Solstice Sun Kitty

        We're approaching the summer solstice, and to celebrate, I'm having a Solstice Sale of my novel, THE AMBER.   You can go right to amazon to take advantage of it, or check out my FB invite.  
         In case you don't know, it's both historical fiction, and a paranormal, with quite a bit of romance because, you know, it's summer.  And because when I cook, whether it's food or writing, I like a complex layer of flavoring.  As you know, I like to play with my food, whether it's food of the body or the soul.
        I mean, honestly, our personal history matters, and how that personal history is influenced by larger world events matters, too.  Ask any immigrant and they'll say yes.  Ask my parents, their parents, who all came here from 'the old country' because world events encouraged them to do so.  
     And of course, we all have, um, interesting experiences.  I mean, ghost things, strange events we can't explain that either lead us right where we need to go, or perhaps where we don't want to go, but should anyway.  You know what I mean.  
    Added to that, romance.  Yes.  What's the world without it?  Because, really, love is our best teacher and our best guide.  When in doubt, ask yourself, 'what does love require?'
     Romance is only one aspect of love, but in The Amber, it's a crucial one.  As it often is.
     For those who want a preview before the decide (and who can blame you?), I've pasted an excerpt of the first chapter below.  And if you like, I'd be glad to send you a PDF of the first few chapters.  Just find me on FB, or leave me a request in the comment section.  

        Meantime, enjoy the sun.  The liquid amber light.  Your own history.  The history of the world.  and some romance.    Here's a little drink to help you enjoy it all even more:

     CREAMSICLE COCKTAIL

        This is simple, because who wants difficult in the summertime?

Not brave but that's okayGet a pretty glass of your choice (martini glass if you're brave, wine glass if you're less brave, jelly jar if you're not at all brave.)

Put about half an inch of crushed ice (or a few ice cubes) in the bottom

Fill the container 3/4 full with orange soda

Fill the rest with whipped cream flavored vodka, to taste.

You can add some whipped cream on top if you like, or a cherry because you know the rule:  PLAY WITH YOUR FOOD.  And your drinks.  And your summer.

Sit back, sip, read what's below and enjoy!



Chapter One Early 21st Century - Upstate NY     Stacey V. moved her pencil on the notepad she held on her lap. For all anyone could tell, she was taking notes on the meeting, but since her presentation was over and the bosses droned on, she was doodling.     Jonathan Seele, senior partner in Accent Marketing, exuded confidence and positive energy as he talked about profit margins and teamwork. He focused the red dot of his laser pen on the Power Point graphs at the front of the room.     Stacey, who’d heard it all before, kept doodling, until a storm-tossed ocean grew under her pen, with two men on horseback rearing back from its waves. She wondered if someone left a radio on, because she heard a violin playing somewhere. Sibelius, Violin concerto, the first movement. The waves on her notepad curled with increasing complexity, the faces of the men on horseback taking rugged shape.     When Jonathan was done, he turned the meeting over to junior partner Ed Horn, who said the same thing with even more confidence. Stacey smiled at the right moments, and continued to draw in time with the music, adding the face of a woman who was being pulled into the waves. She had no idea where the images came from. Like most of her drawings, they seemed to live in her hands, emerging beyond her volition. She continued to draw, until Horn said the magic words.     “That’s it, folks. We’re done. And we can still make Happy Hour.”     The men and women of Accent Marketing sighed with contentment and rose from the gleaming conference table. A few who had agendas to push made their way to Jonathan. The others began to pack up and head out. Stacey did the same.     The meeting had gone well for her. They’d hammered out the busline proposal, a big account that raised a lot of competitive hackles, and no one bit or scratched. They’d divided the Syrius Restaurant budget between air, print, and internet, and everyoneresponded with enthusiasm to Stacey’s graphics for the campaign.      Grant clearly appreciated her support for his Mercy Hospital copy, because he was the first to applaud when she announced she’d landed the upstate I Love NY account.     Laura had made a cattie remark about her expertise with liquid sales – meaning she’d buy as many drinks as necessary to push a potential client into submission – but she didn’t care. Grant admired that skill in her, and he was more fun than Laura. As she pushed herself back from the conference table, secure and sleek as any woman contending for partner in the firm, he turned a glance to her. She ran a hand through her long honey hair, stood and moved to him.     “You heading to Janus?” he asked.     That was the favorite watering hole for young executives on a Thursday evening.  Normally, her answer would be yes. Tonight, she had other obligations.     “I wish I could. I’m house-sitting for my sister. Out in the country. I have to walk the dog, feed the cat.”     “Ouch,” he said.     “It’s not that bad, if you like peepers.”     He frowned. “I thought those were only sold at Easter.”     “Not Peeps. Peepers. The frogs?”   “Oh. Frogs. Right. Did you want company? Besides the peepers,” he asked.     She heard his reluctance, and figured it stemmed either from his distaste for anything in nature beyond sushi, or his recent interest in the new copywriter, Erin, who was blonde, thin, and had fantastic cleavage. She tried to work up some feeling about that, and found she couldn’t. Their commitment to not committing was her idea.     “I won’t ask you to drive up those roads,” she said. “Go to Janus and have a drink for me.”     Grant smiled. “You’re a good woman, Stace,” he said.   “So I’ve been told.” She looked around. “Who’s got a radio on?”  “What?”  “I still hear that violin. Or is it singing?”   Grant patted her shoulder. “Maybe you need quiet time. I don’t hear a thing.”
     When he left, absorbed in the general milling, she heaved a sigh of relief. Grant was California beach-boy good looking, and he was fun, but she was tired, and didn’t relish the thought of dealing with him and a Labrador retriever. Though she’d never admit it to anyone in the room, she looked forward to the time alone, and the peepers.      She left the office with a briefcase full of accounts to go over, got in her car and drove away from the city where she worked, the capital of New York State.      It wasn’t a hopping town, but there was government money here, and it was close to New York City and Boston. Since Accent had offices in both those cities, she might make her way to either one someday. In the meantime, she avoided the cutthroat competition of Madison Avenue, and appreciated the reasonable housing costs here, which allowed her to buy her own small house at the age of 28.     Part of the money for that came from her parents’ will, split between her and her brother and sister when both mother and father were killed in a car accident three years ago. Martha built a house in the country with her share, and Vince – well, they weren’t sure what he did with his. Drank it, Martha said. Stacey said no. At least he got a new car. She didn’t tell Martha what he said about their parents being worth more dead than alive. That was just bitterness, and later he admitted he meant it only about their father, really. For the most part.     Fifteen minutes west of downtown the city dropped away, and Stacey drove a road that had more cows than people. She took the turn up the hill to her sister’s house and anticipated the upcoming thrill. She wasn’t disappointed.     As she crested the rise, the land spread itself out in front of her, hills and hollows illumined by the westward dropping sun. Rolling green of deep summer, grass long and soft in the fields and trees burgeoning with emerald leaves dripping sweet golden light. She sighed.     Though she was now an account exec, pushing her way toward partner, she’d started as a graphic artist, and she still appreciated a good visual. She’d thought of trying to paint this view, but wasn’t sure how. As she considered possibilities, sun glare temporarily obscured all vision. She had a flash image of a startled face behind the steering wheel of a car, driving into a beautiful and blinding sunset. It would be an interesting task in perspective, light and pain.     Maybe she’d make a sketch tonight, she thought, but then she remembered the I Love NY account. She had to work on that. Work paid her bills, art did not. Maybe when she retired, she’d paint more. For now, she had a life to live.     She pulled into her sister’s driveway, turned off the car and listened for a minute. The high call of tiny tree toads and peepers filled the air, underscored with the bullfrog’s bass notes. She’d once found a tree toad on one of her sister’s tomato plants. It was tiny as her thumbnail, its translucent flesh-colored skin veined in bright red. She’d been amazed that something so small could produce such a large sound. That was another painting she hoped to make someday.     She got out of the car, lugged her stuff onto the front porch and looked to the west. It was late June - the solstice in fact - and the sun had hours of light left to shed. Time enough to take the dog for a good long walk in the woods.     She dug the key from her pocket and went inside. Tamsa, a black lab who was sleek and happy as an otter, stood at the entrance to the kitchen, a ball in her mouth, her butt wiggling a mile a minute. Her name was Lithuanian for dark, a word they’d learned from their Lithuanian immigrant grandmother. Chaos, the family black cat, wandered over and wrapped his tail around Stacey’s leg, a request for some petting.     “Hey, you two,” Stacey said. “Happy to see me?”     Tamsa made the small whine that meant either great joy, or an urgent need to find a patch of grass.     “Yeah,” Stacey said. “Just gimme a minute.”     She put down her bags and glanced at the note Martha had left on the kitchen counter. It gave detailed instructions on walking, feeding, and taking Tamsa out to pee, along with who to call if the water turned brown, what to do if she smelled gas, the best way to get Tamsa back if she ran away, what canned and dry food to give Chaos, how much to feed the goldfish and hamster that belonged to Stacey’s niece, Alicia, and six separate emergency numbers to reach her. At the bottom of the note was a picture Alicia drew of what she expected from their trip: A fairy with crooked pink wings, and sparkles sprinkled on top.     Martha and her husband rarely went on vacation, but they’d promised Alicia a trip to Disney World as soon as school was out. Martha, a high school English teacher who liked everything safe and predictable, prepared for it rather grimly, as if she was going to a Siberian prison camp. Stacey encouraged her to be more adventurous, but on the other hand, she appreciated the stability of her sister’s life. They made up for each other’s deficits, the way sisters often do, she thought. Stacey was the independent single woman, climbing the ladder of success. Martha, six years her senior, kept the home fires burning. They got a vicarious charge from each other’s lives, and managed not to be jealous except now and then.     Tamsa nudged her elbow with a wet nose. “Okay,” Stacey said. “Let’s walk. Then we’ll see what kind of wine your human has around the place.”     She tossed some catnip to Chaos, who rolled onto it and was content. She put her briefcase and bag in the spare room, and changed into jeans, t-shirt and sneakers. She stuck one of Alicia’s baseball caps on her head to prevent tick infestation, which Martha said was bad this year.     In spite of that, she was looking forward to the walk. The evening was warm and fine, and there were hundreds of acres of woods behind the house to roam in. She tucked her pants into her socks, sprayed herself with organic tick repellant, and set out, Tamsa leaping with doggie joy.     Strolls here were strictly off-leash, and Tamsa scampered ahead, tracking good sniffs while Stacey walked at a leisurely pace, stopping to peer at interesting stones or fallen trees pocked by woodpeckers, thinking of other paintings she might make someday. She followed an open trail across the meadows behind the neighbor’s house, which led to a path into woods where tall fir trees shadowed the ground, and patches of moss created a quilt of varied greens under her feet.     They took their time, arriving at the woods just as the sun sank to the western horizon. Once within that shadowed space they climbed a steep hill into the heart of the trees. Stacey stopped here to catch her breath. She needed more time at the gym and less at Janus, she thought, if that left her winded. Tamsa snuffled around, and Stacey bent to touch a patch of light green moss that formed a small pillow at the base of a pine tree.     When she did, her eye caught the colors black and yellow. She stopped, squatted down, looked more closely. Nestled in the moss was a tiny toad, its rough skin black and deep brown, with bright yellow outlining its mouth. It was narrow in the jaw, more elegant than she thought a toad could be.     She thought of her grandmother, who had kept a toad in her house one winter. It had hopped into her cellar after the ground was frozen, and she’d built a shelter for it, filling an old glass fishbowl with dirt from the garden shop, letting the toad burrow into it and rest there through the cold months.     “It’s a blessing to have a toad in the house,” she told Stacey. “A toad or the zaltys snake. If you ever find one, take good care of it. If you see a dead zaltys in a field, bury it. The sight of a dead zaltys would make the sun cry.”     That was just one of many old Lithuanian beliefs their grandmother taught them. She never explained their origin, but when she spoke of them her voice was solemn and her blue eyes piercing, so Stacey knew it was important. To this day, she appreciated toads and snakes.     She was in grade school when her grandmother died at the age of 65, worn out from war and hardship and cancer. Still, she’d left vivid memories behind. She told stories of bees and trees, devils and creatures she called veles, ghost-like beings, sometimes devilish beings, she said would chase Stacey. She told stories of her own grandmother, whose name and slanted silver-grey eyes and high cheekbones Stacey had inherited. And she told stories of toads.     Now Stacey touched this small specimen on the head as a blessing of her own. It puffed its throat at her and hopped away toward the largest tree at the center of the hill. She followed, and saw it disappear under the roots. She squatted down to see where it went, images of glittering fairy houses appearing in her mind. In reality, what she saw was loamy earth, but what she heard wasn’t peepers or toads. A new sound entered the woods. One that didn’t belong there.     “Violin,” she murmured, picking her head up and listening.     A violin playing the Sibelius, just like she’d heard earlier. And singing. A woman’s clear, high voice. She couldn’t quite make sense of it because it was muted, as if it reached her from far away. Was it a radio on in a house nearby? If so, it was blasting. She’d walked pretty far into the woods.  She pushed herself to stand, hoping to hear better. She tipped slightly on the uneven ground and pressed against the tree to rebalance. Her hand felt thick sap. She saw its congealed stream on the bark, golden brown and red.     Then, suddenly, she didn’t see a thing.    “What the hell?” she asked. The sun had fallen quickly away from the earth, leaving her in velvety thick night. Jesus, she thought, it gets dark quick here. She sat down heavily, uncertain what to do.     “Tamsa?” she asked, but as in a dream, her voice wouldn’t raise above a whisper. “Tamsa?” She tried again.     No response. She blinked around. Fireflies whizzed by, silent and frantic in their mating dance. Far away, coyotes howled, their voices punctuating the fireflies’ dance.     Had she imagined she liked the country? She wished fervently for streetlights, a bar, a cop - anything that said city living. She put her hand to the tree again, a point of reference in the darkness, and her finger dipped into something almost liquid, too thin for sap. Without thinking, she put her hand to her mouth and tasted it.    “Honey,” she said.     Fireflies zipped past, one lone honeybee trailing in the wake of their light. She thought that was odd. Bees slept at night, didn’t they? Had she hit a hive? She hoped not. She was allergic.     She tried to make sense of it and failed. She dropped her hand to her side and felt long grass beneath it, soft as a woman’s hair. Somewhere, someone was singing and a violin was playing Sibelius.     And she heard another voice, male, speaking words she didn’t understand. “Mano,” he breathed out. “Jus mano.”     She turned to the sound. A few yards away she saw an outline of a male form, silhouette within shadow. He gestured, beckoning to her. He was hungry for her. His hunger was an animal stalking her, terrifying and beautiful.     She thought of all the TV shows she’d ever seen about serial killers. Quaking with fear, she tried to run, but her foot caught on a tree root and she fell hard, landing face down on the earth. Night reeled around her, dragging her into its folds.
     Then, only darkness, thick with ancient dreams.
SaveSave