women’s fiction and will
appeal mostly to women! But I received a real rave review of my 2009 release, Fire Me, from a man, so MOPSO could have similar appeal. I hope
so. I hope it appeals to bajillions of readers! LOL!
- Do you plan your books out or do you
just write and see where it takes you?
I’m a minimalist planner. I do think through where I want
the story to go, and I might jot down some bullet points to that effect. Then I
just write. MOPSO was sold on
proposal, which means I had written several chapters plus a very detailed
synopsis. I used the synopsis, of course, as my road map when I finished
writing the novel. But sometimes I might deviate from it if the characters take
me down a different path.
- Do you get time to read? What are your
favorite types of books to read?
More excellent questions! I do not get to read as much as
I’d like. I don’t like to read too much when I’m writing because I don’t want
to be influenced by another writer. So I always feel like I’m playing “catch
up” after I finish a project. I often read outside my genre. I like funny
books—I adore Jane t Evanovich’s Stephanie Plum
series. But I also like soulful reads. I enjoyed reading The Help recently. And I have heartily recommended Marilynne
Robinson’s Gilead ,
a very touching and inspirational book.
- What is your favorite room in your
house?
Oh, my living room. It’s very bright, with lots of windows.
In the spring, a forsythia blooms right outside one of the windows, and it
often feels as if a bright yellow light shines there.
- What is your favorite spot to read in?
The living room, with the windows open and a soft breeze
blowing, on a Sunday afternoon.
- What is your favorite snack food?
Milk chocolate. Yum, yum.
- What is your favorite season?
Spring. It’s a time of new beginnings.
- Do you have a schedule for writing
each day or do you just do it when you can?
I’m most creative in the morning, so that’s my best writing
time when working on a project.
- I saw on your website that you use to
watch Another World, I loved that one when I was growing up and hated to
see it canceled (my mom and I often watched it together and my cousin and
I use to discuss it in letters to each other). Who was your favorite
character on Another World?
Frankie Frame! That’s why I named the protagonist in MOPSO “Frankie.” Frankie Frame was a quirky, intelligent,
sweet individual.
Crystal: I loved Frankie also, she was just so fun, and Cass and Vicky and Marly and Jake, Rachel, oh - I loved them all :) I also noticed other soap opera names in your book (I have started it) - Kayla, Victor were two of the others that made me smile.
- Did you find writing My Own
Personal Soap Opera to be difficult or did the book just take off with
no problems?
Every book has its problem spots and MOPSO was no different. A few times I stopped and wondered where
this character or that one was taking me. And I did go back and redo some
scenes, changing the timeline.
- Any book
signings/conferences/public/blog appearances in the near future?
If you check the “events” section of my website, you can
find links to the various blog appearances I’ve made and am making on my
“virtual book tour.” After today, I’ll be at www.apprentice-writer.blogspot.com
on April 20, www.siamckye.blogspot.com
on April 21, at www.mamawriters.com
on April 28 and on the Casablanca Authors blog
(www.casablancaauthors.blogspot.com) on April 29. Sometimes appearances are added at the last minute, so it’s best
to check my website – www.LibbysBooks.com
– for the schedule. I did a book signing here in Lancaster ,
PA this past weekend, but might be doing one in White
Marsh, Maryland
- Do you have a new book in the works?
Yes—I’m working a couple projects. One is another humorous
women’s fiction tentatively called Wrong Place Oregon Trail . None of these are under contract as of
this writing.
Crystal: Good luck with both of them - they sound great, especially Wrong Place, Right Time.
- Anything else you would like to say?
First, thanks for having me as a guest. These promotional
opportunities mean a lot to authors, upon whom the burden of book promotion falls.
Speaking for my sister authors, I’d also like to encourage readers to actually
. . . buy the book. Authors can only keep selling manuscripts to their
publishers if readers are buying their books. So if you like an author – it
doesn’t have to be me! – buy his or her work to keep or give away as a gift.
MY OWN PERSONAL SOAP OPERA BY LIBBY MALIN—IN STORES APRIL 2010
Is life stranger than fiction, or vice versa?
Frankie McNally has found the perfect solution for life’s
perplexing problems: as head writer for the daytime soap Lust for Life, she
works them out on the air!
Meanwhile, Frankie’s being courted simultaneously by the
dashing older man sent in to save the show’s sagging ratings and by the soap’s
totally hot leading man. And just when Frankie thinks the plot couldn’t get
more complicated, a jewel thief starts copying the show’s storyline-a
development that could send the show’s ratings soaring, if it doesn’t get
Frankie arrested first...
In her signature blending of the hilarious with the poignant,
Libby Malin’s latest light-hearted novel combines the best of life and of
fiction into an entertaining and incredibly satisfying read.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Libby Malin is published in
women’s fiction, including the books Fire
Me, My Own Personal Soap Opera and Loves
Me, Loves Me Not. Writing as Libby Sternberg, she is also an Edgar
nominated YA mystery writer. As Libby Sternberg, she has an adult historical
mystery offered exclusively on Kindle called Death Is the Cool Night. Her first print adult historical, Sloane Hall (inspired by Jane Eyre and set in old Hollywood
Libby has worked in public
relations, as an education reform advocate, and was a member of the Vermont
Commission on Women. She is the proud mother of three children and lives with
her wonderful husband in Lancaster , Pennsylvania
Thank you again to Libby Malin for allowing me to interview her today and thanks to Danielle Jackson at Sourcebooks for my ARC of My Own Personal Soap Opera and coordinating this interview.
Giveaway:
Simply comment to enter. Additional entries for tweeting about this giveaway, and being a follower.
Giveaway open to US/Canada only. Open through 4/22.
Review of My Own Personal Soap Opera will be coming in the next few days.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
National Library Week April 11-17 (and a giveaway)
I must confess I did not know about National Library Week until I was reading my blog feed and came across this post by Kate on her blog, The Neverending Shelf. She is donating books to her library for comments on her blog. What a great thing to do especially in these days of the sagging economy. I know libraries are one of the ones taking big hits. I work for a state university and know that our library has taken a hit (and I don't work in the library). So go check out Kate's post and help her donate a book to her library.
I personally love my local library. I have raved about it before and will continue to. I walk in and they immediately walk to the reserve shelf to get my books - that is how well they know me :) The staff is nice, they are willing to look into books you want ordered and they just go the extra mile. We can reserve books through the library system which for me is a 3-county system (I don't live in the big city obviously). The selection of books is wonderful. My local library also just moved into a new and bigger location. It is great. They have a great children's section and do their best to get all the recent bestsellers in plus a lot of other great books. The YA section keeps expanding and our children's librarian has done a lot to help with that.
I took my oldest son for the first time when he was 4 - we got his library card then. He loves it and now they visit it every other week with school and I usually take him the weeks in-between because he's not allowed to check out Goosebumps books when he goes with school, but I let him and they are his favorite books right now. My youngest son has been going with us since he was about 3, but he likes to play on the various toys more than look at books, so I usually just pick a few out and show him and he usually nods yes and we check those out. When he learns to read I see him checking out books right and left like his mom, dad and older brother.
So you can see I do love my library. I will be heading there this afternoon to get my latest reserve books.
Do you use your local library? If you don't why not? If you do, what is your favorite thing about it? Have you checked out any books this week?
Comment to win a book off of my giveaway shelf which can be seen here. Open to US/Canada and the giveaway will end next Wednesday 4/21.
Book Tour: A Stranger's Wish by Gayle Roper
It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!You never know when I might play a wild card on you!
Today's Wild Card author is:
and the book:
Harvest House Publishers; Original edition (February 1, 2010)
***Special thanks to David P. Bartlett - Print & Internet Publicist - Harvest House Publishers for sending me a review copy.***
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Gayle Roper is the award-winning author of more than forty books and has been a Christy finalist three times. Gayle enjoys speaking at women’s events across the nation and loves sharing the powerful truths of Scripture with humor and practicality. She lives with her husband in southeastern Pennsylvania where Gayle enjoys reading, gardening, and her family.
Visit the author's website.
Product Details:
List Price: $10.99
Paperback: 224 pages
Publisher: Harvest House Publishers; Original edition (February 1, 2010)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0736925864
ISBN-13: 978-0736925860
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
By the time Jon Clarke What’s-his-name drove me to the hospital, my terrible inner trembling had stopped. My hands were still cold, and the towel pressed to my cheek was still sopping up blood, but I was almost in control again. If I could only stop shaking, I’d be fine.
I’d been so sure I’d lost my face. My stomach still curdled at the memory. All I’d done was bend down to pet Hawk, the sable-and-tan German shepherd sleeping contentedly in the mid-August sun. How was I to know he had a nasty cut hiding under that sleek hot fur?
I was horrified when he lashed out, startled by the pain I had inadvertently caused him. He got me in the cheek with a fang, but despite the blood, the wound was mostly superficial. The thought of what would have happened if he’d closed his mouth made me break out in a fine sweat.
How dumb to touch a sleeping dog. Dumb, dumb, dumb. I knew better. Everyone knew better.
As we entered the emergency room, I rearranged my towel to find an area not stained with blood. I went to the desk and signed in with a woman whose jet black hair stuck out in spikes to rival a hedgehog. When she had my life’s history, she patted my paperwork with a proprietary air that made me wonder if she was willing to share the information with the people I’d come to see.
“Have a seat.” She gave me a warm smile. “They’ll be with you shortly.”
Hoping shortly really meant shortly, I took my seat.
“You don’t have to wait,” I told Jon Clarke as he took the bright orange plastic chair beside me in the otherwise empty emergency room. He smiled slightly and stretched his long legs out before him, the picture of long-suffering
and quiet accommodation. His posture said it didn’t matter how long things took. He was prepared to be gallant and wait it out.
“Really,” I said. “I’ll be all right. You can go.”
I was embarrassed to have inflicted myself upon this man I didn’t know, this man whose last name I couldn’t even remember. He’d pulled into the drive at the Zooks’ Amish farm just as I bent over Hawk. While Mary Zook plied me with towels and bemoaned my possible disfigurement when she wasn’t yelling at the innocent Hawk, John Clarke Whoever climbed out of his car, took me by the elbow, put me in his passenger seat, and drove me here.
What would I have done if he hadn’t come along at just the right moment? Gone to the hospital in a buggy? Certainly that wouldn’t have worked if I’d had a life-threatening injury. I guess if that were the case, someone would run to the phone down on the road and dial 911 or run to a neighbor with a car. Hmm. Peace and serenity of the Amish variety had a definite downside.
Jon Clarke smiled at me now, looking comfortable in his very uncomfortable chair. “Of course I’ll wait for you. I’d never run out on a lady in distress. Besides, you need a way home.”
“I could call a cab.”
“Bird-in-Hand is too far from Lancaster for that. It would cost a fortune.” He smiled at me again, politely patient.
“It’s only fifteen minutes max.”
“That’s a lot when the fare indicator goes ca-ching, ca-ching. It’s better if I just wait.”
I gritted my teeth. Just what I needed, a shining knight when I was in no condition to play the lady. I smiled ungraciously and winced.
“Hurt much?”
Of course it hurt. What did he think? “The strange thing is that my tongue can push into the wound from the inside of my mouth. Only a thin piece of skin on my inner cheek keeps the puncture from going all the way through.” I pushed against my cheek with my tongue. It was a creepy sensation to feel the hole, but I couldn’t resist the need to fiddle.
He looked suitably impressed and apparently decided to keep talking to distract me from my pain and injury. I must say he shouldered the burden with stoic determination and great charm.
“Have you lived in the Lancaster area long?” he asked, and I could have sworn he actually cared.
“Three years. I love it here.”
“Were you at the Zooks’ to visit Jake too?”
Too. So he had come to see Jake. I shook my head. “I live there.”
That stopped him. “Really? On the farm?” He raised an eyebrow at me, an improbably dark eyebrow considering the light brown of his hair. “Have you been living there long?”
I glanced at the clock on the wall. “About four hours.”
The eyebrow rose once again. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Great beginning, isn’t it? Todd spent the morning and early afternoon helping me move, and he’d just left. I was on my way into the house when I stopped to pet Hawk.” I sighed. “They’ll probably decide I’m too much trouble to have around.”
I pulled the towel from my cheek and studied the bloody patterns on the white terry cloth. They looked like abstract art. I was an artist myself, but I never painted compositions like these. I liked more realism—which meant my work would probably never hang in important galleries.
Uptight and unimaginative, according to certain professors and fellow students from my college days. “Flex,” they said. “Soar! Paint where your spirit leads.”
I flexed and soared with the best of them, but the finished work still looked like what it was.
I refolded the towel, burying the modern art, reapplied a clean area, and pressed.
“Who’s Todd?” Jon Clarke asked.
I shrugged. Good question. “Todd Reasoner. A friend.”
“Ah.”
Would that Todd were as easily explained as the conclusion Jon Clarke had apparently leaped to.
“Don’t do that,” Jon Clarke said.
I blinked. “Do what?”
“Don’t push against your cheek like that.”
I hadn’t even realized I was doing it.
“What if that thin piece of skin ruptures? Scarring. Infection. MRSA. Who knows?”
I frowned. Talk about Worst Case Scenario Man. I wanted to tell him I’d play with the inside of my cheek if I felt like it, but he was probably right about all the dire possibilities. I didn’t want to rupture that thin membrane so delicately protecting the inside of my mouth. And I certainly didn’t want to do anything to encourage the possibility of scarring. I looked in the mirror enough to know my face didn’t need that kind of help.
“Not many people get to stay on an Amish farm.” He paused. “Because of their closed society,” he added as if I wouldn’t understand his point. “You’re very fortunate to get the opportunity.”
“I know. I consider this chance a gift straight from God. One day my principal mentioned that he had Amish friends who were willing to take in a boarder. I got the Zooks’ name and contacted them immediately.”
I didn’t tell him that when I first went to the farm, I wore one of my conservative suits, a gift from my parents when they were still hoping to quell my tendency toward bright colors and what they considered the instability of the art community, not that they actually knew any artists but me.
“If you’re too artsy, Kristina,” they said almost daily, as if being “artsy” was the equivalent of having a single digit IQ, “people won’t take you seriously.”
What they meant was that their people, all high-powered corporate lawyers who earned high six figures or even seven annually, wouldn’t take me seriously. They were a group that had no time for business casual, let alone colorful artsy.
On that first visit to the Zooks, I hadn’t been certain what cultural landmines I’d have to navigate, so I determined to at least defuse the clothing issue, the one I knew about and could somewhat mitigate. I’d straightened my navy lapels and smoothed my cream silk blouse before I got out of the car, another cultural difference that I wasn’t willing to yield on, not if I wanted to get to work.
To my delight, I found Mary and John Zook gracious, respectful, and kind. Mary sat there in her pinned-together dress and dark stockings, her organdy kapp crisp in spite of the humidity. John wore a white shirt and black broadfall trousers. His beard was full with only a hint of gray, and his straw hat hung on a peg by the door. They might demand the simple life of themselves and their family, but it was immediately obvious they would not demand the same of me.
Wouldn’t it be amazing if I had more freedom to be myself here in the midst of this highly structured society than in my own parents’ home?
“Your principal?” Jon Clarke asked from his seat beside me. “You teach?”
I nodded. “Elementary art.”
“When I first pulled into the drive, I thought you must be Jake’s visiting nurse.”
“Not me. I’d be a terrible nurse.”
“But a good teacher.”
“Adequate, anyway. And I get the summers off to study and paint. How do you know the Zooks?”
“I’ve known them forever. My aunt and uncle live down the road from them. But I haven’t seen them in several years. In fact, I haven’t been in Lancaster for a long time.”
So I’d bled all over his first visit in years. Great. “Was it a job that kept you away?”
“Yes and no. Yes, when I was a youth pastor at a church in Michigan. No, when I went to seminary and graduate school. I just finished my doctorate in counseling.”
“Really?” I was impressed.
“No. I confess. I’m lying. I just thought it sounded like a wonderful way to astonish and amaze a pretty girl.”
I blinked at him, and he smiled impudently back. “Really?” he said in a dead-on imitation of me.
Flustered, I looked away from his laughing eyes. “I was just trying to make decent conversation.”
His smile deepened. It was, I couldn’t help noticing, a most wonderful smile, crinkling his eyes almost shut and inviting me to smile along, which I was careful not to do because of my cheek.
“Kristina Matthews?” called the woman at the desk. Her nameplate said she was Harriet. She scanned the empty room as though there might be several Kristinas lurking about, and I resisted the urge to look over my shoulder to see who might have sneaked in while I wasn’t looking.
When I stood, Harriet smiled brightly. “There you are. Right through here, please.”
As I entered the treatment area, I passed a teenage boy staggering out on crutches and a lady in a bathing suit with her arm in a bright pink cast. The walking wounded. I wondered what my battle scars would be.
Ten minutes later I looked away as a nurse stabbed me efficiently with a needle.
“This tetanus shot may cause your arm to swell or stiffen,” she said, her voice filled with sorrow over my possible plight. I couldn’t decide whether she was sorry I might swell or sorry I mightn’t. “If it swells or stiffens, don’t worry. Take aspirin or Tylenol and call your personal physician if the pain persists.” She turned away with a great sigh and began cleaning up the treatment area.
I slid off the examination table and looked at my wobbly reflection in the glass doors of the supply cabinet. The flesh-colored butterfly bandage stuck in the middle of my left cheek distorted my face slightly, but I didn’t mind. There had been no need for stitches.
“Any scarring will be minimal,” the doctor said absentmindedly as he wrote something on the forms Harriet had passed to him. He was a good match for the nurse. I doubted he even noticed her melancholia. “Just keep the wound dry and check with your regular doctor next week to have it redressed.” He ripped off the top copy of the paperwork and handed it to me. “It tells you here. And you’re certain the dog had his shots?”
I nodded, took the paper, and hurried to the waiting room. At least Jon Clarke hadn’t had to wait long once I was seen.
But the waiting room was empty. My angel of mercy had flown the coop. I was standing there wondering what to do next when Harriet at the desk called to me.
“Don’t worry, honey. He’ll be right back. He said he had to run a quick errand.”
I nodded with disproportionate relief.
“Men,” she said sympathetically. “You never know what they’re going to do, do you? Sometimes they take off, and you never see them again.” The edge that had crept into her voice made me think she was speaking from experience. She gave herself a little shake. “But yours looked nice enough to me. I think you can trust him, don’t you?”
Her guess was as good as mine. We’d both known him for about the same length of time.
She got up from her desk. “Listen. I’ve got to go to the ladies’ room. I’m talking emergency here, believe me. Stay by the desk and watch things for me, will you?”
Yikes. “What if someone comes in?”
“Tell them I’ll be back in a minute. But don’t worry,” she called over her shoulder as she disappeared through a door. “Nothing big ever happens on Saturday afternoon.”
Taking no comfort from those words, I looked at the quiet waiting room.
No one, Lord, okay? Not till she gets back, okay?
The prayer was barely formed when the waiting room door slid open and an older man in khaki work clothes entered. His face, damp with perspiration, matched the color of the white envelopes sticking out of his shirt pocket, and he was rubbing his left arm. He stopped beside me at the desk.
“I think I’m having a heart attack,” he said as he might say he was going to sneeze.
I felt my own heart stop beating and my mouth go dry.
He staggered, and I reached out instinctively, taking his arm and lowering him into Harriet’s chair.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“Don’t apologize!” Now my heart was beating so loudly I could scarcely
hear myself talk. “Don’t worry. Someone will be here to help you in a moment.”
Suddenly he stopped kneading his arm and pressed his hand against his chest. His face contorted and I froze. He was going to die right here while Harriet was in the ladies’ room!
After a minute he relaxed, and I began to breathe again. I ran to the door of the treatment area. “Help, somebody! Help!”
The sad-faced nurse leaned out of a cubicle. “Is anyone bleeding?” She was so intent on what was going on behind that curtain that she didn’t even look at me.
“No, but—”
“Then we’ll be there as soon as we can.” And she disappeared.
I could see several pairs of feet below the curtain and hear several voices,
including that of my doctor, who was barking orders with impressive authority. Through a door down the hall I could see an ambulance with its back doors still open.
“But he needs you now,” I called desperately. “He really does! It’s his—”
“We’ll be there in a minute,” she yelled as a great cascade of blood flowed onto the floor.
Pushing down panic and not knowing what else to do, I went back to the man.
“They’ll be here in a minute,” I told him with all the confidence I could muster.
“Had one before,” he whispered to me. “Don’t worry. It’ll be all right. I’m not ready to die yet. I’ve got stuff to do.”
I tried to smile to encourage him, but between my punctured cheek and my fear, I think it was more of a grimace. The man seemed to appreciate my effort anyway.
Dear God, I screamed in silent prayer, where’s Harriet? Send her out here fast, Lord! Please!
The man rested his head against the wall. “What’s your name? Are you Harriet?”
“I’m Kristie Matthews. Should you be talking?”
“I drove myself here. You don’t think talking’s any worse than that, do you?”
“You drove yourself here? With a heart attack?”
He smiled faintly. “I had to get here somehow. And I didn’t think you were Harriet. You don’t look like a Harriet.”
I didn’t look like this Harriet. Plain old straight brown hair cut to bend at my chin instead of too-black spikes and the electrified look. Five seven and slim instead of short and a fan of Dunkin’ Donuts, if Harriet’s figure and the box in the trash receptacle were any indication. A hole in my cheek instead of an abundance of blusher.
Suddenly he raised his head and looked at me with an intensity that made me blink. “Will you do me a favor, Kristie Matthews?”
I leaned close to hear his weak voice. “Of course.”
“Keep this for me.” He fumbled in his shirt pocket, reaching behind the envelopes. “But tell no one—no one—that you have it.” He slipped a key into my cold hand and folded my fingers over it.
I heard a gasp from behind me. Harriet was finally back.
“Heart attack,” I said, but Harriet was three steps ahead of me.
Her voice boomed over the PA. “Dr. Michaels, Dr, Michaels, stat. Dr. Michaels, code!” Harriet disappeared back into the treatment area yelling, “Marie! Charles! Where are you? Get yourselves out here fast!”
An arthritic finger tapped my closed fist. “Remember, tell no one,” the old man managed to whisper. “Promise?”
“I promise.” What else could I say?
He stared at my face as if searching my soul. He must have been satisfied with what he saw because his hand relaxed on mine and his eyes closed. “Don’t forget. I’m counting on you.” He gave a deep sigh, and I froze. Was that his last breath? “I’m counting on you.”
The room came alive with people. Medical personnel converged on the sick man, and I stepped back with relief.
“Don’t you ever go to the bathroom again,” I hissed at Harriet, who probably never would if she valued her job.
When the doors to the treatment area slid shut and I could no longer see the man, I collapsed in one of the orange chairs, struggling with tears.
This is ridiculous. Why am I crying? I don’t even know the man.
I gave myself a shake and stared at the small piece of metal in my hand. Why had he given his precious key to me, a total stranger? Why hadn’t he let the hospital personnel keep it for him? Or asked them to hold it for a family member?
What could it possibly open that no one—no one—must know of it?
And what in the world should I do with it?
It was a relief when Jon Clarke finally returned.
“I’m sorry,” he said with that winning smile. “I got held up in traffic. I hope you didn’t think I’d deserted you.”
“Of course not,” I said as I slipped the key into my pocket. I hastened to correct my lie. “At least, not after Harriet told me you’d be back.”
He cocked that dark, heavy brow at me again, saying as clearly as if I’d spoken aloud that he knew all too well what I’d thought.
I flushed and began talking to cover my embarrassment. “This old man came in and had a heart attack. He scared me to death! I was the only one in the room—Harriet had gone to the ladies’ room. I had to be with him until help came. He gave me—”
I stopped abruptly. “No one,” he’d said, he’d insisted. “Promise.” And I had.
Did I owe him my silence? I didn’t even know him.
But I didn’t know this sandy-haired, dark-browed man standing beside me, either. I only met him an hour or so ago. I couldn’t bleed all over him anymore.
“He gave me quite a scare,” I said, decision made. I gave a short laugh. “I’m not used to anything more serious than the common cold or one of my students throwing up.”
But what would I do if he died?
I’d been so sure I’d lost my face. My stomach still curdled at the memory. All I’d done was bend down to pet Hawk, the sable-and-tan German shepherd sleeping contentedly in the mid-August sun. How was I to know he had a nasty cut hiding under that sleek hot fur?
I was horrified when he lashed out, startled by the pain I had inadvertently caused him. He got me in the cheek with a fang, but despite the blood, the wound was mostly superficial. The thought of what would have happened if he’d closed his mouth made me break out in a fine sweat.
How dumb to touch a sleeping dog. Dumb, dumb, dumb. I knew better. Everyone knew better.
As we entered the emergency room, I rearranged my towel to find an area not stained with blood. I went to the desk and signed in with a woman whose jet black hair stuck out in spikes to rival a hedgehog. When she had my life’s history, she patted my paperwork with a proprietary air that made me wonder if she was willing to share the information with the people I’d come to see.
“Have a seat.” She gave me a warm smile. “They’ll be with you shortly.”
Hoping shortly really meant shortly, I took my seat.
“You don’t have to wait,” I told Jon Clarke as he took the bright orange plastic chair beside me in the otherwise empty emergency room. He smiled slightly and stretched his long legs out before him, the picture of long-suffering
and quiet accommodation. His posture said it didn’t matter how long things took. He was prepared to be gallant and wait it out.
“Really,” I said. “I’ll be all right. You can go.”
I was embarrassed to have inflicted myself upon this man I didn’t know, this man whose last name I couldn’t even remember. He’d pulled into the drive at the Zooks’ Amish farm just as I bent over Hawk. While Mary Zook plied me with towels and bemoaned my possible disfigurement when she wasn’t yelling at the innocent Hawk, John Clarke Whoever climbed out of his car, took me by the elbow, put me in his passenger seat, and drove me here.
What would I have done if he hadn’t come along at just the right moment? Gone to the hospital in a buggy? Certainly that wouldn’t have worked if I’d had a life-threatening injury. I guess if that were the case, someone would run to the phone down on the road and dial 911 or run to a neighbor with a car. Hmm. Peace and serenity of the Amish variety had a definite downside.
Jon Clarke smiled at me now, looking comfortable in his very uncomfortable chair. “Of course I’ll wait for you. I’d never run out on a lady in distress. Besides, you need a way home.”
“I could call a cab.”
“Bird-in-Hand is too far from Lancaster for that. It would cost a fortune.” He smiled at me again, politely patient.
“It’s only fifteen minutes max.”
“That’s a lot when the fare indicator goes ca-ching, ca-ching. It’s better if I just wait.”
I gritted my teeth. Just what I needed, a shining knight when I was in no condition to play the lady. I smiled ungraciously and winced.
“Hurt much?”
Of course it hurt. What did he think? “The strange thing is that my tongue can push into the wound from the inside of my mouth. Only a thin piece of skin on my inner cheek keeps the puncture from going all the way through.” I pushed against my cheek with my tongue. It was a creepy sensation to feel the hole, but I couldn’t resist the need to fiddle.
He looked suitably impressed and apparently decided to keep talking to distract me from my pain and injury. I must say he shouldered the burden with stoic determination and great charm.
“Have you lived in the Lancaster area long?” he asked, and I could have sworn he actually cared.
“Three years. I love it here.”
“Were you at the Zooks’ to visit Jake too?”
Too. So he had come to see Jake. I shook my head. “I live there.”
That stopped him. “Really? On the farm?” He raised an eyebrow at me, an improbably dark eyebrow considering the light brown of his hair. “Have you been living there long?”
I glanced at the clock on the wall. “About four hours.”
The eyebrow rose once again. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Great beginning, isn’t it? Todd spent the morning and early afternoon helping me move, and he’d just left. I was on my way into the house when I stopped to pet Hawk.” I sighed. “They’ll probably decide I’m too much trouble to have around.”
I pulled the towel from my cheek and studied the bloody patterns on the white terry cloth. They looked like abstract art. I was an artist myself, but I never painted compositions like these. I liked more realism—which meant my work would probably never hang in important galleries.
Uptight and unimaginative, according to certain professors and fellow students from my college days. “Flex,” they said. “Soar! Paint where your spirit leads.”
I flexed and soared with the best of them, but the finished work still looked like what it was.
I refolded the towel, burying the modern art, reapplied a clean area, and pressed.
“Who’s Todd?” Jon Clarke asked.
I shrugged. Good question. “Todd Reasoner. A friend.”
“Ah.”
Would that Todd were as easily explained as the conclusion Jon Clarke had apparently leaped to.
“Don’t do that,” Jon Clarke said.
I blinked. “Do what?”
“Don’t push against your cheek like that.”
I hadn’t even realized I was doing it.
“What if that thin piece of skin ruptures? Scarring. Infection. MRSA. Who knows?”
I frowned. Talk about Worst Case Scenario Man. I wanted to tell him I’d play with the inside of my cheek if I felt like it, but he was probably right about all the dire possibilities. I didn’t want to rupture that thin membrane so delicately protecting the inside of my mouth. And I certainly didn’t want to do anything to encourage the possibility of scarring. I looked in the mirror enough to know my face didn’t need that kind of help.
“Not many people get to stay on an Amish farm.” He paused. “Because of their closed society,” he added as if I wouldn’t understand his point. “You’re very fortunate to get the opportunity.”
“I know. I consider this chance a gift straight from God. One day my principal mentioned that he had Amish friends who were willing to take in a boarder. I got the Zooks’ name and contacted them immediately.”
I didn’t tell him that when I first went to the farm, I wore one of my conservative suits, a gift from my parents when they were still hoping to quell my tendency toward bright colors and what they considered the instability of the art community, not that they actually knew any artists but me.
“If you’re too artsy, Kristina,” they said almost daily, as if being “artsy” was the equivalent of having a single digit IQ, “people won’t take you seriously.”
What they meant was that their people, all high-powered corporate lawyers who earned high six figures or even seven annually, wouldn’t take me seriously. They were a group that had no time for business casual, let alone colorful artsy.
On that first visit to the Zooks, I hadn’t been certain what cultural landmines I’d have to navigate, so I determined to at least defuse the clothing issue, the one I knew about and could somewhat mitigate. I’d straightened my navy lapels and smoothed my cream silk blouse before I got out of the car, another cultural difference that I wasn’t willing to yield on, not if I wanted to get to work.
To my delight, I found Mary and John Zook gracious, respectful, and kind. Mary sat there in her pinned-together dress and dark stockings, her organdy kapp crisp in spite of the humidity. John wore a white shirt and black broadfall trousers. His beard was full with only a hint of gray, and his straw hat hung on a peg by the door. They might demand the simple life of themselves and their family, but it was immediately obvious they would not demand the same of me.
Wouldn’t it be amazing if I had more freedom to be myself here in the midst of this highly structured society than in my own parents’ home?
“Your principal?” Jon Clarke asked from his seat beside me. “You teach?”
I nodded. “Elementary art.”
“When I first pulled into the drive, I thought you must be Jake’s visiting nurse.”
“Not me. I’d be a terrible nurse.”
“But a good teacher.”
“Adequate, anyway. And I get the summers off to study and paint. How do you know the Zooks?”
“I’ve known them forever. My aunt and uncle live down the road from them. But I haven’t seen them in several years. In fact, I haven’t been in Lancaster for a long time.”
So I’d bled all over his first visit in years. Great. “Was it a job that kept you away?”
“Yes and no. Yes, when I was a youth pastor at a church in Michigan. No, when I went to seminary and graduate school. I just finished my doctorate in counseling.”
“Really?” I was impressed.
“No. I confess. I’m lying. I just thought it sounded like a wonderful way to astonish and amaze a pretty girl.”
I blinked at him, and he smiled impudently back. “Really?” he said in a dead-on imitation of me.
Flustered, I looked away from his laughing eyes. “I was just trying to make decent conversation.”
His smile deepened. It was, I couldn’t help noticing, a most wonderful smile, crinkling his eyes almost shut and inviting me to smile along, which I was careful not to do because of my cheek.
“Kristina Matthews?” called the woman at the desk. Her nameplate said she was Harriet. She scanned the empty room as though there might be several Kristinas lurking about, and I resisted the urge to look over my shoulder to see who might have sneaked in while I wasn’t looking.
When I stood, Harriet smiled brightly. “There you are. Right through here, please.”
As I entered the treatment area, I passed a teenage boy staggering out on crutches and a lady in a bathing suit with her arm in a bright pink cast. The walking wounded. I wondered what my battle scars would be.
Ten minutes later I looked away as a nurse stabbed me efficiently with a needle.
“This tetanus shot may cause your arm to swell or stiffen,” she said, her voice filled with sorrow over my possible plight. I couldn’t decide whether she was sorry I might swell or sorry I mightn’t. “If it swells or stiffens, don’t worry. Take aspirin or Tylenol and call your personal physician if the pain persists.” She turned away with a great sigh and began cleaning up the treatment area.
I slid off the examination table and looked at my wobbly reflection in the glass doors of the supply cabinet. The flesh-colored butterfly bandage stuck in the middle of my left cheek distorted my face slightly, but I didn’t mind. There had been no need for stitches.
“Any scarring will be minimal,” the doctor said absentmindedly as he wrote something on the forms Harriet had passed to him. He was a good match for the nurse. I doubted he even noticed her melancholia. “Just keep the wound dry and check with your regular doctor next week to have it redressed.” He ripped off the top copy of the paperwork and handed it to me. “It tells you here. And you’re certain the dog had his shots?”
I nodded, took the paper, and hurried to the waiting room. At least Jon Clarke hadn’t had to wait long once I was seen.
But the waiting room was empty. My angel of mercy had flown the coop. I was standing there wondering what to do next when Harriet at the desk called to me.
“Don’t worry, honey. He’ll be right back. He said he had to run a quick errand.”
I nodded with disproportionate relief.
“Men,” she said sympathetically. “You never know what they’re going to do, do you? Sometimes they take off, and you never see them again.” The edge that had crept into her voice made me think she was speaking from experience. She gave herself a little shake. “But yours looked nice enough to me. I think you can trust him, don’t you?”
Her guess was as good as mine. We’d both known him for about the same length of time.
She got up from her desk. “Listen. I’ve got to go to the ladies’ room. I’m talking emergency here, believe me. Stay by the desk and watch things for me, will you?”
Yikes. “What if someone comes in?”
“Tell them I’ll be back in a minute. But don’t worry,” she called over her shoulder as she disappeared through a door. “Nothing big ever happens on Saturday afternoon.”
Taking no comfort from those words, I looked at the quiet waiting room.
No one, Lord, okay? Not till she gets back, okay?
The prayer was barely formed when the waiting room door slid open and an older man in khaki work clothes entered. His face, damp with perspiration, matched the color of the white envelopes sticking out of his shirt pocket, and he was rubbing his left arm. He stopped beside me at the desk.
“I think I’m having a heart attack,” he said as he might say he was going to sneeze.
I felt my own heart stop beating and my mouth go dry.
He staggered, and I reached out instinctively, taking his arm and lowering him into Harriet’s chair.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“Don’t apologize!” Now my heart was beating so loudly I could scarcely
hear myself talk. “Don’t worry. Someone will be here to help you in a moment.”
Suddenly he stopped kneading his arm and pressed his hand against his chest. His face contorted and I froze. He was going to die right here while Harriet was in the ladies’ room!
After a minute he relaxed, and I began to breathe again. I ran to the door of the treatment area. “Help, somebody! Help!”
The sad-faced nurse leaned out of a cubicle. “Is anyone bleeding?” She was so intent on what was going on behind that curtain that she didn’t even look at me.
“No, but—”
“Then we’ll be there as soon as we can.” And she disappeared.
I could see several pairs of feet below the curtain and hear several voices,
including that of my doctor, who was barking orders with impressive authority. Through a door down the hall I could see an ambulance with its back doors still open.
“But he needs you now,” I called desperately. “He really does! It’s his—”
“We’ll be there in a minute,” she yelled as a great cascade of blood flowed onto the floor.
Pushing down panic and not knowing what else to do, I went back to the man.
“They’ll be here in a minute,” I told him with all the confidence I could muster.
“Had one before,” he whispered to me. “Don’t worry. It’ll be all right. I’m not ready to die yet. I’ve got stuff to do.”
I tried to smile to encourage him, but between my punctured cheek and my fear, I think it was more of a grimace. The man seemed to appreciate my effort anyway.
Dear God, I screamed in silent prayer, where’s Harriet? Send her out here fast, Lord! Please!
The man rested his head against the wall. “What’s your name? Are you Harriet?”
“I’m Kristie Matthews. Should you be talking?”
“I drove myself here. You don’t think talking’s any worse than that, do you?”
“You drove yourself here? With a heart attack?”
He smiled faintly. “I had to get here somehow. And I didn’t think you were Harriet. You don’t look like a Harriet.”
I didn’t look like this Harriet. Plain old straight brown hair cut to bend at my chin instead of too-black spikes and the electrified look. Five seven and slim instead of short and a fan of Dunkin’ Donuts, if Harriet’s figure and the box in the trash receptacle were any indication. A hole in my cheek instead of an abundance of blusher.
Suddenly he raised his head and looked at me with an intensity that made me blink. “Will you do me a favor, Kristie Matthews?”
I leaned close to hear his weak voice. “Of course.”
“Keep this for me.” He fumbled in his shirt pocket, reaching behind the envelopes. “But tell no one—no one—that you have it.” He slipped a key into my cold hand and folded my fingers over it.
I heard a gasp from behind me. Harriet was finally back.
“Heart attack,” I said, but Harriet was three steps ahead of me.
Her voice boomed over the PA. “Dr. Michaels, Dr, Michaels, stat. Dr. Michaels, code!” Harriet disappeared back into the treatment area yelling, “Marie! Charles! Where are you? Get yourselves out here fast!”
An arthritic finger tapped my closed fist. “Remember, tell no one,” the old man managed to whisper. “Promise?”
“I promise.” What else could I say?
He stared at my face as if searching my soul. He must have been satisfied with what he saw because his hand relaxed on mine and his eyes closed. “Don’t forget. I’m counting on you.” He gave a deep sigh, and I froze. Was that his last breath? “I’m counting on you.”
The room came alive with people. Medical personnel converged on the sick man, and I stepped back with relief.
“Don’t you ever go to the bathroom again,” I hissed at Harriet, who probably never would if she valued her job.
When the doors to the treatment area slid shut and I could no longer see the man, I collapsed in one of the orange chairs, struggling with tears.
This is ridiculous. Why am I crying? I don’t even know the man.
I gave myself a shake and stared at the small piece of metal in my hand. Why had he given his precious key to me, a total stranger? Why hadn’t he let the hospital personnel keep it for him? Or asked them to hold it for a family member?
What could it possibly open that no one—no one—must know of it?
And what in the world should I do with it?
It was a relief when Jon Clarke finally returned.
“I’m sorry,” he said with that winning smile. “I got held up in traffic. I hope you didn’t think I’d deserted you.”
“Of course not,” I said as I slipped the key into my pocket. I hastened to correct my lie. “At least, not after Harriet told me you’d be back.”
He cocked that dark, heavy brow at me again, saying as clearly as if I’d spoken aloud that he knew all too well what I’d thought.
I flushed and began talking to cover my embarrassment. “This old man came in and had a heart attack. He scared me to death! I was the only one in the room—Harriet had gone to the ladies’ room. I had to be with him until help came. He gave me—”
I stopped abruptly. “No one,” he’d said, he’d insisted. “Promise.” And I had.
Did I owe him my silence? I didn’t even know him.
But I didn’t know this sandy-haired, dark-browed man standing beside me, either. I only met him an hour or so ago. I couldn’t bleed all over him anymore.
“He gave me quite a scare,” I said, decision made. I gave a short laugh. “I’m not used to anything more serious than the common cold or one of my students throwing up.”
But what would I do if he died?
Book Tour, thoughts and giveaway: Citizen Dick by Richard Arneson
About Citizen Dick
For Dick, boredom soon sets in, so he writes farcical press releases—to pass the time and for the enjoyment of his co-workers—about outrageous, bogus product offerings CommGlobalTeleVista has in the works.
But when one of the press releases gets leaked to the press, Wall Street responds favorably to the moribund corporation for the first time in several years. And when Noble Tud, the sleazy, hirsute, golf- and prison-obsessed CEO discovers Dick is uncannily lucky—he’s had fourteen holes-in-one—he decides to carry out the press release’s claims that CommGlobalTeleVista is about to take over a large meat company. And if doing so edges their stock price north of $75/share, Tud will receive a $100M bonus.
About Richard Arneson
Richard Arneson’s thirteen years
working in corporate America drove him up a tree—literally. Once he
escaped the telecommunications industry after ten years of service, he
built a tree house—ostensibly for his two young sons—installed
electricity and cable TV, and set out to fix himself, deciding that
dealing with the memories of working in the goofy-as-hell world of
corporate America could only be accomplished by getting them down on
paper. Citizen Dick is the result.Arneson is currently working on his next novel, The Tree House, which, ironically, is not being written in his tree house but in the cab of his 1950 Chevy pickup truck. He lives in Dallas, Texas with his wife and their two sons. He has plans to build a second story on his tree house in early 2010, one large enough to accommodate a baby grand piano and two dental chairs.
Visit his website at: CitizenDick.com
Read an Excerpt
After his closing prayer, Noble, a devilish grin on his face,
sauntered over to Comstock. It was the first night Comstock had attended
the meeting, and the first time Noble had worked up his awe-struck
nerves to converse with somebody other than Kent, Tony, an effeminate
youth minister from the Vacquelvail Bible Church, or the two guards who
told each other bawdy, Catholic jokes in the back of the room.
“So…Milo…what are you in here for?” asked Noble with a slight warble in his voice.
“It’s Comstock.”
Noble scanned Comstock from head to toe and shook his head. “They really wrap you boys up, don’t they? Are the long sleeves for the visitors?”
“No, we always wear— ”
“To cover up the tattoos, I bet,” said Noble, beaming.
“I don’t have any tattoos.”
“You in a gang, Milo?”
“My name’s not—”
“Did you say you don’t have any tattoos?” Noble couldn’t mask his disappointment.
Comstock shook his head.
Noble scratched the bridge of his nose. “But what about the tattoo guns—”
“What about them?”
“How do you get tattoos in here?”
“I wouldn’t know. I don’t have any tattoos,” said Comstock, calmly. “They wouldn’t really…work for me on the outside.”
Noble frowned, but quickly retrieved his diabolical grin. “What kind of weapons you see in here, Milo?”
“It’s Comstock—”
“Shanks?” queried Noble excitedly.
“Shanks?”
“Shivs,” offered Noble.
“Excuse me?” said Comstock, offended.
Noble was getting impatient. His eyes widened. “Zip guns?”
“I have a Ph.D. in finance, sir,” snapped Comstock. “I was the president of a bank.”
Noble did a slow burn, then scurried across the room, grabbed Kent’s arm, and yanked him from his conversation with Tony. “What kind of prison is this? There are no shanks, shivs, or zip guns. No tattoo guns. No tattoos, Kent! Hell, Milo over there is the president of a bank!”
“It’s a minimum security prison, Mr. Tud,” said Tony, sheepishly.
Noble fumed. “Is this true, Battdarfen?”
Kent nodded nervously any time Noble called him by his last name.
Noble kicked the leg of an old, pale wood table. “I’ve gotta come to a bank president jail every month? I can find those guys at the club!”
“It’s only temporary,” said Kent, reassuringly. “Only until word gets out that you’re not a, well…”
Tony pointed at a tall, lean, gray-haired, dignified-looking man in his early sixties. “That’s my father, Mr. Tud.”
Noble studied Tony’s father and noticed his white, prison-issue outfit.
“He’s in here?” Noble sounded vaguely encouraged.
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s he in for?” asked Noble.
Tony grimaced. “He didn’t file taxes for a stretch there.”
“Taxes, eh?” Noble rocked on his feet. “How much time did he get?”
“Sixty days.”
Noble turned to Kent and pointed at Tony’s father. “I could take him.”
“Damn straight you could,” assured Kent.
“So…Milo…what are you in here for?” asked Noble with a slight warble in his voice.
“It’s Comstock.”
Noble scanned Comstock from head to toe and shook his head. “They really wrap you boys up, don’t they? Are the long sleeves for the visitors?”
“No, we always wear— ”
“To cover up the tattoos, I bet,” said Noble, beaming.
“I don’t have any tattoos.”
“You in a gang, Milo?”
“My name’s not—”
“Did you say you don’t have any tattoos?” Noble couldn’t mask his disappointment.
Comstock shook his head.
Noble scratched the bridge of his nose. “But what about the tattoo guns—”
“What about them?”
“How do you get tattoos in here?”
“I wouldn’t know. I don’t have any tattoos,” said Comstock, calmly. “They wouldn’t really…work for me on the outside.”
Noble frowned, but quickly retrieved his diabolical grin. “What kind of weapons you see in here, Milo?”
“It’s Comstock—”
“Shanks?” queried Noble excitedly.
“Shanks?”
“Shivs,” offered Noble.
“Excuse me?” said Comstock, offended.
Noble was getting impatient. His eyes widened. “Zip guns?”
“I have a Ph.D. in finance, sir,” snapped Comstock. “I was the president of a bank.”
Noble did a slow burn, then scurried across the room, grabbed Kent’s arm, and yanked him from his conversation with Tony. “What kind of prison is this? There are no shanks, shivs, or zip guns. No tattoo guns. No tattoos, Kent! Hell, Milo over there is the president of a bank!”
“It’s a minimum security prison, Mr. Tud,” said Tony, sheepishly.
Noble fumed. “Is this true, Battdarfen?”
Kent nodded nervously any time Noble called him by his last name.
Noble kicked the leg of an old, pale wood table. “I’ve gotta come to a bank president jail every month? I can find those guys at the club!”
“It’s only temporary,” said Kent, reassuringly. “Only until word gets out that you’re not a, well…”
Tony pointed at a tall, lean, gray-haired, dignified-looking man in his early sixties. “That’s my father, Mr. Tud.”
Noble studied Tony’s father and noticed his white, prison-issue outfit.
“He’s in here?” Noble sounded vaguely encouraged.
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s he in for?” asked Noble.
Tony grimaced. “He didn’t file taxes for a stretch there.”
“Taxes, eh?” Noble rocked on his feet. “How much time did he get?”
“Sixty days.”
Noble turned to Kent and pointed at Tony’s father. “I could take him.”
“Damn straight you could,” assured Kent.
My Thoughts:
Okay - I didn't finish this one. I don't know if it was me or not. I honestly thought this book would be a good fit for me. I like sarcastic, I like witty. Citizen Dick is both of these, but unfortunately for me after about 100 pages it still wasn't coming together for me. I was laughing and rolling my eyes at the insane (yet real) characters and their antics through everything I read, but the story wasn't happening for me. I think if I had kept reading it probably would have come together. But I had enough.
If you like stories that jump around then this is for you. I do sometimes, but not at the moment. I will be giving this one a go at a later date - so I'm not just chunking it - that should say something. I really enjoyed the author's wit and think his characters were good, it's just a timing thing for me I guess.
So please, visit some of the other tour stops - see how others feel. Hopefully I will get through this in the near future and then I will post a review.
***
GIVEAWAY:
I have one copy of Citizen Dick to giveaway. US only. Comment to enter, follow, tweet, blog, etc. for extra entries. Try this one out for yourself - it may be just the book you are looking for!
***
Thanks to Pump Up Your Book Promotions for my copy of Citizen Dick for review.
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Richard Arneson’s CITIZEN DICK VIRTUAL BLOG TOUR 2010 will officially begin on April 5 and end on April 30. You can visit Richard’s blog stops at www.virtualbooktours.wordpress.com during the month of March to find out more about this great book and talented author!
Waiting on Wednesday - April 14
"Waiting On" Wednesday
is a weekly event, hosted by Jill at Breaking the Spine, that spotlights upcoming releases that we're eagerly
anticipating.
Draw the Dark by Ilsa J. Bick
Release: October 2010
There are things the people of Winter, Wisconsin, would rather forget. The year the Nazis came to town, for one. That fire, for another. But what they'd really like to forget is Christian Cage.Seventeen-year-old Christian's parents disappeared when he was a little boy. Ever since, he's drawn obsessively: his mother's face...her eyes...and what he calls "the sideways place," where he says his parents are trapped. Christian figures if he can just see through his mother's eyes, maybe he can get there somehow and save them.
But Christian also draws other things. Ugly things. Evil things. Dark things. Things like other people's fears and nightmares. Their pasts. Their destiny.
And some things the people of Winter would rather forget—like murder.
But Winter won't be able to forget the truth, no matter how hard it tries. Not as long as Christian draws the dark...
About Ilsa J. Bick
Ilsa J. Bick is a child psychiatrist, as well as a film scholar, surgeon wannabe, former Air Force major, and an award-winning author of short stories, e-books and novels. She has also written for several long-running sci-fi series, and her original stories have been featured in numerous anthologies, magazines and online venues.Ilsa currently lives with her family and several furry creatures in rural Wisconsin, near a Hebrew cemetery. One thing she loves about the neighbors: They're very quiet and only come around for sugar once in a blue moon.
Follow her blog at www.ilsajbick.com.
Book Details
Hardcover: 978-0-7613-5686-8List Price: $16.95
Reading Level: Grade 7
Interest Level: Grades 7-12
©2010
344 pages
5 1/4" x 7 1/2"
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