**GIVEAWAY** Review + Interview with TJ Turner – Lincoln's Bodyguard

I'm so pleased to introduce debut author TJ Turner, who is here talking about his new (just yesterday) released Lincoln's Bodyguard. Its described as an alternate history which I'm a huge fan of so I had to read it and I'm so glad I did. So sit back and enjoy our short chat, my review and then if you're feeling lucky maybe you'll win your very own author signed copy of the novel. Giveaway details are below.

TJ take it away!!

• ISBN-13: 9781608091430
• Publisher: Oceanview Publishing
• Publication date: 4/7/2015
• Pages: 283

 

Overview

In Lincoln’s Bodyguard, an alternative version of American history, President Lincoln is saved from assassination. Though he prophesied his own death—the only way he believed the South would truly surrender—Lincoln never accounted for the heroics of his bodyguard, Joseph Foster. A biracial mix of white and Miami Indian, Joseph makes an enemy of the South by killing John Wilkes Booth and preventing the death of the president. 

Read an Excerpt:

CHAPTER 1

March 1872

I approached the White House slowly, my first time back in seven years. I left after saving the Old Man, after things changed. Washington looked as before, but the feel of the place had shifted. No one loitered or met the gaze of fellow citizens on the street. A cold city—scared. There were rumors of attacks in the heart of the Capital, of daring rebel assaults in broad daylight, meant to terrorize. The papers never reported them, but the rumors circulated, passed by word of mouth until truth and myth were intertwined but unreconciled.

As the sun reached higher the fog dissolved around the White House. The building took shape, a gray mass against the pure white of the mist. Something deep nagged that I should ask admittance and let the walls of the palace shield me.

I took the letter from my breast pocket. My fingers traced the outline of my name.

Feb. 22, 1872

Joseph,

I know much time has passed unspoken between us, but there is something important to discuss. Please, I need you.

—A. Lincoln

Please. The word pleaded through the letter. Maybe I assigned it gravity beyond its intent.Please. I tucked the letter back into my breast pocket.

Once inside, my fingers tingled, anticipation mixed with fear. Two soldiers led me down the corridors I knew so well. An air lingered about the place, a scent—musty with the taste of history and power, like the building itself sweat it from the walls. My shoes found the well-worn path, the slight indentation down the middle of the carpet from decades of wear. We walked past closed doorways, behind which my mind could paint every turn in vivid detail. With my eyes shut I could walk to the Old Man's study, take my post along the back wall, and blend into the dark green wallpaper. I was home.

One of the soldiers showed me inside the great wood door. The room was empty. Two windows laid claim to the far wall, spanning from floor to ceiling. The first framed the Washington Monument. It remained partially complete, the sun blinding off the bleached white stone. During the War, maps plastered these walls, obscuring the wallpaper as they tracked battles and the movement of armies. At times they covered the windows. Without the maps the place felt empty, but the walls knew the truth.

I walked to the middle of the room, something I rarely did in my earlier days when I preferred a solid structure at my back. The fire hissed, a few pops betraying overly wet wood placed into the flame. A table stood in front of the fireplace and I ran my fingertips over the edge. It hadn't budged in years, the carpet under it more plush and vividly green than elsewhere.

A map covered the wood tabletop, its corners curled from repeated rolling. It showed the South, the land from Richmond and below. Even though the generals had surrendered their swords, the fighting raged on. The War wouldn't give up. Though no longer the boil of '63, she simmered, nine years later. She still claimed lives, and would until the day she died. The Confederates had disbanded their armies to mold themselves into an efficient enemy—small networks of rebels who attacked and then dissolved into society. Fighting ghosts. Small x'sdotted the roads in all directions.

Ambush sites.

"How are you, Joseph?"

I never heard him coming, one of the things I hated about this carpet. Anything could creep quietly behind you.

"I'm fine, Mr. Lamon."

Ward Hill Lamon, the President's right hand. He had always despised me. His body language betrayed him. I had worked for Allan Pinkerton, the famed detective and forerunner of military intelligence, while Ward Hill Lamon was the President's best friend, advisor, and confidant. They competed for the Old Man's loyalties.

"I see the President's note found you. Mr. Pinkerton told us to expect you today."

I played over his intonation in my head, searching his choice of words. He stood more bent, though he still cut an imposing figure. His suit spoke of wealth and power. How a man composes himself and how he dresses tells an immense amount about his status, both real and self-imagined. In this, Lamon had grown more powerful than last we met.

"Will Mr. Pinkerton be joining us?" I asked.

"Not today. We need to discuss matters of great sensitivity, and discretion will be the priority. There are things he doesn't need to know. Do you understand?"

I lied and nodded. Another political chess match.

"Do you know why you're here, Joseph?"

"I received the President's letter. That's all I know."

"When the President arrives, we'll explain the situation. He insisted on having you. It's only proper we wait for him. I'll go check on things."

He turned to leave but then stopped. "Joseph, I don't want to leave you with the wrong impression about Mr. Pinkerton. Someone is reporting to the enemy—a fox in the henhouse, as the President would say. I have long suspected it to be among Pinkerton's people. These things happen, but what we will discuss cannot be compromised. The very life of our nation depends on that."

"My loyalty belongs to the President alone," I answered.

Lamon considered my reply. "Very well. I will not mention it again. If the President trusts you, that will suffice." This time he turned and left. When the door closed, I stood alone.

I turned to the little marks that littered the map in front of me, filling the roadways from Richmond all the way south. Parts of Louisiana and lower Mississippi had a line drawn across. The country remained divided, the result of a failed surrender. When General Joe Johnston walked from the negotiation table years ago, the Old Man had called it the greatest treason. It surpassed even General Lee or Benedict Arnold. Other rebel leaders followed. Eighty thousand men burned their uniforms and returned to their farms. They melted back into the fabric of the South. But they kept their guns and the country knew no closure.

As I studied the map a younger man entered the room, resplendent in a three-piece suit fashioned from a shimmering cloth. Behind him the Old Man filled the doorframe, pausing to get a good look at me before he walked across the room with the aid of a cane.

"Joseph," he held out a hand after switching the cane. "How we both have changed. I'm afraid that in beauty, neither of us has any more to claim, my friend."

His hand felt frail, the bones barely covered by the tissue paper masquerading as skin. Tall and thin, he towered above me still. I felt like a child. The cane in his hand forced him to stoop—too short for his height. His suit hung loosely, indicating weight lost. His knee-length jacket appeared hollow, his neck gaunt inside the white collar and bow tie. But time had weathered his face the most. The lines were deep and furrowed, as if recently plowed. His beard had grayed, and his hairline retreated. It had only been seven years, but the office had drained him, pulling his very essence from the shell of his suit.

"It has been too long." He motioned for me to sit at the table with him as the younger man circled the room and stood along the back wall, like I had done for years. Lamon entered the room and closed the door behind him. He joined us at the table.

"How is your mother?" The Old Man asked.

The question caught me by surprise, amazed at how far her influence spread. In retirement she had become famous, articles published on her exploits, the newspapers using her story to blot out the little marks on the map.

"She is fine, sir, the last I checked. I haven't seen her in a while."

"She was here once, did you know?"

"No." In my mind some worlds were never meant to mix.

"Many of the conductors came, your mother, Harriet Tubman, a few others who risked so much. I hosted a ceremony and a banquet. Several years back now. She told me a few good stories about you. To think, the things you withheld in our time together."

The event would have been bald-faced propaganda arranged by Lamon to mask the sour reports from down South. My mother would cringe if she heard herself called a distraction.

"I hope we find time to catch up, Joseph. But my schedule is worse than ever, and I am sure you are wondering why you are here." The Old Man nodded toward Lamon.

"As you might suspect, Joseph," Lamon began, "the rebellion has grown." He flattened a curled edge of the map. "Some say we are losing. A fight like this is ugly, and even with our best efforts we have been unable to rid ourselves of it.

"But we have a rare opportunity. A senior member of the resistance wants to end the fighting. The information he has would be devastating for the rebels. We could break them—push the fight out of this stalemate." Lamon swept his hand across the map.

I looked to the President. He held one hand across his chest while the other rubbed his beard.

"Who?" I asked.

Lamon looked to the Old Man before answering. "Norris."

"Colonel Norris?"

The weight of the name caught me off guard. It made me nauseated. I slouched, grateful for my chair, letting it hold my weight. Col. William Norris had been the head of the Confederate Secret Service during the War, Pinkerton's nemesis. The end of the organized fighting accelerated his rise as leader of a decentralized yet effective resistance. I tried to kill him once and damn near succeeded. His name appeared last on my list—a roster of the men who left my wife for dead and took my daughter to avenge their failed attempt to kill the Old Man.

"He grows tired of the fight," Lamon answered. "I believe his letters and the promises of his envoy to be sincere. He sees the error of this conflict—that nothing will improve until we close this final chapter and move forward."

I looked at the Old Man. He was lost in thought.

"So what do you want from me?"

"He requested you," Lamon's voice was flat.

"Norris did? Why? Last time you sent me to bring back his body," I said.

Lamon provided the list that I had worked from.

"There's symbolism for him. You killed Booth, and Norris planned the attempt on the President. He says he will trust only you."

"Maybe he means to kill me?"

A smile flickered on Lamon's face before he suppressed it. "He's gone to a lot of trouble to convince us he wants to come in. Do you suppose you're so important?"

"No," I lied. But that was exactly what I thought. Years ago I had made a deal with Norris—a deal to spare my daughter. Unable to do what he asked, he would want me dead for my failings. "Even if I agree, how am I to find him?"

"He provided meeting instructions. You will take Baxter with you," Lamon said.

"Baxter?"

Lamon motioned to the young man standing along the wall. "Mr. Winston Baxter, the President's security advisor."

The suggestion surprised me. I glanced at the man in the shiny suit standing against the bookcase. He was almost ten years my junior and far too confident for his age. Proximity to power can have that effect. The light material of his suit shimmered, the cloth likely from Europe. Polished leather boots extended under the pleats in his trousers, and his slicked-back hair lent an oily appearance.

"I work by myself." I turned toward the Old Man.

"Absolutely not," Lamon answered. "You have a history with Colonel Norris, and we cannot run the risk of that past getting in the way of what needs to be done. You'll forgive me, but the stakes are too high to trust this matter to you alone. You'll take Baxter. He knows the particulars of finding Norris. There is no room for compromise on this."

"Why would I take someone of such little—," I paused, trying to find a word that would somehow diminish Baxter and Lamon alike, "—experience."

Lamon smiled. "You and Baxter are quite alike. He is young, but not green. You will find him a hard customer, with more starch than one his age should lay claim to."

Baxter stood motionless along the bookshelf—a complacent look on his face. A partner would make killing Norris that much harder.

"And if I say no?"

The Old Man reached out and placed his hand on my arm. "Please, Joseph. This is my chance to end this. I had so long planned to leave after my second term, like Washington himself, or Jefferson. But I promised I would not step down until the country was whole. I came in with this mess, and I will see it done right. I fear that with my stubborn disposition and with Congress refusing to impose limits on the office, I may never leave unless something helps us end this war."

I avoided his eyes. They would remind me of my dying wife as I held her, and of Aurora, the little girl stolen from me and, if still alive, old enough that I might not recognize her.

"Fine."

"Good," Lamon said. "You will leave tomorrow morning. Baxter will guide you to the meeting, and then you'll both escort Colonel Norris to Washington. If there are no issues, we'll have his sword this time next week."

"Thank you, Joseph," the Old Man said.

Lamon stood and placed a hand on my shoulder. "We need Norris alive." His voice lingered on that last word. "That's why Baxter goes with you tomorrow."

I nodded, though I would never let Norris speak of our arrangement to save my daughter. Lamon headed toward the door, leaving me with the Old Man, who struggled to rise. I helped him to his feet.

"It is so good to see you, Joseph. I'm afraid I have a cabinet meeting. But you will stay the night." The Old Man looked to the door and Lamon. Baxter held it open, not looking our direction. When they were out of earshot, the Old Man lowered his voice. "We will visit later. There is another purpose for my letter."

CHAPTER 2

Baxter escorted me to my old bedroom. It was redecorated as a guest room. Hot water filled a bathtub in the corner, and I stripped, anxious to wash days of travel from my body. The heat penetrated to my core. I fell asleep, only waking when the water cooled beyond comfort. A set of fresh clothes hung in the small closet, nothing extravagant like Baxter's suit, but better than what I had relied on to get me to Washington. I changed and fell back on the bed, slipping into a deep sleep. I didn't wake until late in the afternoon.

When I stirred, I found a tray perched on the bedside table with a half-filled bottle of whiskey and a glass—Pinkerton's whiskey. Lamon had excluded him from the meeting, but he knew how to look after me. He also meant the bottle as a message. Sooner or later I would have to face him. After Lamon had handed me the list with Norris' name, Pinkerton had counseled a more subtle path. But with my daughter gone and my wife dead, his influence proved of no avail. Revenge robbed my sanity. He would be upset with me still, so it would be best to visit when he least expected it, especially since they had taken my weapons when I entered the White House. I filled the glass and downed my first drink. It had been hours since my last, and my hands were beginning to shake.

To pass the time I unpacked my bag, filling my flask from Pinkerton's bottle to ensure a supply for the road. I refilled the glass and packed a second set of clean clothes. Putting the bag away I pulled out a small black velvet pouch, the only possession other than my knife that I cared about. Living light made life easier. In a hurry, I had little to leave behind. Even as the years passed, I hadn't collected many possessions—or friends. Habits were hard to break.

I dragged a chair to the one small window and pulled at the strings of the velvet bag. I rarely opened it, only in those sparing moments I wished to remember Aurora. Releasing the drawstring, I upended the bag into my hand. A silver necklace fell out—the evening sunlight caught the polished edges. A small pendant dangled on the chain, a tiny and amazingly detailed eagle's feather. My stepfather had been a silversmith, an incredible artisan. He tried teaching me his craft, but my hands were better for coarser tools, like a Bowie knife. He was a progressive man who took in a pregnant Indian woman, and after I was born, he molded me with his fiery dinner table orations. He preached extreme abolitionist views that he kept none too hidden. They would eventually account for his death. But he drilled me on my lessons every day, and ensured my education was second to none across the Kansas plains. He intended me to return as a great chief to my mother's people. How wrong he had predicted my destiny.

The feather nearly floated in my palm, as if it might catch the draft from the fireplace and take flight. I never had that kind of skill, to make something of such fine beauty. If I could, the world would be a different place. I struggled to hold it still as the whiskey had yet to drown the shakes. At one time the feather had a twin, a pair of earrings made for my mother—a reminder of her Miami Indian ancestors. With the birth of my daughter, my mother split them up, one for my wife and one for the baby. I only recovered the one around my wife's neck.

(Continues...)

Giveaway is US ONLY

for One Print Copy

Lincoln's Bodyguard

Sponsored by Oceanview Publishing

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Interview with author John Glatt– The Lost Girls: The True Story of the Cleveland Abductions and the Incredible Rescue of Michelle Knight, Amanda Berry, and Gina DeJesus

Today I'm so excited to bring you my interview with critically acclaimed and multi award winning, true crime author John Glatt. He's with me today talking about his much awaited book- The Lost Girls: The True Story of the Cleveland Abductions and the Incredible Rescue of Michelle Knight, Amanda Berry, and Gina DeJesus. Enjoy our chat!

• ISBN-13: 9781250036360
• Publisher: St. Martin's Press
• Publication date: 4/14/2015
• Pages: 352

 

Overview

New York Times bestselling crime writer John Glatt tells the true story behind the kidnappings and long-overdue rescue of three women found in a Cleveland basement.

The Lost Girls tells the truly amazing story of Amanda Berry, Gina DeJesus and Michelle Knight, who were kidnapped, imprisoned, and repeatedly raped and beaten in a Cleveland house for over a decade by Ariel Castro, and their amazing escape in May 2013, which made headlines all over the world.
The book has an exclusive interview and photographs of Ariel Castro's secret fiancé, who spent many romantic nights in his house of horror, without realizing he had bound and chained captives just a few feet away. There are also revealing interviews with several Castro family members, musician friends and several neighbors who witnessed the dramatic rescue.

Praise for John's work:

From the Publisher

"The murder case John Glatt recounts in lurid detail is too bizarre for a work of fiction. . . . a true crime story harking back to the fabled era when stars like Elvis Presley and Frank Sinatra entertained the crowds at the front of the house while mobsters ran the show behind the scenes." —New York Times Book Review on Prince of Paradise

"John Glatt is one of the finest true crime craftsmen writing today," – Howard Goldberg, VH1.com

"Veteran crime scribe Glatt gives us all the atmosphere, characters and facts to make an engrossing thriller." —New York Post (required reading section) on Prince of Paradise

New York Times Book Review on Prince of Paradise

"The murder case John Glatt recounts in lurid detail is too bizarre for a work of fiction. . . . a true crime story harking back to the fabled era when stars like Elvis Presley and Frank Sinatra entertained the crowds at the front of the house while mobsters ran the show behind the scenes."

New York Post (required reading section) on Prince of Paradise

"Veteran crime scribe Glatt gives us all the atmosphere, characters and facts to make an engrossing thriller."

From the Publisher

"The murder case John Glatt recounts in lurid detail is too bizarre for a work of fiction. . . . a true crime story harking back to the fabled era when stars like Elvis Presley and Frank Sinatra entertained the crowds at the front of the house while mobsters ran the show behind the scenes." —New York Times Book Review on Prince of Paradise

"John Glatt is one of the finest true crime craftsmen writing today," – Howard Goldberg, VH1.com

"Veteran crime scribe Glatt gives us all the atmosphere, characters and facts to make an engrossing thriller." —New York Post (required reading section) on Prince of Paradise

Library Journal

04/01/2015
In 2013, the world was shocked to learn that three women from Cleveland—Amanda Berry, Gina DeJesus, and Michelle Knight—had escaped from Ariel Casto's house after years of sexual slavery. True crime investigative writer Glatt (The Prince of Paradise) tells the gripping story of how these three teenagers were deceived by Castro and how they endured his physical and psychological torture. Castro fixed his house so no one could see his actions, while being friendly to his neighbors and not raising any suspicions. The physical beatings were brutal, especially to Knight who ended up miscarrying five times because Castro did not want her children but rather Berry's instead. When his common-law wife left him for another man, Castro convinced his daughters to make sexual allegations against her new partner, Fernando Colon. (Colon still sits in prison trying to get his conviction overturned.) After he was convicted and sentenced to prison, Castro committed suicide and his house was demolished to prevent it from becoming a shrine. Glatt writes a compelling story but doesn't cite sources for his material, which makes it hard to know if the conversations actually happened. VERDICT Libraries will see a demand for Glatt's book as a companion to Knight's Finding Me and Berry and DeJesus's Hope, as well as a planned Lifetime movie. [See Prepub Alert, 11/24/14.]—Michael Sawyer, Pine Bluff, AR

Kirkus Reviews

2015-02-18
Journalist and seasoned true-crime writer Glatt (The Prince of Paradise: The True Story of a Hotel Heir, His Seductive Wife, and a Ruthless Murder, 2013, etc.) recounts the highly publicized story of three women kidnapped and held in captivity for a decade. In May 2013, three women and one young child were rescued from captivity in a boarded and locked house in the Tremont neighborhood of Cleveland, Ohio. Of the three women, none had been held for less than nine years, and one had been there for more than a decade. The child was born in captivity and was the only one of the four to have seen the world outside the house and yard during their years of imprisonment. The women were victims of serial kidnapper and sexual predator Ariel Castro. Glatt has solid storytelling chops, and the result is a gripping, read-it-all-in-one-sitting kind of book. With such a well-covered crime, that kind of narrative push is all the more impressive since the ending certainly doesn't come as a surprise. Savvy true-crime readers may wonder how Glatt came by his information, which seems to be mostly compiled from other public sources such as newspapers, TV specials and public statements by the freed women. That's not to say it isn't a worthy read. In fact, Glatt's book is a page-turning, detailed overview of this remarkable story, and the author provides background on Castro and chronicles a number of alleged calls to Cleveland police by Castro's neighbors, who noticed strange behavior. Still, all three women have written about their experiences, so those looking for more depth from the victims' perspectives should seek out their accounts. For a wide-angle view of the horrific string of crimes start to finish, Glatt constructs an absorbing winner.

Interview with author D. D. Ayers – Force of Attraction

Today I'm pleased to welcome D D Ayers to the blog. She's here talking about her new K-9 Rescue novel, Force of Attraction.

• ISBN-13: 9781250042187
• Publisher: St. Martin's Press
• Publication date: 3/31/2015
• Series: A K-9 Rescue Novel Series, #2
• Format: Mass Market Paperback
• Pages: 352

 

Overview

"Incredible! You'll be on the edge of your seat to see if the heroine can make it out alive."--Catherine Coulter, New York Times bestselling author on Irresistible Force

The only thing more powerful than fear is desire…

A seasoned K-9 officer with the police in Maryland, Cole Jamison has left her old life behind her. With a new home and a new partner--a protective canine named Hugo--Cole is ready for fresh challenges. A crucial position on an important drug task force is exactly what she wants…until she discovers her gorgeous, infuriating ex-husband will be the DEA agent in charge.

The Memory House by Linda Goodnight - Interview - Blog Tour

Welcome to my stop on The Memory House by Linda Goodnight, blog tour.
Enjoy  our interview and click HERE for the entire blog tour schedule.


New York Times bestselling author Linda Goodnight welcomes you to Honey Ridge, Tennessee, and a house that's rich with secrets and brimming with sweet possibilities

• ISBN-13: 9780373779642
• Publisher: Harlequin
• Publication date: 3/31/2015
• Pages: 384

Overview:

Memories of motherhood and marriage are fresh for Julia Presley—though tragedy took away both years ago. Finding comfort in the routine of running the Peach Orchard Inn, she lets the historic, mysterious place fill the voids of love and family. No more pleasure of a man's gentle kiss. No more joy in hearing a child call her Mommy. Life is calm, unchanging…until a stranger with a young boy and soul-deep secrets shows up in her Tennessee town and disrupts the loneliness of her world. 

Read an excerpt:

Nashville, Tennessee

Freedom was its own kind of prison. These were the thoughts of Eli Donovan as he scraped drywall mud from his elbow and watched a familiar bronze Buick pull to the curb outside the remodel. With a tug in his gut, Eli tossed the trowel to the ground and straightened. What had he done now?

A man stepped out of the Buick and adjusted his blue tie before squinting toward the house. Their eyes met, held for a fraction of a second until Eli looked down. Once upon a time he would have challenged anyone in a staring contest. Hard time and maturity had changed him. He didn't want to fight anyone anymore. Certainly not his parole officer.

Saying nothing, Eli started across the greening lawn, past the scattered remains of lumber and construction junk. He was no longer arrogant and proud, but the jitter in his belly shamed him just the same.

"Eli." Mr. Clifford spoke first, broke the impasse. "How's it going?"

"Fine." He stopped two feet from the fortysomething officer of the court, taking in the slight sheen of sweat on the other man's balding head. Anxious, afraid of tripping himself up, he waited for Clifford to speak his business.

"I had a phone call this morning."

Still Eli waited, not knowing what to ask or say. If he misspoke, Clifford would get the wrong idea or ask questions Eli couldn't answer. There were always questions.

The parole officer pulled a paper from his pocket and pushed it toward him. "A woman name of Opal Kimble tracked you down through the warden. She wants to talk to you. Says she has something urgent to discuss. Mentioned the name Mindy."

Eli stared at the yellow Post-it note, the dread deepening. He licked dry lips, tasted drywall mud. "Mindy?"

"Is there anything I need to know? If you're into something—"

Eli interrupted. "I'm not. Mindy is an old friend. Did Opal say anything else?"

"No, she just left that number and insisted I contact you. I thought it might be important."

"Doubtful." Mindy was a sweet soul. She probably felt sorry for him and wanted to be sure he was all right. He refused to consider the other issue, certain she was better off not hearing from him.

"You could use a friend."

The comment took Eli aback. In the six months he'd known Pete Clifford, the man had shown him nothing but suspicion, as if he couldn't wait for the ex-con to step out of line so he could send him back to that stinking rat hole.

"I'm all right."

"Do you have a phone yet?"

"No."

Clifford extracted his from a belt holster. "Call her."

Eli considered only a moment before accepting the offer. No point in riling the man. He could make a call to an old woman he'd never met. Find out what she wanted and then get back to work. He needed the payday.

He took a moment to study the fancy cell phone. A lot had changed since he'd been gone. Technology marched on, as they said, and left the caged behind.

As he tapped in the numbers Eli was gratified when Clifford turned toward his vehicle. "I'll give you a minute."

"Thanks." The word was gravel on Eli's tongue but he was grateful. He didn't take acts of kindness lightly.

A woman's voice, stronger than he'd expected from the aunt Mindy had described as ancient, answered the call.

"Miss Kimble? Eli Donovan."

"About time you called, boy."

Her tone stiffened his spine but he remained silent. He focused elsewhere, as he'd learned to do in the difficult moments inside the big house, letting her talk while he only half listened. A pair of courting bluebirds caught Eli's eye as they dipped and flirted. He smiled a little, though the action felt stiff and unfamiliar. Since his release, he'd been mesmerized by nature. The rising sun, a fluttering butterfly, a dog sniffing tires. Nature brought a peace, a rightness to his tumultuous soul. In his despair and self-pity, he'd forgotten those simple gifts he'd once taken for granted.

In his ear, Opal said something that captured his attention. He tuned back in. "What did you say?"

"I said, Mindy left some things for you and I want you to come get them."

He frowned toward the horizon where a single gray cloud hovered like a promise of trouble. "Left things? Isn't she there?"

A beat of silence pulsed in his ear, tightened the knot in his chest.

When Opal spoke again, her tone softened. "I thought you knew. Mindy's gone."

"Gone where?" Not that he'd follow or make contact, but the woman was confusing him.

"Gone for good, Eli." Opal's voice cracked. "Mindy died."

2

Peach Orchard Inn Present Day

She'd kissed him goodbye that last morning. Julia was sure she had. Wasn't she? The action had been so ingrained in routine. Grab the backpack, stick the lunch box in his hand and kiss him, quick and sweet, before he galloped to the bus stop. She'd watched him get on the bus. She always did, though afterward she'd second-guessed a thousand times. If she'd driven him to school, or if she'd kept him home, because hadn't he been a sleepyhead that last wonderful, terrible morning?

Six years had passed and yet the horror and grief never left. It was the not knowing that drove Julia Presley quietly mad. In those moments of solitude, especially right before sleep and like now, upon waking, the thoughts would come in rapid-fire succession before she had a chance to block them. She'd become adept at blocking.

Most days she survived and some days she even thrived. But days like today were the worst. Michael's birthday. He was still alive. She had to believe that. Yet, wondering who had him and what was happening or had happened was too hard to bear. But bear it she did, for what choice did she have? Someday, somewhere, someone would spot him in a crowd or he would simply walk free of his captors and come home. Such miracles still happened, and those children once lost but now found gave Julia hope.

He would be fourteen today, no longer the wide-eyed little boy who hated baths and adored mud puddles. Was he tall and loose limbed like his father, and wouldn't he be heartbroken to know his mom and dad had unraveled within a year without him? That he was the glue holding their ragged marriage together and that in his absence, they'd been unable to comfort each other? They'd laid blame where none was due, such a stupid reaction to a heinous crime. The only person at fault was the evil being who'd snatched a happy little boy from a peaceful town where nothing bad ever happened. And yet, she felt responsible. Mikey was, after all, her child to guard and guide and she'd failed in that essential role of motherhood.

Dragging herself from beneath the ice-blue duvet, Julia reached first for the iPad on the nightstand. With a poke of a finger, she tapped open the Facebook page where Mikey's bright eight-year-old face smiled out at her next to a computer-aged photo. Would he really look like this today?

She trolled the comments, saw the handful of birthday wishes and closed the program with a sigh. No news. No sightings. Just like every day since she'd started the page with the help of a support group. Other mothers who waited for their children to come home. Most days she didn't visit the forums for idle conversation. They depressed her, and Lord knew she couldn't go back down that dark tunnel again.

With a breathed plea for strength to get through another day, Julia dressed and dabbed makeup on the shadowy half-moons beneath her eyes. Though dawn had yet to break, she had to get up and get moving. She had guests to attend, breakfast to cook and a myriad other tasks to address. Keeping busy was important, soothing therapy. Culinary therapy, she termed her cooking obsession. If she worked herself into exhaustion, she could sleep without the oppressive dreams.

She was thankful every day for the rather inexplicable purchase four years ago of Peach Orchard Inn, this big, old oddity of a Southern mansion, now a guesthouse. There was something benevolent about the two-story structure that had survived a Civil War and the century and a half since. The day Valery had dragged her out here "just to look," the house had wrapped itself around her like a warm hug. Though cobwebs and dust had covered everything, her heart had leaped. For the first time in months—years—she'd felt something other than despair. This wonderful old bed-and-breakfast had, quite literally, saved her sanity. She'd yet to understand why. It simply had.

She'd clung to her former home on Sage Street—Mikey's home—too long, fearing her son would return and find her gone, but she was dying there. Depressed, barely able to get out of bed each morning, and some days she didn't get up at all. Since a dead mother was not what she wanted her son to come home to, at her family's urging Julia had sold the modern brick home and moved into a piece of history sorely in need of restoration. In that way, she and the house were the same.

Everyone in Honey Ridge knew about Mikey's disappearance, but most were Southern enough to speak of the loss only among themselves and never to her. She was left alone and they, along with her family, pretended that she was a normal person, an ordinary divorced businesswoman running a guest inn and clinging to history—her own and that of this antebellum house.

She was stuck in the past, both in the distant and the near. Stuck. In freeze-frame for six years, waiting, unable to move forward, unwilling to give up that gossamer thread of hope that one day she'd awaken and Mikey's disappearance would only have been a nightmare.

Bingo, the aging Australian shepherd, rose from his rug at the foot of her bed. When Julia paused to give his blue-merle head a rub, she spotted an object on the floor where he'd slept. At first she thought it was a rock and bent to pick it up, puzzling to discover another smooth, round child's marble. Not an ordinary, modern marble. This one was reddish in color, made of clay, a handmade antique like the others she'd discovered in the house.

"Did you bring this in here, Bingo?" He was forever bringing her little gifts. "Better than the dead snake you brought last time."

She rolled the child's toy in her palm, wondering. She and Valery had found a number of interesting and historic items during the ongoing remodel, each one adding another layer of mystery and history to the old inn. But the marbles were different. They showed up randomly, usually in a place she'd recently cleaned and always on a bad day. They spoke to her, comforted her, and wouldn't Mama have a fit to hear that her unbalanced daughter was now communing with marbles.

"She'd say I've lost my marbles." Maybe she had.

Grasping comfort where she could, Julia slipped the little clay ball into her pocket and started toward the kitchen.

Bingo trotted by her side past the wide stairs that led from floor to floor. Though not as grand as the one in Gone with the Wind, the staircase had captivated Julia on sight. She imagined a nineteenth-century bride sweeping down these now burgundy carpeted stairs, one gloved hand on the gleaming oak banister as her heart canted toward her true love waiting next to the enormous marble fireplace in the parlor below.

Fantasy, yes, like the comforting marbles, but a house like this allowed a certain imaginative license. Part of a Southern upbringing is to believe history lingers in walls and whispers from ancient oaks, and though she believed in so little these days, she believed that. This house was a living entity and Julia had carefully listened as she and Valery worked to create an inn worthy of a special trip to a small town in rural Tennessee. An inn where others might find peace even if the owner couldn't.

Sometimes, when she sat on the enormous wraparound porch, Julia thought she heard the rattle of carriages and horse hooves between the double row of old magnolias. She was careful to tell no one about the incidents. Nor of the time she'd felt a cool, soothing hand on her forehead after a screaming nightmare about Mikey; nor of the little boy's laughter she sometimes imagined in the upper hallway. A woman with a slender hold on sanity had to be careful about her wild imagination, for that is all it was. Julia didn't believe in ghosts or spirits or even much in God anymore.

She'd once made the mistake of sharing one of the episodes with Valery, a confession that had driven her sister to the liquor cabinet. That was a move Julia did not want to repeat. Valery and liquor were a troubling pair, especially since her sister's latest battles with Jed the jerk, the worst boyfriend in history.

Though she and Valery were close, Julia had learned to keep her thoughts and grief to herself. No one understood. They expected her to move on and forget she'd had a son, a husband, a family. To forget she'd had a happy, almost perfect life until that horrible October morning.

Rounding into the kitchen, a late addition to the house, Julia flipped on lights and went straight for the coffee and oven dials. She might never win any chef awards but she loved to feed people.

Though her specialty was peach tea made from scratch, her coffee was good, too, a unique blend she ground herself and served French press. Guests were known to linger for hours over coffee, so she started there. The breakfast menu varied but always included a peach dish, mostly with fruit from her orchard. People expected peaches from an inn with a name like Peach Orchard.

In minutes, the ham-and-egg strata was ready for the oven, the peach-muffin batter spread among the tins, and the coffee sang its aromatic siren song. Taking a cup, Julia went out onto the front porch for her favorite time of day. With only the dog for company, she sat in one of four white wicker chairs to watch the sun break over the lawn and come sneaking through the waxy-leaved magnolias and fuchsia rhododendron. Last night's rain glistened like tiny crystals on the verdant grass while Old Glory hung limply from the white-board porch rail.

Julia made a frustrated sound in the back of her throat. Valery had forgotten to bring in the flag again last night, a clear breach of etiquette that would have the townspeople on the phone if anyone had driven past. Hopefully, no one had. Backed by woods, Peach Orchard Inn was off the main thoroughfare on the edge of town. Mikey would have loved this place. Room to run and explore and be a little boy in safety.

But safe was a relative term.

The house was shielded from the road by a thick stand of leafy trees, including the showy pink blooms of the peach orchard that ran to the right of the front lawn and down the north side. Sometimes she heard a car go by but mostly not. The small-town peace and quiet was one of the draws of her little guesthouse.

Author Lucy Branch Interview – A Rarer Gift Than Gold

Today's interview is with debut author Lucy Branch. They say write what you know and in her other profession Lucy is a sculptural restorationist, now that's not exactly turning metal into gold, but.... well read on!

• ISBN-13: 9781909477551
• Publisher: Clink Street Publishing
• Publication date: 3/20/2015
• Pages: 270

 

Overview

Abigail Argent stands out. Some people notice that she always wears gloves and shudder when they know why. The ones who know her best notice her ability with metal.

Abigail's particular talent lies in the colouring of alloys, for seeing the beauty in a plain piece of metal and being able to draw it out.
Her study leads her to discover a connection between her own craft and that of her favourite childhood myth: changing lead into gold.

Moving to Venice, Abigail continues to uncover more about the history of her trade while making friends, and a lover, whose lives become inextricably linked with her own. But her abilities soon peak the interests of a powerful group, determined to guard the secret that she may unwittingly expose.

Delving into the deepest secrets of ancient Italy, Abigail's story will take everything you think you know about alchemy and turn it on its head.

From the publisher:

A Rarer Gift Than Gold is an accomplished first novel, rooted in an authenticity derived from author Lucy Branch’s professional insight. An acclaimed specialist in sculptural and architectural restoration, working on high-profile projects including Nelson’s Column, Cleopatras Needle, Eros, St Paul's Cathedral, The British Library and Selfridges, Branch brings the mythology of alchemy vividly to life. Abigail’s story is played out against a carefully observed background of Italian culture and architecture, drawing romance and mystery into her passage through the streets of Florence. Branch was inspired by an incident in which she and a close friend were ominously warned off the materials they were studying by a stranger during a research trip to Italy to explore the works of Galileo. A Rarer Gift Than Gold will captivate fans of Kate Mosse’s Languedoc Trilogy and is set to fascinate, enlighten and leave readers guessing until the very last page.