Lake Arrowhead in November

I love Lake Arrowhead, especially this time of the year when the leaves are changing colors. The mountains put on a much better show than the perpetual sunny Orange County. A few days ago, we loaded up the car for the trek up the mountains. We hiked, collected pinecones, saw a deer, ate lunch at the lakeside park, shopped, and came home happy. We didn't even have any traffic.

Thanksgiving Tomorrow, Now and Then

As a kid, our family always spent Thanksgiving with a collection of aunts, uncles and cousins. I grew up in the Pacific Northwest, but my parents belonged to a large tribe of displaced Wyomingites. They congregated for feasting on Thanksgiving Day—usually in my aunt’s basement. I remember the basement being unfinished—cement floors, wood beams with exposed electrical wires. We ate on paper covered long, folding tables borrowed from the church and cold metal chairs. Once, I remember my mom saying that there was over 80 people there. To me, it seemed like a sea of people.

We stopped attending after my mom died. That first holiday, my dad and I went and left after five minutes. By the next Thanksgiving, my dad had married my stepmother Marie, and we celebrated with just my siblings and new step-siblings.

When I went college, I didn’t come home for Thanksgiving, Instead, I spent the long weekend my sister, her husband and children in Boise, Idaho.

After I married, I spent the holiday with my husband’s family. My mother-in-law always made a lovely meal, and typically, the four of the Tate children who lived in Southern California would come to Lake Arrowhead. Although, only 90 minutes from Orange, County, Lake Arrowhead is high in the San Bernardino Mountains and often there would be snow.

When we lived in Connecticut, we took our children, including baby Nathan, to the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade and had dinner in a Korean restaurant in New York City.

Eventually, Grandpa Tate’s memory began to slip and living in the mountains became increasingly difficult for my in-laws. They moved to St. George, Utah about the time my children began attending school at Brigham Young University. This worked out perfectly for us. For many years, we would drive to north to St. George, and our children would drive south, and we’d meet at Grandma’s. We would hike in Zion National Park in the morning, eat in the afternoon, and play games all evening.

But Grandpa’s health declined, and my in-laws moved to Salt Lake City to be closer to my husband’s sisters. My daughter married and she and her husband moved to Las Vegas. So, my children attending BYU would drive south to Bethany’s and Larry and I would drive north. We would hike in the morning at Red Rock Canyon and eat in the afternoon and play games all evening.

My sister-in-law once said of the holidays, it’s not always the same, but it can still be very nice. Sometimes, I miss the years in Lake Arrowhead with my fun-loving in-laws. I miss my young children with a gentle ache. But I find that my grandchildren have come to fill in all the empty spaces. My husband once said that as time passes, we have more and more people to love.  I doubt that we’ll ever recreate the Thanksgivings of my childhood with 80 people in an unfinished basement, or that we’ll have a house in Lake Arrowhead like my in-laws. I don’t see us going back to New York City. Eventually, my children will all graduate from BYU. I hope they’ll each marry and have children of their own. In time, they will host their own Thanksgivings, and Larry and I may, or may not, be their guests. The challenge will be to make every holiday special in and of itself.

And that’s true of not just the holidays, but every day.

Laguna Beach Christmas Sawdust Festival and An Excerpt

I love Laguna Beach. I consider myself lucky to live so close. Years ago, I came to Southern California on a senior class trip. A group of us from Arlington High School, traveled here to celebration graduation. We went to Disneyland, Universal Studios, Knott's Berry Farm, and Newport Beach. On one day, we took a cruise around Newport Harbor and floated past John Wayne's former home. The tour guide made the comment, "and none of you will ever live here," and I remember a voice whispering in my mind, "but I may be close." And I am.

Fast forward a few years later when my husband is about to graduate from MBA school. Met Life had sent him a letter asking him for an interview for a job in their Irvine office. A friend came over clutching the same letter and announced that this was him job. I replied, "No, that's Larry's job." And it was. A few months later as we drove down the 91 freeway and followed the signs to the "beach cities," a thrill passed through me. Every time I travel the 91, head home, and follow the "beach cities" sign, that thrill tingles through me.  

You can get yours here

Currently, the characters in my novel are from the fictional town of Shell Beach, which is a lot like Laguna. But my recently released novel, Sea Drift, takes place in Laguna Beach. There's an excerpt of Sea Drift in the Orange County Fictionaire's anthology, Murder, Mystery, and Mayhem. We got this review today, 

A Page Turner you can't put down

By Orange Otter on November 20, 2017

Format: Kindle Edition

 Most stories are very ‘fast reads’ and it is quite easy to stay glued to your seat (or tucked into bed); turning page after page. There are partial biographies at the end of the book that give insight into the background of each writer; some of which explains their approaches and insights into the stories. Stories should appeal to many readers. As the Title says: a little murder, lots of mystery, and some mayhem. There is even a funny takeoff of the old Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson partnership. Being an engineer myself, Michelle Knowlden’s “Last of the Skipjack” certainly pegged the engineering mentality and behavior. It provided clear insight into how business gets done, or not, in the real world. Irony in one story; zombies in another; and if you are a resident of Orange County, you will actually walk through the Kristy Tate’s Chapter with an eye of familiarity of the scenes and culture of this part of the country. Highly recommended as an introduction to the talents and styles of each of the authors, from which you may want to explore their works in greater detail.

You can get yours here:

Mic dove into the pool and lingered below the surface, contemplating his ability to drown. He watched blue bubbles swirl as he sank further from the white morning sun. Knowing he hadn’t the nerve or will, he let his lungs pull him upward, and he floated before breaking surface. Gasping, he filled his lungs with air before swimming without noise, his clean strokes a reminder of what his bovine body had once been.

Mic reached the edge of the pool and hung on the ledge. Beyond the neighboring orange grove he saw the long blue stretch of the Pacific. Squinting, he imagined the bobbing black heads of surfers. Closing his eyes, he felt the tide’s push and pull, the stinging salt water, the call of gulls, and the beckoning waves. He thought of the Brotherhood, recalling their wiry brown bodies, salt-crusted hair, and red eyes. Most, if not all, had long since died.

Mic pushed away from the wall, rolled onto his back and looked up at the dark windows of the neoclassical monstrosity he called home. He wondered if Ginny was watching from an upper window and in a small fit of rebellion he pushed his distended belly a little higher as he did the backstroke. He knew he looked like Humpty Dumpty with spaghetti arms and legs laced with purple veins. He had no illusions about his Einstein hair and ZZ Top beard. But what had happened to her? Who had replaced the girl in the tie-dyed skirt with daisies tucked in her braids? The girl who tasted of homemade blackberry wine? Where had she gone? Was she happier in the mansion than in the shack with longboards lining the walls, towels draped over the scavenged furniture, chinks of daylight shining through the haze?

Mic returned to the pool’s edge and heaved out of the pool. He shivered in the morning cold, shook the water out of his hair and beard and retrieved his water bottle. Pulling off the stopper, he drank fast, letting the liquid slide down his throat. The water, at first innocuous, turned to stinging tin and burned his mouth, tongue, and gut.

The bottle slipped from his fingers, splashed to the ground and rolled at his feet. Mic staggered, reached for the back of a lawn chair, and tripped on the plastic bottle. His head hit the tile with a thud. Lead filled his limbs. A weight settled on his chest making his breathing laborious and painful. He lay on the cement, his eyes fixed on the sun, his body inert, unable to move, flinch or cry out when a foot wedged beneath his torso and kicked him into the pool.

Is this it then? Mic wondered, his thoughts as clear as the water filling his nose and lungs. After everything, crystal blue? Letting go of his will, Mic sank beneath the surface and watched the sun fade.

 

CHAPTER 1

Maisie dropped her pencil when the Thor-look-alike entered the cafe. The pencil rolled across the floor and bumped against a Victorian curio cabinet. Maisie scrambled after it, trying to collect her scattered thoughts while the man chose a table beside wrought-iron shelves overflowing with an eclectic collection of china pieces, antique books, etchings, and prints.

He didn’t belong in the fussy shop. He looked like a misplaced Viking surrounded by Rococo and Baroque decorative art. He had a friend, also attractive in a swarthy-pirate-like way. But his beauty didn’t make Maisie rethink her life plans.

Brushing dust off her skirt, Maisie put on her may-I-help-you smile and approached their table. “Did you guys see the menu board with today’s special?”

While she took their order, for the first time, she was grateful for writer’s block. She would much rather be in the company of handsome men than sitting in a library trying to finish her book. And why write about Laguna’s history when she could write breakfast food? Who needed a book contract in Laguna, home to perpetual sunshine?

Maisie dished the men’s orders and inhaled the heady scents of fresh-baked bread, cheese, and coffee. After adding a couple of extra strawberries to their plates she willed herself not to stare.

“I don’t know, Maisie.” Mrs. Henderson, one of their most valued customers, called for Maisie’s attention. Tapping her size six shoe, she held up a swatch of blue and white tulle and cocked her head. “It’s just such an important decision…” Her voice trailed away and her eyes flicked toward the pastry counter.

“Maybe an éclair would make the decision easier,” Maisie said, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Oh, I really couldn’t. Ralph, my trainer, he’s a calorie cop.” Mrs. Henderson began to twist the tulle between her ring-laden fingers, giggling. “But the cream in an éclair is low carb.”

While Mrs. Henderson tangled with decisions, Maisie watched the men lounging at a table between a display of antique hatpins and a Victorian gilded mirror. If she stood just so, she could see the one who reminded her of Thor reflected in the mirror. He seemed to fill the room. In reality, he held a fork, but in her mind he held the magic hammer, Mjolnir, capable of throwing lightning bolts to her heart. His companion, the pirate, held a napkin. Maisie shifted from one foot to the other, wearing a pleasant face that hopefully didn’t reveal Norse-deity-worshipping thoughts.

While Maisie waited for Mrs. Henderson’s choice, she wondered if the woman had felt the same rush of pleasure for her husband when she first saw him. Maisie had never met Mr. Henderson, but she’d heard from Mim that he’d recently died, suddenly, tragically. And yet days later, here was Mrs. Henderson debating over decorating decisions.

Maisie raised her eyebrows, smiled and tried not to look at Mrs. Henderson’s neck, one of the few physical signs of the widow’s age. Mrs. Henderson had a forty-year-old face, high, pointy teenage breasts, and a geriatric neck. Maisie allowed herself another sneak peek at Thor’s biceps, swallowed and said, “Actually, I just made the éclairs this morning. They’re mostly eggs and protein rich.”

Mrs. Henderson’s glance flitted between an early Staffordshire, a Majolica teapot, and the alluring éclair. Maisie looked out the window at the marine layer billowing off Laguna’s shore. Even though the traditional school year had started a few weeks ago, as the sun rose the sidewalks and beach would fill with tourists in Hawaiian shirts and Bermuda shorts. Maisie’s gaze returned to Thor’s thick, tanned forearms and Rolex watch. No wedding ring. The pirate looked as if his shoulders and chest were about to burst his polo shirt.

Maisie turned her attention to Mrs. Henderson and noticed the woman’s tired eyes and the soft sagging skin beneath her chin. Maisie wanted to offer sympathy for Mrs. Henderson’s loss, but she didn’t know how, so instead she said, “Maybe just a nice cup of tea or a glass of juice?”

Mrs. Henderson sniffed. “When does Mim get back? She’s always very good with these decisions.”

Considering her aunt’s swollen face and swatches of bandages, Maisie gave the rehearsed response. “About a month, I think.” A month of pain endured for the sake of vanity.

Mrs. Henderson threw up her hands. “Oh what the hay! You’ve convinced me! I’ll get the Staffordshire and an éclair!”

Maisie took a step backward. “Hmm, great. I’ll wrap up the teapot. It’s a lovely piece.”

Mrs. Henderson, content with her purchase, said, “I remember when Mim brought it home from the Lake District.”

Maisie stopped listening; she remembered Mim finding the piece on eBay. She carefully removed the pot from its place among the Bardollos and McCoys and slipped into the back room. “It’ll take me just a sec to wrap this up,” she called over her shoulder.

She passed Whistler, a wiry Jack Russell terrier, sitting on his bed near the doorway. He let out a small grunt and rooted around for his ball. Maisie had let him into the shop because she’d felt both guilty and sorry for him. Uncle Les had tired of him and had put him in his kennel in the alley where he’d spent the morning crying. He’d stopped barking, but he didn’t seem any less crotchety on his bed. He licked his wounded paw and worried the bandage around his foreleg. He reminded Maisie of the rattlesnake adage, the smaller the snake the meaner the bite.

The back room could have been on a different planet from the front showroom, which had been decorated by Uncle Les, an artist with fussy flair. The back room of the shop was all Auntie Mim. Antiques, whatnots and whatevers had been piled into towers that blocked the meager light streaming from high, dusty windows. The kitchen grill, sink and cutting board were usually overrun with Mim’s latest acquisitions. Only the stove-oven combo remained safe from clutter. Chairs, tables, and a grandfather clock hung from the pipes that crisscrossed the ceiling. Whenever Maisie had to spend any time in the back room, she tried not to think about earthquakes.

Maisie twirled the pot in bubble wrap, sealed it with a Mim’s Mercantile sticker and placed it in one of the signature pink paisley bags. She emerged from the dark, dusty back into the bright, sunny shop while Thor and the pirate fumbled in their pockets and counted change. Whistler, who seemed to sneak out of nowhere, snagged what remained of their croissant and bolted out the door.

“What the–” the pirate began.

Thor burst into a laugh.

Maisie groaned.

Thor took note of her distress. “I’ll get him.”

The pirate stopped laughing. “No, I’ll get him.”

“Please, don’t bother–” Maisie began, watching Whistler streak down the sidewalk, his bandage waving in the air like a flag of victory.

Thor and the pirate looked at each other momentarily and then as if telepathing a silent go, they bolted. For a moment they wrestled in the doorway, then Pirate gave Thor a good-natured shove back into the store and tore up the sidewalk. Thor overtook him by the intersection.

Maisie thought about hustling Mrs. Henderson out the door, closing the shop, and chasing Thor, Pirate, and Whistler, but a man dressed in a dark blazer, sturdy brown shoes and sunglasses stood in front of the gaping front door, watching the men and dog weave up the sidewalk. After some hesitation, he entered the shop, making two customers Maisie would need to shoo. He fiddled with the rims of his glasses but left them on.

Mrs. Henderson nodded at a dog’s toy in the corner. Maisie gave the man another look before trying to nonchalantly kick the squeaky mouse behind the counter. Sighing, she knew that chasing Whistler would only encourage him. Left alone, the dog would come home when he was hungry, and he was always hungry, but if someone gave chase, he could be gone all day. He wouldn’t completely disappear, but he’d toy with his followers, tease them with near captures and taunt them with close encounters.

Mrs. Henderson cleared her throat. She stood, drumming her long French manicured nails on the glass of the pastry counter. She dipped her head again at the man standing in front of the hatpin collection with an unreadable expression on his face.

He didn’t seem the hatpin sort; in fact, Maisie wouldn’t have marked him as a collector. He was too large and masculine for Mim’s shop, like a Scottish highlander crashing a ladies’ tea. Maisie followed Mrs. Henderson’s pointed gaze toward the man’s waistband and saw a leather holster and a flash of metal. Her heart quickened and she relabeled the Scottish highlander into a highwayman.

Mrs. Henderson cleared her throat again and raised her eyebrows at Whistler’s abandoned rawhide bone lying beneath the bistro table.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Henderson,” Maisie said, hurrying to get the éclair while using her foot to scoot the dog chew behind a potted fichus. She opened the pastry case and pulled out a brownie. Fumbling with a Mim’s Mercantile bag, she licked her fingers and tried to open the bag. She could feel the man watching while she gave Mrs. Henderson an apologetic smile and shook the bag open.

“I wanted an éclair,” Mrs. Henderson said. She cast the man another glance, but he kept his sunglasses trained on Maisie. Mrs. Henderson turned her back to him. “FBI,” she mouthed.

Whistler hardly seemed worth an undercover agent, but Maisie’s cheeks flushed. She’d been irresponsible and thoughtless to allow the dog in the shop. Flustered, she set the brownie aside and fought the urge to lick the frosting off her fingers. She’d forgotten the plastic gloves, a testament to her nervousness; finger licking and food serving shouldn’t be standard café practice. Under the shelter of the counter she slipped the plastic gloves over messy fingers and pulled an éclair out of the case. She took a deep breath or two, trying to relax. Was this really easier than her job at LA Literary? She’d left the magazine to devote her time to writing, not selling pastries and chasing dogs. When Maisie glanced up, the man had turned toward a pair of Uncle Les’s photographs of Avalon Bay.

“You shouldn’t have invited Monster to the store,” Mrs. Henderson whispered.

Maisie nodded. She considered defending herself, but knew Mrs. Henderson was right. Even though the Jack Russell whined and cried when left alone, he should have stayed with Mim where he could chew and destroy, but not threaten the shop.

Maisie looked out the window and watched the dog and men dance down the sidewalk, dodging tourists, bumping into a man on rollerblades, interrupting a skateboarder. Whistler’s tail darted across the street, causing a BMW to brake quickly and skitter toward a parked van. A Hyundai bleeped as Thor and Pirate lunged for the dog. Safely out of traffic, Whistler’s white rump disappeared into a hedge. Thor leaped over the plant while the Pirate crouched on the sidewalk.

Then Thor took off his shirt.

Mrs. Henderson cleared her throat again. “I said,” Mrs. Henderson raised her voice an octave, “that I’d like another éclair.”

Maisie reluctantly tore her gaze off Thor’s muscular back. “Really?”

Mrs. Henderson twisted her lips into a sheepish, unnatural grin and gave the armed man a lowered eyelid appraisal. “If you’re going to go to hell, you might as well go in a limo.”

Or in the back of a dog catcher van, Maisie thought. “Thank you, Mrs. Henderson. I hope we’ll see you again soon,” she said, wondering how to rescue Whistler while a man with a concealed weapon considered a 1910 edition of Huckleberry Finn.

.

November at Our House--Thanksgiving Traditions

   “Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off - then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can.” 
― Herman Melville, Moby-Dick

I don't have an urge to go to sea in November, but I do agree the days can be gray. I love the holiday season, but because I love Thanksgiving, I don't want to treat it like the pickle in the middle stuck between Halloween and Christmas (I love those holidays, too.)

Here are some of our family's Thanksgiving traditions:

Tate Turkey Trot--Thanksgiving morning, we all run around the Rancho Santa Margarita Lake. My oldest son's girlfriend coined our new phrase: Thighs before pies! This year, I've been told that there will be medals.

Candy Corn Gratitude--We place three candy corns beside each plate and we take turns expressing three things we're grateful for. (And we can't repeat anyone else.)

Boy Pie Baking Contest--All adult men are required to bake a pie. My oldest son has won every year.

The Day After Turkey Pizzas-- You might think that these are pizzas made with turkey, but you would be wrong. Turkey pizzas are individual pizzas made to look like turkey. Colorful bell peppers are key to making a great looking turkey pizza.

My daughter is a professional photographer and here's her blog post about our family's Thanksgiving. (Her pictures are better than mine.) http://thebarnettes.blogspot.com/2016/12/happy-thanksgiving.html

Notes From Orange County Romance Writers of America Workshop. Ara Grigorian, Story Beats

On Saturday, I did something I rarely do. I went to the Orange County Romance Writers of America meeting. And I'm really glad I did! Not only because it gave me a chance to visit and chat with some of my favorite writer friends, but also because I got to listen to Ara Grigorian speak on story beats. It's a subject I've studied over and over again, but I took notes anyway. For writer's, learning about story structure is like listening to a discourse on the Beatitudes--it's something you need learn and relearn, apply and reapply over and over again. Here's Ara's bio:

Ara Grigorian is the international award-winning author of GAME OF LOVE, his debut novel. He is a technology executive in the entertainment industry. He earned his Masters in Business Administration from the University of Southern California. True to the Hollywood life, Ara wrote for a children’s television pilot that could have made him rich (but didn’t) and nearly sold a video game to a major publisher (who closed shop days later). Fascinated by the human species, Ara writes about choices, relationships, and second chances. Always a sucker for a hopeful ending, he writes contemporary romance stories.

Ara is a workshop leader for the Writer’s Digest Novel Writing Conference, the Santa Barbara Writers Conference, and Southern California Writers’ Conference (both Irvine, CA and San Diego, CA). Ara is represented by Stacey Donaghy of the Donaghy Literary Group.

And here's my notes and favorite quotes from Saturday's meeting:

If I have seen further, it is by standing on the shoulders of giants. Sir Isaac Newton

Every story has two storylines.

A story= the plot

B story= the character transformation

If your characters don't grow and transform, you've got a Dan Brown book.

In today's look-inside Amazon feature, the first act needs to be powerful and happen quickly.

A story beat is an event/decision/discovery that alters the course of the story.

Beginning: 

An indication that something isn't quite right. Your character needs to be flawed, but redeemable. Their beliefs and worldviews have to be in conflict. A change is coming, but your character has to want to resist change. Here is where you plant the thematic seed.

Thematic seeds:

Katniss needs to learn that one person can change the world. And that she can be that person.

Sleepless in Seattle: "Look, love just doesn't happen twice." Obviously, he needs to learn that it can.

Inciting incident or the crack in the glass:

An unforeseeable force of gravity. In Notting Hill, he sees her world and she sees his. Neither of them fit. But they make new friends who help them on their journey.

Midpoint. I like it here, but...

This is where your character has a "mirror moment" where they examine themselves and realize they don't fit in their new world. There are dings in their armor. And just when they think they have everything right, the new world turns upside down. Time clocks appear and begin to tick.

The character needs to feel like they are worse off than before everything started.  "A whiff of death." But going back isn't an option. Show the humility. The breakdown is inevitable, because without it, there can't be a breakthrough.

There needs to be an orchestration of scenes that lead to the fight or die battle. In a romance, this is an emotional win or die.

You will be called Nicolas Sparks if you kill off your characters. And that is not a romance.

For those who care, I'm at about 40k words into my NaNoWriMo project. This means I'm about to write the ah-ha moment where my character realizes she has a fatal flaw. And the cool thing about writing fatal flaws is it helps me to see my own. Sometimes I wish I didn't know this. But I do.

Canterbury Clockwork

My grandfather's clock was too large for the shelf,

So it stood ninety years on the floor;

It was taller by half than the old man himself,

Though it weighed not a pennyweight more.

It was bought on the morn of the day that he was born,

And was always his treasure and pride;

But it stopped short — never to go again —

When the old man died.

Ninety years without slumbering

(tick, tock, tick, tock),

His life's seconds numbering,

(tick, tock, tick, tock),

It stopped short never to go again when the old man died

In watching its pendulum swing to and fro,

Many hours he spent as a boy.

And in childhood and manhood the clock seemed to know

And to share both his grief and his joy.

For it struck twenty-four when he entered at the door,

With a blooming and beautiful bride;

But it stopped short — never to go again —

When the old man died.

Ninety years without slumbering

(tick, tock, tick, tock),

His life's seconds numbering,

(tick, tock, tick, tock),

It stopped short — never to go again —

When the old man died.

My grandfather said that of those he could hire,

Not a servant so faithful he found;

For it wasted no time, and had but one desire —

At the close of each week to be wound.

And it kept in its place — not a frown upon its face,

And its hands never hung by its side.

But it stopped short — never to go again —

When the old man died.

Ninety years without slumbering

(tick, tock, tick, tock),

His life's seconds numbering,

(tick, tock, tick, tock),

It stopped short never to go again when the old man died

It rang an alarm in the dead of the night —

An alarm that for years had been dumb;

And we knew that his spirit was pluming for flight —

That his hour of departure had come.

Still the clock kept the time, with a soft and muffled chime,

As we silently stood by his side;

But it stopped short — never to go again —

When the old man died.

Ninety years without slumbering

(tick, tock, tick, tock),

His life's seconds numbering,

(tick, tock, tick, tock),

It stopped short — never to go again —

When the old man died.

*reference

Gustav, stooped with age, hunkered down on his stool in front of his workbench, oblivious to the sounds of death and destruction falling around him. The comforting sounds of a hundred tick-tocking clocks provided a blanket to muffle the bomb’s whistling screams and corresponding rocketing explosions.

His gnarled fingers shook as a blast shook his shop and decimated another close by, but that was more from age than fright. He had lived a long life—much longer than he, or anyone else, had expected. He glanced out the window at the nearby flickering flames. The sudden rise in temperature caused beads of sweats to form on his brow. He removed his glasses, patted his forehead, and resumed his work.

A barking dog loped past his window. A woman clutching a basket followed. Footsteps padded down the steps that led to his shop and banging shook his door.

“Gustav!” A young man’s voice called. “Come, we must go!” The door shook as the pounding grew more and more incessant.

With a sigh, Gustav, put down his tools and unfolded his long limbs. They were stiff from sitting in a prolonged position. He didn’t answer the door to save his own life, but out of concern for his neighbor, Wilbur—a young man with a wife and children who, thank God, had already left for the safe countryside. Wilbur had a reason to live, while Gustav did not. He didn’t feel the need to explain to Wilbur that running away was a young man’s game.

“I will stay here with my clocks,” Gustav told him. “They know when my time will come. But you must go. Do not worry about me.”

Wilbur tried to argue with him, but to prove his point, Gustav firmly closed his door and turned the lock. Settling down at his workbench, he picked up the tiny gears of his current project, a clock that would be the wedding gift for his grandson. The rosewood case matched the color of his own Gretel’s hair, the ivory face the color of her porcelain skin. As he worked, he hummed the song played at his own wedding by his uncle’s fiddling band.

Each clock was a labor of love for Gustav, but this one was special, because, he suspected, it would be his last. This thought didn’t bring him fear, but rather warmed him with the knowledge that this clock would continue to tick-tock long after his own heart stopped beating. Clocks, he knew, are like love, they continue when everything else fails.

Modern Day

Los Angeles International Airport

Darby stood in the line snaking its way toward the crowded Starbuck’s counter. She shivered, but this had more to do with nerves and anticipation than the over-zealous air-conditioning or her lack of caffeine. She glanced at the board announcing the arriving flights and consulted her watch.

Benjamin’s plane had been delayed again. Which was really hard to understand. After all, it was August, not the dead of winter where one might expect turbulent weather…But of course, he was flying from London. When she had flown from London to L.A., their flight had gone over the North Pole—and rotten weather was sure to be happening there, so…she needed to be patient. But she had been patient far too long already. She hadn’t seen Benjamin in three whole months—other than on Facetime, or social media, of course.

Not that she had known him for much longer.

A sudden splash of burning hot wetness on her silk blouse pulled Darby’s thoughts away from Benjamin and onto the demise of her outfit. “Ow!” she pulled her blouse away from her chest and stared at the brown stain spreading like cancer.

“Oh! I’m sorry!” A man with large hands grabbed a handful of napkins from the dispenser on a nearby table and tried to pat her chest.

She flinched away from him and noticed for the first time his face. Aside from the embarrassed and apologetic expression on his face, he was incredibly gorgeous in a young Paul Newman way—blond, blue-eyed, and rugged and weathered as if he spent a good deal of time outside. He was almost as good looking, but in a completely different way, as Benjamin. But of course, Benjamin was a model and an actor. This man was a silk blouse staining moron.

“It’s okay,” she said, moving away from his clumsy hands and wads of napkins, even though it obviously wasn’t because the coffee was scalding, her blouse was probably going to be ruined and even worse, she’d now have to welcome Benjamin to L.A. with a giant brown spot on her shirt.

“Oh no, I can tell your upset.” He shook the coffee off his own hands, making her realize he’d burned himself as well. “Let me pay for your dry-cleaning, at least.”

“No, don’t be silly,” she said, edging away from him, which wasn’t easy to do because of the crowd around them. Most were ignoring them, but a few watched with open curiosity, waiting to see her response. Darby gulped back her frustration because she didn’t want to make a scene.

“How about I buy you lunch?” he said.

Darby glanced at the board, noting that Benjamin’s flight was delayed another hour. She sighed. “Okay,” she agreed.

The man’s smile totally transformed his face. He was actually much more handsome than she’d originally thought. Maybe even a close match to Benjamin. Not that looks mattered. She didn’t love Benjamin for his (stunning) appearance. Looks had nothing to do with their almost instant and fatal attraction.

 “I’m waiting for my boyfriend’s delayed flight,” Darby told the handsome blouse-destroying stranger, just so he would know he didn’t stand a chance with her, that there wasn’t anything romantic in their getting to know each other, and that her heart was pledged elsewhere to another much less clumsy man. This was just a free lunch.

He looked at his watch, an intricate timepiece on a leather band. He had strong, thick wrists and covered with blond nearly transparent hair. Darby shivered again. She hated when men had dark gorilla fuzz, and she tried to recall Benjamin’s arms, but couldn’t. This bothered her.

“My sister’s flight is also late,” the man was saying as he guided her into a nearby restaurant.

“Weird, right? I mean, it’s August and sunny and warm.” Darby glanced around the posh restaurant. It was hard to believe that just a flimsy partition separated them from the noise and bustle of the rest of the airport.

“Not all delays are weather-related,” he said. “I’m Chad George, by the way,” he said, sticking out his hand.

“Darby Coleman,” she replied, liking his strong grip.

A waitress name Kayla led them to a table overlooking the tarmac.

“What do you do, Darby Coleman, when you’re not waiting for boyfriends in the airport?” Chad asked as soon as they were seated.

“I’m an accountant,” she said.

He leaned back. “Really?”

“Why do you look so surprised?” Darby fussed with her napkin, slightly miffed because his response was typical. Most people had the exact same reaction when she said she was an accountant and it bothered her that no one seemed to take her seriously.

“You just don’t look like an accountant.”

Darby sat a little straighter, trying to add inches to her five-foot-three frame. “And what do you think accountants should look like?”

“Well, for one thing, they don’t wear strappy red sandals and Fossil@ jeans.”

“Maybe not to work.”

“Although they might wear silk blouses. Just not with big brown stains on them.”

Darby didn’t mean to scowl, but she couldn’t help it. She picked up a menu to hide her expression. “I’m actually freaky good with numbers.”

He lifted a skeptical eyebrow. “Really?”

She lowered the menu. “Yeah. Go ahead, test me.”

“Okay, what’s three-thousand and forty-nine divided by sixty-three?”@

He typed the math problem onto the calculator app on his phone. “You’re right. Amazing.”

She shrugged and went back to studying the menu. After a moment, she settled on a shrimp salad. “What do you do?”

“I’m a teacher at a small private school.”

This surprised and concerned her because teacher’s salaries usually didn’t stretch to cover fancy airport restaurants. “That’s noble,” she said. “It must be really rewarding.” Just not financially. She quickly changed her mind about the shrimp salad and selected a cup of soup.

“Sometimes,” he said with a smirk.

Kayla the waitress returned to take their orders, and Chad surprised her by getting the steak.

“Are you sure you just want soup?” he asked.

She nodded, even though she really wasn’t quite so sure anymore. After all, the sun glinting off the airplanes told her that it had to be warm outside away from the air conditioning. The thermostat had been pushing toward eighty when she’d been in her car and that was before it was even noon.

“I love tomato soup,” she said. “I practically lived on it when I lived in London.” Where it had been cold and dreary most of the year.

“You lived in London?”

She nodded. “That’s where I met Benjamin—my boyfriend, the one I’m waiting for.” Just saying Benjamin and boyfriend in the same sentence sent a happy tingle down her spine. She recalled his face to remind herself of how much she loved him and how perfect he was for her and how romantic their first meeting had been—much more romantic than some doofus spilling his coffee on her and ruining her favorite blouse. @GO BACK AND HAVE HER GO TO THE RESTROOM TO TRY AND SALVAGE HER BLOUSE.

Not that Chad looked like a doofus. And he was a teacher—the noblest of vocations. Because the conversation lagged, Darby found herself telling Chad about how she met Benjamin. “He literally fell into my life!”

Chad leaned back as Kayla returned with their food and placed a thick slice of steak with a side of a baked potato oozing with butter and a serving of steamed vegetables in front of Chad and a cup of steaming hot soup in front of Darby.

Darby opened a bag of crackers and crumbled them into her soup. “We met the day before I left London. Sad, right?”

Chad looked as if he didn’t know how to respond. After a moment, he came up with, “What were you doing in London?”

“I’m a private banker for @, and one of our clients was having issues. I thought at first it was a huge honor for them to send me, but then I realized that no one else wanted to go.”

“How come?”

Darby frowned. She really wasn’t supposed to talk about her clients, especially if she didn’t have anything good to say. “Let’s just say that my client likes to smoke cigars.” She lifted a spoonful to soup to her lips. Yep, it was hot. After a moment, she added. “He had other vices, as well.”

“And you can’t tell me what those are?” he said with a smirk.

She shook her head. “No, I can’t. Sorry.”

Chad cut into his steak and it let out a waft of heavenly scent. “So, tell me about the boyfriend that fell on you.”

Darby set down her spoon. “He was at a party right above my hotel room and there was a fire. Of course, I didn’t know that since I was asleep in my bed. Anyway, to escape the fire, he jumped down onto my balcony saw me sleeping and woke me up.”

The memory of Benjamin’s gorgeous and concerned face waking her flashed in her mind. “He picked me up and carried me outside.” She didn’t add that they had spent the rest of the night making out on the hotel lawn and that she’d only been wearing a silk teddy. Remembering the cold wet grass pressing against her naked legs, Darby took another spoonful of soup. “It was so romantic.”

“But then you left London?”

She nodded.

“So you really don’t know him very well.”

Darby bristled because this was exactly what her mom, sisters, brothers, and friends had been saying. “We’ve skyped every day. In some ways, this a better way to get to know each other because you don’t get carried away with snogging. That’s the British word for—”

“I know all about snogging,” he said with a smirk.

Yes, from the looks of him, he probably did.

“I know it’s absolutely none of my business, but when you only know each other via social media, it’s really easy to just show your good bits.”

Wow. He really did sound like her mom. “You’re right.” She swallowed another spoonful of soup. “It’s none of your business. But sometimes, when you meet the right person, you just know.”

“You just know, huh?”

She nodded. “That’s how it was for me and Benjamin. He fell into my life at just the right time. It was meant to be.”

“Hmm…I wonder if the hotel owner felt the same way.”

“What? Why would they care?”

“It was their hotel on fire, right? I just wonder if they had such a fatalistic attitude.” He grinned and took a bite of his steak. “I’m waiting for my sister,” he said after a moment to fill the awkward silence. “She’s coming into town to help celebrate my grandfather’s eightieth birthday.”

When Darby didn’t comment—because really, what could she say except that she wished this dreadful lunch and the waiting for Benjamin was over?

While Chad went on and on about his family, barely even noticing her prolonged silence, Darby ate her soup as quickly as she could without slurping and occupied her thoughts with memories mingled with fantasies about Benjamin.

Where he would stay had been a trick since she couldn’t very well bring him home. Not only was she from a long line of staunch Catholics, she was also from a large family…who happened to live in a not so large house. At the moment, she shared that house with her parents, her older brother Tom, her older sister, Meg and her three little kids, her other sister, Henley, her Grandma Betty, and the dog, Wheezer.

Benjamin, of course, had understood and made arrangements with some friends who lived in L.A.. Still, it made snogging difficult.

“Are your grandparents still alive,” Chad interrupted her thoughts.

“Yes,” she said, thinking of Grandma Betty. She did not want to talk about Grandma Betty. Darby shoveled in the last drop of soup and put down her spoon. “It’s been really nice meeting you and thanks for the lunch, but I have to go.” She gathered up her purse, said goodbye and left.

#

Chad watched Darby walk away. His guilt pricked him about the blouse. He’d have to ask Cecelia about the cost of blouses. He finished off his meal, gave Kayla his credit card, and wandered back to the baggage claim area where he’d arranged to meet Cecelia. He spotted Darby across the room. She had her back to him, but he knew it was her because of her high ponytail and dark curls—another very non-account sort of trait. She sat on a chair, her legs crossed. A book dangled from her hand.

He wondered what she was reading, considered going over and asking, but quickly changed his mind when he heard, “Chadwick!”

He spun around and opened his arms to his sister. She launched herself at him and he caught her. “Hey!” he smiled down into her beaming face. “I’m so glad to see you!”

She grimaced. “The parentals giving you a hard time?”

He nodded slightly. “It’ll be good to have you here to take off some of the heat.”

A small frown touched Cecelia’s lips.

“Just kidding,” Chad said as instant guilt swamped him. He wanted his sister home and not for the reason he just gave. He had missed her while she’d been in Paris.

She pulled away from him, and he took in her tired green eyes and the rumpled hair. Like him, she shared their mother’s coloring and height. He also noticed her blouse. It looked a lot like the one Darby had been wearing—minus the coffee stain, of course. “Huh, Cecelia, strange request.”

She lifted her eyebrows, waiting.

“Can I buy that blouse off you?”

Confusion flitted across her face. “What? Seriously?”

He nodded. “I spilled coffee on this woman, and I want to make it up to her.”

Cecelia elbowed him. “Do you like her?”

“You know I’m with Jenna.”

“Ah. Yes, Jenna.” Cecelia blew out a sigh.

“What? You like Jenna.”

“Of course I do.” She looped her arm around Chad’s. “But if we both like Jenna so much, why are we giving this stranger my blouse?”

“I just…I probably not only spilled coffee on her, but I also probably offended her.”

“Oh! Tell me!”

Beside them, the luggage carousal began to whirr, announcing the arrival of bags.@

Chad repeated Darby and Benjamin’s story. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I mean, I barely know her. Why should I care if she’s being scammed by this guy?”

“What makes you think she’s being scammed? If you like her enough to give her my blouse, he probably likes her, too.”

He thought about this. She didn’t actually say that she had bought Benjamin’s ticket to L.A., so what had made him think that she had? He raked through their brief conversation in his mind trying to put his finger on what had raised his hackles…Raised his hackles—that was something Grandpa Bern would say. Still, his hackles were quivering and maybe if he gave Darby a blouse he’d feel better…and maybe he could forget her as she obviously wanted him to.

“Let’s not give her this blouse, because, you know, I’ve been wearing it for the last ten hours,” Cecelia said. “If you really like her, you can pick one from my suitcase.”

Chad brightened, and he cast Darby another glance.

Cecelia followed his gaze. “Is that her?”

He nodded.

“She’s a lot smaller than me,” Cecelia said.

“That’s okay, right? It’s better for the shirt to be too big rather than too small.”

Cecelia nodded at the luggage carousal. “There’s my bag. It’s got a bandana on the handle.”

Chad hurried to the carousal to retrieve the bag. Cecelia followed him to an unoccupied row of chairs. Chad placed the suitcase on the chairs and Cecelia unlocked it.

Clothes in all shapes, sizes, and colors…he didn’t know how to do this.

Cecelia took pity on him. She pulled out a silky floral top with a ruffle for a sleeve. “How’s this?”

He nodded. “Good choice. How much?”

Cecelia’s eyes glinted as she waved the blouse in front of him like a flirty flag. “Fifty dollars.”

Chad faked a smile and wondered what made Cecelia and his dad, for that matter, so greedy. They all had generous trust funds. Chad reached into his pocket, pulled out some bills and handed them to his sister.

Cecelia reached for the money, but he yanked it away. “You’ve got to give it to her.”

“What?” Cecelia demanded.

“You have to be the one to give her the blouse.”

“No way! You’re the one who spilled the coffee!”

“Yeah, but I don’t want her to get the wrong idea.”

Cecelia narrowed her eyes. “And what idea is that?”

“I’m never going to see her again, so—”

“Exactly, you’re never going to see her again.”

He blew out a breath, reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and drew out another twenty.

Cecelia held out her hand, wrapped her fingers around the bills, and stuffed the money in her pocket as if she was afraid Chad would change his mind.

CHAPTER?

“Excuse me.” A tall lovely blonde dressed in jeans and a tank top stood in front of Darby. “Are you Darby?”

Confused, Darby didn’t answer right away.

“I can tell you are by that large coffee stain on your blouse,” the woman continued. She dropped a floral bit of fabric onto Darby’s lap. “My brother asked me to give you this.”

Darby glanced around, searching for Chad, but she couldn’t see him.

“If you’re looking for Chad, he’s gone to get the car.” The blonde dropped into the empty seat beside Darby. “He doesn’t know I’m doing this.”

“But you just said he asked you to give me the blouse,” Darby said, recovering her voice.

“Oh, he knows about the blouse. That was his idea. It’s my idea to get your number.”

“My number?”

“I’m Cecelia, by the way, Chad’s sister.”

“I’m Darby.”

“I know,” Cecelia said, smiling. “What I don’t know is your number.”

“But why?”

Cecelia shrugged.

“Did Chad tell you that I’m waiting for my boyfriend? He’s coming all the way from England. I think we’re going to get married…someday.”

An unreadable expression flinted across Cecelia’s face. “Chad doesn’t know I’m asking for your number.”

“Oh…it’s you, then?”

Cecelia pressed her hand against her chest and laughed. “Huh, no. You think I’m a lesbian?” She laughed some more, then sobered. “I’m just acting on a hunch. If you want the blouse, I need your number.”

“But I don’t want your blouse.” Darby handed it back to Cecelia. “I mean it’s really nice of you…and Chad. But he already bought me lunch. That’s enough. You don’t need to give me your shirt.”

“Are you sure? Because what’s your boyfriend going to think when he sees you with that big ugly stain?” But Cecelia took the shirt, rolled it up, and tucked it into her bag.

“I’m sure,” Darby said with a laugh. “But here, you can have my card.”

Cecelia gazed at it. “You’re an accountant?”

Darby shrugged off the insult. “I don’t know why people always seem so shocked.”

Cecelia tucked the card into her bag. “Maybe it’s because you don’t have a pocket protector.”

“I’ll have to get one of those if you think it’ll help people take me more seriously.”

“Well, it was nice to meet you, Darby the accountant.”

“And it was very nice to meet you, too, Cecelia, the sister of Chad.”