Bethany K. Scanlon's Blog

Christian Novels and Christian Romance go in hand in glove. Christian Novels aren't much fun for me if there isn't any Christian Romance. When I say Christian Romance, I mean a romance where Christ is in the center of it.  I wrote A Love Series, which are five short Christian Romance stories, with the idea people could read them, be entertained, and grow closer in their walk with Christ. 
What makes for good Christian Novels? In my mind, mystery, suspense and romance...just to name a few. I get tired of reading books where I can easily guess the ending! I try very hard to keep my readers on their toes, wanting to read through the story and afraid if they put it down they will miss something important.
And they will. I always enjoy lacing throughout the story the truth of Christ's love and redemption.
A Love Series


A collection of five short inspirational stories:
The Prosperity Preacher-
An ex drug dealer hides in the Federal Witness Protection Program after testifying against his colleagues. The Bureau finds him a job in a tiny Texas town at the local church as an assistant pastor. With a new name but the same morals,he tries to restart his life.
Fate of the Just: the missing manuscript-
A divorced homeless mother of one discovers a manuscript in the trash. One the author never intended on being thrown away. Seizing a chance to get off the hot Houston streets, she publishes it in her name.
The Bear Trap-
Pushing past the almost unbearable pain of her past, Lucille Bear decides that change is her only option for survival. Trapped in a lonely swamp, and unable to make ends meet, she chooses to do the only thing that can pull her out.
Silly Women-
The little town of Ginger swirled with rumors. Bad ones. And unfortunately, almost all of them were true. Rebecca and Theresa Sims had made a mess of their lives. They were beyond hope until one day an unexpected friendship turned their lives around.
Vain Imaginations: a murder mystery-
Deception, betrayal and broken trust are a must in any good relationship. Copper Blakely couldn't hide forever. With the truth about to be released, she made the one mistake, the irrevocable mistake, that cost her life. Reputation ruined, it's up to her sister to redeem Copper's life.

Excerpt: Chapter One
I sat silently in the study, tapping my pencil on the antique oak desk I had painted white. For the past two hours, I had been staring at the new decor of cobalt blue walls with off-white trim. When we moved here, I spent an entire month decorating this room the way that I saw fit. Soft colors, hard lines, and minimal furniture. I had one desk, one wooden chair with wheels, and one bookcase. All purchased from a garage sale, and all repainted by me in what the can called “almond white.” I wanted a comfortable writing sanctuary, a place to call my own . . . clean from the worries of life. Our family’s newly adopted dog Scooter let out a sneeze as he snuggled closer, happily asleep next to my bare feet.His long white Maltese hair felt wonderfully warm and slightly itchy. And no . . . I didn’t get him because he matched the furniture…that was purely coincidence. As I straightened the scraggly light green throw pillow behind my back and readjusted the matching blanket, I looked at the blank page with eraser marks that had smudged the first five lines. Okay, here it goes again… My name is…no scratch that. How the heck do you start one of these things? I sharpened my pencil and then closed the pretty pink notebook I had purchased at Sharon’s boutique down the street. Get a hold of yourself, Sarah! It’s just a journal! It’s not hard! Nobody reads these things anyway. Remember, it was your idea to write down your life story . . .A familiar voice broke through my mock concentration. “Mom! Mom! I can’t find the leftover pizza in the fridge. What did you do with it?”I looked pensively at my teenage son. “Go ask your sister and leave me alone, I’m trying to write in here.”His rebuttal was quick as usual…just like his dad, I might add. The apple did not fall far from the tree. “No problem. I’ll just order another one and charge it to your credit card.”I sighed and in that moment, I decided to switch to writing my life story the old-fashioned way…on my laptop. “Close the door behind you when you leave.”The double French doors slammed shut and I turned on my computer. Okay . . . now where was I?  As I stare out my window, gazing towards the meadow filled with yellow dais . . . no that sounds stupid. Alright, let’s try this.
My Secret Life
My real name is Sarah Higgins, but I barely remember anymore because I have been so many people. In fact, I’ve led several different lives . . . It’s a horrible feeling losing sight of who you really are, or should I say, was . . .I’m getting older and my mind has been slipping. Partially because I want it to . . . it gets tiring reliving the memories. However, before it completely goes, I want to tell the world, I want to share my life, my secrets, my everything with someone. Anyone who will listen, anyone who will understand. I am sick of being alone, alone with my secrets . . .
My Childhood
I bet you are thinking that I lived a poor life, a life of no meaning, no worth, and that is why I wanted to be an undercover agent. Well, you are wrong on the poor part, but right about the meaningless part. As an only child, raised with no father, and a mother who held a night job and slept during the day, I spent many hours alone. Alone with my thoughts, daydreams, and fantasies. You see, my mother was a prostitute, and I used to watch her dress up in many different outfits. Nurse, teacher, Catholic schoolgirl . . . but the reigning favorite was always Catwoman with a whip. Raiding her closet and practicing my walking abilities in her heels kept me amused for hours. I would dress up and imitate different voices. Yes, I learned acting at a very young age.We lived in a very nice, upscale apartment in New York. An apartment in a building where my mother tipped the doorman well to stay tight lipped about her comings and goings at all hours of the night in her different “uniforms.”  My mom’s Madame, nicknamed “Lady Marmalade,” had a black book filled with high paying clients. Clients who favored their entertainment well-manicured and always ready for adventure. I met “Lady Marmalade,” who my mom called Charise, many times. Charise was plump with short hair and butch features. She chain smoked, but never used profanity. She felt it was distasteful and forbid her girls from using it also. Well, unless a client preferred it. Supposedly, her nickname “Lady Marmalade” was what she used when she was a call girl in New Orleans. Rumor has it she spoke French to her patrons and was quite well known there.Charise’s lover was a tall, skinny brunette with a very shapely figure. Charise held an annual New Year’s Eve party that lasted at least a week, and mom always brought me with. Many of Charise’s girls were single mothers, so during the party, the children were given the large studio on her third floor to run around in. She even provided a nanny, toys, sleeping bags, and plenty of treats for us. Over the years, I bonded with a girl named Victoria, but I only saw her during the famous New Year’s bashes. Every year we looked forward to seeing one another and would stay joined at the hip for the entire week. Victoria would shriek with laughter when she saw me and always had a bulky pink and furry bag dragging behind her. “Sarah! I brought all of my dolls to play with!”  We began to grow apart as we reached high school age, and last I heard, she never finished and became one of Madame Charise’s top girls.
My Father
When I was about eight years old, I questioned my mom about my dad. Mainly, wanting to know who and where he was. She showed me his picture in her high school yearbook. The high school she dropped out of when she was pregnant with me. My dad was very handsome, but also the high school football coach, who was married with two kids. I studied his picture for hours, determining that I had his nose and cheekbones. I decided that I had my mom’s beautiful almond-shaped green eyes and her naturally curly golden hair. Height isn’t something I am blessed with, I’ve never made it past 5’2”, even on a good day. My mom, whose hobby was studying the martial arts, made sure I learned to defend myself at an early age . . .“Sarah, it’s time for your lesson with Master Shu Lee.”I jutted out my lower lip. “I don’t want to go, He’s mean.”My mom crossed her long arms across her chest. “What he’s teaching you might one day save your life!”At eight years old, playing with dolls was a heck of lot more interesting than karate, but by the time I turned ten, I was addicted and an avid learner. By fifteen, I was a black belt and at the top of my class. I was also the most feared girl in school.“Sarah! Your principal said that if you get in one more fight at school you are going to be expelled!” My mom stood glaring at me in love with her arms akimbo on her hips.My accusatory teenage rebellion snapped back. “Whadda I need school for? You never graduated, and you make money!”My mom looked away for a moment as if pausing to reflect on a former life, and then she slowly brought her eyes back to mine. “Please, Sarah. This isn’t the type of lifestyle I want you living . . . if I could do it all over again . . .” She paused and wiped away the tears beginning to form. Years of destitution and wasted time hung from her face as she silently pleaded, “Don’t follow in my footsteps,” with unfulfilled dreams in her eyes.It was that look on her face that kept me steady for the rest of my life. The look that gave me the courage to make a heart decision to get a “respectable” job and “do something” with my life. More than anything, I wanted my mom to be proud of me. Proud of her little girl.Shortly after that conversation, Mom took me to an Easter service at St. Patrick’s Cathedral.  I had never been in a church before and the high ceilings and gothic design spooked me. I remember after service, my mom walking to the front and kneeling down. Not knowing what to do, I stood back and watched her, curious.  When she finished, I asked. “What were you doing?”She smiled while brushing away the tears. “I was asking for mercy, for God to forgive me.”A flash of anger entered my heart. “Why?” I exclaimed. “What did you do wrong?”The right corner of her mouth twisted and I could tell she was holding back a flood of emotions. She put her arm around my waist and pulled me closer as we walked out of the church. “One day you’ll understand.” My Darkest Hour The most memorable day of my life was my seventeenth birthday. I went home expecting mom to be there with a big grin on her face and gifts waiting, like every birthday. She never worked on my birthday and always made a big production over it. My birthdays were always just her and me, since I never really had any close friends. Other girls would try to befriend me, but I never let anyone in. I was always afraid of someone finding out that my mom sold her body for a living. Mom warned me on many occasions that if anyone found out, she would go to jail, and I would be sent to a foster home. Not wanting to be separated from her, I closed myself off from having peers. Walking through our door on my seventeenth birthday, I was greeted with silence .“Hello! Mom? Mom! Where are you?” I went to the refrigerator and grabbed a soda.  A homemade pink and white cake was in there with “Happy Birthday Sarah” written across the top. A smile formed across my lips. Maybe she’s in the shower. Nope. Not in there.“Knock, Knock” A sharp rapping at our door. I peeked out the peephole. A young man in a police uniform cleared his throat. My heart leapt with joy. “Ooh! Mom hired a stripper!” I quickly unlatched the lock and let him in while looking down both sides of the hall for mom.He took off his hat and held it in his hand. “Are you Ms. Sarah Higgins?”The tone of his voice sent a chill through my short frame. “Yes.”“I . . . I” He scratched his head. “Have you seen your mom today, Sarah?”“No, I was at school.”Red crept up his neck and to his nose. “When is the last time you saw her?”I began to get frustrated. “What’s going on? Why are you asking these questions?”He looked at the ground and then into my eyes. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but I need you to come with me to the city morgue. I need you to identify a body we found this morning. To identify whether or not it is your mom’s.”Denial reared its ugly head while a certain dread crept through me. “It’s not my mom’s! She’s okay. You have the wrong person!”But it was my mom’s body. My denial was surpassed by grief as I stared at her with vacant eyes. Beaten and bruised with a slashed throat, she was left in a dumpster, naked and alone. The police said that they would investigate, but they never did. Police don’t care about dead prostitutes. Shortly thereafter, a hatred for law enforcement formed in my belly, and to this day has never quite gone away.  Three days later, I was sent to a foster home . . . My Short Stay in Foster Care I have to say I was a really horrible foster child. After my mom’s death, I was hardened, angry, resentful, and plain pissed off at the world. My foster parents were a sweet older black couple with grown kids of their own. The dad was a pastor of a black Baptist church, and their rule was that the foster children attend Sunday service once a week.“How could there be a God?” was my angry retort whenever anyone asked.“The heavens declare His glory,” someone would almost always respond. The other famous line I would be fed was, “We walk by faith, not by sight,” or, “The steps of a righteous man are ordered by the Lord.”Hostility reigned in my heart, and no matter what anyone else told me, I was determined to go my own way. Pastor Ronny, my foster father, would joyfully pray over all of our meals together, and I envied his faith in an invisible being. I stayed with my foster family until the day I was eighteen and then left without a word. My next stop was the police academy. I had a bone to pick and a vendetta to fulfill. It would be a long time before I was willing to let go of what they did... or should I say, failed to do concerning finding my mom’s killer. The Turnaround Okay, not so fast. I forgot something. When I graduated high school, right before I left my foster home, I had a job as a checker at the local grocery. The manager’s son worked there too and well . . . we fell in love. Small backyard wedding, lived in a rat-infested apartment, and luckily, I never conceived. That lasted roughly three years until I was sick of playing apartment wife and grocery checker. He wasn’t a bad husband, it’s just that he couldn’t wait to be a grocery store manager like his dad. His mom was fat, gossipy, and wore too much make-up with no life to speak of. I was so afraid of ending up like her, I ran. Ran straight into the arms of the NYPD. I still had a sharp longing to “get them back” for not finding my mom’s killer. For not caring. Working for the NYPD Not too many women in New York City’s police department those days. Matter of fact, most women on the force were parking meter attendants, and that is what I had to do my first year, until I was moved to a secretarial position. It was the ’60s, and women were burning their bras and practicing unsafe sex to try to push equality. It would still take several years for law enforcement to catch up with the idea of a women being able to do a “man’s job.”  Working for the police department was the longest two years of my life. The men had huge egos and some were more villainous than the bad guys we were trying to catch. One day, I pulled my mom’s file and made a copy.When I got home, I cried over it with a bottle of red wine, the unfairness of it all driving my root of bitterness deeper. Then something exciting happened. A big case came up that the FBI bullied their way into demanding that the NYPD work with them. They were preparing to go undercover, and since I was privy to the details, I decided to step up to the plate with my idea. I mean, what could it hurt? It wasn’t like I could get any lower on the police force totem pole.  “Agent Marks? Here’s your coffee, black just like you requested.” I handed him his cup and he sipped it slowly, careful not to burn his tongue. “Thank you, Sarah.” He began to turn away.I gathered strength. “Agent Marks?”He turned back and looked at me. “Yes?”Without hesitating, I leapt. “I have an idea for the Turner case.”Agent Marks didn’t bother to hide his surprise. “And what would that be?”“Since women haven’t been allowed to be special agents since the late ’20s, if you had a female go undercover, you could probably get a lot further, faster in the case.”Agent Marks rocked back on his heels while stroking his stubbly, dented chin. He was a mildly handsome man with a square jaw and an air of superiority. “You definitely have a point. But I don’t know of any woman who would take that kind of risk.”I squared my shoulders “I would.”
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