The Accidental Millionaire by Gary Fong

The Accidental Millionaire: How to Succeed in Life Without Really Trying is the memoir of Gary Fong, would-be slacker who revolutionized wedding photography, inventor of popular photography aids, entrepreneur, contrarian, bon vivant and a man who really, really didn’t want to become a doctor. A first-generation Chinese-American, Gary was raised in one of Los Angeles’ least-desirable neighborhoods and was forced to deal—in his own quirky and often very funny way—with the burdens of poverty, crime and his parents’ relentless aspirations. These issues almost overwhelmed him until he had a dramatic epiphany. Spotting a bumper sticker that read “Since I gave up hope, I feel much better,” Gary promptly did just that.

He stopped trying and started succeeding. At turns hilarious, insightful and instructive, The Accidental Millionaire is Horatio Alger-meets-David Sedaris. Turning the traditional self-help principles upside down, The Accidental Millionaire disdains the goal-oriented approaches of traditional self-help philosophies. Sometimes not knowing where you are going is the best possible way to get there.

Read an Excerpt!

My life has not gone according to “The Plan.”

The Plan was for me to go to medical school and eventually pull down a respectable salary of about $150,000 a year.

Had I gone with The Plan, by this point in my life (I’m in my mid-forties) I probably would have just finished paying off my student loans and would be eyeing that thirty-two-foot Catalina sailboat with the FOR SALE sign that I passed every night on my way home from the clinic. I’d be settled into a comfortable home in the ‘burbs, with my wife of twenty years and my 2.3 kids, driving a Lexus sedan. And living the life of my dreams.

Well, my parents’ dreams.

Which I tried, for a time, to convince myself were my dreams too.

Following The Plan made me cry a lot. Eventually I found myself with a literal gun to my own head. That’s when I ran from The Plan and began an adventure into uncharted territory.

Uncharted territory goes completely against the grain of my upbringin.

My parents were first-generation Asian immigrants. Their lives’ territory was very well charted. And they’d charted mine too. My destiny was determined before I was born, and I had absolutely no say in it. My parents didn’t know (or particularly care) if I was going to be gay or blind or a violent psychopath. All they knew was that I was going to be a doctor. Secondarily to that, of course, I would be married at a young age to a nice Chinese girl whom my mother endorsed, and I would deliver my mother numerous grandchildren for her to spoil. ASAP.

While I was growing up, my family suffered through sobering bouts of poverty. My parents sacrificed everything to ensure that I could get a good education. All they wanted was for me to not have to face the same financial struggles that they had. As a side benefit, they also weren’t going to mind the privilege of saying, “My son, the doctor.”

I didn’t want to live in poverty either, so I gave The Plan a go for many years. I even got a degree in pharmacology in my attempt to become a physician.

I failed.

And what did I do instead? I became a wedding photographer.

You can imagine the songs of joy this caused to leap from my parents’ hearts.

And yet, spring-boarding from that career, which began with moving back into my parents’ apartment and shooting weddings for $150 each, I became a multi-millionaire within a fairly short period of time. And it happened due to one improbable accident after another.



Read the Reviews!

"This is not your typical “how to get rich” book. This is the story of a man’s life; an illustration of the major events that influenced his thinking and behavior. Fong’s story includes not only his successes, but also his failures in business and his personal life that drove him to constantly reassess his approach. This is a book that will shake up your way of being in the world, maybe even crack open a door for a few accidents of your own to tumble through. I highly recommend it."

– Melissa Levine, Independent Book Reviewers

"Fong has succeeded in narrating a gripping success story that offers insight after business insight. It is more than a tale about a shrewd businessman, but rather a story about a visionary that will inspire readers to think creatively and individually, and not be prevented from taking action by limited resources."

– Norm Goldman, Publisher & Editor Bookpleasures

"It certainly is not an accident Gary Fong has succeeded in life, and has earned millions of dollars. A person of his wit, self-confidence, and integrity exemplifies the “American Dream” in our “Land of Opportunity.” Opposed to ego flaunting books of success by guys like Donald Trump, Gary Fong takes the humble route, full of self-mockery and modest remarks, as he casts his fate to the wind to free himself and let life lead his path. He is very unlike the Jack Welch type of millionaire that professes the full control of cognitive evaluation of risk approach, or the scores of books offering money making formulas investing in real estate."

–Pacific Book Review

"This book is one that I would highly recommend...the style of writing is extremely fluid and full of humor, intelligence, and the drive to succeed."

--Review from Here



Gary Fong is a world-renowned photographer, inventor and entrepreneur who has made multiple fortunes in business and real estate. From his inauspicious beginnings in a tiny, hairspray-saturated apartment that doubled as his parents’ wig studio, he went on to become, at a very young age, one of the world’s most successful wedding photographers. After making millions by revolutionizing an industry traditionally reserved for small businessmen, he “stumbled” upon serial successes in photo printing, software, real estate and camera accessories by making unconventional decisions based on his own quirky impulses. Gary has photographed celebrities such as Sylvester Stallone, Paul McCartney and Ronald Reagan, invented and marketed the Lightsphere, and co-founded Pictage, which became the largest dedicated online digital/web solution in the United States and sold for $29 million.

His latest book is The Accidental Millionaire: How to Succeed in Life Without Really Trying.

You can visit his website at www.garyfongaccidentalmillionaire.com.

After by Ann Putnam, Author of Full Moon at Noontide

Today we welcome guest blogger, Ann Putnam, author of Full Moon at Noontide: A Daughter's Last Goodbye.

After by Ann Putnam

On Friday the 13th of September, my father had a stroke and I knew that losing him had begun in earnest. But as these things go, he was eventually sent off to the hospital rehab to learn how to walk through life dragging a leg and an arm. On the fourth weekend, when my father had been in the hospital a month, he got a pass to go out for dinner. He had not been in the world since that morning he slipped from his chair to the floor. This is the memory that rises up: It’s his first time out in the world in a wheelchair. But he’s dressed up in his camel blazer, brown wool pants, oxfords, blue shirt and tie. It’s all new to us, pushing a wheelchair. It’s all new to him, too, the view from the chair. But then we’re seated around a lovely table that looks out over the river shimmering in the late afternoon sun. All that sunlight, that brilliance spread for us. The sun sinks lower until it reaches the windows of the office buildings across the river and shatters into a mosaic of light. The office building is a cathedral now, casting its light across the river in wavery patterns of radiance. I can’t speak. A holy moment, because here we are, all together, crossed over to safety at last. “Dad, look!” I say. What I mean is, the world is still a beautiful place. You still have your life. I’m feeling expansive, blessed in some way. I take this as a sign that everything will be all right. My father looks around astonished. Life as it had been before.

It’s dark now, and little white lights have come on all over the restaurant. Such enchantment for an October night. The restaurant lights flicker across the water. If I were my father, I would never want to leave. I would never want to go back to that hospital. But he does. He’s had enough of everything. His back is getting tired and he looks a little frightened. He wants his hospital bed, the pillows and covers just as he likes them, the TV bolted to the corner of the wall, the TV remote by his steady left hand, the nurses to pat him and take his temperature and blood pressure and listen to his heart, and tell him that all is well.



Ann Putnam holds a Ph.D in English from the University of Washington. She teaches creative writing and gender studies at the University of Puget Sound in Tacoma, Washington. She has published short fiction, personal essays, literary criticism and book reviews in various anthologies such as Hemingway and Women: Female Critics and the Female Voice, and in journals including the Hemingway Review, Western American Literature and the South Dakota Review. Be sure to check out her website at www.annputnam.com.

Different Than Any Other City in the United States, an Article by Maria Lucia, Author of LIBERATION

Our guest blogger today is Maria Lucia, author of LIBERATION,BOOK ONE OF THE ANDRUSIAN CHRONICLES.

Amora Madre is content in the Smokey Mountains pursuing her teaching of love, things of the spirit, and metaphysics. Her childhood invisible playmates, Casey and Nia, are always by her side. But when soul mate Gabriel Ephraim enters her life, she is drawn into the heart of a horrific encounter with the spirit world in the skies over Washington D.C. Catapulted into service for the Intergalactic Supernatural Intelligence Agency, ISIA, the kindred lovers soon discover the existence of an invisible wickedness over the city, its galactic origins, and its evil designs for national and world events.

As part of an Andrusian galactic strike force, assembled to dismantle the malevolent legion’s brutal matrix, Amora and Gabriel, seasoned and accomplished, embark on a dangerous adventure filled with Onaweyans, Scorpillians, historical figures, and a confrontation with the dark supernatural syndicate over the fate of the United States and the earth.

With journeys into dimensional worlds, interactions with fantastic characters and creatures, and revelation of the current struggle between the spiritual forces of good and evil, LIBERATION draws the reader into a world where the spiritual dimensions and reality converge.

Setting is an important decision for writers. I asked Maria to discuss why she chose the skies above D.C. as the setting for her story. Here's what she had to say:

Different Than Any Other City in the United States by Maria Lucia

D.C. is different than ANY OTHER CITY IN THE United States. It holds within its very core the energy that founded this nation. It’s amazing. When you walk the streets you feel that something is different, that something goes deeper than the avenues and buildings. This is particularly true in the mall where you can see the monument of George Washington and the capitol. Something is kept alive in D.C., something that began 234 years ago and that we are a part of. This book is about today’s world. It holds within it pages powerful challenges that the human race is facing as well as the nation. There was no other setting for the story. I had to have a place that was meaningful to the challenges of today and to the voices calling out nationally and globally.







Born in Havana, Cuba, and having immigrated to the United States in 1960, Maria possesses a true and in-depth understanding of the power and unlimited potential of evolving and beginning again.

A University of Memphis education graduate and a professional musician and vocalist, Maria moved deeply into the study of music and launched a very successful musical career in 1984. It included experiencing music on the performance level and the educational level as well. She began her studies of the deeper aspects of music immersed in the wisdom of Stephen Halpern and the integration of the healing effects of music and sound. She developed her voice simultaneously with her ability to teach others how to create and bring out their own voice and soul through music.

In 1994 she completed a nine year position with the world renowned Howard Hanger Jazz Fantasy and left her music career to focus entirely on developing her teachings. She spent many years in private practice, facilitating her own seminars and counseling on creativity. Her experience includes programs for gifted children in the public school system and creativity seminars for musicians at the university level. She has been a musical director for church programs, composer of music, and a producer of concerts. She has traveled nationally, performing and delivering seminars for more than twenty years.

She presently resides in the Washington D.C. metropolitan area and has taken a sabbatical from teaching. She is working full time on her writings and on launching her new book, LIBERATION, Book One of The Andrusian Chronicles.

You can find out more about Maria Lucia at www.andrusianchronicles.com

Wanted: A Healthy Interaction between Writers and A Fresh Young Audience by Steven Verrier

Today's guest blogger is Steven Verrier, author of the novel, Plan B.

Life was good to fifteen-year-old Danny Roberts. He was a model student, playing violin in his high school orchestra and earning straight A’s on the fast track to university. But then things went very wrong very fast. The problems started when a teacher wouldn’t let Danny out of class to go to the bathroom – even though he said “I’ve really got to go!”

Danny responded by defying authority for the first time in his life. That shocking act of defiance earned him a suspension, and Danny’s troubles snowballed from there. But Danny isn’t your typical student, and he doesn’t take his lumps lying down. He fights back on his terms as he plots a course through uncharted waters.

Wanted: A Healthy Interaction between Writers and A Fresh Young Audience
by Steven Verrier

During the past few years I taught English at a high school on the east side of San Antonio, Texas. While I had some good students who liked to be challenged and who’d read anything they could get their hands on, I had far more students who weren’t much interested in reading anything that couldn’t be broken down to simple text messages. Even if they wanted to read books or other materials considered suitable for readers their age or older, they just didn’t have the background for it. The vast majority of my students, according to standardized tests and what I saw daily in the classroom, weren’t able to read anywhere near ‘grade level.’

As a teacher, I had to adjust certain expectations as I went along. Some students, for example, had to be provided simpler translations of Shakespearean plays in order to get anything out of Shakespeare. They could be introduced to the Elizabethan language, but in order for them to get any sense of ‘story,’ well, the language had to be simplified and the ‘story’ often had to be shortened or summarized.

Nobody would suggest, though, that summaries or simplified versions should supplant Macbeth or any other piece of literature young people nowadays may find difficult. It’s a real tragedy that so many young people are unequipped for serious reading, but writers aren’t the ones most at fault. Schools and parents should set their sights on producing a new generation of strong readers, and writers should set their sights on producing a new generation of strong literature. Only when both parties succeed in doing their part will we have a healthy interaction between writers and a fresh young audience.




Steven Verrier, born in the United States and raised in Canada, has spent much of his adult life living and traveling abroad. Publications include Plan B (Saga Books, 2010), Tough Love, Tender Heart (Saga Books, 2008), Raising a Child to be Bilingual and Bicultural (Hira-Tai Books of Japan), and several short dramatic works (Brooklyn Publishers, USA). Currently he is living with his wife, Motoko, and their five children in San Antonio, Texas.

You can visit his website at www.stevenverrier.com.

Look for our review of this book coming to TC&TBC on July 30th!

Getting to Know Mike Brody from The Last Track by Sam Hilliard

Today's guest blogger is Sam Hilliard. We're going to be getting to know a little bit about Mike Brody,the main character from Sam's mystery/thriller novel, The Last Track.

Imagine if being late meant a child disappeared forever. That is the fear that drives Mike Brody—the man you want when the one you love is missing.

In The Last Track, a police detective recruits Mike to help find an asthmatic boy lost in the dense woods surrounding a dude ranch in Montana. An unwitting murder witness, the boy burrows ever deeper into the rugged terrain, fearful of being found. As Mike and a local officer search for the boy, the killer follows them.

While the investigation expands, Mike’s ex-wife, a well-connected journalist, uses her contacts to unravel the truth behind the murder.

Her discoveries threaten to snare them all in a treacherous conspiracy . . .


Getting to Know Mike Brody by Sam Hilliard

While Mike Brody has a broad set of skills—one bordering on supernatural—it is the depth of his childhood wounds that truly forged him. The circumstances of his abduction and the murder of his brother haunt him to this day.

Able to think and adapt in the most chaotic of situations, he sees what others overlook. By tapping into the emotional charge left behind in their tracks, Mike can visualize the circumstances that led to a person’s disappearance, as if through their eyes.

A former Special Forces operative and member of the 75th Ranger Regiment, Mike’s spent most of his twenties in the military. Toward the end of his tour of duty, Mike suffered a serious knee injury during a mission that resulted in several months on the sidelines. Though eighty percent of the mobility in the affected knee returned, specialists agreed that even with a full replacement and months of rehabilitation, he would never return to full capacity. Since the injury could potentially prevent him from giving one hundred percent in a combat situation, both parties agreed not to extend his service upon expiration of his contract.

While his wife, Jessica, celebrated the end of his military career—a recurring point of stress between them—her joy was short-lived. Mike soon began leading extreme excursions all over the world and smoke jumping forest fires in the Pacific Northwest. Occasionally the knee injury flares up and requires treatment, temporarily sidelining him once again.

In the midst of all of this, are the calls from law enforcement agencies and desperate families asking for his help in the search for the missing. He answers, always, no matter what the cost to him personally, emotionally or professionally.

Jessica finally tired of his adrenaline seeking ways and his refusal to seek help for some issues she felt impacted their marriage, filed for divorce. Currently, they work hard to maintain an extremely civil friendship for the benefit of their young son, Andy. But they continue to struggle with an on-again, off-again relationship, that doesn’t work well when they are together, but doesn’t work at all when they are apart.

Besides the knee injuries, Mike suffers from night terrors, as well as post traumatic stress and abandonment issues—the product of losing his parents just before high school and reinforced by his own divorce.

At the end of the day, Mike Brody is an unlikely hero. He is a man who wants to do the right thing, for all the right reasons. But it is the way he approaches those situations that the people who care for him the most have trouble accepting.


Read the reviews!

"The Last Track by Sam Hilliard is an emotionally charged mystery thriller."

- Rundpinne

"I hope the Mike Brody series continues because I really enjoyed this first installment and hope to learn even more about Mike during further books."

- My Reading Reading

“From the very start The Last Track captivates with a frenetic pace, keeping the reader engaged in a series of suspenseful events."

- Cindy Otty, Amazon.com Reviewer



Sam Hilliard was born in the Midwest in 1973. Right before he graduated from college, his family moved to Red Bank, New Jersey. He worked at a convenience store, but he knew he wanted to be a writer--even if he wouldn't admit it. After his marriage and subsequent divorce, Sam spent the next two years writing The Last Track. He's now the Director of IT at an all girls boarding school, and lives in New York City with his girlfriend and an army of cats.

You can visit Sam online at samhilliard.com.

Author Spotlight: The Simpering, North Dakota Literary Society by G.F. Skipworth

Card shark and ex-nun Farika Zingarella won the town of Simpering, North Dakota in the greatest card game ever played at The Huffy Hussy Casino & Billiards Parlor. Gathering five female geniuses to her side, she assembled a sisterhood so powerful that even the United States government had to watch its step. There wasn’t much to laugh about in 1919 – World War I had ended, fascism was already rising in Italy and American women took up the suffrage question. Then along came The Literary Society. You’ve never lived in a town like this!

Read an Excerpt from The Simpering, North Dakota Literary Society!

Edielou Zingarella chose not to marry. Among the possible reasons for avoiding it, she cited neither lack of time nor interest. Indeed, she gave it a great deal of careful thought, sitting up nights for almost two weeks adding and subtracting the numbers, figuring the rate of interest and upkeep costs. She figured the capital lost to the bartenders and the local pool sharks, clothing for the mistress and flowers for the funeral following the discovery of his infidelity…and it just didn’t add up…all that waste was just too much for a well-ordered fiscal mind. In the end, every indication pointed to marriage as a financial tar pit, an endless abyss from which lost funds would likely never be recovered. And so, her pages of penciled calculations went into the wall safe along with every one of that year’s rejected loans…almost every application submitted. Edielou declined to visit those numbers ever again, and no suitor ever made it into her garden, much less down its path. Well, that’s not entirely true…Hank Wiessenschtanker almost made it, but Edielou’s Great Dane Henrietta headed him off at the swinging gate just short of the weeping willow. If this whining, poetry-spewing flower-bearer thought for a moment that he would ever gain the secrets to the wall safe, or that anyone in this house would deign to be paraded about as Edielou Wiessenschtanker, he was in immediate and dire need of correcting. That was as close a brush with the grim specter of shared wealth as Edielou ever had, but at least she stopped harumphing at every man she saw on the street after a month or two. Her resolve buttressed the flagging matriarchal creed, and not a solitary woman in Simpering would change her name out of matrimonial necessity for another thirty years…and even that occurred in a weak moment for the sake of a departing soldier. Why, no sooner did he set foot on French soil than she headed straight for the courthouse and changed it right back…Edielou Wiessenschtanker, indeed!




G.F. Skipworth has toured much of the world as a concert pianist, symphony/opera conductor, composer, vocalist and opera coach. Along the way, however, he also worked as a speechwriter, in comedy and as an academic author. His formal education includes Whitman College, Johns Hopkins, Harvard and UCLA. As he describes it, one day he sat down to write a fourth symphony, but a four-volume fantasy series came out instead, which he affectionately refers to as a “shoot ‘em up clang clang.” Following the “Fables of the Carpailtin Campfire,” he wrote a fantasy based upon the twenty four poems of Franz Schubert’s great song-cycle, “Winterreise (Winter Journey.) Moving on to historical fiction, he released “Stormfield – Tales from the Hereafter,” based on Mark Twain’s final incomplete work. Dr. Skipworth often refers to “The Simpering, North Dakota Literary Society” as his personal favorite, although writing dialogue for a cameo appearance by the razor-sharp Dorothy Parker was maddening, even worse than for Mark Twain (at least he paused to light a cigar now and then.) Currently, he resides in Portland, Oregon with his wife Barbara, where he serves on the faculty of Lewis & Clark College. Upcoming works include “The World-Weary String Quartet of Alliance, Nebraska” and “The Madonna of Dunkirk.” Please visit G.F. Skipworth’s site at http://rosslarebooks.com.

Author Spotlight: Lingering Spirit by Marilyn Meredith

Nicole Ainsworth’s husband, Steve, has a premonition of his death and moves his family to a mountain community where he serves as a deputy sheriff. He is killed in the line of duty and his wife, Nicole, is left behind to struggle with the changes forced upon her life. While trying to cope with her grief, raise her two little girls, her husband’s spirit visits her on numerous occasions. She soon learns that someone else is watching over her too.





Read an Excerpt from Lingering Spirit!

Chapter 1

"You're going to have to talk to her, Steve," Nicole said as soon as Steve entered the house. He looked handsome in his crisp khaki Goldfield County deputy's uniform, but she still liked the navy blue uniform he'd worn as a police officer better. Though she was truly trying, she still considered everything in Southern California far superior, but she tried not to complain too much.

"Who do you want me to talk to?" Steve asked, as he settled his large frame into his place at the dining room table.

Nicole brushed his tan cheek with her lips and patted the top of his golden head. "Sarah, who else? She won't do anything I tell her. Her room's a mess. I told her to pick it up, but she won't do it."

"She's only four, after all."

Nicole put a steaming bowl of stew in front of him. Butter and a partial loaf of sour dough were already on the table.

"Smells wonderful. It's cold outside. Might get some snow tonight." He began eating.

With one hand on her hip, Nicole said, "Steve, listen to me. What are you going to do about Sarah?"

"I'll have a talk with her before I leave. Why don't you sit down and visit with me while I'm eating?"

Nicole smiled. Moving had made a difference in Steve, he wasn't so agitated. "What's going on out there?"

His grin was huge. "Not much. It's downright boring. Only had one call. Had to get a cow out of the road. Cited a speeder. Talked to Marsh Wilder, he and his wife want us to come to dinner on my day off."

Wilder was a senior deputy. His wife had been very helpful to Nicole. In the four months since they'd lived in Quail Meadow, one of many small towns in the county, Page had taken her to the best stores, introduced her to the other wives, and organized picnics and various outings for both the families. Their son, though older, attended the same grammar school where Kimberly was enrolled.

"I know. Page called me today. I pointed out it was really their turn to come to dinner here, but she's having some other people over she wants us to meet."

Steve buttered another slice of bread. "You've told me about Sarah, what's Kimberly up to? She usually greets me at the door with a hug."

"Don't you remember? She's spending the night with the little girl down the street. That's part of Sarah's prob¬lem. She thought she ought to go too, threw a fit when I told her she couldn't because she wasn't invited. Haven't been able to get her to do anything since."

"Got to admit it, we spoiled the kid."

"What do you mean 'we'? You're the one that always lets her get away with everything."

Steve lifted his blond eyebrows and shrugged his broad shoulders. "That's because she looks so much like you, she's got me wrapped around her little finger, just like you do."

Nicole couldn't think of a response. Her husband's flirtatious teasing had been one of many benefits from the move. Even though they'd taken a drastic cut in pay, the pluses far outweighed the minuses. She smiled and asked, "Do you want some more stew?"

"Love some, but I really don't have time. I'll eat what's left for lunch tomorrow. Bring that little darling on out here while I'm finishing."

It didn't look like Sarah had moved since the last time Nicole peeked in her room. Clothes and toys were still scattered everywhere. The tiny girl sat in the middle of one of the twin beds, arms and legs crossed, her lower lip protrud¬ing. Head down, dark curls fell across her eyes.

"Daddy's home. He wants to talk to you."

"Don't wanna talk."

"Come on, Sarah. Let's go."

"No."

Stepping carefully to avoid the litter on the multi-colored rug, Nicole snatched her daughter into her arms.

"Put me down!" Legs kicked in the air.

Nicole ignored the kicking and screaming as she carried her daughter into the kitchen. She plopped her into the chair.

"Hey. What's all the noise about?" Steve asked, lean¬ing toward Sarah.

"I'm mad."

"What're you mad about?"

"Kimberly's spending the night and Mommy won't let me go."

"You weren't invited."

"I coulda just gone. They wouldn't care."

"No, sweetie. That's not how we do things. Mommy tells me you won't pick up your toys."

"Don't wanna."

"Your room is going to be nice and neat when I get home, isn't it?"

Sarah brushed the curls out of her eyes and stared directly at her father. "No."

Steve's cheeks brightened. "If you don't pick up your toys, Sarah, you'll have to stay in your room until you do."

"Don't care."

Steve stood. "Yes, you will care. I mean what I say. You'll be staying in your room tomorrow until you've made it nice and neat. I've got to go back to work now, how about giving me a hug and kiss."

"No." Sarah slid down from the chair. "Go away and never come back."

As she ran from the room, Steve called after her, "I love you no matter what. I just don't like it when you won't mind your mother and me."

"Sarah." Nicole started after her.

Grabbing her arm, Steve stopped her. "Let her go. She'll get over it. Since I didn't get a hug and kiss from her, how about you?"

Standing on tiptoe, Nicole reached up to kiss him. His arms pulled her close, and he squeezed her so tightly it almost took her breath away.

He parted her lips with his tongue and kissed her passionately. They clung together for several moments making Nicole wish he didn't have to go back to work.

"I love you," he said. "Can hardly wait until I get back home tonight. Hope you won't mind if I wake you."

"I'll be looking forward to it." She winked at him saucily, "Have I ever minded?" Some of their best love making had been when he'd crawled into bed at the end of his shift, waking her with tender caresses.

"That's my sexy Nicky." Steve opened the front door, tucking in his rear to avoid the whack Nicole aimed at him.

"You know I don't like anyone to call me that!"

"You never seem to mind me calling you Nicky when we're making love," he teased as he quickly slipped through the door and closed it.

Grinning, Nicole peeked through the front drapes and waved as her husband climbed into the white official sedan he'd parked beside the curb. It was too dark to see much, just the shadowy shapes of the fir and cedar trees around the house. From across the street, came the yellow glow from the neighbor's windows and smoke curling from their chimney.

That reminded her, it was time to put another log in the wood stove, something she'd certainly never had to do when she lived in Channel Harbor. She waved one last time as Steve drove away.

Letting the drapes fall together, Nicole turned toward the brick hearth that ran the length of the wall. Steve had brought in the evening's supply of wood before leaving for work. Nicole tended to the fire, still amazed how the small stove heated the entire three bedroom, A-frame house.

Smaller than their home in southern California, their furniture comfortably filled the space. Every window looked out onto a tree filled vista. From their redwood deck outside their kitchen they'd seen raccoons, possums, a skunk, and deer. Even Nicole enjoyed the scenery. It had snowed a few times since they'd lived there, entrancing the children.

Deciding to leave Sarah alone for awhile, Nicole began picking up after her husband's meal. When the kitchen was spotless, she sat down in her favorite chair near the wood stove.

Thoroughly enjoying her contentment, she realized how much had changed since they'd moved to Quail Meadow. Of course she missed her family and friends. But everyone had traveled the nearly four-hundred miles to visit at least once, and they called regularly. And she'd been warmly welcomed by the other deputies' wives and the few neighbors.

The cost of living was cheaper, and everything moved at a slower pace in the mountain community. It was almost like they'd stepped a few years back in time. Crime was almost nonexistent. Steve complained good-naturedly about being bored while on duty, but she knew by his drastic change in attitude that the overwhelming dread that had driven him from Channel Harbor had completely disappeared.

The big difference for Nicole was that she was no longer afraid when he worked late hours. The beach communi¬ty they'd come from had all the problems of a big city. Drugs and gang activities had infected the entire area.

The biggest problem she had right now was her youngest daughter. Sighing, she left her comfortable place. "Sarah," she called, as she headed toward her child's room.

Nicole was pleasantly surprised when she entered. Nearly all the toys had been put away. Sarah busily shoved books into the bookcase. She smiled brightly at her mother when she entered.

"I did it. Won't Daddy be happy?"

"Oh, yes. You've done a wonderful job." Nicole held her arms out to. "Come give me a hug."

Sarah scampered across the floor and threw herself into her mother's arms. She squeezed tightly, reminding Nicole of Steve's breathtaking hugs. Though she didn't like to admit it, Sarah resembled Nicole in more than just looks. She remembered spankings she could have avoided as a child, if she hadn't been so stubborn and always done what her mother or father asked of her.

"Oh, sweetie, why didn't you just do this in the first place instead of making all of us angry?"

Sarah pulled away from her mother. "'Cause I didn't wanna."

"I know sweetie, but life would be so much easier if you'd do what you're told."

The lower lip came out. "I cleaned my room. Don't you like it?"

"Yes, I do." She knew it wasn't worth the effort to try and explain any further. "Why don't we make some pop¬corn and see if there's anything good on TV?"

* * *
Was that the doorbell? Nicole raised herself on her elbow and squinted at the illuminated numerals on the clock. It was after three. She must have been dreaming.

She was about to snuggle under the covers, when she heard it again. It was the doorbell, followed by the sound of knocking.

Leaping from the bed, Nicole yanked a housecoat from the closet and ran down the stairs, her heart beating wildly.

Marilyn Meredith is the author of nearly thirty published novels, including the award winning Deputy Tempe Crabtree mystery series, the latest Dispel the Mist from Mundania Press. Under the name of F. M. Meredith she writes the Rocky Bluff P.D. crime series, An Axe to Grind is the latest from Oak Tree Press.

She is a member of EPIC, Four chapters of Sisters in Crime, including the Internet chapter, Mystery Writers of America, and on the board of the Public Safety Writers of America. Visit her at http://fictionforyou.com and her blog at http://marilymeredith.blogspot.com/

CONTEST: THE PERSON WHO COMMENTS THE MOST DURING MARILYN MEREDITH'S LINGERING SPIRIT VBT, JULY '10 WILL BE IMMORTALIZED IN PRINT IN HER NEXT ROCKY BLUFF P.D. BOOK DUE OUT IN 2012!

Too Tough to Write! by Vincent Zandri, Author of The Remains

Today's guest blogger is Vincent Zandri, author of the thriller/suspense novel The Remains.

Thirty years ago, teenager Rebecca Underhill and her twin sister Molly were abducted by a man who lived in a house in the woods behind their upstate New York farm. They were held inside that house for three horrifying hours, until making their daring escape. Vowing to keep their terrifying experience a secret in order to protect their mother and father, the girls tried to put the past behind them. And when their attacker was hunted down by police and sent to prison, they believed he was as good as dead. Now, it’s 30 years later, and with Molly having passed away from cancer, Rebecca, a painter and art teacher, is left alone to bear the burden of a secret that has only gotten heavier and more painful with each passing year. But when Rebecca begins receiving some strange anonymous text messages, she begins to realize that the monster who attacked her all those years ago is not dead after all. He’s back, and this time, he wants to do more than just haunt her. He wants her dead.

Too Tough to Write! by Vincent Zandri

An interviewer once asked the major American author Jim Harrison if he ever wrote himself into a corner. That is to say, had he ever uncovered a plot or story that was just too tough to write, and no matter how hard he tried, just could not move the story along?

While I’m not a big believer in writer’s block, I do however believe that there are certain stories that no matter how one goes about writing them, just cannot get out of their own way. In a word, they simply do not want to be written, no matter how much we concentrate on them, no matter how many story-line options we consider, no matter how many different angles, POVs, tense changes, or style options. Like Harrison will tell you, what’s happening here is not writing one’s self into a corner, so much as what we’re looking at is a false start.

If you’re like me, you often think about how rich you would be if you had a dollar for every false start you’ve ever attempted—every story begun and abandoned long before completion of even a rough draft. Picture the scene: you spend a sleepless night rolling around in bed with a brilliant idea in your head. In the pre-dawn you peel yourself off your mattress and sit before the typewriter bleary eyed, only to find that the story just didn’t want to be written. What’s the problem? More than likely, the problem is that your brilliant story is not yet ready to be written.

Somehow, when this happens to me, it’s always comforting to head back to past successes and to once more get a grip on how I was able to do it before. It only stands to reason that if I wrote and published novels before, I can therefore do it again, and again, and again.

But what if I want to write a novel that’s different from all the others? What if I want to go out on a limb, as it were, and embrace that old negative capability? All the more reason to allow the story to ferment in my mind prior to actually writing it.

I had a different idea about The Remains. As opposed to my other published noir novels, I wanted to write something that had a longer breath. I wanted to write something that, unlike my first four novels, was more invented than based on real events. Something with a little more depth of character. Something that, while still a dark, pulse pounding thriller, was far away from my usual gun-toting protagonists. Something that would challenge me as an author, yet still satisfy my fans. To make things even more difficult, I wanted to write the novel in the first person from a woman’s POV.

Influenced by Jim Harrison’s Dalva, one of the best female protagonist novels ever written by a man, I set about working on a story of a frustrated painter and art teacher by the name of Rebecca Underhill. Where did I get the story from? It just sort of happened in my mind one night while waiting to fall asleep. Knowing that if I bounded right out of bed and jumped onto my computer, I would risk a false start and ruining the story forever, I allowed this one to ferment in my brain for many months before penning even a single word.

I allowed the story to form in my subconscious quite naturally. Without having to think too much about it, I somehow knew that Rebecca was born an identical twin to a sister named Molly. And I knew that Molly will have died an early death to cancer by the time the story begins. What’s more, I also wanted Rebecca and Molly to be as thick as thieves, even with one of them gone, and I wanted them to share a life-long secret.

That secret took the form of a dark event that happened almost 30 years ago to the day. Back when the girls were just 12 years old, a man by the name of Joseph William Whalen abducted them one afternoon while they were exploring the “forbidden” woods behind their farmhouse. He attacked them, and kept them inside the basement of an abandoned farmhouse located in the same second growth woods. After their escape, the girls vowed never to tell a soul, for fear that Whalen would come after them again. Or worse, he would come after their mother and father, and kill them both.

When Whalen was arrested in connection with another violent crime and sent away for 30 years to life, the girls assumed they were done with their attacker for good. They gave him up for dead, but still, they kept their secret unrevealed. Now, ten years after Molly’s death, and thirty years almost to the day of the attacks, Rebecca begins receiving some strange text messages. Not knowing who they are coming from, she can’t help but think that they could be heaven-sent messages from Molly. What she doesn’t realize however until it’s too late, is that her past, in the form of the now free Whelan, has come back not to haunt her, but to kill her.

I can’t say that I made this complex a tale up from out of thin air. But what I can tell you is that it’s my most organically derived yet. For months I could not get the image of a painter out of my mind. I could not get story about anonymous texts sent to her cell phone, nor about the vivid dreams she experiences every night that reduce her to paralysis while tucked under the covers. I could not get the image of a man standing inside her bedroom in the dark, watching her while she slept. A man who abducted her as a child, and now has come back for more.

Hemingway used to say that the best stories are the made up ones. Not the ones you pluck from real life. The Remains is my most made up story. I wrote it because it wouldn’t allow me to let it go ignored. I hope that Rebecca’s tale is one that you consider one of my best stories. If not, I will be making up another one very soon.



Vincent Zandri is an award-winning novelist, essayist and freelance photojournalist. His novel As Catch Can (Delacorte) was touted in two pre-publication articles by Publishers Weekly and was called “Brilliant” upon its publication by The New York Post. The Boston Herald attributed it as “The most arresting first crime novel to break into print this season.” Other novels include Godchild (Bantam/Dell) and Permanence (NPI). Translated into several languages including Japanese and the Dutch, Zandri’s novels have also been sought out by numerous major movie producers, including Heyday Productions and DreamWorks. Moonlight Falls is his fourth novel. He is the author of the blogs, Dangerous Dispatches and Embedded in Africa for RT ( Russia Today TV) which have been syndicated and translated in several different languages throughout the world. He also writes for other global publications, including Culture 11, Globalia, Globalspec and more. Zandri’s nonfiction has appeared in New York Newsday, Hudson Valley Magazine, Game and Fish Magazine and others, while his essays and short fiction have been featured in many journals including Fugue, Maryland Review and Orange Coast Magazine. He holds an M.F.A. in Writing from Vermont College and is a 2010 International Thrillerl. Writer’s Awards panel judge. Zandri currently divides his time between New York and Europe. He is the drummer for the Albany-based punk band to Blisterz. You can visit his website at www.vincentzandri.com or his blog at www.vincentzandri.blogspot.com.

Author Spotlight: House of Immortal Pleasures by Katie Salidas

Blindfolded and kidnapped, Daphne is whisked away to the famed, House of Immortal Pleasures, a Vampire-run Brothel in Pahrump, Nevada.

Sometimes the only way to mend a broken heart is to get back in the saddle. At least that is how Daphne’s friends see it. And since Daphne isn’t showing any signs of letting that happen, they take it into their own hands. With a few shots of liquid courage, a pat on the ass, and a donated gold card, Daphne is unwillingly sent into fantasy room 123 to meet her creature of the night, Connor.

It’s Connor’s job to seduce and entice Daphne to try all the expensive, sexual services on the menu. And he is prepared to do just that, until he peers into her mind and sees the damage done by her broken heart. After learning of her past pain, Connor’s plans change. No more is this a game of seduction to pad the pockets of the brothel owner. Connor decides to lavish Daphne with real attention and affection. Something she desperately needs. He will heal her heart the only way he can, by showing her she is beautiful, desirable, and sexy.

Visit Rising Sun Books to read an excerpt!



The youngest of four children, Katie has always had a desire to entertain. Since, early childhood, she’s dreamed up fantastical characters and scribbled them into pages of various journals and notebooks. Taking an interest in vampires at an early age, she devoured every book, featuring those blood sucking creatures, in any genre she could find. She claims that, of all the monsters out there, vampires had always been the most interesting.

It was only natural that a love of reading about vampires, and a love of writing, turned into a desire to write her stories. Thus, Immortalis Carpe Noctem was born along with House of Immortal Pleasures.

A Las Vegas native, having grown up in the famed City of Sin, Katie loves to feature it as a recurring setting for many of her stories.

Visit Katie online at http://myimmortalstories.blogspot.com/.

Author Spotlight: Beachcombers by Nancy Thayer

Abbie Fox hasn’t seen her father or two younger sisters in almost two years, during which she’s jetted around the world and experienced life, if not love. But now Lily, the baby of the family, is sending Abbie urgent emails begging her to return home to Nantucket. Their middle sister, Emma, has taken to her bed, emotionally devastated after the loss of her high-powered stockbroker’s job and a shockingly unexpected break-up with her fiancé. Also, Lily is deeply worried that Marina, the beautiful, enigmatic woman renting their guesthouse, has set her sights on the sisters’ widowed father, Jim. The Fox girls closed ranks years ago after the haunting, untimely death of their mother, but seeing their dad move on with his life forces each of them to take stock.

Over the course of the summer, the sisters’ lives grow as turbulent as the unpredictable currents encircling Nantucket. When Abbie encounters an incredibly appealing married man, she breaks her own rules in the name of love, fearing all the while that she’ll regret it. Meanwhile, type-A Emma learns a new definition of success, and strong-minded Lily must reconcile her dreams with reality. Even Marina, who has come to Nantucket to forget heartbreak and betrayal, faces an astonishing turn of events that will find her torn between fate and freedom. At summer’s end, these unforgettable women will face profound choices—and undergo personal transformations that will surprise even themselves.

Read an Excerpt from Beachcombers: A Novel!

Chapter Two


Marina

So here she was, on Nantucket. In a small rented cottage in the middle of an enchanted island. At least she hoped it was enchanted. She was waking to another day without family or love or plans for the future.

Still, she felt just a bit better.

Lying curled in her bed, she forced herself to name just five things for which she was grateful. It was an exercise Christie had advised her to perform first thing in the morning and last thing at night. If nothing else, Christie had told her, it will give you a little bit of structure, one tidy line to start the morning and end the day to make you feel enclosed and on task.

All right then.

Marina was grateful that she’d slept through the night without needing a sleeping pill. She’d been afraid she was becoming addicted to them. Over the past few months, the divorce had plunged her into a state of grief and despair that at night turned into a raging anger and a kind of burning terror—what was her life about? Did she mean nothing? But here on the island, for the past three weeks, she’d discovered that something in the sea air worked like a charm to make her fall into a deep, relaxing sleep. Christie had been right to tell her to come here to heal.

Two—well, she was grateful she’d found the cottage. It resembled a dollhouse, with wild roses rambling all over the roof and clematis and wisteria blossoming on the trellis on the outside walls. The windows were mullioned like a fairy-tale cottage. The door was bright blue. Inside, one large room served for living, dining, and kitchen areas. A ladder led up to the loft with the bed. Windows on three sides provided views of the birds nesting in an apple tree on her right, a pine tree on her left, and a hawthorn tree straight ahead.

Inside, the décor was—well, there was no décor, actually. The few furnishings had a cast-off and shabby air, but were basically sound and comfortable. No curtains hung from the windows. No paintings graced the walls. No rugs brightened the floors, but she could understand that. It was so easy to track sand into the house, and the floors were wood and felt cool and smooth to the soles of her feet.

She was grateful to be in the heart of the town. That was the third thing, and it had been on her list every morning and every night. The cottage was off an idyllic lane in the illustrious historic district. She could walk to the grocery store, the pharmacy, the post office, the library. Tucked away at the far end of a long garden, it had once been the Playhouse for the family that had grown up in the huge old house at the front. The owner and one of his daughters lived in the house. Their presence made Marina feel not so alone. She liked seeing the lights come on in different rooms of the house. The daughter, Lily, was pretty, but not very friendly. Well, she was only twenty-two. Marina must seem ancient to her.

Jim Fox, on the other hand, was really nice. He’d brought her fresh fish several times already, and often in the evenings when he came home from work, he jumped out of his red pickup truck and sauntered down the lawn to chat with her. Did she need anything? If she did, she had only to ask, he’d be glad to help. Had she enjoyed the bluefish? Would she like some more when he went out fishing again? He was so attentive that Marina sometimes wondered if he were hitting on her. She doubted it. She was sure she wasn’t giving off any sexual vibes, since her sexuality was hiding under its shell like a wounded turtle. Although she could still recognize that Jim was an awfully attractive man, tall, muscular, and comfortable enough in his powerful body to be easygoing and kind.

Fourth, she was grateful for Christie’s enduring, sustaining friendship and especially for her wisdom this summer.

Odd, how things turned out.

Long ago, when she started seventh grade, Marina had teamed up with two very different best friends. Christie was her good friend, pretty, cheerful, popular, and smart. Dara was her exciting friend, always ready to try something new and outrageous, more sexy than good-looking. They remained best friends when they all started at the same gigantic university in Columbia, Missouri, but by their sophomore summer, things changed. Christie and Marina decided to go off to Nantucket to work as waitresses. They’d heard that the pay was good, the island was gorgeous, and they could party like crazy on their time off. Dara couldn’t believe they were going to be waitstaff—she considered such a job way too far beneath her. She didn’t need the money the way Christie and Marina did, and she went off with other college friends to backpack in Europe.

Marina and Christie had so much fun, they returned to the island for the next two summers. During the academic year, they still spent time with each other, but Dara ran with a new, fast crowd, and the trio was never the same after that. After graduation, they went their separate ways. Dara wanted money. Marina wanted to turn her love of color and design into a career. Christie just wanted her high school sweetheart, Bob.

Christie married Bob right after college—Marina was her maid of honor. A few years later, when Marina married Gerry Warren, Christie was Marina’s matron of honor, lumbering down the aisle, eight months pregnant. After that, Marina had seen little of Chris?tie. Their lives were so different, and they were so busy. Christie and Bob lived in happy chaos with their hundreds of children—really, only an eventual five—on a lake outside Kansas City.

Marina and Gerry met in college. He was handsome, with thick, straight blond hair and sapphire eyes. He was smart, too, and witty. At first she thought he was just a bit too smug and shallow, but he wanted Marina, he pursued Marina, and his varied and creative attempts to charm her were irresistible. Perhaps she didn’t love Gerry, but she was helplessly seduced by his desire.

Their ambitions were similar, too, and that drew them together as a natural pair. He was a dynamite salesman; she was artistic and creative. Marina and Gerry started a graphic design/ad agency in the Kansas City area. They invested their own time and some start-up money borrowed from their parents, and they worked day and night. For a few years, work was the very air they breathed. They established themselves, grew a name, became successful, and paid back their parents. They bought a condo and the posh cars they displayed as ads for their success—a Jag for Gerry, a Saab convertible for Marina. But somehow, as the months and years went by, they never found time to relax. They were like a clock, their lives the two hands ticking around the face of the day and night, with never a second to stop.

Read the Reviews!

“Nancy Thayer has a deep and masterly understanding of love and friendship, of where the two complement and where they collide.” –Elin Hilderbrand

"Beachcombers is the perfect summer read." -CMash Loves to Read



Nancy Thayer is the New York Times bestselling author of Summer House, Moon Shell Beach, The Hot Flash Club, The Hot Flash Club Strikes Again, Hot Flash Holidays, The Hot Flash Club Chills Out, and Between Husbands and Friends. She lives on Nantucket. You can visit Nancy Thayer’s website at www.NancyThayer.com.

Author Spotlight: Beautiful Malice by Rebecca James

An international sensation that The Wall Street Journal called a “publishing phenomenon,” this layered, poignant, and chilling novel of psychological suspense is the year’s most stunning American fiction debut. From its wrenching opening to its shocking climax, Beautiful Malice unfolds a haunting story in which people, motives, and circumstances are never what they seem.

Who is Katherine Patterson? It is a question she hopes no one can answer. To erase her past, Katherine has moved to a new city, enrolled in a new school, and even changed her name. She’s done the next best thing to disappearing altogether. Now, wary and alone, she seeks nothing more than anonymity. What she finds instead is the last thing she expected: a friend.

Even more unlikely, Katherine’s new friend is the most popular and magnetic girl in school. Extroverted, gorgeous, flirtatious, and unpredictable, she is everything that Katherine is not and doesn’t want to be: the center of attention. Yet Alice’s enthusiasm is infectious, her candor sometimes unsettling, and Katherine, in spite of her guarded caution, finds herself drawn into Alice’s private circle.

But Alice has secrets, too—darker than anyone can begin to imagine. And when she lets her guard down at last, Katherine discovers the darkest of them all. For there will be no escaping the past for Katherine Patterson—only a descent into a trap far more sinister . . . and infinitely more seductive.

Read an Excerpt!

After Alice’s party, people at school are noticeably more friendly to me. I get smiles and nods in the corridors from students I don’t recognize, and a few even say “Hey, Katherine!” surprising me by knowing my name. And Alice finds me at lunchtime, sits down be¬side me in the cafeteria, and makes me laugh with stories about the other students, gossipy tidbits of information about people I barely know. It’s fun, and I’m more than happy for the company, glad not to be alone anymore.

I don’t question why she would want to spend time with me. I used to be popular, after all, and am used to being liked. Alice says she wants to be my friend; she seems to enjoy my company; she lis¬tens, intently, to everything I have to say. So I am grateful and flat¬tered and pleased. And for the first time since Rachel died, I feel something resembling happiness.

On the Thursday following her party, I call Alice and invite her over for Saturday night. I live with my aunt Vivien, my father’s sis¬ter. I like living with Vivien; she’s warm and easygoing, and I’m grateful that I’m no longer at home, that I can finish high school where nobody has heard of Rachel or the Boydell sisters. I spend a lot of time alone because Vivien goes on so many business trips and if she’s free on weekends she goes away with friends. She’s always encouraging me to invite people to the apartment and clearly thinks it strange that I never socialize, but I’ve grown used to my own com¬pany and enjoy being able to choose exactly what to eat, what to watch, what music I listen to.

“I’ll make dinner,” I tell Alice.

“Awesome,” she says. “Hope you’re a good cook.”

“I am. It’s one of my many secret talents.”

“Secrets, hmm?” Alice is quiet for a minute. “Have a lot of them, do you?”

I laugh, as if the very idea is absurd.

I spend Saturday buying food. I used to cook a lot before Rachel died, when we were still a family, and so I know what I’m doing and what I’ll need. I buy all the ingredients—chicken thighs, cardamom pods, yogurt, cumin, ground coriander, basmati rice—to cook one of my favorite curries. That way I can make it early, before Alice ar¬rives, and when she gets there I can let it simmer and grow more de¬licious as we talk.

I’ve become so used to keeping everything guarded and private, so reluctant to let anyone close, that I’m surprised to realize how much I’m looking forward to Alice’s company. I don’t know when or how the idea of friendship and intimacy became so appealing, but all of a sudden the thought of having fun and getting to know some¬one new is quite irresistible. And although I’m still afraid of reveal¬ing too much, still conscious that friendship can be risky, I can’t quell this feeling of excited anticipation.

I get home, prepare the curry, then shower and dress. I have an hour before Alice arrives, so I call my parents. Mom and Dad and I moved about a year ago. Too many people knew us at home, too many people knew what had happened to Rachel. It was impossible to cope with the pitying stares, the curious looks, the conspicuous whispering wherever we went. I moved in with Vivien so that I could finish high school in the city, a place so big I could keep to my¬self, remain anonymous. My parents bought a house a couple of hours north. They wanted me to live with them, of course, and ar¬gued that I was too young to be leaving home. But I’d started to find their sadness overwhelming, their very presence suffocating, and so I convinced them that the city was the perfect place for me to be, that my very happiness depended on it, and they finally relented.

“Boydell residence.” My mother answers the phone. I changed my last name when I moved and now go by my grandmother’s maiden name, Patterson. It was surprisingly easy to cast off my old name—so easy, at least on paper, to become a new person. I miss my old name. But it goes with the old me, the happy, carefree, sociable me. Katherine suits the new, shyer version. Katie Boydell is no more. Rachel and Katie Boydell—the infamous Boydell sisters—both are gone.

“Mom.”

“Sweetheart. I was just about to call you. Daddy and I were talk¬ing about your car.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Now, don’t argue, darling, please. But we’ve decided to get you a new one. It will be safer than the old one. We’ve got the money and it just feels ridiculous to let you drive around in that old bomb.”

“It’s only eight years old, Mom.” I drive her old Volvo, which is already a very new and conservative car for someone my age.

She continues as if I haven’t spoken. “We’ve found this lovely Honda. It gets great mileage, it’s a sweet little car, but best of all it scored really well on all the safety tests. It’ll be perfect for you.”

There’s little point arguing, I don’t want to upset her or make a fuss. Since Rachel’s death my parents have been obsessed with my safety, with doing as much as is humanly possible to make sure that I stay alive. I have no choice but to accept their gifts, their concern.

“Sounds great, Mom,” I say. “Thanks.”

“How’s school going? Have your grades picked up at all?”

“Yes,” I lie. “I’m doing much better.”

“I’ve been reading about the pre- med program at the college here. It’s really highly rated, you know, and has a reputation as good as any in the country. In fact, it really seems to be the place to study the sciences and medicine these days. And there are a lot of out¬standing doctors teaching there. It’s something I’d like you to con¬sider, darling. For me. You could live with us, and you know how pleased Daddy would be if you did that, and you could really con¬centrate on your studies without worrying about rent or bills or your meals. We could take care of you, make it all easier.”

“I don’t know, Mom, I don’t know. I’m enjoying English right now, and history, too. . . . Science isn’t... anyway, I thought I might get a degree in art history, maybe. And, Mom, I really like living here.”

“Oh, of course you do. Vivien’s place is perfect and I know she’d be more than pleased to have you stay there. And what you’re study¬ing now is a wonderful beginning to your education. But it really is only a beginning, darling. You will need to get back on track. Even¬tually. When you’re ready.”

Back on track. When you’re ready. This is as close as Mom can get to mentioning what happened to Rachel, to acknowledging our loss, the life we had before she died. I was top of my class and doing very well. I’d hoped to do well enough to be pre-med in college and then go on to medical school. Obstetrics had been my ultimate goal, I had everything planned. But when Rachel died, my plans fell apart, things went completely off track. The track itself was ripped from beneath me, torn from the ground, obliterated.

And I discovered, during that horrific time, that science and mathematics, all the precise and utterly dependable stuff I used to love so much, were completely useless when it came to understand¬ing grief. Or dealing with guilt.

And now I doubt that I’ll ever be ready to get back on track. I’m on another track now, just slowly, slowly gaining some momentum, and I don’t think I can, or want to, make the sideways leap off.

“I’ll think about it.”

“Good. And I’ll mail you some of these brochures.” My mother laughs then, but I hear the little catch in her throat, the sign that this conversation has made her want to cry. “I’ve collected quite a few of them.”

I touch the mouthpiece of the phone, as if by doing so I can give her some comfort. And yet there is no comfort to be given. Her life is lived only in degrees of pain.

“I bet you have,” I say, as warmly as I can.

“Oh.” Her voice is once again crisp, businesslike, all emotion under control. “Listen to me hogging the conversation like this. I bet you want to speak to Daddy. He’s not here, darling, but I can get him to call you later.”

“That’s okay. I’m having a friend over for dinner, actually. Maybe I’ll call tomorrow.”

“Oh, I’m so glad you’re having some fun.” I hear that catch in her voice again, then her quick cough to bring her voice back under control. “Have a lovely evening. I’ll tell Daddy to call you tomor¬row. Don’t you call. It’s our turn to pay.”

When I hang up, I feel flat, all excitement for the evening ahead gone. I regret having made the call. It hasn’t made me happy—and I’m certain that it has only made Mom more miserable. It’s always this way with Mom, these days. She’s always talking, always plan¬ning, always full of ideas and pragmatic conversation. It’s as if she can’t bear to be quiet or to allow herself a moment’s silence. This way, she gives herself no space to remember, no room to think about what she’s lost. It also prevents the person she’s speaking to from getting a word in, from talking about something she would rather not talk about, from mentioning Rachel.

The modern way to grieve is to talk about it, to let yourself cry and scream and wail. My counselor said we must talk. And I tried, that long, long first year after Rachel was killed, to talk about what happened, to express my sadness, to verbalize our loss, to own my despair. But Dad refused to listen and Mom would cut me off, change the subject, and if I pushed it she would start to cry and leave the room.

I gave up. I felt as if I was torturing her and I became thoroughly sick of myself, of my neediness. In talking about it, I’d been seeking forgiveness, absolution from the feeling that Mom and Dad blamed me for what happened. But I was asking the impossible, I soon real¬ized. Of course they blamed me—for my cowardice, for my escape, for my having lived. We all knew that if one of their daughters had to die, it should have been me.

And I no longer believe that there is any better way to cope with bereavement. There is just a shitload of pain to carry—a permanent and dreadful burden—and talking about it doesn’t remove that load or make it any lighter. Rachel died in the most horrific way imagin ¬able. Words are useless against the harsh truth of that. Rachel is dead. She is gone forever and we will never again see her lovely face, never again hear her music. She is dead.

Why we should need to wallow in this reality, relive it again and again, poke and prod and examine it until our eyes are bleeding, our hearts crushed with the horror and inconceivable sadness of it, is be¬yond me. It cannot possibly help. Nothing can help. If Mom needs to be stoic, to pretend that she is fine, to hide her despair behind a transparent veil of crisp efficiency and businesslike conversation, then that’s okay by me. It seems as good a way as any to go on with her diminished life.

I press my forefinger into the small circular scar above my knee. It’s the only physical evidence I have of the night Rachel was killed, the only physical injury I suffered. The wrong girl died that dreadful day. And though I can’t actually wish that I’d died instead of Rachel—I am nowhere near brave enough to be a martyr—I know too well that the better sister died.

Read the Reviews!

“Beautiful Malice is a book that is revealed in layers, perfectly timed and paced until the very last page."

--There's A Book

"This is a fantastic psychological thriller about love, death, pain, friendship, betrayal, loss and strength."

--The Tales Compendium



Rebecca James was born in Sydney and spent her twenties teaching English in Indonesia and Japan. She currently lives in Armidale, Australia, with her partner and their four sons.

You can visit Rebecca online at www.rebeccajamesbooks.com.