⭐Pump Up Your Book Virtual Book Tour Kick Off⭐The Golden Manuscripts: A Novel by Evy Journey #TheGoldenManuscripts #HistoricalFiction #WomensFiction #Mystery

 

The Golden Manuscripts is inspired by the real-life theft of medieval manuscript illuminations during World War II.

Title: The Golden Manuscripts: A Novel

Author: Evy Journey

Pages: 360

Genre: Historical Fiction/Women's Fiction/Mystery

A young woman of Asian/American parentage has lived in seven different countries and is anxious to find a place she could call home. An unusual sale of rare medieval manuscripts sends her and Nathan—an art journalist who moonlights as a doctor—on a quest into the dark world of stolen art.  For Clarissa, these ancient manuscripts elicit cherished memories of children’s picture books her mother read to her, nourishing a passion for art.  When their earnest search for clues whisper of old thieves and lead to the unexpected, they raise more questions about an esoteric sometimes unscrupulous art world that defy easy answers.   Will this quest reward Clarissa with the sense of home she longs for? This cross-genre literary tale of self-discovery, art mystery, travel, and love is based on the actual theft by an American soldier of illuminated manuscripts during World War II.

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Book Excerpt:

November 2000

Rare Manuscripts

I sometimes wish I was your girl next door. The pretty one who listens to you and sympathizes. Doesn’t ask questions you can’t or don’t want to answer. Comes when you need to talk. 

She’s sweet, gracious, respectful, and sincere. An open book. Everybody’s ideal American girl. 

At other times, I wish I was the beautiful girl with creamy skin, come-hither eyes, and curvy lines every guy drools over. The one you can’t have, unless you’re a hunk of an athlete, or the most popular hunk around. Or you have a hunk of money.

But I’m afraid the image I project is that of a brain with meager social skills. The one you believe can outsmart you in so many ways that you keep out of her way—you know the type. Or at least you think you do. Just as you think you know the other two.

I want to believe I’m smart, though I know I can be dumb. I’m not an expert on anything. So, please wait to pass judgement until you get to know us better—all three of us. 

Who am I then? 

I’m not quite sure yet. I’m the one who’s still searching for where she belongs. 

I’m not a typical American girl. Dad is Asian and Mom is white. I was born into two different cultures, neither of which dug their roots into me. But you’ll see my heritage imprinted all over me—on beige skin with an olive undertone; big grey eyes, double-lidded but not deep-set; a small nose with a pronounced narrow bridge; thick, dark straight hair like Dad’s that glints with bronze under the sun, courtesy of Mom’s genes. 

I have a family: Mom, Dad, Brother. Sadly, we’re no longer one unit. Mom and Dad are about ten thousand miles apart. And my brother and I are somewhere in between.

I have no one I call friend. Except myself, of course. That part of me who perceives my actions for what they are. My inner voice. My constant companion and occasional nemesis. Moving often and developing friendships lasting three years at most, I’ve learned to turn inward. 

And then there’s Arthur, my beautiful brother. Though we were raised apart, we’ve become close. Like me, he was born in the US. But he grew up in my father’s home city where his friends call him Tisoy, a diminutive for Mestizo that sometimes hints at admiration, sometimes at mockery. Locals use the label for anyone with an obvious mix of Asian and Caucasian features. We share a few features, but he’s inherited a little more from Mom. Arthur has brown wavy hair and green eyes that invite remarks from new acquaintances. 

Little Arthur, not so little anymore. Taller than me now, in fact, by two inches. We’ve always gotten along quite well. Except the few times we were together when we were children and he’d keep trailing me, like a puppy, mimicking what I did until I got annoyed. I’d scowl at him, run away so fast he couldn’t catch up. Then I’d close my bedroom door on him. Sometimes I wondered if he annoyed me on purpose so that later he could hug me and say, “I love you” to soften me up. It always worked.

I love Arthur not only because we have some genes in common. He has genuinely lovable qualities—and I’m sure people can’t always say that of their siblings. He’s caring and loyal, and I trust him to be there through thick and thin. I also believe he’s better put together than I am, he whom my parents were too busy to raise. 

I am certain of only one thing about myself: I occupy time and space like everyone. My tiny space no one else can claim on this planet, in this new century. But I still do not have a place where I would choose to spend and end my days. I’m a citizen of a country, though. The country where I was born. And yet I can’t call that country home. I don’t know it much. But worse than that, I do not have much of a history there. 

Before today, I trudged around the globe for two decades. Cursed and blessed by having been born to a father who was a career diplomat sent on assignments to different countries, I’ve lived in different cities since I was born, usually for three to four years at a time. 

Those years of inhabiting different cities in Europe and Asia whizzed by. You could say I hardly noticed them because it was the way of life I was born into. But each of those cities must have left some lasting mark on me that goes into the sum of who I am. And yet, I’m still struggling to form a clear idea of the person that is Me. This Me can’t be whole until I single out a place to call home. 

Everyone has a home they’ve set roots in. We may not be aware of it, but a significant part of who we think we are—who others think we are—depends on where we’ve lived. The place we call home. A place I don’t have. Not yet. But I will.

I was three when I left this city. Having recently come back as an adult, I can’t tell whether, or for how long, I’m going to stay. You may wonder why, having lived in different places, I would choose to seek a home in this city—this country as alien to me as any other town or city I’ve passed through. 

By the end of my last school year at the Sorbonne, I was convinced that if I were to find a home, my birthplace might be my best choice. I was born here. In a country where I can claim citizenship. Where the primary language is English. My choice avoids language problems and pesky legal residency issues. Practical and logical reasons, I think.

About the Author

 

Evy Journey writes. Stories and blog posts. Novels that tend to cross genres. She’s also a wannabe artist, and a flâneuse. Evy studied psychology (M.A., University of Hawaii; Ph.D. University of Illinois). So her fiction spins tales about nuanced characters dealing with contemporary life issues and problems. She believes in love and its many faces. Her one ungranted wish: To live in Paris where art is everywhere and people have honed aimless roaming to an art form. She has visited and stayed a few months at a time.

Author Links  

Website | Facebook | Instagram | Goodreads

 

 

Evy Journey will giving away nine $25 Amazon Gift Cards & nine boxed sets of the last 3 books in the series, Between Two Worlds! This is the way it works. Evy is touring for 6 months. At the end of each 2 month period she will be giving away 3 $25 Amazon Gift Cards and 3 boxed sets of the last 3 books in the series, Between Two Worlds. You will have a chance to win 3 times during her tour!

Terms & Conditions:

• By entering the giveaway, you are confirming you are at least 18 years old.
• Nine winners will be chosen via Rafflecopter to receive a $25 Amazon Gift Card and a boxed set of the last 3 books in the series, Between Two Worlds.
• This giveaway starts February 5 and ends July 30.
• Winners will be contacted via email on March 28, May 31 and July 30.
• Winner has 48 hours to reply.

Good luck everyone!

  a Rafflecopter giveaway

Sponsored By:

⭐Pump Up Your Book Virtual Book Tour Kick Off⭐Pinball Wizard by Michael D. Meloan #PinballWizard #novella

 

Will you be the pinball wizard or the pinball?

Title: Pinball Wizard

Author: Michael D. Meloan

Pages: 136

Genre: Novella / Romantic Action / Adventure

Michael D. Meloan’s new novella PINBALL WIZARD is a story of love, sex, jets, and Bukowski. Ralph is buffeted between a controlling father, international intrigue in the US defense industry, and a friendship with the writer Charles Bukowski. A wild girlfriend also ratchets-up the action.

“Are you the Pinball Wizard or the pinball?” asks Ralph’s manager inside a nuclear hardened bunker in England. That is the question driving Michael D. Meloan’s new novella–a story of love, sex, jets, and Bukowski.

Lights flash and bells ring as Ralph is buffeted between a controlling father, international intrigue in the US defense industry, and a friendship with the writer Charles Bukowski. A wild girlfriend also ratchets-up the action.

But in the end, it is Ralph’s turn at the controls.

“My mailbox contained a surprise a week or so ago: PINBALL WIZARD, a novella by Michael Meloan. It is one of the most satisfying reading experiences I’ve had in recent years, in part because it handles a famous writer (Charles Bukowski) as one of its main characters with nonchalant deftness. Meloan’s slightly picaresque story is hard to classify, which is one of the things that makes it such a pleasure to read. He has a gift for writing unapologetically masculine prose; it’s flavorful without being exotic, and it doesn’t hurt that he has a fine ear for dialogue.”–Bill Mohr, writer, critic, and English Literature Professor at California State University, Long Beach

More information on the book PINBALL WIZARD can be found at https://www.amazon.com/Pinball-Wizard-Michael-D-Meloan/dp/1733386483/. 

Book Excerpt:

“You think every woman is a whore. You hate women.  Admit it!” said Linda. “You can’t look a woman in the eye and relate to her as a human being. All you see is fishnet stockings, tits, and a hole.”

“You’re starting to piss me off,” Bukowski replied. “If it wasn’t for me, I don’t know what the fuck you’d be doing. That shitty little restaurant would be out of business in a week. What would you do if you had to go out and get a real job? I guess you could make Slurpees at 7-Eleven. Or sell oranges on a freeway on-ramp.”

“You’re the kind of vile piece-of-shit that makes people jump off buildings or blow their brains out. You have a genius for sucking every ounce of hope and joy out of anyone around you.”

“At least I have a genius for something. How many even have that?”

“You’re right. I’m sure Hitler was a genius, too.”

“Why don’t you move out? Go ahead and go! Do you think you’re the only woman I can get?”

“No, I’m well aware that the lure of fame—even second-rate fame like yours—is a powerful aphrodisiac for trailer trash women.”

“That’s it!” Bukowski planted his foot underneath the wooden coffee table and kicked it over, launching glasses of wine into the air. “Get out of my house! You DON’T live here anymore! I mean it. We’re through!” Bukowski and Linda stared at each other. Linda’s jaw flexed rhythmically. Then he moved in close. “I mean it!  LEAVE!” he screamed, spewing spittle in her face. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

She stood up and looked at me. “Get me out of here,” she said.

“OK,” I replied.

About the Author

Michael Meloan traveled extensively to England, Germany, and South Korea supporting the Department of Defense as a software engineer. He met the real Top Guns at Ramstein, Germany. He also wrote short stories for Larry Flynt, Buzz, Wired Magazine, and many literary journals. With his brother, Steven, he penned a published novel called The Shroud. Also with his brother, he wrote journalism for The Huffington Post.

In the ‘80s and ‘90s, Meloan was friends with Charles Bukowski and his wife Linda. Bukowski enthusiastically encouraged his writing and invited him and his wife Cathy to many Hollywood events.

Meloan was also good friends with NPR monologue artist Joe Frank. Their regular brunches at the Peninsula Hotel in Beverly Hills were among the most fascinating encounters of his life. They discussed sexual failure, the nature of existence, godly realms, and the existential abyss. Meloan had the privilege of co-writing a number of radio shows with Frank that appeared on the NPR syndicate. The documentaries

Bukowski: Born into This and Joe Frank: Somewhere Out There both contain interviews with Meloan.

Visit the book’s website at www.pinballwizardbook.com.

Sponsored By:

⭐Pump Up Your Book Virtual Book Tour Kick Off⭐Homecoming Chaos by D.W. Brooks #HomecomingChaos @lifethereboot

 

A dead body in the parking lot of her family’s business, a killer on the loose, and a handsome detective asking a lot of questions…

Title: Homecoming Chaos

Author: D.W. Brooks

Publication Date: November 21, 2023

Pages: 448

Genre: Romantic Suspense

Jamie Scott’s life fell apart four years ago when she broke off her engagement, turned down a dream job, and went overseas to run away from her life. Now she’s back, but the reunion is not without problems. She arrives home just in time to attend the soiree her mother planned, but she’s not prepared for what she finds—a dead employee in the parking lot.

Detective Nick Marshall is assigned to the murder case at the forensics lab owned by Jamie’s family. He meets the headstrong Jamie, but he has a job to do. And his attraction to her… well, he’s a professional.

Jamie knows the stakes are high. She has to face the past and save her parents’ business while dealing with her family drama and an uncertain future. She also has to deal with Nick, who wants her out of the way of his investigation. But fate keeps throwing them in one another’s paths… and into chaos that they both want to avoid, but neither can seem to escape.

Buy Links:

Amazon | B&N | Kobo | iBooks

Book Excerpt:

The sound of the flight attendant on the loudspeaker startled Jamison Jones Scott out of her light sleep. Despite having traveled frequently in her lifetime, she still couldn’t sleep comfortably on a plane. The seat location— first-class or economy—didn’t make a difference. The plane was nearing its destination, so the passengers needed to finish filling out their declaration cards. Jamie was returning to Atlanta to stay at her parents’ home with only the clothes on her back, a computer bag, the few items of clothing in her duffel, and a stethoscope. She had nothing to declare. 

Her seatmate appeared to be sleeping through the announcements. Jamie was jealous. The four-year-old in front of her turned around and started babbling excitedly in French. She must have noticed that Jamie was finally awake. With her head still fuzzy from her nap, Jamie couldn’t completely follow the child’s rapid words, but the gist was that she wanted something from Jamie. Something about a playdate? Jamie smiled at the girl and hoped the girl’s mother would intervene. No such luck; she was asleep as well. The child eyeballed Jamie expectantly. Jamie realized she and the seatmate had started this situation by playing with the dark-haired child while they were over the ocean. Now, when she didn’t agree to the latest request, the little girl scrunched up her face to cry. 

“Nous atterrissons bientôt. Elle ne peut pas aller avec vous,” Jamie’s seatmate answered, eyes still closed. “Mais vous pourriez être en mesure de visiter. Je suis sûr qu’elle tu aimerait garder les enfants.” He grinned.

Jamie gasped while the young girl clapped. This guy had just volunteered her as a babysitter! 

“Je suis désolé, mais il se trompe. Je ne serai pas disponible,” Jamie stated. “Je parie qu’il a une surprise, pour toi.” The child looked at Jamie’s seatmate for her present and clapped again. This reply made him open his eyes. 

“Qu’est-ce que c’est? Qu’est-ce que c’est?” the child asked. Startled, her pregnant mother woke up and turned around in her seat sheepishly. 

I’m sorry, she mouthed. She made her eager daughter turn around in her seat and asked her to leave the other passengers alone. The girl was disappointed, but her mother handed her a shortbread, which made her forget the people behind her. 

Her seatmate smiled, opened his eyes, and said, “I could have given her the stuffed bear I bought. I have a daughter the same age.” He stretched gingerly. “I can’t wait to get home. I’ve been traveling for too long. What about you? Looking forward to getting home?”

Jamie thought about her return to Atlanta. She hadn’t been home in a while, so she wasn’t sure how she felt. 

Revel in the chaos. 

Revel in the chaos. 

Revel in the chaos. 

Jamie tried to live by this motto for most of her life because her life seemed to invite chaos. She learned to expect—and sometimes encourage—complications. As the plane taxied to a halt, she repeated her motto to herself. This phrase, tattooed on her right hip, particularly applied now. 

The international terminal of Hartsfield-Jackson Airport had changed since she was last there. Her brother, Jonathan, would pick her up at the baggage claim—alone, she hoped, and not sporting a clingy girlfriend. Time to re-acclimate and re-establish family bonds. Dealing with an unknown woman in her face when she wanted to spend time quietly with her brother wasn’t at the top of her to-do list.

As she waited in line to get through passport control, she thought about how she got to this point—back in Atlanta after several years abroad. She had spent two of those years working with the non-profit organization Doctors Overseas. Jamie worked in several locations, including the Central African Republic. She had her reasons for joining the charitable organization; not all were altruistic, and she kept those to herself during her entrance interview. The horrors she witnessed overseas helped her put her personal chaos into perspective. She realized her issues were nothing compared to what people endured in other parts of the world. This realization allowed her to embrace her job and enjoy what she was doing, despite the frequent threats of bodily harm. To help maintain her sanity while overseas, she traveled a lot and spent six months in Italy working with a designer friend. 

The agent summoning her snapped her out of her reverie. Handing over her passport, she said, “Nothing to declare. Coming back home for my mother’s birthday and Christmas.” 

At the check-in counter, the inspector carefully examined her and her passport photo. Jamison understood the scrutiny. At the time of that picture, she had been at the height of her glamor phase with a history of modeling and a resulting, above-average concern about how she looked. In medical school, she often showed up at rounds with perfectly coiffed hair and more than a swipe of mascara and lip gloss. 

But in Africa, those concerns fell away. Right now, Jamie was makeup-free, and a baseball cap covered her hair. She was still beautiful, but now it was a girl-next-door beauty. Jamie had high cheekbones, almond-shaped dark brown eyes, a straight nose, a square jawline, and her golden-brown skin was still smooth. She wasn’t stomping down runways anymore, as in her past life, because she had shifted her priorities. 

Her mother would hate it. 

“Welcome to Atlanta,” the inspector said as she stamped her passport. “Have a pleasant stay.”

 

About the Author

The author lives in Texas with her husband and children. She enjoys trying to stay in shape, sporadically cooking, reading (still), writing, and working on her blog. She is eternally grateful to the woman who donated a kidney to her over 5 years ago and continues to advocate for organ donation as much as she can.

Author Links  

Website | Twitter | Facebook | Instagram

Sponsored By:

⭐Pump Up Your Book Virtual Book Tour Kick Off⭐Going There: Tales from the Riviera and Beyond by Donna Fletcher Crow #GoingThere @fletchercr

 

Going There is a short story collection within an account of the challenges and joys of a trip to the Riviera and Switzerland undertaken in the midst of the Covid pandemic.

 

Title: Going There: Tales from the Riviera and Beyond

Author: Donna Fletcher Crow

Publication Date: December 3, 2023

Pages: 152

Genre: Travel Memoir / Short Story Collection

In the summer of 2021 my daughter-in-law and I slipped through a brief window of sanity in a world driven mad by the Covid pandemic. Our purpose was to see my granddaughter Jane to a summer program in Monaco, then back to her ballet school in Switzerland. In spite of restrictions, protests, and nail-biting worries, the result was a marvelous experience.

I invited characters from my mystery series to join me in my imagination and have their own adventures in each setting. Their encounters are: Nice: “The Crime of Passion”; St Tropez: “The Mother Decrees”; Villefrance-sur-de-mer: “The Ghost Boy”; Monaco: “Fracas in Monaco”; The Loire Valley: “The Old Winemaker”;  Saint Gallen: “Whispers of Legend”.

The final coda is “Home Another Way” As 2 years later I return from quite a different trip aboard the Queen Mary 2 and my characters join in the celebrations as worlds coincide.

More information on the book GOING THERE: TALES FROM THE RIVIERA AND BEYOND can be found at https://www.amazon.com/Going-There-Tales-Riviera-Beyond-ebook/dp/B0CPHBRVJH?ref_=ast_author_mpb.

Book Excerpt:

Le Garçon Fantôme

(The Ghost Boy)

The taxi stopped on the gravel driveway before the pink and white confection of Villa Ephrussi and Elizabeth clapped on her wide-brimmed straw hat as she scrambled out into the bright sunshine while Richard paid their driver. The scene was stunning every direction she looked with gardens extending from the chateau before them on to glimpses of the shining blue Mediterranean beyond their mountain perch.

“Oh, Richard, this is…” her voice trailed off. Richard had already crunched past her toward the entrance to the villa. She sighed and followed.

The rooms, filled with antique furniture and art treasures, followed one another in a square around the central patio of Verona marble where Béatrice Ephrussi de Rothschild had welcomed her guests. Each room was a mini museum of elegance. Their fellow tourists followed the same path, exclaiming over each new display of the eighteenth century opulence in rooms designed for luxurious entertainments: The grand salon with tables for the games Béatrice loved to play; the small salon, designed for after-dinner conversation. 

Regardless of the grandeur around her, though, part of Elizabeth’s mind held back. Should they have come on this trip? It had seemed such a good idea when they planned it a few months ago: Time away together from Richard’s responsibilities at the boys’ school in Oxford, a chance for her to do some research for her articles on literary figures… Somehow, it didn’t seem to be working out.

Richard strode up the staircase to the first floor and Elizabeth followed. Here were the rooms for the baroness’ guests. Elizabeth paused at the blue bedroom, admiring the delicate scrollwork of the panels adorning the walls. She smiled at the tiny porcelain bird set amid the flowers of the Meissen chandelier. Elizabeth’s guide sheet told her that Béatrice had placed it there with her own hands.

She pointed it out to Richard. “Isn’t it charming that she took such personal interest herself ?” 

“Mmm,” he said and moved on to the tapestry room. 

Elizabeth followed, but her mind was not on the priceless Gobelins depicting romantic scenes by Boucher. Richard’s curtness still stung. How long had he been like that? What had happened to the closeness, the sense of teamwork they had always shared? What had happened to him? Where had the twinkle in his eye gone? His playfulness, even?

The beauty began to blur in Elizabeth’s mind by the time they descended to The Apartments of Béatrice, surely fit for Marie Antionette herself.  Bedroom, dressing room, bathroom… escritoire, tables, settees…

It was in the boudoir that Elizabeth focused on two small pieces of furniture set apart from all the rest. A pair of elegant child-sized chairs. She gazed at them in silence for some time. Were they just interesting objet d’art the baroness picked up on a whim somewhere in her world travels? Their central placement in her own, personal space, seemed to say otherwise. Had she purchased them after her marriage, for the home she and Maurice maintained in Monte Carlo—the square-shaped one for a son she hoped to have; the one with rounded back and curving arms for a longed-for daughter?

Elizabeth scanned the brochure she held, making quick calculations. Béatrice had married at 19, was married to Maurice for 21 years, divorced at the age of 40—when perhaps all hope of child-bearing was over? Three years later she threw herself into the grand building project Elizabeth saw all around her. And lived here alone, in spite of the lavish parties she threw. Elizabeth shivered.

Her shiver, though, was not for her imagined sterility of the inner life of Béatrice Ephrussi de Rothschild amid her opulent surroundings. Elizabeth was thinking of their own miscarried infants and the tiny boy who arrived so early and had lived barely three hours—just long enough to receive the sacrament of baptism and be christened Richard, Jr. So long ago—some thirty years now.

She continued to stand in the middle of the room, only dimly aware of the fine objects surrounding her and of the brilliant view of sky, sea and greenery beyond the pillars supporting the wide window in front of her. Until she felt a tap on her arm.

“Ready to go to the gardens?” Richard asked.

She nodded, pleased that he had asked.

Out through the baroness’ bedroom onto the terrasse and on to the series of side gardens. Richard went on ahead, but Elizabeth stood at the information board. It wasn’t the plan of the gardens that drew her, however, but rather the photograph of Béatrice Ephrussi de Rothschild.

Having just seen the lavish elegance of the woman’s life, Elizabeth was struck by the look of child-like innocence on her face. The tiny hint of a smile—surely a rival for the Mona Lisa? The round smoothness of her cheek, the clear brow with hair held back by a plain band. But the thing that struck Elizbeth most powerfully was the look of trust in the far-gazing eyes.

 The baroness couldn’t have been older than her mid-thirties when it was taken. By then, however, she would have been married to her Parisian banker husband for perhaps 15 years. Elizabeth’s mind went back to the empty infant chairs in the lonely chamber. By then Béatrice would have known that any hope she had of a family was unlikely to be realized. Or was the picture much younger—before any dreams she might have had were shattered?

Or was Elizabeth reading her own losses into what could have been collected merely as a charming curiosity? She gave herself a shake. Perhaps the globe-trotting couple was far too busy to encumber themselves with children—or even thoughts of them. Or perhaps the Parisian socialite desired nothing more than the rare works of art she traveled the world to collect and commission like her fabulous Fabergé egg.

Still, Elizabeth couldn’t shake a small feeling of sadness and disappointment behind all the elegance and stories of lavish parties. A poet had written of one when Anna Pavlova danced in the moonlit gardens to Chopin nocturnes. 

Yet it was the coldness of the moonlight Elizabeth felt as their feet crunched on the gravel path past banks of flaming coral flowers to the Jardin Espagnol. Elizabeth thought they were alone as they walked the length of the placid reflecting pool until she was startled by a pebble breaking the mirror surface of the still water. She turned to see who had thrown it but caught only a flicker of movement and the hint of a shadow disappearing into the verdant greenery beyond the border.

“Did you—” she began, but Richard was already leading toward the Jardin à la Française. They were just about to emerge into the formal elegance of the French garden with its repetitive borders of pink roses outlining each formal bed around the myriad fountains when Elizabeth stopped to gaze up at an enormous urn surrounded by banks of delicate flowers. A trill of laughter made her turn, but there was no one there. Had she merely heard the splashing of the fountains playing in rhythmic patterns the length of the garden?

She hurried forward as Richard had already covered almost the length of the long garden and was about to ascend the stairway to the small, domed temple of love that overlooked the French garden. Elizabeth frowned. Couldn’t he wait for her? Surely, they should view the temple of love together? Again, she thought of how distant, impatient, even, he had seemed of late. So unlike him. She had hoped these days on the Riviera would help them find their old closeness. She sighed.

By the time Elizabeth had reached the top of the stairway to the small temple encircling the statue of the goddess Venus, there was no sign of Richard. Elizabeth consulted her map. Which of the gardens had he gone toward? The Rosarie?  The curving double stairway of the Jardin Florentin? The Jardin Exotique filled with the succulents so popular in this terrain? Elizabeth looked at the picture of the prickly cacti and shivered at the thought of Richard choosing anything so forbidding.

Whether from an actual decision or mere instinct Elizabeth’s feet followed the path to the Lapidaire Stone Garden filled with antique pillars, arches, and statues of magical beasts and comic human figures. At first, she was amazed that the baroness would have chosen such whimsical figures for her garden, and then she thought of the tiny smile playing at the corners of the enigmatic mouth in the picture she had studied earlier. The lady must have had a charming sense of humor that seemed to have come out to play in this garden tucked in one of the far corners of her vast property.

And then Elizabeth heard the silver laughter she thought she had only imagined before. This time far too distant from the fountains to be confused with their sound. A child’s laughter, certainly. “Hello, are you hiding from me?” She looked around. “Shall I find you?”

Surely that stirring of the bushes wasn’t from any breeze. Elizabeth set out. “Ready or not, here I come.” She took purposely crunching steps across the path, then dived between two azalea bushes still sporting a few vibrant, late blossoms. A tiny giggle and a stirring of the bushes along the higher path led her up a few stone steps between two carved exotic creatures and on toward a colonnade. Elizabeth more skipped than ran, engulfed in a sense of the freedom of childhood.

Now all was silent. Had her mischievous phantom child been scared off by her chase? Or did the quiet mean she was closer? She looked around. What should she do next? “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you. Don’t you want to play anymore?”

It was more a stirring of the breeze than any sound that made her turn. And there was Richard. Standing with his arms folded, leaning against a pillar supporting one of the comic figures. How long had he been observing her? Was his presence what had stopped the child playing? She drew breath to call out to Richard, but he put his finger to his lips and took a step forward.

Elizabeth could only hope she had interpreted his action correctly. She turned back in the direction of the last indication of her apparition. “Don’t be frightened. This is Richard. He only looks stern. He likes children, too.” 

The plants between the stone gothic arches rustled and a child-sized shadow darted toward the lavabo fountain with its spouting water. 

But Richard was nearer. He reached the water first, dipped both hands in and held them up, trails of silver drops falling between his fingers. He scooped another handful in a cupped hand and extended it. Was he offering a drink? Or asperges? Or merely playing?

Now Elizabeth didn’t hear laughter, but music. Was the elusive child singing or had he pulled a set of panpipes from a pocket? The sound continued, mingled with the breeze and trickling water, and Richard continued his offering. But Elizabeth didn’t move. She barely breathed. The moment was magical, holy.

Had they encountered a real child—playing a clever game? Was it all her over-active imagination conjuring up a might-have-been from her recent melancholic thoughts? Or even a forgotten scene from her own childhood?

She didn’t believe in ghosts—did she? Had the baroness, like herself, suffered loss—with the shade of that bereavement still hanging over these pleasure gardens?

Or had Elizabeth been granted a glimpse of something far greater? A future still awaiting in the next world—a world without sorrow?

The cessation of the music made her look up. She had been so lost in her thoughts she didn’t realize Richard had left the fountain and come to her. She blinked. He looked—he looked somehow younger, with a new light in his eyes that seemed to glow from within.

He opened his arms and she walked into them with a radiant smile as they closed around her.

About the Author

Donna Fletcher Crow, Novelist of British History, is an award-winning author who has published some 50 books in a career spanning more than 40 years. Her best-known work is Glastonbury, The Novel of Christian England, a grail search epic depicting 1500 years of British history. The Celtic Cross is a 10-book series covering the history of Scotland and England from the 6th to the 20th century. 

Crow writes 3 mystery series: The Monastery Murders, contemporary clerical mysteries with clues hidden deep in the past; Lord Danvers Investigates, Victorian true-crime stories within a fictional setting; and The Elizabeth and Richard literary suspense series, featuring various literary figures. Where There is Love is a 6-book biographical novel series of leaders of the early Evangelical Anglican movement. The Daughters of Courage is a semi-autobiographical trilogy family saga of Idaho pioneers.

Reviewers routinely praise the quality of her writing and the depth of her research. Crow says she tries never to write about a place she hasn’t visited and one of her goals in writing is to give her readers a you-are-there experience.

Donna and her husband of 60 years live in Boise, Idaho. They have 4 children and 15 grandchildren, and she is an avid gardener.

Author Links  

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