What Love Requires, Y'all

By Michael Ehret

(Scene: Country radio studio where the host, Jimmy Guffey, is about to talk with New Yorker Patricia Talbot, sweetheart of bullriding star Talon Carlson, the hometown boy. Guffey has heard that Talbot has talked Carlson into giving up bullriding and, as a longtime fan, he wants to know why. See the contest offered after the post!)

Jimmy: This is Jimmy Guffey on KPLR, Praise the Lord for the Rodeo Radio, 104.3, on your FM dial. Today, on “Bustin’ Broncs for the Kingdom,” we’re talkin’ to Patricia Talbert, a New York hoity-toity social coordinator who’s fallen hard for our #1 rodeo hero, Talon Carlson, from right here in Stephenville, Texas.

Jimmy says this is a photo of Talon as a
young cowboy. There's no proof of that claim.

Talon, as y'all know, loves nothing more than bullridin’ and the rodeo, save perhaps The Man Upstairs, so when this longtime fan of his heard he was givin’ up bullridin’, well, I just knew there had to be more to this story and, as one of Talon’s biggest fans, I’m itchin’ to find out the truth.

So, Patty, what’s the scoop? Fill us in, if you can. I understand a gal name of Linda Yezak—she ain’t country, now, is she? Not with a name like Yezak. Anyway, I understand this Linda has told your and Talon’s story. So tell us what you told her. How’d you convince our Talon to leave the circuit?

Patricia: Well now Jimmy, Linda may not have been raised in the country, but she's always been country at heart. Her husband, on the other hand, was raised on a farm in central Texas. You want country? His family didn't have electricity until he was six. Now that's country!

You really want to know how I made Talon promise not to ride? Well, I decided to show him what it's like to watch someone he loved get thrown. I rode Mostro—the wildest steer on the Circle Bar Ranch.

Talon taught me how to ride bulls. Even though they were fairly tame, he made me ride them without a flank strap, which, as you know Jimmy, tends to make the ride more dangerous. I wanted the strap when I rode Mostro, but I didn't know what I was in for. It made him so mean and wild, he threw me into the next pen.

After watching me get tossed, Talon didn't think twice about making the promise. Of course, it helped that he was recovering from a concussion and a broken arm he'd received when Burnt Biscuit threw him into the ER not days before. Linda told about that event in Give the Lady a Ride.

Jimmy, there’s a Bible verse comes to mind. It’s 1 Corinthians 13:7 about all the things love does—and not all of them are easy! In fact, they can all be difficult when you think about it. “Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.” I’ve been reading up on that lately, and when I think about it in connection to Talon and me, it gives me pause.

Jimmy: I’m glad you brought that up. As I understand it, you’re learning to put boots on that verse and walk it around the ranch, so to speak. Tell us about that. For instance, “Love bears all things.” What kinds of things are you willing to bear for love?

Patricia: I know what I can't bear—to see Talon hurt again. But it seems Aunt Adele is pushing him to get back on a bull, just so she can see him ride. She's my aunt and I love her, but Talon and I both have to bear with her attempts to take me back to Manhattan.

The verse says, “Love bears all things.” Love isn't restricted to any particular type. It can be the kind of love Talon and I share, or the kind I feel for the ranch, my friends, and my family—even Aunt Adele. Right now, bearing with her is stretching my patience!

Jimmy: The next part of that there verse says that “love believes all things.” I dare say that could cause some problems. Let’s just say Talon has been known to stretch a truth a time or two—he ain’t perfect. So Patty, er, Patricia, beg yer pardon, why do you think you can believe him when he says he’s never going to ride another bull?

Patricia: Ha! You know him well. His practical jokes and tall tales are legendary. I still remember the one he pulled on me when we checked for estrus cows. Almost had me convinced that the only way to know they were in heat was to approach them with a thermometer . . . well, that's another story.

For all his pranks, though, I believe in him. He's not at all like the men I knew in New York—or DC either, for that matter. We've been together about a year now, and everything I see of him smacks of integrity. He's the preacher at our Cowboy Church, and he's highly respected around here. Not to mention how patient he has been with Aunt Adele. That alone just amazes me. I can't imagine him breaking a promise to me or anyone else.

Besides, he had to do all his ranch work one-handed while he waited for his arm to heal. I'm certain he wouldn't want to risk that again.

Jimmy: Hope is what keeps many a cowboy in the game, as you know. Hope that next time he’ll make the eight or win that buckle. “Love hopes all things.” What does that mean to your life?

Patricia: My hopes are centered around making a life here at the ranch. It's totally different from New York, but I believe God wants me here. Aunt Adele thinks she can lure me back, but I love it here too much, love the people too much. I love Talon, and he belongs here, which means I do too.

I have hope that God will convince Adele—and my mother, who no doubt put her up to making my life crazy—that I am where I belong and with whom I belong.

But I also hope that the scars from my past will heal, and that this time, with this man, things will be different.

With God, all things are possible, and He is the source of my hope now.

Jimmy: Now I know you don’t want to give away too much, Patricia, and ruin things for Linda and her readers, but endurance—that there’s another great cowboy trait. I’ve seen Talon endure some pretty tough times, on the bull and off. But what does that mean to you? What are you willing to endure for your own sake? For Talon’s sake? For the Lord’s sake?

Patricia: That’s a great question, Jimmy. Honestly, at this moment, I don't know for certain what God has in store for me here. So far, all I've had to endure is the insufferable Texas heat—and Consuela's cooking lessons and a lot of ribbing from the men for being such a greenhorn.

But since I returned to my Savior last year, I've spent every day studying His word, learning who He is, and lamenting what I've missed all these years separated from Him. Whatever He sends my way, whatever I'll have to endure in the future, I know it will be much easier than what I've endured in the past. Because this time, I'll have Him to guide me through it.

Jimmy: Well, that’s about it for us folks here KPLR, Praise the Lord for the Rodeo Radio. Today we’ve been talking with Ms. Patricia Talbert about love and what it does—and what it requires. Look for the complete story of Patricia and Talon in the books by Miz Yezak, Give The Lady a Ride and the just released The Final Ride, available now in fine stories everywhere and online.

Y'all enter this contest!

Before you go folks, I am feeling led to announce a contest! That’s right, a chance for y'all to win both of these fine books by that Yezak filly.

No, I ain’t gonna make it easy on ya’—what’s the fun of that? But just answer this question below and you’re entered!  

Question: When have you had to put 1 Corinthians 13:7 into action in your life? Creativity and giggles count, so give it your best shot.

Here’s the skinny on that Yezak woman:

More than 25 years ago, after a decade of life as a "single-again," author Linda W. Yezak rediscovered God's love and forgiveness when He allowed her a second chance at marital happiness. She is now living her greatest romance with her husband in a forest in East Texas. After such an amazing blessing, she chooses to trumpet God's gift of second chances in the books she writes. Linda's novels are heart-warming hallmarks of love, forgiveness, and new beginnings.

Connect with her at: Facebook Fan Page, Pinterest, Amazon Page, Goodreads, Newsletter, at 777 Peppermint Place, and on Twitter at @LindaYezak. 

____________________________________

Michael Ehret has accepted God's invitation and is a freelance editor at WritingOnTheFineLine.com. In addition, he's worked as editor-in-chief of the ACFW Journal at American Christian Fiction Writers. He pays the bills as a marketing communications writer and sharpened his writing and editing skills as a reporter for The Indianapolis News and The Indianapolis Star.

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Contest Mavens--An Author's Secret Weapon

by Linore Rose Burkard

We've all run into them. Readers who seem to enter every free book contest on the internet, leaving short comments to secure an entry and then dashing off, probably in search of the next contest. They do, in fact, win books. Sometimes they win many.

We want people to enter our contests, of course, but what of the serial contest participant—the contest mavens? The ones who enter, but never buy? An author might be tempted to wonder if such readers ever actually purchase any books. We might be tempted to wish them away.

But I want you to welcome them with open arms. They are an author's friend. Here's why.

Even if they show up just in hopes of winning your book, they're still showing up. They leave a comment. Comments add up, even to search engines. But there are other ways contest mavens do authors a favor:

1. They spread the word about the contest. There really ARE folks who will learn about a book during a contest, get their interest piqued and go buy a copy. They're not the contest type—they don't enter, don't like giving away their email address, but enjoy reading new books and are happy to discover them serendipitously—via a random blog post, review, recommendation—or even a contest. So, although your contest maven never buys your book, she may send readers your way. (It's a good idea, in fact, to ask them to.)

2. They are living leads for garnering reviews. This is possibly THE best fringe benefit a contest maven offers.  These readers follow lots of book review sites since they offer the most giveaways. So when they leave a comment (at least on blogger/blogspot) you can click their little profile icon and you'll be taken to their profile page—with all the bookish sites they follow.  This is the secret! They know where lots of book hot spots are! You'll be surprised at all the blogs you've never heard of but which readers congregate at.  Visit the sites, see if your book is a good fit for the reviewer(s) and then query them to arrange a review.

When you query:

·         If they routinely do book giveaways, offer one of yours for said purpose.  

·         Don't query sites that haven't already reviewed books in your genre/age range

·         Be polite and assure reviewers that a review is voluntary, even if they accept your book. This is industry standard, and most of them will go on to review the book if they liked it.

·         Some have their own forms uploaded to the site for queries. Use them if they're available. This saves you the added step of searching for the contact information yourself.

·         Be sure to offer the book in as many forms as possible (Kindle; print; PDF, etc.). If they state their preference in their profile or elsewhere, offer it in the preferred format.

Back to the mavens: Some of these folks are truly strapped for cash and enter contests because it's the only way they can build their library. (Hats off to this set. We're glad you enter our contests!)  And if your contest maven simply loves the thrill of winning something for nothing? Well, there's no law against that. It's okay. It IS fun to win an item.

Of course we run our giveaways in the hope of raising interest for our book. We hope the contest will whet the appetites of some readers who will go on and buy a copy. Writing is a business, after all. Much as we'd like everyone interested in our books to get a free one, we simply can't provide them, and we need book buyers to stay in business. It's okay to remind contest mavens of this now and then, nicely, in a blog post or a comment of your own.

And then thank them for entering your giveaway—even if it is the third book they've won from you. Because by doing the above, you'll garner more reviews, which, in turn, will garner more readers.  (If your book doesn't need more reviews, then you are likely not running contests either and none of this will apply to you.) For those of us who diligently seek more honest reviews, remember the contest maven! 

Linore Rose Burkard wrote a trilogy of genuine regency romances for the Christian market before there were any regencies for the Christian market. Her books opened up the genre in the CBA. She also writes YA Suspense/Apocalyptic fiction as L.R. Burkard. Married with five children, she home-schools her youngest daughter, preferably with coffee in one hand and iPad in the other. Her latest book, PULSE, a tale of  apocalyptic suspense, takes readers into a "chilling possible future for America!" The sequel, RESILIENCE, is now available on Amazon for pre-orders.

   

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Win This Awesome Table!

Wouldn't it look amazing in your home?

To help promote my newest release, I've decided to give away this brand new, totally awesome table. Here's how to enter! 


During the month of September, 2014

1. if you buy a new copy of Driftwood Tides, latest novel by Gina Holmes Ebook or paperback), simply friend her on facebook athttps://www.facebook.com/gina.waters.372 and message or comment that you purchased it. (Receipt with date will be required if you win and the date must be by Sept. 29th, 2014.

The winner will be randomly drawn on Sept 30th, 2014, and announced on my facebook personal and author page. You will also be notified via fb message if possible. 

Winner will have 7 days to claim their prize, provide a valid shipping address (continental US only) and phone # for shipping purposes and receipt of purchase during the month of August or September, 2014.

2. No purchase neccesary: You will also be entered if you post a review on any of the major book buying sites before Sept. 29th, 2014 You will still need to friend Gina at above fb address and comment with a link to your review. If you win you may be asked to prove you are the author of the review. 

Prize may be substitued for prize of equal value. (unlikely)

*You may enter more than once 1 entry for review (regardless of how many sites you post review) , 1 entry per new book purchased (kindle or paperback, receipt required dated prior to Sept. 29th). *If you do not wish to purchase a book but want to enter via review, you may borrow it from local library, bookswap or friend.


Driftwood Tides

"Holmes weaves a superb story of discovering how to forgive."  Romantic Times

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Did You Get the Word?

Hear ye! Hear ye!

Calling all unpublished novelists: have you heard about Novel Rocket's Launch Pad Contest: Boosting You Out of the Slush Pile?

Now in its fifth year, the contest offers a number of opportunities for one and all to:

1) Practice the submission procedure.
If a writer ever hopes to be published, she'll have to submit her work about a gazillion times. And you know what they say about practice leading to perfection.

Even when we understand that no manuscript is ever perfect, the submission process is an intimidating to the fledgling writer. Contests like this are a great way to break the ice. If you mess up, you won't ruin your chances at publication; you'll simply be contacted with a friendly suggestion as to how to correct the problem, and then you can try again.

2) Acquire valuable input from writing professionals.
This is where our contest shines. Every entrant will receive two careful critiques from people who have been around the block enough times that Novel Rocket got tired of seeing them traipse by, so we invited them in to get them off the streets. That means they know the craft and they know the industry, and they enjoy sharing what they've learned with new writers. Why? Because at one time, they were each where you are now: passionate about writing, but struggling to break through.

If you'd like confirmation of what you're doing right as well as suggestions for ways to improve, this is your chance to receive two (2) knowledgeable and unbiased opinions from people who don't know you.

3) For those who win a genre category, it offers the writer the opportunity to draw attention to his work.
The winning entry in each monthly category will be published right here on Novel Rocket for thousands to see. This comes with no promises, but on at least one occasion, an agent read the chapter, liked what she saw, and contacted the writer with an offer of representation.

Even if that doesn't happen, it gives you bragging rights and a chance to send links to your chapter to everyone you know. Who wouldn't want that?

4) For the Grand Prize Winner, it gives the writer's an opportunity to have her manuscript offered directly to an agent, circumventing the slush pile.

The trophy we presented our
2012 winner.

The winner of the whole shebang will be matched up with an agent, or possibly an editor, based on the story's genre and the writer's submission history. (That is, we won't introduce you to someone who's already seen it and decided she can't use it.) That's what the "Out of the Slush Pile" slogan is talking about. But it's not idle talk; we mean it!

5) The Grand Prize Winner also wins an über-cool rocket trophy, each of which is hand-made of blown glass and engraved with the winner's name.
There may be some writers who'd consider this nothing but unnecessary clutter and would want no part of it. I don't know anyone like that, but anything's possible. If that describes you, then don't bother entering.

However, if you'd like to put a trophy like this on your desk or shelf -- if you've got a hankering to see your writing showcased on our site -- or even if you're just looking for a little submission experience and professional input on your writing -- click on the Launch Pad tab to see the complete rules.

We're currently open to entries in all categories. However, although the contest runs throughout the rest of the year, each genre category has a different submission deadline. Here's a quick overview of the categories and the entry dates:

Suspense/Crime/Mystery/Thriller: Submission deadline is April 10, 2014.
General Fiction: Deadline is May 10, 2014.
Historical Fiction: Deadline is June 10, 2014.
Middle Grade/Young Adult Fiction: Deadline is July 10, 2014.
Contemporary Romance: Deadline is August 10, 2014.
Speculative Fiction: Deadline is September 10, 2014.

Tool for polishing manuscripts

Read the complete rules carefully; polish up your manuscript. Download the Entry Form and fill it out; click on the PayPal button at the bottom of the Launch Pad Contest page to pay the entry fee; then email your completed Entry Form, your novel's synopsis, and the first 3-4000 words to us at NovelRocketContest at gmail.com.

Questions? Comments? Send them to that same email address. A real-live human being (not necessarily an Earthborn one, but at least she's not an android) is waiting to provide a prompt and personal reply. In English.

We look forward to receiving your entry and visiting your story world!
   

Yvonne Anderson, when she's not overseeing the Launch Pad Contest, writes fiction that takes you out of this world. Fly through the Gateway to Gannah for some serious sci-fi adventure.

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Psssst! Have You Heard...

...about our contest?

Although the 2013 flight of Novel Rocket's Launch Pad Contest: Boosting You Out of the Slush Pile took off earlier this year, there's still time for you to get on board.

Maybe.

If you're an unpublished novelist—if you've completed a manuscript in the Middle Grade/Young Adult, Romance, or Speculative Fiction genres—you can join the ranks of other writers who have received a boost by participating in this event.

Interested? Check out the official rules at the Launch Pad tab. Questions? Contact us at NovelRocketContest@gmail.com.

Ready to play? Download the entry form here. Pay the entry fee using the PayPal button at the bottom of the Launch Pad tab. Then, following those Official Rules we talked about, email us your entry form, the first 3-4000 words of your manuscript, and the story's synopsis. If you're like most of our entrants, you'll think it's worth your while!

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October Romance

My husband and I were married thirty-eight years ago this month. My son’s wedding is this Saturday. Forget about June being for lovers; as far as I’m concerned, October is the month for romance.

As it happens, this is also the month we announce the winner of the Contemporary Romance category of our Launch Pad contest.

A perfect fit for this category, this heartwarming romance meets contemporary issues head-on. 

One of the judges felt irritated with the protagonist’s situation until the character’s motivations became clear; then the judge was won over. Both judges were impressed with the vividness of characterization. They said it was as if they knew the protagonist personally and recognized her right away as a real, flesh-and-blood person.

The winning story is Afraid to Dance by Bethany R. Kaczmarek of Jarrettsville, Maryland. She joins our previous category winners as a final contender for this year’s grand prize.

One more category remains in this year's Launch Pad Contest: Science Fiction/Fantasy/Horror. If you’d like to participate, you’d better hurry, because the submission deadline is in two short days (Wednesday, October 10 at 11:59 pm). Check out the official rules on the Launch Pad Contest tab above, and get your entry to us right away. Questions? Contact us at NovelRocketContest@gmail.com for a prompt reply.

Meanwhile, we hope you’ll enjoy the first 3400 words of month’s Contemporary Romance winner:

Afraid to Dance

by

Bethany R. Kaczmarek

Chapter One

Photo by K. S. Buffaloe

Kasia Bernolak was on her own.

Her father always said she’d been born with sunset in her hair and fire in her veins—all hope, all conviction, all passion. If he were here now—her daddy, her Tatusz—the sight of her would break his heart.

She hardly recognized who she’d become.

Perched on a boulder and soaked to the bone, Kasia stared out at the western South Carolina mountains, unable to dredge up enough motivation to get out of the downpour. Huntington Valley’s moss green canopy spread like an afghan over acres and acres, right up to the edge of the city. She climbed the ridge that morning hoping to breathe in some of Spring’s vitality, but she’d only managed to call down the rain.

Kasia tugged her ponytail over her shoulder, plucking a few stubborn tendrils from her neck and wrapping them around her finger. Thanks to the rain, her hair had dulled from sunset red to mud brown, and her curls lay as limp as her spirit. They suited her better now.

Nothing about her was fiery.

She wished she could somehow call out the girl she used to be—the girl whose heart overflowed with music, the justice-seeker, the champion of the underdog. The Kasia who wasn’t afraid to fight.

These days it was easier to nod and paint on a smile. Blake rarely compromised.

But keeping him happy shouldn’t cost her everything.

Her gaze traced the winding road on the far side of the valley. According to any GPS, home was a thirty-minute drive up through Langston Gap. Maps lied. True home—with its piping hot herbal tea, whispered Polish conversation, and strong-armed hugs—was forever out of reach. Mama and Tatusz would argue that homecomings were always a good idea, but some mistakes couldn’t be undone.

Hopping down from the rock, she pulled her clinging t-shirt from against her skin and stretched. It would be nice to have something to dry her face off, but even now, a hushed drizzle fell. She’d wasted the morning trying to rally her heart. Over the past year, it had become almost as unfeeling as the granite beneath her—tough enough to withstand the storms, detached enough to cope.

She wiped her hands on her shorts out of habit and glanced at her wrist. Her bare wrist. She’d left her watch in the room at the last minute. She simply needed room to breathe until—

Panic knocked the wind out of her. The clouds. The sun. She’d lost track of time. Blake hated when she was late. She wound her way down the mucky dirt trail, rubbing the rain from her eyes with the back of her hand. As the path leveled out, she broke into a sprint.

Toeing the trail, she veered to the right and cut down through a tilted stand of trees and paused. She wasn’t ready to leave yet. Her fingers gripped the slick bark of a birch as the scents of damp earth and mountain laurel conjured images of a time when she had the freedom to lose herself in the mountains for hours.

A gift she’d taken for granted.

Above the treetops, the rain’s pitter-patter morphed into a drum roll. Every other living creature in the vicinity had taken cover. Kasia closed her eyes and wrapped herself up in the solitude.

Twenty minutes later, Kasia walked past the outermost buildings of Beasley University’s old, brick campus. Cold raindrops pricked her skin.

She shivered.

Step after step closer to Blake. Closer to the sneer that would greet her explanation, closer to some sarcastic remark about her disregard for punctuality.

Closer. Closer.

Every step sapped her energy.

Blake was easier to stand up to when he was a couple miles away.

Kasia shoved open the cafeteria door and stepped inside. She took a moment to collect herself beside a small palmetto, transplanted into these South Carolina mountains just like her and her Polish family. Chatter and laughter ricocheted off the marble floor and walls around her as she bent to wring out her hair over the soil of the potted plant.

The clock on the stucco wall mocked her. Quarter after one. Blake might not have waited. Her sneakers squeaked across the floor and into the warmly lit cafeteria. The smell of garlic and oven fresh bread pulled her in as she scanned the room, spotting him right away.

Appetite decimated.

He eased back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head. Surveyor of the world.

Willing her heart to match the steady cadence of her footsteps, she prayed a calm façade would hide her discomfort. Under the surface, her mind composed a discordant symphony of flat explanations and sharp words.

 Blake greeted her with a squint and a smirking once-over. “Drowned rat isn’t your best look, Kosh. Good thing the lunch rush is over.”

Maybe. She nodded and shifted her weight, balling her toes in her soggy shoes. She might welcome the distraction a crowd could offer.

He eyed his prized Armani watch. “It started raining at quarter ‘til. If you’d been here on time, you’d be dry.”

Kasia tightened her ponytail. “I needed a walk to clear my head.”

“Hope it worked. You’ve been off lately.”

She scraped at the hem of her shorts. All that had mattered was the climb—conquering something rather than being the one to lose again. Lifting her gaze, she noticed an empty plate smeared with tomato sauce near his elbow. “You ate already?”

“Well, I wasn’t going to wait for you indefinitely.” He brushed his bangs out of his eyes.

“Sorry.” She touched the hard, angular stone on her finger, holding the ring firmly in place. “You plan to stay though?”

He pointed to a chair. “Sit down, Kosh. I’ll go get you some lunch.”

She blinked in surprise, and he was gone.

(Click here to continue)

Yvonne Anderson writes fiction that takes you out of this world.

Check out what readers are saying about her space fantasy series, Gateway to Gannah. Book 1: The Story in the Stars “…captivates readers from exciting start to satisfying finish…”

Book 2: Words in theWind is “…a thoughtful and nuanced piece… remarkably solid…”

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Pitch to Win winner

Congratulations to our winner Denise Parton! Denise was chosen at random from among those who posted their pitches. Denise, contact me through my e-mail address which you can find at Ground Control and let me know which book you want as your prize.
Don't remember what prizes were offered? Check here.

Michael Ehret loves to play with words and as editor of the ACFW Journal, he is enjoying his playground. He also plays with words as a freelance editor/writer at WritingOnTheFineLine.com, where each Tuesday he takes a writer Into The Edit, pulling back the veil on the editing process. He has edited several nonfiction books, played with words as a corporate communicator, and reported for The Indianapolis Star.

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It's Not You, It's Me

It’s Not You, It’s Me

by

Orly Konig-Lopez

Chapter One

My mom always said good things happen to good people. She also said bad things happen in threes.       

Tonight was going to be one of those good-things nights.

I tugged at the hem of my dress. I shouldn’t have let my roommate Rachel talk me into something so short. I turned to look out the window of the taxi, my thighs suctioning to the sticky vinyl of the bench seat.

Rachel had insisted I take a taxi to meet my boyfriend for dinner. Eric had made reservations in Georgetown to discuss something important. After dissecting his message like sixteen year olds, Rachel and I reached the conclusion a proposal was imminent and we surely wouldn’t be leaving the restaurant in separate cars. A taxi made perfect sense. Then. Now, with my thighs sweating and my feet pinching in the new shoes I’d caved to, I said a little prayer that Rachel was right. 

The taxi lurched left around a black Tahoe trying to parallel-park in a spot barely fit for a mid-size sedan. A stream of curse words in a variety of languages bounced off the plastic divider between me and the driver.

Another lurch and I grabbed at the black leather clutch before it went airborne. My phone buzzed inside, cranky at being ignored. Two missed calls. My mom and my mom.

We stopped at a traffic light, a momentary lull in the amusement park worthy ride. A woman laughed on the sidewalk outside the taxi window and I looked over. She laughed again and tipped up on her toes to kiss the man at her side. He lifted her hand to his lips. The setting sun threw a ray their direction, making the engagement ring on her finger sparkle blue crystals.

I pushed a fist into my stomach, trying to keep the butterflies from getting overly rowdy. What if we’d gotten it wrong?

I stabbed at Rachel’s photo on my phone. It was the before picture I’d snapped on the way to the salon when she’d decided to chop the bulk of her brunette mane. Her hazel eyes hid behind a pair of green rims with blue polka dots. One ring. Two rings. “Oh god, answer already,” I said, blowing out a breath.

“Why are you calling me?” Rachel answered just in time to prevent full-out hyperventilating.

“What if we have this all wrong, Rach?” My stomach dropped again as the taxi rocketed forward. At this rate I’ll be too sick to eat anything.

“Nicole, relax. Eric is taking you to Utopia. It’s one of the hottest new restaurants in DC. And on a Saturday night. Can you imagine what strings he had to pull to get a reservation on such short notice? And what about last week? Seriously, Nic, it was his idea to go shopping, right? And he just happened to stop by a jewelry store window to check his messages? Come on.” I heard the woosh of air pass over the phone and could picture the be-sensible tilt of the head she used with her students.

“I know. I’m just nervous.” I slid my hand under my thigh to break the seal with the vinyl. Nauseous and missing chunks of skin. Lovely way to start a romantic evening.

“Miss, we’re here,” the taxi driver said in perfect English. I couldn’t help wonder if he spoke any of the languages he’d cursed in.

“Rach, I have to go. Wish me luck.”

“You don’t need luck. Relax and enjoy. Call me later with the good news.”

“But, Rach …” But Rach wasn’t there anymore.

“Miss?” The driver glared at me via the rear-view mirror.

I handed a twenty dollar bill through the opening in the plastic partition, yanked my thighs loose and teetered out of the taxi.

The driver waved the change at me. “Keep it.” I waved back.

With a screech and a “Hey, watch it, Jerkoff,” from a pedestrian, my chariot was off, the driver clearly amused by the crazy tip lady.

I looked up at the sign above the door. Utopia beckoned. Reviewers had called it “the hottest new date night restaurant in DC.”

I tugged at the hem of my dress, pulled up to cover some cleavage, pulled back down to cover thigh, then swore never to go shopping with Rachel again.

Inside, the maître d’ announced that my “companion” had arrived and he’d show me immediately to the table. In the ten months we’d been seeing each other, Eric had gone from friend to boyfriend. My lips twitched over the word companion. Hopefully after tonight we’d move on to a more romantic label. Fiancé had a nice ring to it.

We stepped through a side door onto a patio with a breathtaking view of the Potomac River reflecting the jubilant lights of Georgetown on a Saturday night.

Eric was sitting at a table along the edge of the patio. He was staring into his Tanqueray and Tonic, eyebrows kitting together in thought. His blonde hair was newly trimmed and he still wore the white button-down shirt and navy slacks that he’d no doubt gone to the office in that morning. He was preparing for a big case and putting in lots of long hours.

“Hi.” I leaned over to give him a kiss on the cheek.

“Oh hey, Nic. I’m sorry, I didn’t see you come in.” Eric stood, greeting me with a quick, gentle kiss on the lips.

I eased into the chair the maître d’ held out and silently analyzed the kiss. It was familiar, like you’d greet your girlfriend if you were meeting for lunch. The passion of the about-to-propose scenario I’d fantasized about in the taxi was disappointingly absent. Maybe he was going to suggest a vacation.

Suddenly I felt incredibly self-conscious in my oh-so-revealing teal sheath dress and black peak-a-boo heels. Even my professionally applied make-up from the Bobbi Brown counter at Neiman Marcus felt heavy on my face, making my cheeks feel like they were drooping instead of glowing.

Eric sat down, swishing his drink left then right. Apparently satisfied with the waves he’d generated, he looked up and appraised me. “Wow, Nic, you look amazing.” The smile was genuine and I relaxed. “That dress is perfect on you. You’re perfect.” He reached across the table and squeezed my hand.

I settled a bit more and gave him the most seductive smile I could muster. And just like that droopy clown make-up transformed into glamorous bride-to-be.

We discussed the menu choices and ordered wine. Business out of the way, I turned my anticipation back to what Eric had in store for me.

Should I bring it up? Should I wait? Maybe he’s waiting for the perfect moment. Maybe he’d orchestrated the whole thing with the discrete waiter who would bring out a surprise dessert with a ring expertly displayed on top. I’ll wait.

“How’s the new client working out?” Eric broke into my fantasy of the chocolate fondant with white chocolate shavings surrounding the 2-carat Princess-cut diamond engagement ring that we’d seen in the shop window last week.

It took three quick blinks to ground me in my chair and the discussion. As a meetings facilitator and corporate trainer I got to work with a number of interesting clients and usually had a funny story or two to share. “So far, so okay. Our first meeting is Tuesday though. It’s been a bit hard getting details from them. The main partner has been distracted with his daughter’s Bat Mitzvah. From what I hear, it’s probably one of the biggest and most expensive parties he’ll throw. Well, next to her wedding I suppose.” Subtle Nicole, very subtle.

Eric looked up from his salad and studied me for a minute. I blushed, thankful for the hazy lighting of dusk.

“Listen, Nic, I wanted to talk to you about something.” He pushed the remainder of his salad around then meticulously lined up the goat cheese crumbles like tiny snowballs waiting for a snowball fight. My stomach flopped. I took a long drink from my sparkling water, hoping to buy some time. He wasn’t waiting for dessert.

I watched Eric over the rim of the water glass. Bubbles jumped and tickled my nose. “Okay.” I croaked. The lemon dislodged itself from the bottom of glass, sending a drop of water splashing onto my chin. I dabbed at it self-consciously.

Eric opened his mouth, his jaw popped to the right. He did that when he was trying to decide on how to say something. I’d watched him do that many times when he was rehearsing his opening or closing statements.

“Nic,” he started hesitantly. “You know I adore you. You are the most perfect woman I’ve ever dated.”

I gave an embarrassed half-laugh. “Far from perfect.”

Eric’s shoulder twitched in an almost imperceptible shrug but he didn’t make eye contact and didn’t refute my self-directed slight.

“Look, Nic, I think we should slow things down a bit. You’re wonderful and I really enjoy being with you, but I’m just not ready to settle down. I don’t want to string you along.” He stopped to take a drink of water, his eyes darted across my face.

Glamorous bride-to-be smile froze into a bride-of-Frankenstein grimace. “What are you saying?” The question was barely a whisper but Eric looked around nervously at the surrounding tables.

“Nicole, you are the kind of woman I would marry if I was looking to get married. But I’m not ready.”

My heart pounded, the sound deafening. I couldn’t have heard him right. This time my voice did skip up the volume button. “What?”

Eric scanned the surrounding tables again. A few sets of eyes quickly snapped away.

“I think we should break up. For a bit at least. Until I can get my head cleared out.” Finally he made eye contact and put his hand over mine. “Nic, it’s not you. It’s me.”

“Oh,” was all I could come up with. Magna Cum Laude, straight A student and all I had was a pathetic, wimpy “oh” that did nothing to boost my self-respect.

I pushed myself away from the table and up onto wobbly legs, narrowly missing the waiter balancing our dinner on a tray above his head. For one split second I had the urge to push the tray out of his hand and into Eric’s lap. But that would cause a scene and I wasn’t programmed to make scenes. I was programmed to make things pleasant for others, to make sure I never made anyone else feel uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry. I’m not feeling very well all of a sudden. I’ll get myself home.” And before the water works could open in public, I rushed out of the restaurant.

I gulped air. I can’t break down. Won’t break down. But in the safe anonymity of a Georgetown sidewalk on a Saturday night, the sobs bubbled to the surface and left me gasping.

Where the hell were all the taxis when you needed one?

“Nicole. Wait.” Eric was a few steps behind me. I turned. Pathetic hope catching in my throat. He was going to say he’d made a mistake. He was gong to ask me to forgive him. “Here.” He held out a large shopping bag from Cole Haan, his favorite place for shoes. A store we’d visited last week on the same shopping expedition as my window glance at the engagement ring. “I packed the things you had at my place so you wouldn’t feel uncomfortable coming to get them. I’m sorry, Nic. I really am.”

I took the bag from him, turned and marched blindly away. Three blocks later I’d yet to come across a taxi. Defeated, numb and in searing pain from those damn high-heeled peak-a-boos I leaned against the windowsill of a store. The Cole Haan bag with my underwear, Georgetown U sweatshirt, and toothbrush dropped to the ground.

 Giant, heaving, gasping sobs broke free. The few people walking by took a wide berth around me.

This morning I’d believed good things could happen to good people. I was good people. Dammit mom, you were wrong.

Chapter Two

I dug into my black clutch, the clutch that matched the shoes Rachel insisted I needed. The ones I would wear to the engagement party and the rehearsal dinner. The ones that were about to find their way into a trash bin.

“Rach,” I sobbed into the phone. “He broke up with me.” I was making a spectacle of myself in public and for once I didn’t care.

“He did what?” Rachel asked. “Nic where are you? What’s the noise?” The noise hadn’t penetrated my numb march up Wisconsin Avenue. But suddenly aware, I heard the honking and yelling as three cars battled for the last remaining metered parking spot in Georgetown on a Saturday night.

“I’m on Wisconsin somewhere. I just walked away from the restaurant. And him. Rach, he brought my underwear and toothbrush to the restaurant in a shopping bag.”

“What?” Rachel shrieked. “I’m going to kill that sonofabitch.”

The corner of my mouth twitched. Rachel, my mild-mannered friend, the one whose swear vocabulary consisted of “oh sugar” or “pickles,” was mad.

“Nic, where are you? I’m coming to pick you up.”

I looked around, bewildered at finding myself in Georgetown, alone, wearing a fancy dress and expensive shoes, the professional make-up job now streaking down my face. And, of course, carrying a Cole Haan bag with my underwear and toothbrush.

I twisted and my throat convulsed around a sob. “Oh my god,” I gasped, my forehead thudding against glass. The words Wedding Elegance, in expensively ornate calligraphy, entwined a flourish the width of the large picture window. And punctuating the words like a slap-in-the-face exclamation mark, was an exquisite Vera Wang wedding dress.

A wedding dress I would have swooned over just hours ago. Now I wanted to rip it off the headless mannequin and use it to wipe the streaking makeup off my face.

Without thinking I pushed forward, feet screaming for mercy. “I’ll meet you at Dean & Deluca. I need marshmallows.”

Thirty minutes later I crumpled into the front seat of Rachel’s car stuffing giant marshmallows into my mouth. Except for a pat on my knee, Rachel hadn’t acknowledged the pathetic state she’d found me in. For that I was grateful.

By the time we walked through the door of our apartment, I was ripping into the second bag of marshmallows. Rachel grabbed the open bag and pointed at the couch. “Sit. I’m getting us something more potent.”

I obeyed. I always obeyed Rachel. Since that first day of grad school when she plunked down next to me in a seminar on skills and ethics to survive and thrive in science. Within the first half hour I was ready to wave the flag of defeat. My art history background hadn’t prepared me well for this course. Rachel adopted me as her pet project and together we eeked out a shaky A minus in the class and a solid A friendship.

A few minutes later she was back with a pitcher of martinis and four glasses.

“You weren’t kidding when you said something more potent. But four glasses?” I raised an eyebrow and was answered by the sound of the doorbell.

Rachel shrugged. “I called in reinforcements.”

“That bastard.” Stephie burst in the moment Rachel opened the door.

“Cheers.” I held up my martini glass.

“Looks like you guys started the party without me.” Kali’s voice trilled from behind Stephie.

Rachel turned her aquamarine eyes on me and unleashed her most powerful who-me weapon.

“Now it’s a party.” I filled my glass again and raised it. I couldn’t be all bad if I had three good friends who rallied around me on such short notice. And on a Saturday night.

Rachel eased onto the floor next to me, leaning in so our shoulders touched. “Cheers, Love. He’s an idiot. You deserve better.”

Stephie sank into the armchair facing us and filled her martini glass. “Tell us what happened. And don’t leave anything out. There might be a clue in there to help us make sense of this.”

Kali snorted. “We’re not the Ladies Detective Agency, Steph. She got dumped.”

Stephie glared at her. “Are you here to help or not?” We’d become instant friends on her first day at McMillian and Associates four years ago. Her office was next to mine and she’d gotten my attention by bouncing a ball off the wall. When I’d poked my head around the door, she’d grinned and said, “I’m bored already. Let’s go get some coffee.”

While the two of them bickered, I stared into my drink. I wasn’t in the mood to mediate. They always disagreed about something. Mostly they agreed to disagree.

Rachel nudged my knee gently with hers. “Where did you just go? You have to know it’s not you. Maybe the stress of making partner got to him.”

“It’s not just him, Rach.” My hands trembled around the glass, making the lemon curl shimmy and dive. It fogged into the liquid as tears blurred my perspective. “It just seems like it’s always me. Or never me.” I wiped roughly at a rogue tear winding down my cheek.

Rachel swiveled sideways to look at me. “Why would you even say that?”

“It’s a pattern. ‘It’s not you, it’s me’,” I mimicked, sounding more like Goofy than any boyfriend I’d ever had. I reached for the marshmallow bag.

Kali got there first. “Maybe we need to ease up on those?”

“Let the girl mourn the breakup in her own way,” Stephie shot back.

“She’s going to end up looking like a marshmallow if she keeps this up.” Kali gestured at the two empty bags. “The guy obviously wasn’t ready for anything serious. Aren’t you better off finding out now than after investing more time in the relationship?” She threw her hands up as if the answer was obvious. As if it was just another pair of pants that didn’t quite fit but hey, there are six more on the rack waiting to be tried on. As if it was that simple to write off heartache and move on.

As if I was her.

Because Kali, of course, could brush off heartache like an annoying crumb. When Josh Gray, captain of the high school football team, announced he would be taking newly crowned prom queen Heather Kelly to the dance instead of Kali, his girlfriend of the last five months. Kali hadn’t wasted any time pouting over a lost love. She arrived with the captain of the rival school’s football team. A double win for them that weekend.

“Wow.” Rachel puffed, her eyebrows disappearing under her perfectly jagged bangs. “Not everyone is as heartless as you.”

“Why are you guys turning on me? I’m not the one who dumped her. I’m just saying it’s better to find out before she’s married to the guy.” Kali remained unfazed by the daggers Rachel and Stephie mentally sent her way. “I’m sorry Nic’s hurting. I’m not heartless.” She directed a fierce look at Rachel. “But I also don’t think it’s the end of the world. We’ve all been dumped before. And we’ve all gotten over it.”

Stephie pulled her mouth into a tight line, biting at one corner as she contemplated her next strike. “Amazing,” she said instead.

“So he wasn’t ready to propose. It’s not like he led you on. You’re making too much of this. I’m tired. I’m going home. Night.” Kali waved in a broad arc before slipping through the door and away from a topic she had no intention in pursuing.

“What’s up with her?” Rachel tipped her head like an inquisitive cat. “She’s acting even snootier than usual.”

“Her company has a big meeting next week,” I said. “She’s probably a little stressed.”

“Why do you always do that?” Stephie asked, her right hand flipping palm up in a seriously gesture.

“Do what?”

“Make excuses for her.”

I shrugged. Kali was my best friend. We’ve always been there for each other. Since her tenth birthday, actually, when I’d sat up with her all night telling her I would never leave her. That was the day her mom had left. While we tossed water balloons in the backyard, Kali’s mom had put the finishing touches on the birthday cake, propped up a card next to it and left in a waiting town car bound for her old life in Hollywood. Kali had all but moved in with us after that. We were the perfect family in her eyes and she wanted to belong to a perfect family.

“I’m not making excuses for her.” I heard the defensive edge creep into my voice. “I just know her better than you guys do. She doesn’t want to see me get hurt. That’s all.” I finished my drink with a last gulp.

“She doesn’t want to see you happy,” Stephie countered.

“Even for Kali that was a weird mood shift,” Rachel agreed. She turned back to me, “Ready to tell us what happened?”

I relived the dinner, from the romantic setting, Eric’s appraisal of my new outfit to the abrupt shift in discussion over salad, and the humiliation of standing on the street being handed my underwear in a Cole Haan bag. By four am, we’d dissected every scenario and I was no closer to understanding what had happened.

I blinked at the sharp light streaming in through the blinds. The smell of coffee filtered through the haze of the previous night.

“Oh god I have a headache. I need coffee.” I stumbled out of my room to find Rachel standing in the small galley kitchen hypnotizing the espresso machine.

Without saying a word Rachel fixed two lattes. I wrapped my hands around the mug, inhaling the warmth, absorbing its comfort. I slumped into the couch and pulled my knees up.

“I have to go to campus today. Will you be okay?” Rachel asked, perching next to me.

“Sure.”

Rachel shot me a look that said I wasn’t fooling anyone. “What are you going to do?”

I snuggled deeper into the cushions. “Watch a movie. Sleep. Read. I don’t know. I’ll be fine.”

“No. You will not.” Rachel pushed herself off the couch so fast I pitched sideways, coming dangerously close to spilling coffee. “No Sleepless in Seattle. Absolutely not. You need to get out.”

I licked a drop of coffee from my hand. Well fine. If I couldn’t have marshmallows and Sleepless in Seattle, that left one option.

           There was only one place I really felt tranquil and in control. Museums had always been 

my escape. I loved being part of the history they held, loved losing myself in worlds I could only 

imagine. And right now, an imaginary world was what I needed. Mine obviously wasn’t working 

for me. Maybe if I was lucky, I would fall through a time warp.

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