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With nearly four months of 2022 in the books (no pun intended), needless to say, I've been busy. I re-released my YA series, CommuniKate, with Books 1 and 2 now available on Amazon. I've also been working on several other novels, including the second book in my small-town detective series Silver Falls, and a new romance novel Since Last I Saw You (look for it later this year).

But the largest amount of time has been spent on finishing Losing Adam, the first book in a new series entitled Broken Halo.

Even as I write this post, I am in the process of querying agents for representation. Fingers crossed, but I'm really excited about this project and the potential it has. I am including the first chapter below. As always, I'd love to get your thoughts. Enjoy!

Jumper

When the skin on Eden Shaw’s fingers and toes began to prune, she cut the water to the shower, toweled off, and grabbed the lilac robe from the back of the bathroom door. She’d had the dream again—the same one she’d had every night for the past seven months—only this time, instead of stepping back from the ledge, she had fallen headfirst into the darkness.

That’s new.

After taking a blow-dryer to her hair, she slid into a pair of stone-washed jeans with a rip in the knee, added a T-shirt, then her gray Guess sweatshirt and sat down at the vanity to put on her makeup.

What’s the use? She no longer recognized herself. Two months shy of her eighteenth birthday, Eden was on the verge of becoming an adult. She had every reason to be happy, but ever since it happened, happiness was an impossibility.

She put on her Nikes and grabbed the backpack from beside the bed. Slinging the strap across her shoulder, Eden cut the lights and exited her bedroom, turned left, and descended the stairs to the main floor. After dropping her bag in the hall beside the front door, she went into the kitchen where her parents sat at the table, sipping their morning coffee.

Mary Shaw looked up from a smoldering cup of coffee as Eden entered. “Morning, dear.�

Eden groaned.

Mary shot a glance at her husband, whose face was buried in the morning paper. “I see someone’s in a mood today,� she said, whispering out of the side of her mouth.

Choosing to ignore her mom’s comment, Eden took a plate from the cupboard and stacked two pancakes, then grabbed a fork and knife from the drawer. After smearing a pat of butter between the pancakes, she added a drizzle of syrup, poured a glass of 2 percent milk, then joined her parents at the table.

Her dad looked up from his morning paper. “Anything new today?�

Eden shook her head as she nibbled at the crispy edge of the pancake. Dad looked like he was going to tease her about not wearing any makeup again, but he must have sensed she was in no mood for conversation and returned to his paper instead.

For the remainder of breakfast, Eden didn’t say a word. Instead, she sat quietly while her dad complained about an increase in property taxes and her mom tried to recall the gossip she’d overheard at the beauty salon over the weekend. But Eden paid them little attention. Her mind was a thousand miles away, lost in thoughts too terrible for either of her parents to comprehend. If they only knew, she kept saying to herself as the dark vortex swirled inside her head.

Part of her wanted to tell them everything—how she felt trapped with no way out, how her thoughts had grown darker of late, to the point that she had decided to end it all—but that would only lead to more conversations with Dr. Lowenstein. The thought of spending another hour on the couch listening to his psychobabble was enough to make her stomach turn. Besides, it had been seven months, and even after all the help she’d received, things were no better now than the day it happened. So instead of subjecting herself to another round of treatment, she chose to keep the darkness bottled up inside.

When breakfast was over, Eden said goodbye to her parents, got in her car, and started the engine. As the wipers swung back and forth in rapid succession, she checked the mirrors, and there, staring back at her, was her reflection again. To the casual observer, there was nothing out of the ordinary. She was her typical stoic self—lips pursed, brown eyes tight and guarded—but beneath the surface, a war was raging.

Backing out of the drive, she stopped and raised her gaze to the only home she had ever known. If her morning was a success, this would be the last time she would ever lay eyes on the modest two-story with the porch swing. She’d never again spend a warm summer night sitting on the ledge of her bedroom window, gazing at the stars. Those days were over. Now all that remained was darkness.

Eden took longer than expected to get to school because of the fog. But after carefully navigating the winding country road, she wheeled into the senior lot and searched for a place to park. Taking the last remaining spot, she guided her �94 Corolla between Cameron Jessup’s maroon minivan and Madison Stearns’s new Audi with the skill of a surgeon. Bringing the car to a stop, she cut the engine and killed the lights.

Eden peered through the front windshield at her classmates as they hurried across the parking lot ahead of the morning bell. Right away she spotted Hannah Emery and Olivia Harper, her two best friends. A second later, Jessica Sutton appeared along with her brother Seth and his friend Will. Ordinarily, Eden would be with them, but not today. Today was different. Today was liberation day.

At five minutes to eight, the warning bell echoed over the loudspeaker. With a sense of urgency, what remained of the senior class filed into the side doors, two by two. When the last stragglers disappeared into the labyrinth of hallways and common spaces that made up Avondale High School, Eden relinquished her grip from the wheel, found the recline handle on the side of her seat, and pulled back until it was horizontal. Once Officer Norton had made his final sweep of the lot, she returned the seat to the upright position and breathed a sigh of relief. The bell sounded again—eight on the nose. Phase one of her plan was complete.

Drawing in another breath, Eden shut her eyes and did the one thing she’d sworn she’d never do again—pray. Deep down, in a place she hid from everyone, Eden clung to a shred of hope that God would take pity and intercede on her behalf. He owed it to her after what she had been through. But when another five minutes passed and her final plea went unanswered, she took a pen and paper from her bag and authored the note she’d spent all weekend mulling over.

To her astonishment, the pen glided effortlessly across the paper as the words came easily. She read the letter twice when she was done to ensure she hadn’t left out an important detail. Seventeen years, nine months, and twenty-seven days and everything she had to say fit on a single sheet of college-rule paper. How sad. She folded the paper and placed it conspicuously on the console.

After another deep breath, she was ready. She stepped out into the thinning fog. This is it. Eden Shaw’s swan song.

With a sense of urgency, Eden crossed the lot to the sports complex, twice looking over her shoulder to make sure Officer Norton hadn’t stepped out for his morning cigarette. Long strands of wavy brown hair rode the morning breeze and drifted in front of her eyes. Brushing them away, she descended the hill and found an opening in the fence, then slipped inside and took cover beneath the concrete bleachers.

The grounds crew had the day off, so Eden had the entire place to herself, at least for another forty-five minutes. That’s when Mr. Carson’s first-period PE class would take the field for morning laps. She figured he’d be the one to discover her body. Serves him right. She recalled the time he made her run laps freshman year until she threw up. Perhaps there was such a thing as poetic justice. Taking another breath, she readied herself for phase three.

But before she took another step, a wave of nausea engulfed her. Fortunately, the bathroom was only feet away and there was time to spare. She tried the door—unlocked. Thank God. She locked herself inside and turned on the light, which blinked twice, then buzzed to life. Under the institutional glow of the fluorescent bulbs, she emptied the contents of her stomach into the toilet, flushed it quickly, then turned on the sink and splashed her face with cold water. Examining herself in the mirror, she was shocked to find that she already looked more dead than alive. A preview of things to come. She used the bottom of her sweatshirt to dry her face.

When she had composed herself, Eden turned off the light and slipped out of the bathroom. She was still alone. The funnel of cool air beneath the bleachers felt strangely satisfying against her face and helped to soothe her upset stomach. As she emerged from the darkness and made her way onto the track, she noticed that the fog, which had earlier been thick and impenetrable, was losing its death struggle with the sun, and in its wake, puffy clouds drifted aimlessly across an indigo sky.

Reaching the stairs, she found the rail and let it guide her as she began the ascent. Halfway up, she paused, her mind drifting to a chilly night in October the previous year. She and Adam had attended the homecoming football game to celebrate their six-month anniversary. She recalled sitting with her friends and cheering as the team played their rival from the neighboring county. The dance that followed was nothing short of magical. It was the first time she had been asked by a boy and the first time Adam told her he loved her. To date, it was the greatest night of her life. Now, as she stood reminiscing, that seemed like a lifetime ago.

Eden shut her eyes, trying desperately to hold on to any shred of that memory, but it slipped away. When she finally opened them she blinked back the tears, then resumed her climb, looking over her shoulder to make sure she was still alone. At the top, she paused to catch her breath, then turned and gazed out across the field toward the horizon. She was eye level with the sun now, squinting as its light drove the darkness from the shadows.

Turning back, she put a hand on the rail, swung one leg over, then the other, and found the ledge with her feet. There was just enough room for her size-six sneakers to fit. Leaning forward, she glimpsed the ground below. The height was dizzying, even for her. If her calculations were correct—and they always were—a fall from here would leave little chance for survival.

When she’d first contemplated suicide, she extensively researched the height she would need to achieve her objective. Since her parents didn’t own a gun and she couldn’t fathom slitting her wrists, downing an entire bottle of pills, or dangling from the ceiling like a piñata, jumping seemed to be the most dignified of the available options. Even with something as morbid as her death, Eden Shaw was thorough, leaving nothing to chance.

Of course, if she’d wanted to be one hundred percent sure the fall would kill her, the town of Avondale, Georgia, had better places to jump from than the top of the Chester M. Carlson Memorial Football Stadium. The bank, for one, would have been the ideal spot. Even better would be the water tower that overlooked the park and the Baptist church. It was over a hundred feet tall and surrounded by jagged rocks. But neither of those places held any significance for her. It had to be here. This was the genesis of her pain, so it was fitting this was where it would end.

“You got this,� she whispered, giving herself a last-minute pep talk. Her nerves were shot, but she tried her best to push any lingering doubts away. If she was successful, this was the last time she’d have to worry about nerves or indecision or sleepless nights spent crying and begging for a miracle. Though gruesome, this was a means to an end.

Satisfied with her decision, she considered the brick building on the hill. In the beginning, she had been fond of Avondale High School. It was where she met Hannah and Olivia and where her art teacher, Stan Hillard, had told her that one day she would be a tour de force in the art world. It was also where she had fallen in love for the first time. But that was all before the day it happened. Now the brick monstrosity was nothing more than a constant reminder of the source of her pain and suffering.

Inside the school, completely oblivious to what was going on just a few hundred yards away, were her teachers, friends, and classmates, many of whom she had known her entire life. For the first time since concocting this macabre plan, she stopped to consider what they would say when it was all over.

First, she thought of Olivia, the only friend who had not abandoned her. Then there were her teachers, some she adored, others not so much. Finally, her parents—Steve and Mary. For as brutal as this whole thing had been on Eden, they had suffered too, shedding tears, spending countless nights consoling her when she couldn’t stop crying. They loved their daughter more than anything in the world. Hurting them was the part of her plan Eden regretted most.

When the last vestiges of doubt had been driven away, she looked down. Steady. She closed her eyes, and an image of Adam appeared. He was happy, smiling, the way she remembered him, and for a moment, she was at peace. She would carry this image with her into whatever came next—heaven, hell, eternal darkness, or nothing at all. Either way, he would be there in death, which was better than anything she had left in life.

She was ready. She leaned forward as the countdown commenced. Three� two� one�

“Don’t forget to fly,� an unfamiliar voice called out.

Eden froze in place. Was the voice real or a figment of her imagination?

She turned her head and was astonished to find a young man sitting at the end of the row near the fence.

“I—I didn’t know anyone else was up here,� she confessed as her stomach fell. “How long have you been sitting there?�

“Long enough.� He jumped to his feet.

Even at that distance, Eden could see he was at least six feet tall. His faded blue jeans and flannel shirt fit his frame nicely but were no match for the handsome, angular features of his face. Atop his head was a mass of sandy-brown hair that ended just above his ears. He was gorgeous, which begged the question: How had she missed him?

“You weren’t actually going to jump, were you?� His voice was calm.

Eden looked away, pondering his question.

The young man took a step toward her.

“Don’t come any closer!� She found her voice. “I swear to God I’ll jump.�

The young man froze like a statue and slowly raised his hands. “I only want to help,� he insisted, trying not to upset her. When Eden looked away again, he resumed his approach.

“I said no closer,� she reiterated, swinging back to look at him.

“If you’ve made up your mind, nothing I can say or do will change it,� he said carefully.

She could see the worry in his expression.

When she looked away for a third time, the young man seized the opportunity. He lunged forward and took her by the arm.

“What are you doing?� She struggled to break free.

Amid the scuffle, their eyes met, and a shock rippled throughout Eden’s body. The young man’s eyes, vast and deep like the ocean, were an otherworldly shade of blue, and in them, as if gazing into a crystal ball, Eden saw her entire life play out, beginning to end.

“Still want to jump?� he asked, his words breaking the spell.

With the adrenaline pulsing through her veins, Eden made one final attempt to free herself, but his grip was unyielding.

“I won’t stop you,� he told her as he maintained his grip. “But if you’re going to jump, you’ll have to take me with you.� In one motion, he reached down and took her hand, then lifted a leg over the rail and joined her on the ledge.

“What’s wrong with you?� she roared as confusion and apprehension played about her face. “Have you lost your mind?� She felt trapped.

“Ready?� he said, ignoring her question. “On three. One, two, three—�

“WAIT!� She reached back and found the rail. “Wait. Give me a minute to think.� She tried to concentrate over the beating of her heart. A thousand chaotic thoughts chased each other inside her head, and as she contemplated her next move, she realized she was running out of time. It was one thing to commit suicide, but murder?

Even she had her limits.

Her carefully constructed plan crumbled before her, and Eden cried out in frustration, then climbed begrudgingly over the rail and sat down near the stairs.

“For a minute there, I thought you were actually going to do it.� The young man joined her. “I’m not the greatest with distances, but that’s at least a fifty-foot drop.�

“Sixty-three.� She corrected him as she stared at her feet. “Who are you anyway?� She ventured a look in his direction.

“I’m Logan,� he answered with a crooked smile. “Logan James. And you are?�

“Eden� Shaw,� she replied, feeling a little unsettled.

They shook hands.

“Eden. What a lovely name,� he noted. “I’m glad to have made your acquaintance.�

She tightened her scowl. “Why are you here?� She was feeling more irritated by the second.

He smiled amusingly. “I suppose that depends,� he replied enigmatically.

“On what?�

“On which answer you want to hear.�

“The truth will be sufficient.�

“As you wish.� He took a breath. “I’m here to save you.� He looked out over the football field.

“Thanks, Captain Obvious.�

Logan smiled with a corner of his mouth. “You know, in my experience, most people that have just been saved from certain death are a little more gracious than you are. Is this how you treat all your friends?�

“Friends?� She scoffed. “We’re not friends. I don’t even know you� do I?� She turned and looked at him, studying his face for a long time.

Logan shook his head.

“Then why are you here? Shouldn’t you be in homeroom with everyone else?� But as soon as the words left her mouth, she wondered if he were a student at all. Something about the way he handled himself told her he was more mature than any of the boys at her high school.

Logan glanced over his shoulder toward the school. “You’re right. The truth is the first day at a new school always makes me nervous. It’s been that way ever since I was a kid. Normally,� he continued, running a hand through his hair, “the fresh air helps calm me down, but man, did that plan backfire today.� He looked at her, hoping his attempt at humor would have brought at least a hint of a smile, but her icy stare told him she was in no mood for jokes. Undeterred, Logan cleared his expression. “Look, I know we haven’t exactly gotten off to the best start, but I meant what I said about being friends.�

“You don’t want to be friends with someone like me,� she muttered.

“Why not?�

“Because I don’t deserve friends, not after what I tried to do,� she said miserably.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself.� He laid a hand gently on her shoulder. “The way I see it, we were just two people trying to clear our heads, that’s all. Besides, we’re the only ones who know what happened this morning, and my lips are sealed.�

Eden turned and studied his face again. “Are you sure we don’t know each other?� She gave him a curious look. “There’s something oddly familiar about you.�

He gave an indecipherable smile. “I get that a lot. Gwen says I have one of those faces.�

“Gwen?� she asked.

“The lady I live with.�

“You mean your mom?�

He chuckled. “Gwen is my� guardian.�

The way he said it made her think that there was more to the story, but considering they had just met, she decided against pressing him. “I’m sorry about ruining your first day,� she finally said, offering a sad smile.

“Ruin it? On the contrary. Of all the places I’ve been, this is without question the most memorable first day I’ve ever had.�

Eden gave him a funny look.

“Think about it. I got out of going to homeroom, made a friend, and any anxiety I had is long gone now.� Logan was checking off the boxes as if they were items on a to-do list. “All in all, not a bad start to the day. Besides,� he continued as the smile faded, “the way I see it, the most important thing is I kept you from making the biggest mistake of your life.�

“That’s a bit presumptuous.� If he hadn’t shown up, she’d be dead by now and her troubles would be over. “After all, you don’t know anything about me or my situation.�

“True,� he said as if he saw her point. “But the good news is, if you have your heart set on slitting your wrists or jumping in front of oncoming traffic, the day is young.�

His words shocked her. “That’s morbidly optimistic,� she replied, unsure how else to react.

“But seriously.� He turned and looked her in the face. “Is this whole jumping thing behind us, or am I going to need to follow you around all day just to make sure you don’t try this again?�

“That won’t be necessary.� She felt as if she were being scolded. Eden took a deep breath and cleared her mind, and although she wouldn’t admit it, she felt a sense of relief now that the suicide attempt was behind her. “I think I’m okay, for now.�

Satisfied with her answer, Logan stood. “In that case, we should probably get to class before they start looking for us.� He offered his hand, and she took it, so he pulled her to her feet and led her down the stairs.

Over the past two months, I've been working diligently on my latest novel, Losing Adam. It is the story of a teenage girl named Isabella (Izzy Sutton), who, as she approaches her eighteenth birthday, decides to end it all.

Ten months earlier, her boyfriend Adam, was shot and killed in a school shooting that rocked the town of Avondale, Georgia to its core. The ramifications of that shooting are still being felt, especially for those who were close to Adam.

But before Izzy can do the unthinkable, a young man named Logan James appears, as if from nowhere, and saves her from making the biggest mistake of her life. With suicide no longer on the table, Izzy is forced to deal with her demons and confront the darkness that has for so long gripped her. Along the way, she learns what it means to forgive, to let go of the past, and to learn to love again.

This is a coming-of-age story, yes, but so much more. If you enjoyed my novel Evergreen, you'll fall in love with this story as well. Below, I have included the first chapter. Keep in mind, this is still a work in progress, so if there are errors, disregard them. My intent is to garner direct feedback from you, my readers.

Thanks in advance for taking the time to read Chapter 1 of Losing Adam, and I hope you enjoy it.

Chapter 1

Don't forget to fly

Izzy Sutton sat anxiously behind the wheel of her '94 Corolla, observing her classmates through a bug-splattered windshield as they hurried across the parking lot ahead of the morning bell. Normally, she would be in the middle of that mass of humanity, a tiny speck in a sea of hormonal teenagers. But not today. Today was different. Today was liberation day.

As the clock struck eight, the bell sounded, and as the last stragglers slipped inside the doors of Greenview High School, disappearing into the labyrinth of narrow hallways, Izzy breathed a sigh of relief. Sinking into her seat, she evaded the watchful eye of officer Norton, who made his final sweep of the lot before heading to the teacher's lounge for his morning cup of coffee. With the first set of hurdles cleared, Izzy took another breath and prepared for phase two of her plan. Still early, it had already it had been the longest day of her life, and although so far things had gone according to plan, she was miles from her objective.

***

The morning of October 4th, 1999 began much the same as any other day. After being jolted awake by the alarm clock at exactly five-thirty, Izzy hit the snooze button, swung her feet to the floor, and lumbered to the shower, where she stood for a long time beneath the scalding water. For as long as she could remember, the healing power of water amazed her. Still, as she stood beneath the cascade, letting it wash over her body, today, she likened it to a stay of execution rather than anything miraculous.

After toweling off and blow-drying her hair, she slipped into a pair of jeans, threw on an oversized sweatshirt, and sat down at the desk to put on her makeup. When she was done applying a thick layer of mascara, she sat quietly for a while, staring back at a girl she no longer recognized. With her eighteenth birthday only two months away, Izzy Sutton was on the verge of adulthood, of crossing that imaginary line that every teenager dreams about. That should have made her happy, but not even her birthday could save her from the darkness that had pervaded every nook and cranny of her life.

Before cutting the light, she put on her sneakers, then tossed the strap of her backpack over her shoulder and left her room, grabbing her keys on the way out. By the time she made it to the kitchen for a bite to eat, her parents were already there, sitting at the table, sipping their morning coffee. In a matter of minutes, they would all go their separate ways—her mother to the elementary school where she was a librarian, her dad to the furniture plant, and she to the high school.

Typically, breakfast was relaxed, a time to take a breather before the day began. But instead of laughter and lighthearted conversation, today it was a solemn affair, at least for Izzy. She grabbed a plate from the cupboard and stacked two pancakes, neither of which she had the intention of eating, then smeared a little butter between them, added a drizzle of syrup, then grabbed a fork from the drawer and sat down. For most of breakfast, she sat quietly, nibbling on a bite of pancake as she listened to her mom and dad drone on about weekend plans. Despite being only feet from them, her mind was a thousand miles away, lost in thoughts too terrible for anyone at that table to comprehend. If they only knew, she kept saying to herself as the dark vortex swirled inside her head. She thought about telling them everything—about how she felt trapped with no way out, how her thoughts had grown darker of late, to the point that she had considered the unthinkable—but she knew that would only lead to more conversation and more visits to the shrink. And if not, at the very least, they'd find the nearest bible and recite scripture to her and try to convince her everything was going to be okay. But it had been nine months, and things were worse than they had ever been. So, she remained silent, keeping all that darkness bottled up inside.

When breakfast was over, she hugged her parents and told them she loved them. She nearly broke down but managed to keep her composure. It was one of the hardest things she'd ever had to do. Once her mom had left the driveway, Izzy got in her car and started the engine. Before pulling out, she examined her reflection in the mirror. There was nothing out of the ordinary to the casual observer, but beneath the surface, a war was raging. But by the time she pulled into the senior lot and ground her car to a stop, she had made up her mind. Today was the day. It was now or never.

***

Snapping back to reality, she glanced down at her watch. Ten minutes had passed since the bell, and if she wasn't careful, her window of opportunity would pass. Less than an hour remained before the start of first period, and there was still so much to do.

Before exiting the car, Izzy shut her eyes and did the one thing she swore she'd never do again—pray. Deep down, in a place she hid from everyone, Izzy still clung to a shred of hope that God would intercede on her behalf. She felt that he or she or whatever it was owed it to her, especially after what she had been through. But when another five minutes passed, and her final plea went unanswered, she found a pen and paper and authored the note she'd spent all weekend thinking about. Surprisingly, the words came easy, which was both comforting and terrifying. When she was done, she folded the letter and placed it conspicuously on the console where it could be easily found. Everything she couldn't say out loud was in that letter, and she hoped that whoever read it would try to understand.

After another deep breath, she was ready. This is it, she thought as she stepped out into the cool morning air�Izzy Sutton's Swan Song.

Crossing the lot toward the sports complex, her long strands of wavy brown hair rode the morning breeze and drifted in front of her eyes. Brushing them away, she descended the small hill and found the opening in the fence, then slipped inside the perimeter of the football stadium, pausing when she reached the concession stand. It was Monday, which meant the grounds crew had the day off. The entire place was hers, at least for another forty-five minutes. That's when Mr. Carson's first-period P.E. class would take the field for morning laps.

Beneath the shade of the bleachers, the air was cold, and as a shiver climbed her spine, she felt suddenly nauseous. Finding the bathroom, she locked herself inside and turned on the light. It buzzed to life. Under the fluorescent glow, she vomited in the toilet, flushed it, then turned on the cold water and splashed her face in the sink. Examining herself in the mirror, she looked more dead than alive, her face void of any color.

"Don't do this," she said. "You've come too far to chicken out this time."

When she had composed herself, she exited the bathroom and quickly made her way onto the track, where she noticed, for the first time, how beautiful the morning was. The fog that had covered the area like a thick blanket had dissipated, revealing puffs of white clouds that drifted across an otherwise endless blue sky. To the east, a golden sun topped the trees, warming the air around her. For something so tragic to be taking place on such a beautiful morning was too poignant to be amusing.

Reaching the stairs, she found the rail and let it guide her as she began the ascent. That's when her mind drifted back to the last time she sat in those stands. It had been almost a year earlier on a chilly night in October. She and Adam had attended the homecoming football game to celebrate their six-month anniversary. She recalled sitting with her friends, cheering as the team played their cross-town rival. The dance that followed was nothing short of magical. It was the first time a boy had asked her to go, and it was the first time Adam told her he loved her. Hands down, it was the most fantastic night of her life. But that was another lifetime ago.

She paused and shut her eyes, trying desperately to hold onto any shred of that memory, but it, like life itself, slipped through her fingers. When she opened her eyes, she blinked back the tears then resumed her climb, not stopping until she reached the top. Pausing to catch her breath, she turned and gazed out across the field toward the horizon. She was eye-level with the sun now, squinting as its light began to drive the darkness from the shadows.

Once she had composed herself, she turned back and put her hands on the rail. Swinging her legs over, she found the ledge with her feet. There was just enough room for her size six sneakers to fit. With both hands firmly on the rail, she leaned forward and looked down. The height was dizzying, even for her. If her calculations were correct, a fall from this height would leave little chance for survival. Ever since she'd first contemplated suicide, she extensively researched the height she would need to achieve her objective. Since her parents didn't own a gun and she couldn't fathom slitting her wrists, downing an entire bottle of pills, or hanging herself, jumping seemed to be the most dignified of the available options. Even with something as morbid as her own death, Izzy was thorough and left little to chance.

Of course, Avondale had better places to jump from than the top of the Chester M. Carlson memorial football stadium. The bank, for one, would have been the ideal spot. It was the tallest building in town and happened to be located at the corner of the two busiest streets in Avondale. Even better was the water tower that overlooked the park. But neither of those places held any significance for her. It had to be here. This is where it all began, and this is where it would end.

"You got this," she whispered, giving herself a last-minute pep talk. Her nerves were frazzled, but she tried her best to push any lingering doubt out of her mind. If she was successful, this was the last time she'd have to worry about nerves or indecision or sleepless nights spent crying and begging God for a second chance. Though gruesome, this was a means to an end.

Satisfied with her decision, she raised her eyes to the brick building on the hill. In the beginning, she had been fond of Greenview High School. It was the place where she met her best friend, Olivia Harper, and where her art teacher, a man by the name of Stan Hillard, first discovered her artistic talent. But that was all before the day it happened. Now, the brick monstrosity was nothing more than a constant reminder of her pain and suffering, a symbol of everything wrong with the world, and as tears welled in her eyes, she cursed the day it was built.

Inside the safety of the school, completely oblivious to what was going on just a few hundred yards away, were her teachers, friends, and classmates. And for the first time since concocting this macabre plan, she stopped to consider what they would say when it was all over. She also wondered if by taking her own life, their opinion of her would change. First, she thought of Olivia, the only friend who had not abandoned her. And then there were her teachers, some of whom she adored. Finally, her parents, Glen and Mary. For as brutal as this whole thing had been on Izzy, they had endured alongside her, shedding tears, spending countless nights consoling her when she couldn't stop crying and taking her to counselors and therapists in hopes they could get her on the road to recovery. They loved her more than anything in the world, which is why hurting them was the part of her plan she regretted the most. And although she knew they would be devastated beyond belief, the all-consuming darkness that had metastasized inside her was more powerful than her love for them.

Shaking the last vestiges of doubt away, she dropped her eyes and focused on the ground again. Steady, she told herself. Closing her eyes, her mind settled on him, and for a moment, she was at peace. It was his memory she wanted to carry with her into whatever came next—heaven, hell, eternal darkness, or nothing at all. Either way, he would be there, which, even in death, was better than anything that remained in life.

Once she was ready, the countdown commenced. "Three…two…one�"

"Don't forget to fly," a voice called behind her.

Izzy froze, unsure if what she heard was real or a figment of her imagination. Opening her eyes, she turned slowly and found a young man sitting at the end of the row near the fence. How had she not noticed him? He wasn't sitting there when she made the ascent, she was sure of it, and yet there he was, staring at her as if he was a spectator at a sporting event.

"I—I didn't know anyone else was up here," she said shakily as a chill washed over her. "How long have you been sitting there?"

"Long enough," he said, slowly rising to his feet.

Even from that distance, Izzy could see he was tall, perhaps six-one or two. He had on blue jeans and a long-sleeve flannel shirt, and on his head, he wore an old Boston Red Sox ballcap, the lid of which was pulled low over his eyes.

"You weren't actually going to jump, were you?" he asked in a calm voice. "Because that's heavy, and to be honest, I didn't come equipped for heavy today."

She glanced at the ground, then back to him. "I…I�"

While she searched for the words, he took a step in her direction.

"Don't come any closer!" she demanded, finding a voice. "I swear to God I'll jump."

The young man froze like a statue. "I only want to help," he said, the excitement rising in his voice.

She looked away again, and when she did, he resumed his approach, carefully, slowly. His blue eyes, sharp as a hawk, stayed on her like a predator with prey. "If you've made up your mind, then there's nothing I can say or do to change it," he added, inching closer.

When she looked back, she was surprised to find he had narrowed the gap between them.

"Hey, what's that?" he asked, pointing to something behind her.

Reflexively, she turned her head, and when she did, he rushed forward, taking hold of her arm.

"What are you doing?" she shouted, struggling to break free. But it was no use. His grip was like a vice.

They locked eyes, and for a moment, Izzy felt her entire body go numb as if she had been paralyzed. His eyes were the bluest she had ever seen.

"Still want to jump?" he asked calmly, bringing her out of her trance.

She tightened her scowl as she made one last attempt to break away.

"I won't stop you," he said, his voice unwavering. "But if you want to jump, you're going to have to take me with you." He released her arm, but only for a second as he took her hand in his. Then, lifting a leg over the rail, he joined her on the ledge.

"What's wrong with you?" she shouted, staring at him as if he were crazy. "Have you lost your mind?"

"Ready?" he said, casting a glance in her direction. "On three. One, two, three�"

"WAIT!" she cried, reaching back and finding the rail with her free hand. "Wait. Just give me a minute to think." A thousand thoughts swirled inside her brain at once, each more confusing than the last. Despite the urge to jump, she wasn't ready to add murderer to the list of names people would call her after she was gone. Feeling her opportunity slip away, she climbed begrudgingly over the rail and took a seat near the stairs, burying her face in her hands.

"For a minute there, I thought you were actually going to do it," he said, taking up the seat beside her. "I'm not great with math but that must be at least fifty feet."

"Sixty-three," she muttered, her head still in her hands. "Not that anyone's counting." Izzy paused, trying to subdue the adrenaline coursing through her veins. "Who are you, anyway?" she asked, turning her gaze upon him.

"I'm Logan," he said, flashing a crooked smile. "Logan James." He offered his hand.

"Izzy…Sutton," she replied, shaking it.

"I assume that's short for Isabella?" he asked.

"Yes," she told him, "but no one calls me that."

"Why? It's such a lovely name. Did you know it means�"

"—God is my oath," she said sarcastically. "I'm aware." She turned her back to him. "Like I said, no one calls me that."

"Fair enough," he replied, careful not to upset her any further. "Izzy it is." He was silent for a moment, then said, "I'm glad to have made your acquaintance, Izzy."

"Why are you here?" she asked angrily.

"You know, most people are a little more appreciative after someone saves their life. Is this how you treat all your friends?"

"Friends?" she scoffed, turning back to him. "I don't even know you…do I?" Studying his face, she found something vaguely familiar about him, and she wondered, albeit briefly if they had met somewhere before.

"I don't think so," he said. He paused and examined her face closely. "No, I'm certain we've never met."

"Then why are you here? Shouldn't you be inside with the others?"

Logan turned and glanced up the hill toward the school. "You're right," he said, taking off the cap and scratching his head. He looked as though he were ready to confess to a murder. "The truth is the first day in a new place makes me nervous. I know it's childish, but I get a little anxious, that's all." He forced a smile, but it was short-lived. "Normally," he continued, running a hand through his hair, then placing the cap back on his head, "the fresh air helps calm me down, but man, did that plan backfire today."

Izzy tried to hide the smile, but it was too late.

"For what it's worth, the smile looks better on you than the frown."

Izzy smiled a little before glancing away.

"Look, I know we didn't get off to the best of starts, but I meant what I said about being friends."

She didn't answer right away, but after a few seconds, said, "I don't think you'd want to be friends with someone like me."

"And why is that?"

"Because I'm not deserving of friends, not after what I tried to do." The sadness in her voice was overwhelming.

"Consider it water under the bridge," he said. "Besides, there are only two people who know about what happened this morning, and I'm not saying a word."

She turned and looked at him as a faint smile appeared. "Are you sure we've never met before? There's something very familiar about you."

"I get that a lot," he said. "Gwen says I have one of those faces."

"Gwen?"

"The lady I live with."

"You mean your mom?"

"No," he chuckled. "Gwen is my…guardian."

"Oh," she said, puzzled by the way he said it. As silence descended, her instinct was to ask about his parents, but considering they had just met, she decided against it. "I'm sorry about ruining your first day," she said, breaking the silence.

"Ruin it? Hah. This is the most memorable first day I've ever had."

She shot him a look.

"Think about it, my nerves are gone, I got out of going to homeroom, and I made a friend in the process. All in all, not a bad start to the day." He paused. "Besides," he continued, his voice serious again, "the way I see it, the most important thing is I kept you from making the biggest mistake of your life, so..."

"That's somewhat presumptuous of you," she was quick to say.

"Maybe so, but if you're dead set on spiraling out of control, the day is young." He turned to her and flashed a grin.

"That's morbidly optimistic," she said, smiling back.

"But seriously, Isabella," he said, gazing at the horizon, "is this whole jumping thing behind us or am I going to have to save you again?"

Izzy took a deep breath and exhaled, and although she wouldn't admit it, she felt better now that the whole incident was over. "I think I'm okay, for now," she told him.

"Well, in that case, I probably should be getting to class. And so should you," he said, rising to his feet. He offered his hand, and she took it, so he gave a tug and pulled her to her feet.

"All right, but for the last time, it's Izzy, okay?"

He could tell the joke had run its course, so he agreed not to call her Isabella again.

"Follow me," she said as the bell for first period rang. "I'll lead the way."

Exactly one year ago today I made the decision to begin my career as an author. Okay, so maybe that's a bit of a stretch. Realistically, I've been writing for years (short stories, journals, even novels), but I had never published a book. After several attempts to get a literary agent, which ended in a multitude of rejection letters (not unusual), I heard about Amazon's KDP program. The rest, as they say, is history.

Now, when I finished my first book, uploaded the manuscript to KDP, designed the cover, chose the categories, and priced the book, I was convinced I had written the next Harry Potter, and that in a few weeks I'd have more money than I knew what to do with. What is it about authors and our delusions? Anyway, the truth is I hadn't written Harry Potter or anything like it, and contrary to my belief, there weren't millions of readers waiting with bated breath to read my novel. But it was a start.

Fast forward to today, I have written 7 novels in the past year (by the way, I don't recommend this pace. At least, not for very long.), having published 5 of those 7. To date, I have ~2 million pages read (this year) and have sold more than 6,000 copies. Honestly, I'm blown away by the response I've received, but it hasn't come without many lessons learned.

First, if you're thinking of writing a novel, I would suggest you approach things in a slightly different way than I did. I was so anxious to get my book out into the world, to call myself an author, to watch the money roll in, that I neglected some of the basics. First, and foremost (and I can't stress this enough), do not pull the trigger on publishing your book until it is the best and cleanest version it can be. Okay, I'm going to be transparent for a minute. Not because I want to reveal my flaws, but simply because if someone else can learn from my mistakes, fantastic!

EDITING As I read through the hundreds of reviews I have on Amazon, consistently I see the same negative reviews (always a comment on grammar or misspellings). Fortunately, I have zero negative comments about the stories themselves (WHEW!). That said, I have recently hired an editor and she does an amazing job for me. Hiring an editor is of utmost importance. Whether it's your neighbor, a friend, or a professional, having someone other than you or a family member (only because they have difficulty being objective) to read your story allows them to find those errors that you cannot (either because you don't recognize them or because you're too close to the work).

BOOK COVERS The second most important piece to having a successful novel, whether it's on Amazon or in your local bookstore is an appealing cover. Now, Amazon has a free tool that allows you to build your own cover. Recently, they also added a feature for you to be able to design for paperback and hardback, though, in my opinion, seeking outside help is recommended (unless you're a designer and have the right software). I have found great success in using . For $200, they create covers for ebook, paperback, and hardcover, as well as provide social media images to use on FB, Instagram, and Twitter. You also never have to worry about licensing of the images (it's all handled).

ADVERTISING Okay, so this one is a bit of a moving target, although I am learning more everyday. If you google advertising strategies for authors, you'll find hundreds of books, articles, and services ready to take your money with the promise that they have the magic billet when it comes to marketing your book. What I've found is there really is no substitute for hard work. I began with something simple - a website. I prefer Wix, but you could use Wordpress or some other platform (they're all generally the same and are relatively cheap). Make sure it is clean, clearly shows who you are as an author, and is user-friendly. From there, you will want to grow your following. This can be done a number of ways (by giving away chapters or complete novels away in exchange for someone signing up for your site) or by advertising on Facebook, directing them to your page, etc. You'll probably also want to start a blog. This doesn't have to be a daily or weekly commitment, but stick with it and always post engaging content. When you have this step mastered, it's time to start advertising for your book. Now, if you only have one book, this can be difficult as readers devour stories faster than ever. But if you have multiple books or a series of books, your ad dollars can go a long way. Think of it this way - if someone reads your first book and loves it, they will want to read everything you've written. In my experience, I've tried Amazon ads, Facebook ads, and Bookbub. For my dollar, Facebook ads is the best, hands down. I'm able to customize my ads to include the images I prefer (Canva is a great tool for creating these), as well as my audience (by age, demographics, interests in similar author or genres). Currently, my ROI through Facebook is 2-3x ROI with a click-through rate of >15%, depending on the ad.

So, I know that's a lot of information, and admittedly, I'm out of breath, but a year is a long time. And while I've enjoyed success in the first year, I'm nowhere close to where I want to be. Here's hoping the next year is filled with even greater success and undoubtedly more lessons to be learned. If you have any questions about being an author, getting started, or want to share strategies that have worked with you, I'd love to talk with you. Like, share, and leave comments!

So, many of you have started reading my latest novel, How The Heart Breaks. As you are aware, I modified the release schedule for this novel, trying a new approach. Rather than waiting until the book was complete, I decided to release this story in installments (2-3 chapters at a time) in an effort to get content out to you as quickly as possible. So far, I've had mixed reviews as some readers love the idea of reading along as the story is being written, while others prefer to wait until it is complete so they can consume the story at one time. There is no right or wrong approach as every reader is different.

This morning, I published the 6th Installment, which is available exclusively on , and am quickly assembling the remaining installments, which will round out the novel. You can expect the completed novel to come out sometime toward the middle of June, if not sooner, depending on editing, etc.

Because you are a loyal group, I am including installment #2 below. You can find the first installment in a previous blog from March 31. Enjoy!

Serendipity

By the time Nick returned home, he was surprised that Eve was still on his mind. It was a thirty-five-minute drive from the university to his farm, so there had been plenty of time for his mind to wander, and yet as he parked the truck and cut the engine, there she was. It had to be the skirt, he thought as he descended the hill to where he kept the horses.

There was no denying Eve Gentry had the looks but there was something more. Even in the brevity of their meeting he could sense her wit and intelligence, not to mention her confidence. It had been many years since Nick had been impressed by a woman, but as he reached the gate there was little doubt in his mind Eve was no ordinary woman.

For the past three years, Nick had called the town of Sharps Chapel home. The town itself lay twenty miles south of the university, a few miles off Highway 33, on the banks of Norris Lake. When he first moved to the area fourteen years earlier, he and his wife had settled in Speedwell, which lay on the other side of the ridge, between Harrogate and La Follette. They adored the wide, sprawling Powell Valley with its grand views of the high bluffs and proximity to the river, but ever since the accident, he couldn't stomach the thought of living with all those memories.

Sharps Chapel was a quiet place, which suited Nick. He spent most of his time on the farm piddling in his workshop or down at the stables with the horses, but in the evening, he could be found sitting on the shore of the lake, staring out at the water and thinking of the life he once knew.

Since he wasn't independently wealthy, he ran a small tack business, which he operated out of an old tobacco barn he’d spent the previous two years restoring. Nick grew up around horses, so when it came to riding gear, grooming equipment, blankets, and feed, no one knew the business better than him. His area of expertise, however, was restoring old saddles, a skill he acquired while spending hours as a teenager working on his grandfather’s horse farm.

When Nick was finished feeding the horses, he made his way up the hill to his two-story farmhouse. Once inside, the first thing he did after saying hello to a picture of his wife and daughter, was check the messages on his machine. He wasn't fond of cell phones, so he relied on an answering machine, which sat on the counter between the living room and kitchen.

The red light on the display told him he had two new messages. One was from Henry Brooks, a local farmer who was looking for a blanket for one of his horses, and the other was from a woman name Marjorie Cantrell, a longtime client who was driving up from Maynardville and was expected to be there around two. According to her message, she had a couple of saddles that needed repairing. Marjorie had been coming to Nick since he started his business two years earlier. In fact, she had been his first customer, and he was eternally grateful to her since she and her husband John had sent dozens of clients to him. They owned and operated a sprawling horse farm in the small town of Maynardville, which sat halfway between Knoxville and Sharps Chapel, and as far as the horse community went, they were considered to be well connected.

Nick glanced at the clock—eleven on the nose. There's still time for a ride, he told himself as he moseyed into the kitchen for a bite to eat. After lunch, Nick walked down to the pasture. He took his time getting down the hill, admiring the endless blue sky above him. It was the perfect autumn day. Temps were in the seventies and there was only a hint of a breeze. Days like this were the reason he had chosen East Tennessee in the first place.

As he approached the fence, a pair of horses named Shadow and Cinnamon walked over to greet him.

"Hey girls," he said as they lowered their heads and brushed against him. "How are you today?"

He talked to them for a few minutes, looking them over from tip to tail to ensure they were healthy, then went in and replaced the water. He grabbed a saddle from inside the stables and placed it on Shadow.

“You’ll have your turn tomorrow,� he told Cinnamon as she watched with envy.

Nick took off across the pasture toward the woods, taking the same path he always took.

When the old Caldwell Farm had come up for sale nearly three years earlier, Nick got it for a steal. He had been searching for a place where his horses would have more room, and the fifty acres of pasture, woods, and ridges was the perfect spot. His property stretched from the highway at the bottom of the hill, to the top of the ridge, and down the other side, where it ended at the water's edge. Aside from the sprawling pastures, there were ponds and creeks and paths to walk and ride, so he never got bored and neither did the horses. In his mind, a better property didn't exist anywhere on God's green earth.

As he ascended the hill, his thoughts drifted once more to Eve. Before he realized it, a smile had begun in the corners of his mouth. Nick caught himself, dropping the smile as he looked to the heavens and whispered, “I’m sorry.�

When he crested the ridge, he stopped and turned back. With the oranges and golds ablaze beneath the midday sun, the view of the valley below was spectacular. Nick waited at the top of the hill and considered heading back, but Shadow had other plans. She bent her head toward the lake, prodding Nick forward. A check of the time told him he still had over an hour before Marjorie would arrive, so he took off down the slope in a full gallop, coming to a stop only when they had reached the edge of the water. Shadow, having exhausted herself from the descent, drank from the lake while Nick skipped rocks across the water.

A pontoon boat passed by, sending waves toward the shoreline. Nick backed away a safe distance so he wouldn’t get wet and watched as it disappeared on the other side of a long point that jutted out into the main channel.

After a few more minutes, when both he and Shadow were fully rested, Nick climbed back up on the saddle and pointed her back up the hill.

Before Marjorie arrived, Nick returned Shadow to the pasture and hosed her down. Then, he went inside his workshop and flipped on the lights, found the radio, and turned the dial until he found a soft rock station. He always thought better with music. Grabbing the broom from the corner where he’d last left it, he went about sweeping the floors until the place was adequate.

At five minutes before two he heard the roar of a vehicle coming up the drive.

Right on time, he thought as he glanced down at his watch. He went to the window and observed a blue Chevy Silverado as it came to a stop amidst a cloud of dust.

When the dust cleared, a tall woman with dark hair stepped out and stretched her legs and back. She wore a Stetson and a pink shirt that was tucked neatly into her jeans. Around her waist was a brown leather belt with a silver belt buckle that glittered in the sunlight. And she wore low-cut boots, the tops of which were hidden beneath her jeans.

"My, my, my," she said, smiling warmly as her crystal blue eyes found Nick. "You get more handsome every time I see you. Must be something in the water up here."

Even at fifty-four, Marjorie Cantrell still had a reputation for being flirtatious. It was all innocent, of course, but it was just her way.

“Don’t let John hear you say that,� joked Nick as he went out to greet her.

"How are you, darlin?" she asked, giving him a hug.

"Doing well, Marjorie. It’s good to see you.�

“You too,� she said, taking a step back.

“So, your message sounded urgent. What did you bring me today?" he asked, peeking over her shoulder and into the bed of the truck.

"A couple of saddles that need fixing. They belonged to the girls when they were growing up. I'm thinking of handing them down to the grandkids for their birthday, but they need some TLC. Do you think you could work your magic?"

Nick went to the truck for a closer look. From what he could tell, the leather was dry rotted in few places, but nothing he couldn't fix.

"Shouldn’t be any problem," he said, turning back to her.

"That's what I thought you'd say," she grinned. "Oh, I'm also looking for a new pair of riding boots. You got anything new since the last time I was here?"

"Sure do. A new shipment came in just this last week. Take a look around while I get these into the shop."

Marjorie went inside while Nick lowered the tailgate. He stacked the saddles on top of each other and carried them to the side of the barn where he made all the repairs. Then, once he had them secured on the benches, he opened the door that led into the shop and joined Marjorie.

"Find anything you like?" he asked, sliding the door closed behind him.

"Sure did," she said, holding a pair of brown boots with a pink stripe. "You've doubled your inventory since I was last here. Business must be doing well?"

"Picking up," he said modestly. "It’s taken a while but seems like the word in finally starting to get around."

"Good for you," she said sincerely, turning her eyes to him. "I'm glad. You have an eye for this sort of thing, and your attention to detail is impeccable. I’ve been meaning to tell you John and I got some friends who own a farm in Rutledge, Dan and Marlene Bitter. They'll be paying you a visit in a few weeks. Should be a large order, too. They've got thirty horses at their place."

"Wow," he said, thinking a job like that could carry him comfortably through the winter. "I appreciate you and John spreading the word. If not for the two of you, I don’t think I would have made it."

"That’s what friends are for," she replied as she rifled through a box of spurs. "We're glad to help. Besides, as much as it pains me to say it, this is a dying art, and you are definitely an artist."

Nick’s ego swelled.

There was no question Marjorie was Nick's biggest fan. It was by accident she had found him in the first place, but sometimes that's how the best relationships, business or otherwise, begin. When she started coming to him regularly, he sat down with her one afternoon and told her his life story. That was an afternoon she would never forget. Since that day, she hadn't even considered going anywhere else. When it came to tack, Nick was her man.

"How long do you think it will take—for the saddles?" asked Marjorie as she perused a wall of horse bridles and reins.

"Give me a few weeks and I'll have them looking good as new," he assured her.

"Fantastic. Ring up these boots if you don't mind and throw in a couple bags of feed while you're at it. We just got a new colt on the farm and he's eating everything in sight."

"Yes ma'am," said Nick, reaching around behind the counter where he kept the feed. "So, a new colt, huh? Was that John's idea?"

"You know him too well,� she said with one eyebrow raised. “He's had his eyes on a colt for a long time and we found a deal we couldn't pass up. He's a chestnut named Trotter."

"Well, I can't wait to come see him," said Nick as he rang her up.

Marjorie paid him and he helped her load the bags into the back of her truck.

"Tell John I said hello," Nick told her as closed the tailgate.

"Will do," she said as she started up the engine. "By the way, what's going on at the house at the bottom of the hill?"

Nick’s eyes drifted in that direction. "Last I heard a couple of investors came in a few months ago and started restoring the old place. Looking to make a profit off it, I guess. They’ll probably have it on the market soon."

"You'll finally have a neighbor,� she said, turning back to gauge his reaction. “Hope it turns out to be someone good. Perhaps a single young lady,� she winked. Marjorie was sympathetic to Nick’s situation, having lost a brother when she was a teenager. That didn’t stop her from suggesting he start dating again, something she went out of her way to remind him of every time she saw him.

Nick rolled his eyes.

"Well, I'll be seeing you, Nick, and try your best to stay out of trouble, will ya?"

"I'll do my best," he said and as he watched her descend the hill, his eyes went back to the house.

When Marjorie was gone, Nick went inside and got straight to work. He wasn't one to procrastinate and enjoyed jumping right into a new project. The music kept him in rhythm and if he didn't force himself to stop, he'd stay out in the barn until midnight. But today was different and his mind, which was normally sharp and focused, was a thousand miles away.

A little after five, Nick got up and stretched his legs. He was tired and decided to close up early. His hours were flexible because he wanted to come and go as he pleased, but since he'd already spent a few hours restoring the saddles Marjorie had brought him, he was ready to throw in the towel. So, he turned out the lights, locked up, and walked up to the house to wash up for dinner.

That night, after the sun went down, Nick went out onto the front porch and sat in his rocker while he sipped on a glass of sweet tea. He enjoyed the cool evenings that autumn brought, and since there would only be a handful of nights like this one, he took advantage of it.

As he sat there, staring down the hill, he thought about what Marjorie had said before she left. For some time, Nick had been hoping for a neighbor. After the accident, he had shut himself off from the world and everyone in it, but lately he was starting to realize he needed more than himself and his horses to talk to. Despite his desire to keep everything bottled up inside, he was changing—slowly, but changing nonetheless—and the thought of that terrified him.

Before he called it a night, Eve crossed his mind one last time. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, she had made an impression on him. He thought back to her perfect skin, those endless blue-green eyes, and the way she looked in that skirt. Finally, he stood and walked back inside the house as he attempted to shake her from his mind. He had only spent ten minutes with her, but he realized she was one of those special people, the kind that stick with you long after you’ve left their presence.

The Flyer

Twenty miles away, Eve Gentry was arriving home after a long day of work. Midterms were over, but since she had chosen for her students to write essays, she was forced to grade them the hard way, which meant she had to read each one, word for word. Fortunately, she had the entire weekend to pour through them. Rather than procrastinate, she had spent the afternoon reading through the first dozen.

She flipped on the lights and kicked off her heels as she let down her hair and changed into something comfortable—sweatpants and an old University of Texas t-shirt. It was two sizes too big, but it had belonged to her father before he died, so there was sentimental value.

She found a DIY show on TV then went into the kitchen and poured a glass of wine. After a sip, she turned up the heat a couple of degrees on the thermostat and went to the couch to curl up with a blanket.

As she took another sip of wine, she thought about the hot chocolate she'd had that morning, and the man who had so generously delivered it to her.

Nick Sullivan, she thought, replaying the encounter in her head. She wasn't willing to admit it, at least not aloud, but he had made an impression on her. Perhaps it was his rugged good looks or the fact that he had gone out of his way to make a special delivery, just for her. Either way, he was the only man she'd met since arriving in Tennessee that hadn't come onto her with a cheesy pickup line.

When the first glass of wine was gone, Eve went into the kitchen and warmed up a bowl of spaghetti from the night before. She wasn't one to let anything go to waste. When she was full, she poured another glass of wine, then went to the couch and laid down to rest. The next thing she knew, it was after three. The TV and lights were still on, so she got up and stumbled her way into the bedroom where she crawled beneath the covers and shut her eyes.

***

Saturday morning, Eve woke a little after seven. She wasn't typically an early riser, but sleep was difficult to come by since the lady living next door was already up and singing to her cats. Her morning routine had been the same since she arrived three months earlier. She woke, pulled her hair into a ponytail, made breakfast, and searched the paper for a permanent place to live. The apartment she was living in wasn't bad, and it was only a mile from the university, but despite the proximity to school, she wanted a place of her own. She enjoyed space and loved the idea of a couple of acres with a view of the mountains or lake or both, though she realized what she was searching for was something of a needle in a haystack.

Her job at the university paid well, but she'd had quite the windfall after her divorce to David, so she could afford about anything she wanted. Besides, real estate was cheap compared to Dallas, so she could afford to be more selective. When it came to Eve, settling wasn’t an option.

As she scanned the paper, she circled a couple of places she thought she might like to go see. A local woman named Sally Walker was her realtor. She had helped Eve locate the apartment and even then Eve had told her to be patient because once she got settled, she'd be looking for something much nicer.

She called up Sally and asked if she had time to show her some properties that afternoon. Sally said she was free after two, so they agreed to meet at the Frostee Freeze in Tazewell for a quick bite, then they would go property hunting.

While she waited, Eve graded a few more of the essays. She reached into her briefcase and pulled out the stack of blue books and rifled through the ones she had already graded, setting them to one side. As she was combing through what remained of the tests, she noticed a piece of paper sticking out from between them.

"What's this?" she whispered, taking a closer look. The flyer was an advertisement for a small farm within a half hour of the university. Admittedly, she wanted to be closer to school, but if the views were anything like the pictures, she just had to see the place. Oddly, there was no name or contact information, but she assumed the owner had made the flyer. Perhaps someone came by earlier in the day and laid it on her desk while was down the hall talking to Professor Neely. Surely, that must be it.

Anyway, she took it as an omen. She studied the flyer closer and found a pair of interlocking hearts in the top right corner. Cute, she thought. Definitely a woman's touch.

A little after one, Eve put on a pair of jeans and a burnt orange sweater. Then, she slipped on her brown leather riding boots, grabbed the flyer from the kitchen counter, and set off to meet Sally.

The Frostee Freeze Drive In sat at the corner of Youngstown Road and Broad Street, behind the auto parts store. The place had been around since the fifties and everyone from Knoxville to Morristown to London knew about the place. After all, it wasn’t just a place to grab a great burger or milkshake. It was a landmark.

Sally was already sitting at a booth when Eve arrived, so she joined her and ordered a cheeseburger with fries.

"First time at the Frostee Freeze?" Sally asked as she watched Eve surveying the room.

"Guilty as charged," she confirmed.

"My daddy used to bring me here when I was a little girl," said Sally, smiling as she thought back.

Sally couldn't have been a day over forty-five, but she appeared much younger. She obviously took care of herself, and from what Eve had gathered, she and her family had been in the real estate business for many years.

"My late day appointment cancelled this afternoon," said Sally as she sipped Coke through a red and white straw. "So, if you have any other properties you'd like to tour, I have the entire afternoon."

"Great," said Eve, reaching for the flyer in her pocket. She unfolded the paper and handed it to Sally. "What can you tell me about this place?"

Sally looked at it curiously, then asked, "where did you find this?"

"Someone left it on my desk yesterday. There’s no address or name on it. Do you know the place?"

"Sure do. It's about fifteen minutes south of here, out near the lake. The Greers used to own it, but they sold to an investment group about a year ago. Last I heard, they were supposed to go in and restore it to its former glory. I can make a call and find out more, if you’d like.�

“That’d be great,� replied Eve, feeling the excitement swell inside her.

“Excuse me, will you?" Sally stepped outside to make the call. Meanwhile, Eve grabbed her cell and checked her messages. There was one from mom saying she loved her and one from her sister Cassie in all caps. CALL ME WHEN YOU CAN.

Eve found her name in contacts and pressed call.

"Eve, oh thank God," said Cassie, sounding as if she were in a panic.

"What's wrong?" Eve asked, trying to keep her voice down. Immediately, she felt a sense of dread in her stomach. The last time her sister had sent her a cryptic text was the beginning of the worst day of her life.

"I'm at Hammakers and wanted to know what you want for your birthday."

"Cassie, are you kidding me? You had me thinking something was wrong."

"Sorry. I just know how you are at returning my calls." She paused. "Your birthday is in less than a week and I wanted to make sure my gift reached you on time this year."

"Anything you decide to get will be fine, Cassie. Honestly, I can't think of a thing I need, so..." Her voice trailed off as Cassie sighed on the other end of the line.

Her younger sister had a talent for pushing her buttons. Eve and Cassie were only two years apart, but they weren't close, not like Eve and Charlotte. Charlotte was the oldest by four years, but she and Eve had been best friends for as long as Eve could remember.

"I appreciate the thought," Eve said calmly, hoping to avoid an argument. There had been enough of that at the funeral the winter before. "A gift card or a bottle of wine will be fine, you pick," she said, wishing her sister the best.

She hung up just as Sally came back to the table.

"Well, I got us in," she beamed. "Three o'clock today. The place isn't technically on the market yet, but they agreed to let us have a look. You probably already know this, but the real estate market has really exploded over the last couple of years, especially the closer you get to the lake. I'm not trying to rush you, but if you like what you see today, you may want to consider putting in an offer."

Eve knew part of what Sally was telling her was the truth. She had done her research. The other part was purely a sales tactic. She had heard the same speech two months earlier when Sally was showing her apartments, and though she didn’t appreciate being strongarmed, Sally did it in a way that wasn’t off-putting.

When they had finished their lunch, Eve got in Sally's car and they began their search for the perfect property. The first place they looked at was on Lone Mountain Road, near the golf course. Eve liked the area and the house, the only drawback being it was built on the side of a hill, which would have been treacherous in the winter. The second place was further south in the neighboring town of New Tazewell, a couple of miles past the DeRoyal plant. The property itself was great—flat with an amazing view of the valley—but the house left a lot to be desired, and even though the price was right, Eve did not want to take on a project.

Then, when the time came to go to the farm, Eve felt the excitement building inside her once more. She glanced down at the flyer again, and as she did, she imagined herself waking to a beautiful sunrise, sitting in a rocker on the wrap-around porch with a cup of coffee while she peered out across the open pastures. Perhaps a deer or two would be drinking from the stream that skirted the property. In her mind, a scene from a novel, or at least a Hallmark movie, was beginning to take shape.

They turned off Highway 33 onto Sharps Chapel Road. The road was narrow and winding, but it was framed by enormous, beautiful oak trees. Once they passed the hairline curve, the road straightened and broke free of the trees. Before them was wave after wave of gorgeous rolling farmland.

“It’s beautiful out here,� Eve commented as she took in the scenery with her eyes.

“Yes, it is,� Sally agreed as she searched for the driveway. "There," she said as she pointed off to the right.

As the white farmhouse with black shutters came into view, Eve's eye lit up. It was exactly what she had been hoping for. Sally turned on the blinker and slowed the car, allowing a pickup to exit the drive before she turned in.

"16 Valley Road," said Sally as she pulled up in front of the house and killed the engine.

Eve didn't say a word. She was too busy taking in the surroundings.

"Come on, let's get inside," Sally suggested. She was nearly as anxious as Eve to see the inside of the house. This was a fantastic property. Even if Eve didn't buy it, someone would, and she was already calculating the commission in her head.

They found the key beneath the mat, then unlocked the door and went inside. Everything had been redone, down to the hardwood floors and crown molding. Most of the woodwork was original, except for the new mantle over the fireplace. There were granite countertops and stainless appliances and a giant island in the center of an open kitchen with a white farmhouse sink.

"Well, I can tell you whoever did the renovations did an excellent job," said Sally, admiring the craftsmanship. "They spared no expense."

Eve agreed and went about the house, upstairs and down, soaking in every last detail. Next, she peered out the window and marveled at the lush pasture that surrounded her, and off in the distance were thick forests of cedar and pine. It was just as she imagined it.

"How much land comes with the house?" Eve asked.

"Says here five acres, give or take," said Sally. "You ready for the upkeep?"

Eve considered that for a moment. In her mind she enjoyed the thoughts of long, wispy grass. But the reality was someone would have to maintain the place.

"Surely, I can hire someone for that, right?"

"Of course."

She stared out the window again, this time setting her gaze further up the hill. There was only one house on that side of the street, and it sat back at the foot of the ridge, several hundred yards away.

"What do you think?" Sally asked. She already knew the answer, so now she was in closing mode.

"I think I'm in love," Eve commented. "It's exactly what I've been looking for. Okay," she began as she prepared herself for the worst, "what are they wanting for this place?�

"Four twenty-five," said Sally, holding back a grin. She knew it was a steal.

"Are you joking?" Eve asked, hardly believing her luck.

"I'd say take the evening and think about it but�"

"—At that price, what’s there to think about?" Eve took another look around, but she was already decorating in her head. "I want this place, and I'll be making an all-cash offer, if that makes a difference?"

"Yes. It certainly does,� Sally confirmed. “Tell you what, let me make a call and get the paperwork started. I'll work my magic and call you as soon as I know something for sure. How does that sound?"

"Thanks, Sally. You're the best," said Eve, giving her a hug.

When they were finished, Sally dropped Eve off at the restaurant to get her car. Even before she got home, Sally had called to tell her she got the house. Eve’s first call was to her friend Kathleen to tell her the good news.

In the spirit of producing content on a regular basis, I have been working this year on episodes for a variety of series such as Silver Falls, CommuniKate, and now Evergreen. Since I enjoy writing in multiple genres, sometimes simultaneously, Evergreen fits nicely into the YA space, and has elements of fantasy, southern gothic, magical realism, and romance (think Stephen King meets Neil Gaiman meets Nicholas Sparks - okay, maybe that's a bit much, but you get the point).

The story centers around 16-year-old Cole Mercer, who's recently lost his father in a plane crash. Burdened with the loss of his dad, Cole faces more headwinds as his mother moves what remains of the family from Rochester, New York, to the small town of Evergreen, North Carolina. There, Cole is adrift on a sea of bible-beaters and slow southern drawls. Fortunately, he finds refuge in a South Carolina transplant named Amanda Davenport.

Cole and Amanda become instant friends, and she helps him navigate the pitfalls of small town living, including how to avoid Lenny Sanders, the town bully. Along the way, Cole befriends a pair of classmates, Jackson and Gabe, and the three of them soon become inseparable.

But just as Cole begins to think Evergreen isn't as bad as he originally thought, he discovers that lurking beneath the surface of southern hospitality lies a dark secret that hangs over the mountain town like a dark cloud. And at the center of this secret is an enigmatic man known as Finch, a Watcher, who lives on one of the mountains overlooking town.

Can Cole find a way to fit in or will his name be added to the list of unsolved murders?

I was reading a blog this past week by an author of mystery novels and someone asked a question about which genres the author loved and which she detested. So, I'll ask you the same. What is the genre you read most? Is it mystery or romance or sci-fi? Perhaps all of the above. If so, what is it that draws you to that genre or genres?

For me, I like anything that involves history, and if there is an element of the supernatural, even better. I also like books with a message that is thought-provoking. After all, isn't that the point of writing - to convey a message that is relatable and reveals something universal.

What about genres you absolutely will not read? Perhaps it's horror or action/adventure. Either way, what is it about that genre or genres that you detest?

I'd like to start a discussion with this one, so comments are welcomed and encouraged.

Okay, so the blog this week is a couple of days late. My apologies. I waited until today because I wanted to include my latest short story, which I completed within the last hour. It is for a contest on Vocal, and the theme is a date, must mention merlot somewhere in the story. Let me know what you think.

SECOND CHANCE, FIRST DATE

Inside my head, alarm bells are going off. Voices are telling me this is wrong, to stop and rethink my decision, so for the moment, I close my eyes and listen to the sound of rain falling around me. Something about the sound of water thundering against pavement has always soothed me. I open my eyes. Thank God for my umbrella, which has done an admirable job of repelling the deluge. Otherwise, I'd be soaked to the bone, which would be a tragedy since I'm in my best suit.

The sensible thing would be to cross the street and take refuge in the restaurant, but sadly I am momentarily incapable of movement. Besides, sensibility and I parted ways long ago.

My name is Levi Carroll and, for what it's worth, I believe you should know I am as nervous tonight as I have ever been in my life. Why, you ask? I am on my way to meet someone—a first date of sorts.

In conditions such as this, the sensible thing would have been to hail a taxi and have the driver stop at the door where I could have limited my involvement with the elements, but tonight I made the fateful decision to walk. My mother always said I was a glutton for punishment, and after enduring what I have for the last half hour, I'm beginning to think she was right. Somehow, I had convinced myself that I thought better on my feet and a walk was the appropriate method of travel for this particular evening. After all, with my house only a few blocks from the restaurant it shouldn't have been more than a fifteen-minute walk, but tonight the air is cold and the incessant rain, which has been falling most of the day, has transformed the journey from sprint to marathon.

While I attempt to conjure a bit of courage, I survey my side of the street. Behind me stands a long row of houses, each connected by a common wall. Their outward appearance is similar—shaker siding, covered porch, and a balcony from the second story that overlooks a small front lawn—and although they come in varying shades of mostly warm colors, all are pleasing to the eye. Lights are on in all except one, and through a nearby window there appears a young boy whose face, framed by a pair of small, cupped hands, is pressed against the glass as he stares out into the night. He can't be older than seven, and as I watch him, I wonder what sort of fantastical thoughts are playing in his head. Oh, the joy and innocence of youth, I think as I feel the corners of my mouth curl into a smile.

Paralleling the houses, beyond the reach out the iron gates, is a long sidewalk that runs north to south as far as the eye can see. The narrow strip of concrete, lit in regular intervals by the pale glow of streetlights, is where in now stand. In front of me is McAllen Street, the new dividing line between the residential area of town and the revitalized market district where old buildings have been converted into swanky bars and restaurants. As I peer into the windows, I observe most places are full. Valentine's Day is the busiest night of the year, and if not for a reservation, acquiring a table before midnight is simply out of the question. Fortunately, I planned ahead.

On the far side of the street is Sids, the restaurant where we agreed to meet. It is a place we both know well. Within the warm confines of the restaurant sits Rachel, someone who I am both anxious and nervous to meet in person. I'm ashamed to admit, but we met on the internet, and though online connections are becoming more popular by the minute, it's a bit outside my comfort zone.

I take the cell from my pocket and scan through my photos until I find her picture. Lifting my eyes, I find her sitting in the window. Cast in the warm glow of candlelight, her image shifts and distorts with the streams of water that snake their way down the smooth surface of the glass. Even so, she is undeniably beautiful. But despite her appearance, on her face is etched a look of concern, which she bravely tries to hide. I knew this night would be uncomfortable for her, for both of us. Despite staring in my direction, I'm confident her eyes have not found me, for I am still on the other side of the street, cloaked in the shadow of my umbrella, hidden by the dark of the night.

Again, I ask myself if I've made the right decision. I waver, albeit briefly, and steady myself as I arrive at the same conclusion as before. Okay, here goes, I tell myself, one foot in front of the other. Surely, it can't be that difficult, and yet... With a rose in one hand and the umbrella firmly clasped in the other I step down from the sidewalk and into the street, careful to avoid the torrent of water that is rushing by at the edge of the road on its journey to the storm sewer. I find a lull in the traffic and cross.

On the other side, another sidewalk, a mirror of the one I've just come from. I come to a stop and let a man and woman pass. Just a few feet in front of me is a small set of steps leading up to a red door with a black handle. Not too late to change your mind, I say in my head, but involuntarily ascend the steps. Enough of this nonsense, I tell myself as I reach the landing. Beneath the safety of the awning, I reach for the door and swing it open as I draw the umbrella to a close. I should be delighted to have reached my destination, but the real journey has only just begun.

“May I help you with your things, Mr. Carroll?� asks Edwin, the attendant in charge of coats and umbrellas.

“Yes sir, thank you,� I say with elation as I hand him the umbrella and shrug the coat from my shoulders.

Warmth embraces me and instantly I thaw.

The host, a man by the name of Garrett Beasley, raises his eyes from the appointment book and clears his throat. “Mr. Carroll, so good to see you again, sir,� he says with a smile. He is a thin whisper of a man, perhaps forty years of age. He's been the host for several years and despite the obvious difference in age, he's always treated me with respect, though I imagine it's mostly manufactured rather than genuine.

“Ms. Nichols is waiting for you in the dining room,� he announces as I straighten my tie in the mirror.

“Yes, I saw her through the window on my way in,� I say as I swivel my eyes to him. “Has she been waiting long?�

“Only a few minutes, sir. Now, if you're ready, I'll take you to her.�

As I round the corner, she is the first thing that catches my eye. The room is full and alive with the buzz of conversation and is accompanied but not drowned out by the soothing sound of a violin. I hardly notice. She has captured my attention. Her face is beautiful, angelic, with soft edges. Still peering out into the darkness, she is unaware of my presence and it is in that moment that I love her most. As I admire her from a distance, I think perhaps the rain has mesmerized her or the cars on the streets with their lights as they fly by. She is wearing a tasteful red dress, which she said she bought especially for this occasion, and has draped elegantly around her neck a string of pearls that glisten in the flicker of candlelight. She is exactly the way I pictured her.

“Levi?� she asks, standing as I approach. “Is that for me?� she asks, spying the rose I've tried unsuccessfully to hide at my back.

“Yes, it is,� I reply, handing it to her.

“It's beautiful.� She presses the pedals to her nose and closes her eyes, drawing in its fragrant aroma.

“Not half as beautiful as you,� I say as I lean in and gently kiss her cheek.

We part and she smiles softly.

“Your waiter will be with you momentarily,� says Garrett.

“Thank you,� I say. I help Rachel into her chair, then take mine and let out a sigh.

“Should I order drinks?� I ask.

“Yes,� she says with a nod. “Do you enjoy wine?�

“I do,� I tell her. She doesn't know, but my wine of choice is a classic, elegant merlot, which pairs nicely with Beef Wellington, by far the best item on the menu. “Your choice,� I say, eager to learn of her selection.

She scans the wine list while I signal the waiter.

“What can I get for you, madam?� he asks kindly.

“A bottle of Château Pétrus,� she says, taking my breath.

“Excellent choice, madam,� he says with a nod. “I'll have that out momentarily.�

When he's out of earshot, she turns her eyes to me. There is a warmth in her smile that is disarming.

He returns a moment later and pops the cork, filling a glass for Rachel and one for me.

“Thank you,� we say to him.

“How about a toast?� I offer, raising my glass. “To love and life and whatever the future may bring.�

“Yes, to the future,� says Rachel as she lifts her glass and clangs it against mine.

After a sip of wine, I lean back in my chair and survey the room. It is aglow in candlelight. I close my eyes and listen to the soft music—something from Vivaldi, though I can't be sure—and from out of the abyss of my mind a memory breaks loose and bubbles to the surface. It is from the night I proposed to Mary, my wife of forty-three years. We were twenty-two. God, that seems like a lifetime ago. Despite the passage of time, I can still see her expression, smell the sweet scent of her perfume, and hear the tremor in her voice as she said yes.

The last year has been the most difficult in my life. Both of us having recently retired, Mary and I had been looking forward to traveling and spending time with our grandkids. But as the world was going on lockdown, she caught the coronavirus, and though she fought bravely, she and the lifetime we'd shared, slipped away like a thief in the night.

I fight back tears and take another drink as Rachel tells me a story about her late husband, Dan. We're in the same boat, she and I, though neither of us are to be envied. As the alcohol takes hold, my memory fades, and the smile on my face returns.

“I have a confession to make,� she says, gazing up at me as she places her wine glass gently on the table. Her eyes dart away. “I almost decided not to show tonight.�

I stifle a smile and reach for her hand. “Can I confess something as well?�

“Yes, please,� she begs, allowing me to hold her hand.

“I nearly didn't either.�

“Really? Oh, what a relief,� she says, putting a hand to her heart. “I was worried I was the only one.�

Any tension we had been feeling to that point melted away instantly, and as we ate and laughed and shared stories about our lives, I felt for the first time in a long time that I had a reason to smile again.

END

Okay, so I'm working on my latest romance novel, How the Heart Breaks, and wanted to share the first chapter with you. I'll be working on this for the next several months and hope to have it out sometime this summer. In the meantime, let me know what you think.

Prologue

Sometimes good things fall apart, so better things can fall together.

—Marilyn Monroe.

How does the heart break, you ask?

Viciously. Slowly. Painfully. Most definitely unevenly, and in every way imaginable, I suppose. It's an interesting question, and one I've spent years contemplating. I've experienced heartbreak, as I'm sure you have, and whether it’s enduring the loss of a friend or loved one, or simply a relationship that dwindles or crashes and burns in dramatic fashion, each experience, while different, is no less painful.

My name is Lincoln Chandler, and for those who don't know me, I've spent the last twenty years writing love stories, many of which have been enjoyed by readers all across the globe. Perhaps you're one of them. Whether you're a fan of In the Heart of Autumn or The Long Road Back To You, or even We Fall Together, let me start by saying thank you. Because without you, none of this would be possible.

***

They say the time comes in every man's life when he realizes more days are behind him than are in front of him. It's a sobering thought, and one I rarely dwell on for fear I will slip into the abyss of depression. Some refer to this tipping point in life as a midlife crisis, but I don't consider it a crisis at all. Rather, I like to think of it as The Great Reflection—a crossroads if you will.

It was during my own Great Reflection, in the fall of 2019, that I found myself alone. My wife, Madeline, had taken the girls to Chattanooga to visit her parents over fall break, so I had an entire week to myself. What to do? I remember thinking as I rummaged about the house, kicking around several ideas of how to spend my time. Time alone was rare. Time alone with no responsibility was rarer still. Rather than laze around the house binge watching the latest Netflix series, I decided to put the time to good use. I hadn't been for a long ride on the bike in what felt like years. The Harley Davidson I had purchased as a gift for myself when I turned thirty, as a way of celebrating the success of The Long Road Back To You and I'll Wait, had been sitting in the garage for the last decade collecting dust.

As I imagined myself on the open road—wind in my hair and not a care in the world—I envisioned thinking about what I had done with the last forty years, and what I would do with the years that lay before me. It's worth mentioning that this was before the start of the global pandemic, which has affected all our lives in such a significant and profound way. Had I procrastinated and put the trip off, even by a few months, I may never have heard the story I'm about to tell you, and what a tragedy that would have been.

Having decided on the road trip, I went to the garage and pulled the cover from the bike. It still shined like the day I bought it. I checked the plugs, topped off the tank, and took it for a spin around the neighborhood, just to make certain I remembered how to ride. When I returned home, awash with excitement, I phoned my brother, Michael, who lives on the south side of Indianapolis, and asked if he'd be interested in joining me. Not sure if I've mentioned him in any of my previous books, but he is a very important part of my life. We're a couple of years apart, he and I. I'm the oldest. I suppose we've always been close—we're brothers, after all—but since we became adults and began raising families of our own, the bond between us has only strengthened. We chatted for a while, and once we'd loosely ironed out the details, I hung up and began packing. My plan was to take a day and ride up to Indi, stay the night at Mike's place, then the two of us would ride out to Colorado together.

The next morning, I left Atlanta and headed north on I-75. I made it as far as Knoxville when Mike called to let me know he had come down with the flu and wouldn't be able to make the trip. He sounded heartbroken, and admittedly, so was I, but despite the setback, I decided rather than turn around, I would continue alone. To give myself time to regroup, I left the interstate and took back roads instead.

Highway 33 north out of Knoxville is a fabulous stretch of road, and if you're ever in the area, I highly recommend the drive. A series of small towns dot the two-lane road, each with general stores, restaurants, schools, and churches that have been around for decades. Twenty miles north, the road crosses the crystal clear water of Norris Lake, where you can always find a flotilla of pontoons, not to mention some of the best scenery you will find anywhere, especially in the fall when the colors are changing.

I continued north, making it as far as the Cumberland Gap, when I decided to stop for the evening. My legs ached from the ride, and the rumbling in my stomach told me I needed to refuel. The town of Cumberland Gap is a quiet little place, tucked away in a valley at the foot of the Cumberland Plateau. As a side note for those of you who love history, the town lies along the Wilderness Road, at the place where Daniel Boone first discovered a way through the mountains into Kentucky.

I pulled off the highway and descended the hill, ducking beneath the train trestle, and found the Cumberland Inn. The building had been around a while but had been recently renovated. I parked the bike near the main entrance, then went inside, checked in at the front desk, and asked the manager where I might find a decent meal. Without hesitation, she recommended the Pineapple Tea Room & Café, which occupied the first floor of an old brick building at the corner of Brooklyn and Corwyn Street.

Since the café was only a short distance from the Inn, I took my luggage to the room, splashed a little water on my face, then walked over to the restaurant. As I proceeded down Brooklyn Street, I stopped and peered in the windows of a bakery where a pair of women were making pastries. There was also a convention center and an old post office, which appeared frozen in time. As I looked north, I observed the mountains looming over the town like a giant specter. Atop one of them was a small platform where people stood around a guard rail, looking down. I imagined the view from up there must have been marvelous.

When I arrived at the restaurant, I went inside and found a table near the window. I enjoyed observing people as they went about their day. There were a few folks milling around on the streets, and a few more inside the restaurant, but mostly the town was quiet. As I sat perusing the menu, someone at the table beside me suggested I try the stuffed peppers. I had seen them advertised on the marquee out front. I thanked them kindly for the suggestion and slid the menu back into the rack while I waited for the waitress.

A minute later, the owner, a woman by the name of Katherine Muncy, noticed me waiting patiently. She came over, took my order, then disappeared off behind the curtain to get it started. When she came back with a glass of sweet tea, she and I had a brief conversation, during which I introduced myself, told her what I did for a living, and asked if she had any stories I might use as material for my next book. By the way, for those of you who don't know, this is my tried-and-true method and has led to many of my most popular books. Not to take you down a rabbit hole, but I believe everyone has a story... or two... or a dozen. Sometimes, you just have to dig a little.

The reaction I got from Katherine was not at all what I was expecting. She paused for a moment as her eyes drifted to an empty table in the room's corner. "I have one," she said sadly. A shiver rose the length of my spine because I realized what she had to tell me was going to be unforgettable.

As I enjoyed my plate of stuffed peppers, Katherine joined me, and we talked for a long time, mostly about life. She told me how she had bought the place a few years earlier with the help of her husband, Henry. Then, she told me he had passed away a year earlier from cancer, and how devastating that had been for her and their children. Then, as evening grew into night, she revealed to me the details surrounding a couple she had befriended a decade earlier.

Instead of continuing my journey to Colorado the next morning as I had planned, I spent the entire weekend in the Gap. Coincidently, they were hosting their annual Gaptober Fest, which included art vendors, bakers, restaurateurs, live music, and there was even a guided ghost tour. When I wasn't out enjoying the festivities, I was in the restaurant listening intently to Katherine as she relayed the story to me in bits and pieces.

I took copious amounts of notes, of course, and when it was over, I thanked Katherine for her time and told her if I was ever in the area again, I would be sure to stop in. I spent the next four days on the bike, riding and thinking about the story she had told me, and about life. When I returned home from my week of reflection, I remember seeing Madeline and the girls and thinking how lucky I was to have them in my life. We had experienced ups and down, Madeline and I, but I realized she was the one I had chosen to embark on this journey of life with, and she was the one who would be there with me until the end.

Now, before I jump into the story, a word of warning. If you're an emotional person, keep the tissues close by because you will most likely need them. I'll attempt to be concise and not drag on with unnecessary details, and if I am successful, perhaps you will consume the story in a single sitting. Aside from the usual, I hope you enjoy reading the story as much as I've enjoyed writing it, because it is, without question, one of my favorites.

Okay, here goes. The story of Nick Sullivan and Eve Gentry, as told to me by Katherine Muncy.

It all began with hot chocolate...

Chapter 1

A Good Deed

“That’ll be four-fifty,� said Joyce Mahan, as she handed a latte and pastry to a whisper of a man in skinny jeans. He found his debit card and slid it through the card reader. When the transaction was complete, Joyce watched in amusement as he slipped into the side room and took a seat near the window, then stuffed a pair of headphones into his ears and prepared to immerse himself in the latest podcast. Where have all the real men gone? she mused as she put on a fresh pot of coffee.

Her question, though rhetorical, was answered in less than a heartbeat as in walked Nick Sullivan, a well-built thirty-eight-year-old with chestnut eyes, long brown hair, and a facial shadow that appeared to be permanently set on five o’clock.

“Morning Nick,� she said with a smile as she turned her gaze upon him.

"Joyce, how's everything this morning?" Nick asked in a southern drawl thick enough to bottle as he breathed in an aroma of coffee and cinnamon.

"Good so far," she said with a smile, "but it's early."

Nick flashed a smile. For as long as he had been coming to the coffeehouse, Joyce had been saying the same thing, but he didn't mind. In fact, he rather enjoyed the familiarity of their exchange.

The Gap Creek Coffee House had, at one time, been the home of Cumberland Gap’s oldest living resident, Virgil Whitehead. But shortly after he died, Joyce bought the place and converted it into a small sandwich and drink shop. Everyone from Pineville to Tazewell knew of the coffee house, and most people frequented the little hole-in-the-wall at least three or four times a week. For many, it had become part of their morning or afternoon routine, often both. They served coffee, of course, but also tea, hot chocolate, espresso, cappuccino, and so much more. There were even croissants, sandwiches, small bites, and about the best desserts around.

Given its proximity to the university in the neighboring town of Harrogate, the coffee house attracted a rather diverse crowd. Students, faculty, and locals all enjoyed afternoons beneath the shade of the giant poplars that covered the grounds. It was a quiet hangout for anyone who wanted to escape the fast-paced world and enjoy the beautiful scenery or listen to the babbling brook that ran along the edge of the property.

"The usual, I presume?" she asked as she reached for the pot of black coffee.

"Actually, I was thinking of trying something different today."

"Be still my heart," she replied with raised eyebrows, looking as though he had shaken her to the core.

Joyce knew Nick Sullivan better than most, which wasn't saying much since he didn't allow anyone to get too close, but in the five years since he'd been frequenting her establishment, she had never known him to order anything other than black coffee.

"I guess you can teach an old dog new tricks," she mused.

He smiled again, broader this time.

"In that case, what can I get you?" she asked with hands on hips.

"I'm feeling ambitious today," he answered, rubbing his hands together as he perused the blackboard menu hanging above the counter. "How about a hot chocolate,� he decided, “and a bit of whipped cream on top, if it's not too much trouble? I haven’t had anything like that in years.�

"Coming right up," she grinned as she went to work steaming the milk. "I've been meaning to ask you how the chickens are coming along—any eggs yet?" she shouted above the whirring of the frother.

"Any day now," he answered as he reached for his wallet. "And to be honest, I can't wait. The ones from the store just aren't the same."

"You got that right," she said as she dropped the chocolate into the cup and began stirring. When it was mixed completely, she spooned a dollop of whipped cream on top, applied the lid, then handed it to Nick. "That'll be two dollars."

"Fair enough," he replied, plucking a couple of singles from the stack of bills he kept in his wallet.

"You'll want to let that cool for a minute," she warned. "Wouldn't want you to scald your tongue."

"Thanks for the warning," he replied kindly. He paid her for the beverage and dropped a five into the tip jar when she wasn't looking. Nick had always made it a point of tipping well.

He grabbed a napkin and a mixing straw and turned to leave, but before he reached the door, Joyce called out.

"I don't suppose I could talk you into doing me a favor?" she asked nervously.

"That depends," he joked as he warmed his hands around the cup of hot chocolate.

"Sam is in class this morning, and I was counting on him to make the deliveries,� she explained.

"How many you got?

"Just the one. It's going to the university. The new English professor phoned it in, and I'd hate to lose her business. Things are tight these days and every dollar counts."

Nick had heard her made this comment more than once lately. Visiting the coffee house was part of his daily routine now, not to mention the fact that he enjoyed Joyce’s company, so the last thing he wanted was for the business to fail, especially if there was something he could do to help.

"All right, if you're gonna twist my arm," he teased as he returned to the counter. "I have to go by there on my way home anyway, so�"

"—Anyone ever tell you you're a saint?" she asked as she poured the milk.

"Only you,� he smiled.

She handed him the cup as a wave of relief washed over her.

"This professor got a name?" he asked with mild interest.

"Eve," she said, looking at the order slip. "She didn’t give a last name, but her office is on the top floor of Avery Hall. You know the place, right?"

Nick was familiar with the university. He had attended college at the University of Virginia in Charlottesville, but he had been to Lincoln Memorial University several times over the years for special events, ballgames, and graduations, so he was familiar with the campus.

"I'll find it," he said confidently.

"Thanks again, Nick. You're a lifesaver. See you tomorrow?"

"Lord willing," he replied as he stepped out into the cool morning air.

Autumn had come to that part of the world, though it was later than usual. The hickory and oaks, which had only days before been awash in brilliant shades of emerald, had now taken on a hint of yellow and burnt orange.

Nick walked slowly back to his truck, placed the cups of hot chocolate in the cup holders, then slid into the seat and started the engine. As he waited a few seconds for the fog to clear from the windshield, he rubbed his hands together. He didn't much care for the cold, but as soon as the engine warmed, he’d crank up the heat and be fine.

When the fog had cleared, he drove to the end of Pinnacle Alley, then hung a right on Brooklyn Street. From there, he passed beneath the railroad trestle and climbed the hill away from town. After a quick trip down the Cumberland Gap Parkway, he made a right on to Robertson Avenue and entered the university. He parked in the lot behind the academy and went the rest of the way on foot, taking his time so not to spill the drinks.

Avery Hall sat on the east end of the quad and housed the English and History departments. It occupied the same space where The Four Seasons Hotel once stood, back before the university was founded. Many of the professors kept their offices on the third floor, so rather than risk a disaster on the stairs, Nick stepped into the elevator and pressed the button, then waited for it to take him up. Fortunately, class was in session, so the hallways were virtually empty, save for a handful of students sitting around a coffee table having a last-minute cram session.

When the doors to the elevator opened, Nick stepped out and set his eyes upon the marquee. After locating the name of Professor Eve Gentry, he found her room number, 305, along with an arrow pointing him in the right direction. He turned right and walked the length of the corridor until he found her office at the end of the hall. The door was slightly ajar, so he knocked once, then eased it the rest of the way open with his foot.

"Mrs. Gentry?" he called softly, peeking inside.

"Come in," she said without looking up.

Nick entered to find an attractive young woman in a sleeveless white blouse sitting behind a small desk. He had never been the best at guessing ages, especially when it came to women, but from what he could tell she appeared to be in her early-to-mid-thirties. Her long, dark brown hair was pulled up into a messy bun, and she had on a pair reading glasses, which framed her face beautifully. He stood in silence as she finished highlighting passages from Tom Sawyer.

"Can I help you?" she asked kindly, raising her eyes to find a man in boots, jeans, and a tan corduroy jacket standing in the doorway. He looked tough, but Eve had seen enough cowboys in her life to know it was only a façade.

For a second, during which Nick’s mind was a mix of confusion and wonder, words escaped him. Working against him was the image he had already constructed of her in his head on the drive over. He supposed, as he fought to pull his gaze away from her blue-green eyes, he had expected her to be older or ordinary or both. Perhaps he needed her to be. But the woman sitting before him was anything but ordinary.

"I…um…h-hot chocolate," he said shakily as he held out the cup. She took it as a wave of heat crept up the sides of his neck and face. "Joyce, from the coffee house...said you called it in this morning,� he explained, but his words did little to erase her confusion. "Sam, the kid that normally delivers for her, is in class this morning, so she asked if I wouldn't mind dropping it off."

“I don’t remember calling in a hot chocolate,� she said, looking puzzled.

“Really?� he asked, in disbelief. “She had your name written down. I saw the order slip myself.� He paused, during which time she appeared to be thinking. “I could take it back if you don’t want it?�

“No,� she blurted out all at once. “I’ll take it. Anything is better than the coffee they keep in the professor’s lounge,� she grimaced, thinking of the thick liquid that more closely resembled motor oil than coffee.

“Careful. You don’t want to burn your tongue,� he warned as she lifted the brim of the cup to her lips.

“Thanks for the warning,� she said, eyeing him as she sipped carefully.

Immediately, her eyebrows went up. “This is fantastic,� she smiled. “You know what?� she said, looking as though she had remembered something. “Now that I think of it, I’ll bet this is Cindy’s doing. She’s my graduate assistant. I was telling her the other day how much I loved hot chocolate.�

“Well, there you have it,� said Nick. “Mystery solved.� He felt a sense of relief.

“So, do you work for…help me out,� she said, prodding him.

"´³´Ç²â³¦±ð?â€�

“Yes. Thank you.�

“No," he replied with a grin.

More confusion.

"Like I said, she was a little shorthanded this morning. I guess I was just in the right place at the right time.�

"Oh," she replied, looking satisfied with his explanation. "That was sweet of you. I'm Eve, by the way,� she announced, as she stood and shook his hand.

Eve was taller than he expected, standing five six, but she was still small beside Nick, who stood six two, even without the boots.

"Nick... Sullivan," he replied politely.

"Pleasure to meet you, Nick Sullivan."

She sat down the cup and reached for her purse where she kept a wallet in the front compartment. As she did, Nick’s eyes drifted to the black pencil skirt she was wearing, which hugged her curves perfectly. A little look won’t hurt he told himself as he took her in with his eyes. She was slender, athletic, and it was obvious she took care of herself.

"What do I owe you?" she asked, turning back to him as he quickly raised his eyes.

"—On the house," he said, laying a hand gently on top of hers. "Like I said, it was on my way."

Something in his voice was soothing and it distracted her from the touch of his hand. For a moment, silence descended, and as Eve’s gaze steadied on his, she caught a glimpse of sadness in his eyes.

"Thank you," she said finally.

"You're welcome," he replied calmly as he withdrew his hand and took a step back. "So, how do you like it here so far?" he asked, lightening the mood.

"Huh? Oh…the jury's still out, I think," she said as she snapped back to reality. "I've only been here for a couple of months, but so far everyone has been extremely helpful,� she said as she stuffed the wallet back into her purse. “I was looking for a change of pace, and I definitely got that."

Sarcasm. A smile began in the corner of his mouth. "I take it you're not from the country?" he probed.

She gave a half-smile and said, "I am, but it's been a long time. I grew up in a small town in east Texas called Athens. Ever heard of it?�

Nick shook his head. Admittedly, geography had never been his greatest subject.

“Didn’t think so. It’s postage stamp small,� she said. “I moved out when I was eighteen and lived the last fifteen years in Dallas, now here.�

Nick did the math in his head. Thirty-three—he was right.

“What about you?� she continued. “You lived here your entire life?"

"No," he confessed, perhaps a little too quickly. "I'm originally from Virginia, near Roanoke. I moved to the area several years ago.�

While he wasn't looking, Eve glanced at Nick's hand—no wedding band. Divorced, she thought, finding it impossible that someone that looked the way he did had never been married. They were in the same boat, figuratively speaking, as she was a recent divorcee herself. She reached for the phone in her back pocket and checked the time.

"Listen, I hate to run, but I've got a class in five minutes." She grabbed her purse and threw the strap across her shoulder, then took the briefcase in one hand and the hot chocolate in the other. Now, what to do about the stack of books she had prepared for her lecture?

Seeing that she was overloaded, Nick said, "here, let me help with those.� He tossed his empty cup in the trashcan, then, in one swift motion, scooped up the books and stepped out into the hallway.

"Thanks," she said as she shut the door behind them.

They made small talk while they rode the elevator to the first floor, then exited and turned right. He went ahead and cleared a path for her through the sea of students, stopping as they reached the large classroom at the end of the hall. Being a gentleman, Nick opened the door for her, letting her go in first.

"Thank you," she said, seeing that at least in this part of the world chivalry wasn't completely dead. "Sit them anywhere you like," she told him as the students began filing into the room.

He sat the books on the table, then slid out of the way of incoming students. “Well, it was nice meeting you.�

"Likewise,� she said, and watched until he was gone.

Nick made his way through the sea of students and exited onto the quad as the clock struck ten.

When it comes to writing today, there are two schools of thought. One says produce as much content as quickly as possible because readers are impatient, hungry, and ready to consume everything, like yesterday. Then, of course, there is the traditional school of thought, which says take your time, produce quality pieces of literature that are of the highest quality. What is an author to do?

I suppose it makes a difference whether you choose to go the traditional publishing route or self-publish. If you are fortunate enough to be plucked out of the thousands of queries literary agents see on a daily basis, and it leads to a deal with a major publisher, then congratulations. Perhaps you are one of the lucky few that has the luxury of earning a large enough advance that affords you to produce one book per year. But for the majority of authors who struggle to get a traditional publishing deal, and one that is six figures or higher, the options are somewhat limited.

Sure, the rise of Amazon and KDP have given authors an opportunity to forgo the waiting period of traditional publishing and produce content on their schedule. The only problem is that there are tens-of-thousands of other authors out there doing the exact same thing. The differentiator-content, content, content-most of all the quantity.

The downside to more content and an accelerated writing schedule typically means quality suffers. Think of it more as a brainstorming session that is masked as a novel, rather than a well thought out, refined piece of literature. But perhaps readers have changed as well. Maybe they care less about wonderfully and thoughtfully executed pieces of literature and more about keeping something in front of them that is fresh and new. THOUGHTS???

So, I'm toying with the notion of releasing my latest romance novel in installments. Serialized fiction is not a new concept, but it is making a comeback. I've already headed down this path with my latest mystery series, Silver Falls, but I wonder how well it would be received in the world of romance?

The reviews I've received from Silver Falls have been overwhelmingly positive, though there is the occasional negative review due to the fact that the story ended abruptly and they have to wait for the next installment to be released.

In all honesty, I think it comes down to how you consume content. There are those who enjoy the weekly episode, while others enjoy devouring an entire season in a single sitting. For writers, it is difficult to please everyone, and in reality, it is impossible. Therefore, we try our best to accommodate our reader base, whenever possible.

So, I ask you, which do you prefer-a novel that takes several days to consume, only to wait six months or longer for the next one, or shorter episodes that can be read weekly or bi-weekly? I'd love to get your feedback on this one.