Into the Fire

At two years old and giving a hint of who I would be eventually. Oh yeah. 

Father, you were patient with and gracious to me even when I was at my worst. Thank you is never enough for the rescue. Apart from you, I can do nothing. In the Name of Jesus, Amen. 

Uneasy Street by Becky Wade is the conclusion to A Sons of Scandal Romance trilogy.

Becky Wade fans know that if you want sparks-flying romance, you pick up any one of her novels. I've said it before, and I'm saying it again, Becky knows romance. She's one of the few romance novelists I read because she doesn't pull punches when it comes to the feel of romance.

Max Cirillo is the scandalous/illegitimate son of a famous football player (Felix Camden) via his liaison with his housekeeper who had become friends with his wife Fiona. Fiona was the wife of Felix at the time and the mother of their two sons Jeremiah (Book 1) and Jude (Book 2). The three boys became true friends in spite of it all. 

Max is all man and gained his ridiculously good looks from his dad and mom with her Greek heritage.

Sloane and Max met in college and eventually started a company they called Libris. Their friendship propelled them to devote themselves to it through hard work, hard times, and sheer determination. When a critical meeting came up, Sloane was supposed to address the attendees but had to cancel at the very last minute. Max filled in but wasn't prepared because he trusted Sloane to be the best. That singular event caused a terrible rift that led to Sloane's moving from her residence in Maine to California where she was able to re-establish herself as an etiquette expert while Max regrouped to make the company and himself fabulously wealthy. 

Sloane had a sister (Harper) who relinquished her daughter (Ivy) through adoption, and "Auntie Sloane" was able to keep a close relationship with the child and her adoptive parents. Ivy is now a young teenager and is able to spend time with Sloane while her parents are away overseas on business. Ivy has known Max most of her life, but neither she nor Sloane know that the cozy apartment above a garage next to a beautiful mansion Sloane remembers from her childhood that she and Harper called the "Prince House" is owned by none other than her now "enemy" Max Cirillo. 

Needless to say, there are lots of fireworks – and not the good kind – from the start of their "reunion."

There are several subplots in this final story which all come together in unique ways and finally lead to a depth of understanding that neither Sloane nor Max realized was necessary to change their perceptions of each other and themselves from the inside out.

A few readers didn't care for Max. I loved him. Underneath that rakish exterior was a man who was empty and lost. I was more inclined not to care for Sloane. She grew on me as she grew to understand herself. I could forgive her when she'd calm down and look deep to see how she was scarred and why she still carried them like a shield. There's something very beautiful about a man who finally succumbs to loving a woman. Becky captures the process perfectly. 

It's a good conclusion to the trilogy and probably my favorite. Low-key Christianity surfaces toward the end. 

Father, you know all things about what Becky needs for her writing. Please supply them in abundance and bless her and her family in their lifeworks. In the Name of Jesus, Amen. 

Couldn't resist this one again! Love this! Jesus IS more than "just alright!" He's the Savior of the world. 

John 14:6 

Thank you, Lord Jesus, for saving me from myself. I pray you always will. In the Name of Jesus, Amen. 

Various trends I'll be happy to see go:

Cartoonish book covers for novels that aren't comedic – particularly for romance novels.

False eyelashes that make me stare at them instead of the eyes. Ladies, please, they are false/fake/faux eyelashes.

I owned and wore bellbottom pants but not the ones that were two feet wide on each leg. Please don't let those come back. 

The great front cover that suddenly appears with the near same design and colors on so many unrelated novels – ruining the originality of the design.

Long pants/jeans/etc. that land just above the ankle bone. Ick. 

Meaningless, often untrue, click-bait titles to posts/articles/etc.

What are some of your worst-liked ongoing trends? 

Father, you must shake your head and/or roll your eyes over the ages watching your Creation. I know I must've given you enough eyerolls to last you my lifetime. Thank you for loving me anyway. I can never thank you enough. In the Name of Jesus, Amen. 

For the appeal we make does not spring from error or impure motives, nor are we trying to trick you. On the contrary, we speak as men approved by God to be entrusted with the gospel. We are not trying to please men but God, who tests our hearts. You know we never used flattery, nor did we put on a mask to cover up greed — God is our witness. We were not looking for praise from men, not from you or anyone else.

1 Thessalonians 2:3-6 (NIV) 

Friday might bring anything your way. How about a snippet from my one and only mystery novel? Yes, there's a romantic thread, but it's not the focus. Since I tend to primarily read thrillers, mystery, and suspense, you'd think it would've have been easier to write a mystery. It was not. But I did it after many stops and starts with gracious help from a police detective. 

Race 

 (From Chapter Three)

The 6’ 3”, shaved head and goateed guard arrived in a security vehicle similar to a golf cart. I guessed his age to be between 35 and 40. The head of security walked him over to us, and we introduced ourselves and shook his firm grip. His name-badge read Nate, so we called him that.

     “Nate, what can you tell us about Carmella Ortiz?”

     Both of us detected the slightest flush in his expression before he answered with proper respect for our question. Although we stood apart from the others, he turned his back even further away from anyone nearby.

     “We had a thing.” He dropped his head and gave it a slight shake. “A few times.”

     “Last night?” Jesse kept his voice sympathetic.

     “No. Last night she seemed to be in a hurry.”

     “How could you tell?” I asked, real casual.

     “When she comes in late like that, a little tipsy, she likes to flirt. That’s kinda how it started with us. But last night I think it was her sister who dropped her off—it looked like her car—Carmella got out and hurried toward the guard shack. I walked out to say hi, but she just gave me a quick wave and kept walking.”

     “How did you know she was tipsy?” Jesse asked.

     “Well, I guess I just assumed she was. Usually when her sister drops her off, she’s been out drinkin’. I didn’t get close enough to know for sure.”

     “How did she appear to you?” I asked.

     “I guess just in a hurry.”

     “What time was that?”

     “Midnight or a little after.”

     “Not as late as one or so?”

     “No. It couldn’t have been more than five or ten minutes either side of midnight. I watched her for a minute and noticed she walked into a shedrow. Usually she heads down the road to her barn.”

     Both Jesse and I looked around instinctively. “What barn and what shedrow?”

     Nate pointed north. “Danny Westland’s barn, west end.” He gave us the barn’s number.

     “Anything else?” Jesse probed in his best nonchalant voice.

     “Look, I’m embarrassed, alright? I’m divorced. This hot young chick starts flirtin’ with me, and when she let me know she was game, I went for it. I haven’t been with her in probably a month or more. She hasn’t been comin’ in late—at my gate anyway when I’m on duty—for about that long except for last night, and like I said, she seemed like she was in a hurry—or maybe she just wanted to make it plain she wasn’t up for any funny business.” He looked north. “I’m sorry.”

     “You know anything about her boyfriend?” I asked.

     “Roman?” Followed by a brief laugh. “Roman is – or was – one of the good guys. This is a real shame. But there aren’t too many good lookin’ women around here who haven’t fallen for his charms. Carmella whined about him a coupla times to me before she came on to me.” He paused. “That’s probably why she hit on me. Thought it might make him jealous. Wasted effort on her part. I really don’t think he would’ve cared because he didn’t seem the loyal type to me. You know, a stud, young, good lookin’, all that.”

     “Do you know how long they lived together?”

     “No. Sorry. But I remember seeing them together shortly after the track opened for training this year.”

     Jesse reached for and shook the man’s hand again. “We appreciate your honesty.”

     “Thank you, Nate.” I shook his hand too. 

Father, thank you is never enough. Can't say it enough. Apart from you, I can do nothing. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.  

From a very long time ago, one of my favorites of myself. It was an interesting time of life. 

Father, I didn't meet Jesus for several years after this. You rescued me from myself when my heart was ready to understand. Thank you for your grace, patience, mercy, and love. No comparison, nothing, no one better. Thank you is never enough. Please continue to direct my steps. In the Name of Jesus, Amen. 

Because back cover copy and blurbs matter. Special thanks to reader Tammi Roberts Pulley and fabulous bestselling author Karin Kaufman respectively for their personal recommendations on these two back covers. 

My other novels . . . 

Father, please continue to shine your face upon Tammi and Karin as they pursue what you have for them. Please provide exactly what they need to do it. In the Name of Jesus, Amen. 

Once upon a time Neil Young was one of my favorites. With his unusual voice, interesting lyrics, and guitar mastery, he produced some great songs. From a long time ago, when I enjoyed his music . . . 

Father, you know hearts and minds in all of us. May each artist learn from whom their talent is given. Apart from you, we can do nothing – whether we know it or not. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.  

A reminder in this re-run post:

Bastion

What comes to mind? A castle? A bunker? A fortress? A citadel?

Probably not the bastion of the mind. The place where we hide things we can't face. Or the place where we deposit painful experiences because we know the protection sustains those things not easily accessed.

Some are constructed hastily. In the moment. Others take years to build as we add onto the structure piece by hurtful piece. Containment. It's what we expect from our bastions. Protection from the life-thwarting daggers of certain episodes in life.

Who would've thought we'd need to erect a stronghold to keep us from ourselves? To deny us passage into the dark place we'd rather not admit exists.

Writing forces us to charge the barricade, to demand the drawbridge lowered, to storm into the chilling entrance and stand transfixed by gaining entry. We look with wonder, our torches high and flaming, surveying what we've become and what we've failed to overcome. The story gushes forth like a frothy, foaming poison threatening to douse us in its liquid death, but since we seem planted – even paralyzed – by both its beauty and its horror, we stand still, and it comes right to us and infuses our nostrils with its hot danger but subsides before forcing us to breathe its annihilation.

We've trespassed our hidden limits. And survived. Recorded our innermost fears. Revealed our pungent emotions. Wondering who will be offended by our truths.

The bastions of writers: conquered. Again.

Father, we need you to reveal who we are at our core. You know us where we've hidden. We're desperate for you, Lord. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.