Her Protector by Victoria Howard

Her Protector

by Victoria Howard

Matt Hemmings had no problem following the tall, slender figure of Alexa McAllister, as she wove her way through the bustling terminal building at Rome’s Leonardo da Vinci Airport.

In her early thirties, she carried herself confidently, unaware of the appreciative glances from fellow travelers. Her thick auburn hair hung in long graceful curves to her shoulders. Casually dressed in black linen trousers, white shirt, and pink jacket, she looked elegant and refreshed despite having spent the morning at the office before catching the two and a half hour flight from London Heathrow. A small black leather purse dangled from her left shoulder, a matching laptop bag under it.

Matt matched his stride to hers as she wheeled her suitcase toward the exit and queue of waiting taxis. He ignored the objections of an overweight German man who swore heartily at him for muscling into the line behind her. He waited until she gave directions to the driver, then seizing the opportunity, stepped forward.

“Excuse me. Did I hear you say, Hotel La Capanna?”

Alexa flinched at the sound of his voice and spun round. “Yes, you did. So what of it?”

“I’m staying there too. Seems pointless us both taking a taxi. Care to share?”

Alexa hesitated. “I don’t—”

“Sorry, I should have introduced myself.” He smiled and held out his hand. “Matt Hemmings. I can assure you, I’m not a stalker. I’m kind to puppies, old ladies and children. You can ask my mother, she’ll tell you I’m perfectly harmless.”

She laughed and visibly relaxed. “Alexa McAllister,” she replied, and shook his hand. “All right, but on condition we split the fare.”

Matt held open the door while she settled herself inside, then slipped onto the rear seat beside her.

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Victoria Howard is the author of two romantic suspense novels, The House on the Shore, which was a contender for the 2009 Joan Hessayon Award, and Three Weeks Last Spring, a Pushcart Prize nominee, as well as a number of short stories.

Born in Liverpool, Victoria, trained as a medical secretary, and subsequently worked for the National Health Service. She spent twenty years living on a croft in the Highlands of Scotland, and while there managed a company involved in the Offshore Oil and Gas Industry.

When not working on a manuscript, Victoria can be found curled up with a book, gardening, designing knitwear, travelling the world or walking her Border collie, Rosie.

A member of Romantic Novelists’ Association since 2009, Victoria is also a member of the Romance Writers of America.

Victoria currently resides in South Yorkshire with her partner, Stephen.

The Riddle by Jacqueline Seewald

The Riddle

by Jacqueline Seewald

"I reckon if a body wants to know what hell is like, all he has to do is come here for a spell." J.D. Macauley squinted his azure eyes toward the scorching summer sun, and for dramatic effect, wiped the sweat from his incredibly handsome face. I decided he'd missed his calling and should have become a movie actor.

"Come on, Cowboy, didn't you tell me you worked at that Anasazi site in New Mexico last summer? I bet that was just as hot and dry as Giza. Anyway, nobody's forcing any of us to stay and work," I said. "We're not slaves unto Pharaoh."

"That is quite true," Tiny, who was anything but, agreed in his singsong voice. "You must realize that you are building a professional resume for the future." Tiny was a giant of a man, a coffee-colored Jamaican who had been educated in England. He was our chief engineer on the project.

J.D. and I were both grad students. He was studying to be an archaeologist while I was a microbiologist with a dual major in forensic pathology. We were also both in the research phase of our dissertations.

I was beginning to feel light-headed. Clearly, the heat was getting to me as well. I had just started to black out when J.D. swept me up in his muscular arms.

"Careful, darlin'."

Maybe I was out of it, but it seemed as if electricity sizzled between us. He looked at me funny and I thought he must have felt something too.

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Jacqueline Seewald taught Creative Writing courses at both the high school and college level (Rutgers University). She has also taught Expository and Technical Writing at the college level. She’s worked as an academic librarian and an educational media specialist.

Currently, Jacqueline has short stories in the anthologies: TALES OF ROUTE 66, THE MYSTERY OF THE GREEN MIST, TOUCHED BY WONDER, (story nominated for a Nebula Award for 2008), CERN ZOO (Nemonymous 9), RUINS TERRA, RUINS METROPOLIS, WRONG WORLD'S ONE MORE TIME anthology, TWO OF A KIND AND OTHER STORIES OF THE PARANORMAL, WITH ARMS WIDE OPEN, YOUR DARKEST DREAMSPELL, and PMS: POISON, MURDER AND SATISFACTION. Another story appears in STORIES THAT LIFT. A children’s story she wrote was featured in THE KIDS’ READING ROOM, an L.A. TIMES supplement, September 6, 2009. Another was featured December 13^th. One of her short stories was featured in the February 2010 issue of GUMSHOE MYSTERY REVIEW.

Many of her short stories have appeared in: JERSEY WOMAN, THE LONDON MYSTERY SELECTION in England, WHAT'S LOVE?, VERMONT INK, WORLD OF ROMANCE FICTION MAGAZINE, THE ROMANTIC BOWER, MUSE IT, FRIGHTWRITER, THE WRITING PARENT, LITEROTI CAFFEINE, WEE ONES, FUTURE SHOCKS, PROJECT M, SUCCESS BY DESIGN SF & F and BLUE MURDER.

The Vacation by Chelle Cordero

The Vacation

by Chelle Cordero

Darlene had been hurt and she was tired. Fourteen years of marriage and three kids meant nothing to her husband when he walked out on her for younger flesh and less commitments. So while Neil was learning to surf the waves in Hawaii, Darlene was trying to put dinner on the table for her kids and keep them clothed. And the two boys made it clear they resented her for “making Daddy leave”.

At Neil’s insistence she quit her promising career as clothing buyer for a major retail home goods store when their oldest, a son, had come along. Suddenly now she found herself struggling to make ends meet after finding a new job, at the bottom of the food chain – all her years of experience dried up after a decade of playing stay at home mom.

She had been happier being a stay at home mom than she ever thought she would be. Darlene had no intentions of going back to work, at least not full-time, until her youngest, six years old, was at least in high school. Neil had a lawyer though that was an expert at hiding a client’s assets and the settlement of child support barely paid for the kids’ meals. The one thing her lawyer did manage to do was convince the judge that the children had to be kept on Neil’s health insurance plan – unfortunately the kids would have to be sick and hospitalized to be guaranteed three nutritious meals a day.

She was tired. Bob saw that and he wanted to make things better. Bob had watched her walk into the office the first day at her new job and he made up his mind that he wanted to get to know her better. They had dated a few times, dinner, a movie, a family picnic, and he even paid for the babysitter and pizza when he took her away for an evening. There was a private couples’ hotel with private cabins and indoor hot tubs. He didn’t hide the fact that he wanted to make love with her, if she was ready, and he wanted to pamper her, he told her that.

Damn it, she told herself that she was entitled to a break and someone else taking care of her even if it was just for a weekend. And her sister said the kids could stay with them for the few days. Darlene hadn’t slept with Bob yet, she hadn’t been with anyone since her divorce and Neil had been her first. She was nervous, but Bob was kind of sexy, she mused. She said yes. It didn’t even take a lot of convincing.

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Chelle Cordero is the author of eight romantic suspense novels and one murder mystery all published with Vanilla Heart Publishing, and short stories in four anthologies (including Passionate Hearts). She also writes for several national newspapers, magazines and regional publications; her articles have appeared in Gannett Newspapers, SPOTLIGHT Magazine, Hudson Valley Magazine, and EMSResponder.

Ms. Cordero has conducted several writing workshops and authors the Amazon Kindle blog Living, Breathing, Writing (available by subscription). She also does book and project editing in her “spare” time.

Along with her husband Mark, Chelle is a partner in By-Lines, an editorial and photography company catering to the business community. They live in the scenic Hudson Valley of New York with their son; her daughter and son-in-law live nearby. She is also a NYS EMT and the entire family volunteers with their local ambulance corps.

An Engaging New Year by Michael Bracken

An Engaging New Year

By Michael Bracken

As the grandfather clock in the entry hall clock struck the first of twelve chimes, a handsome, dark-haired man I hadn’t seen at the party before that moment pulled me into his arms and kissed me. He kissed me long, and deep, and hard, and his kiss didn’t end until the sound of the twelfth chime had faded into memory. By the time he released me, my legs were rubber and I could barely breathe.

I pressed one hand against the wall to steady myself and gasped, “Do I know you?”

He smiled. “Not yet.”

“Do I want to know you?”

“I hope so.”

“Do you make it habit of kissing strangers?”

“No,” he said, “but if they were all as pretty as you I might.”

I felt my cheeks warm and I’m certain I blushed.

“Carly!”

I turned to see who had called my name.

My younger sister Alexis threaded her way through the other New Year’s Eve revelers and stopped beside me. “So who’s your handsome friend?”

“Tucker,” said the man who’d kissed me. He held out his hand and she took it.

“This is my sister, Alexis,” I explained.

Alexis looked over at me. “So why haven’t you introduced us before now?”

Before I could respond, Tucker said, “I wouldn’t let her.”

Alexis returned her attention to Tucker. “And why’s that?”

“Because I wanted her to be certain I was ‘the one’ before she introduced me to her family.”

“And are you?”

Tucker looked at me. He raised one eyebrow. “Am I?”

I finally had my breathing under control and the warmth had left my cheeks. “I still haven’t decided.”

“Well,” Tucker told Alexis, “there you go.”

He released her hand and turned to me. “Sounds like the band has started back up. Shall we?”

Tucker hooked his arm in mine and led me through the house. In the backyard a jazz combo was halfway through its first number following a twenty-minute break. Tucker pulled me into his arms as we stepped onto the patio, where we joined half a dozen other couples that were already dancing.

“You’re quite smooth,” I told him.

“How’s that?”

“With my sister,” I said, “making her think we’ve been dating for a long time.”

“But we’ve been an item all year, haven’t we?”

“All year” had barely crossed the twenty minute mark, but I had to admit they’d been twenty enjoyable minutes. When I smiled up at Tucker, he smiled back and pulled me a little closer.

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Michael Bracken is the author of eleven books and more than 1,100 shorter works published worldwide. Although best known for writing crime fiction, Michael has published work in many genres.

His short story “All My Yesterdays” received a Derringer Award, his short story “Cuts Like A Knife” was short-listed for a Derringer Award, his short story “Of Memories Dying” appeared on the preliminary ballot for a Nebula Award, and his short story “Dreams Unborn” was named one of the year’s best by the editors of The Best American Mystery Stories 2005. "Snowbird," co-authored with Tom Sweeney, placed fourth in Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine's 2007 Readers Award.

Michael has received local, regional, and national ADDY awards for copywriting—including Judges, Gold, Silver, and Bronze awards—both individually and as part of a creative team. A series of radio commercials Michael helped script received a Flair Award.

Take Me As I Am by Charmaine Gordon

Take Me As I Am

by Charmaine Gordon

“She’s sleepin’,” I heard the smallest boy say. Giggles. Little fingers lifted my sunglasses and dropped them back on my sun burned nose. More giggles

Almost sleepin’, I thought, eyes closed. Easy to doze in the hot sun, heavy wet sand covering most of my ample body. This band of munchkins wore themselves out carrying little red, blue, and striped plastic pails of sand. When a high pitched voice interrupted my reveries to ask if they could cover my toes, I’d said sure. Little did I know they’d get carried away and create a small mountain of me at this end of St. Augustine Beach. And little did I know they would abandon me for cookies and juice as the tide began to roll back in. It was a warning. You too can be replaced by a cookie. Should be posted at the beach and given along with every birth certificate.

I wiggled my toes, not easy to do under the heavy blanket of sand. The right big toe worked its way free, pink flamingo nail polish reflecting the sun and water. I grinned at my selection of color.

When I’d ventured off my veranda onto the sand not too long ago and trudged toward the secluded area where boulders formed a natural barrier, the tide was out. No one was around to see my built-for- comfort body in a swim suit. The beach towel had shaken flat with one shake. That was the first good omen today. I’m a collector of good omens. Like money in the bank. I rolled my terry cloth cover-up into a makeshift pillow and lowered myself to the towel. Big sunglasses covered green eyes and part of full cheeks, floppy straw hat shaded my strawberry blond curly hair. My best feature, Mom said when she wasn’t nagging me about going on a diet. After lathering with sunscreen, at last I was ready to ponder my non-existent personal life and chart a different course for the future. I’d planned to contemplate my navel but my double D cups got in the way. No navel in sight. Then the kids showed up. Never could resist little ones. Now they were gone and I had all the solitude needed to sort out a muddle of thoughts.

Why bother going out in the sun; spend money on yet another swim suit guaranteed to make you look slimmer? Choices. It all came down to choices. Chocolate or tofu? No contest. Thirty five and chubby. Smart enough to become a doctor, to have a paid-up house on the beach, a…

Pain as all the air whooshed out of me. Something fell across my body. I couldn’t breathe. Something moved. Not a thing. It was a person. A man’s voice. Deep, husky, concerned.

“Did I hurt you? I was running and tripped over…well I didn’t realize someone was under the sand.”

“Oh,” I moaned and tried to get up. The sand held me down and so did he. The man. I opened my eyes and through the sunglasses, saw Antonio Banderas. Not really the actor but he sure looked like him. I almost said, “Kiss me before the tide washes away the sand and you’ll run screaming from my fatness,” but I didn’t. I just lay there like a lox on a plate and continued to moan.

“Don’t move,” he said.

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Charmaine Gordon has many years of experience as an actor on daytime drama. Stage, spokesperson and commercials plus writing sketches for Air Force shows helped prepare her for the wonders of a writing career. She didn’t realize it at the time when immersed in the written words of others, that she was like a sponge, soaking up how to construct a scene, write dialogue, and paint the setting.

Her writing effort came later when she wrote a two page story, sent it to her son, Paul, who commented, “Cool. Can you write ten pages?” Though it seemed impossible to her, the story poured from her fingers and seventy thousand words later, she typed The End.

She kissed her acting career goodbye, leaving on a high note with the lead in an Off Broadway play, “The Fourth Commandment” author Rich Knipe. It was great fun and time to move on. Movies like “Working Girl”, “Road to Wellsville” and having the pleasure of Anthony Hopkins company at lunch, working with Mike Nichols in “Regarding Henry” and singing outside with Harrison Ford, crying with Gene Wilder over loss on another set, When “Harry Met Sally” with the whole gang singing It Had to Be You. Lots of fond memories. Her first job as stand-in leg model for Geraldine Ferraro in a Diet Pepsi commercial with Secret Service men guarding her and her daughters. A sweet time.

Immortal Love by Melinda Clayton

Immortal Love

by Melinda Clayton

He saw her, for the first time in two-hundred years, on a miserable, rainy, late November morning in Portland, Oregon. Of course, he didn’t realize at the time that he’d known her before, in another time, in another place, but that would come soon enough.

He was late for an appointment, which was typical, and had just maneuvered his candy apple red 2005 Mustang GT into the only remaining parking space in the overcrowded lot of a downtown office building. Dr. Dan Lane was always late for appointments; his patients had come to expect this. Still, he was particularly worried about the session he had scheduled for this morning, a new patient, and he cursed softly under his breath at the sluggish morning traffic that, in his mind, was responsible for his current predicament.

Setting the emergency brake, he grabbed his briefcase and umbrella from the back seat, opened the door into the pouring rain, and promptly encountered what he would, decades later, describe as “The love of my life. All of my lives, actually.” In his final years, this comment would cause his grandchildren to roll their eyes and cast knowing glances amongst themselves, amused at their grandfather’s eccentricities. For his part, he saw the secret smiles and conspiratorial winks and even understood the reasons behind them. Nevertheless, he remained unperturbed, because he knew what they refused to believe; she had been his ladylove not only for the fifty years of their marriage, but since the beginning of time.

On that rainy Portland morning in 2010, however, he had not yet known these things, scattered and disorganized as he was. No, his goal that morning was to gather his belongings as quickly as possible and try to make a dash for the shelter of the two story office building before becoming completely soaked by the incessant rain. With any luck, his new patient would understand, though he recognized the unlikelihood of that. Over the years his patients had been many things, but “understanding” wasn’t usually at the top of the list. He couldn’t blame them, though. After all, by the time they came to him they had typically spent months, even years, dealing with emotional trauma resulting from any number of circumstances, and what they wanted was relief. What they did not want was a psychotherapist whose personal issues seemed, if anything, larger than their own. Dr. Lane was painfully aware that his life was empty; he disliked it, however, when his patients deduced the same.

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Melinda Clayton is a licensed psychotherapist and freelance writer based in Deltona, Florida. Her vast experience in all aspects of the field of mental health gives her a unique perspective on human behaviors, and she likes to explore this dynamic in her writing.

Melinda has published over twenty mental health articles in various print and online magazines, and has been a frequent contributor to Successful Living magazine, a national publication through WeisnerMedia, LLC, in their “Ask the Experts” section. Other publications include Tango Media Corporation, Stressfree Living Magazine and America Online. Melinda’s articles on serving children with special needs have appeared in the newsletters of both Children’s Hospital and Research Center in Oakland, and Methodist Children’s Hospital of South Texas.

Some of Melinda’s work can be found at: http://www.yourtango.com/200948350/broken-hearted-holidays

Melinda is currently in the dissertation phase of an Ed.D. in special education administration through Northcentral University.

Shimmering Wedding by Marilyn Celeste Morris

Simmering Wedding

by Marilyn Celeste Morris

Trudy, Maggie and Nell were bent over the card table, beers at their elbows.

“I couldn’t get Leah,” Maggie reported, shuffling the cards.

“In all this rain? She wasn’t home?” She frowned.

“She’s probably ‘napping’ again,” Maggie said with a shrug.

But Nell, on her way back from the commissary, had seen the staff car arrive at Leah’s earlier that afternoon.

Perhaps it was the rain, Leah reflected later. The damn rain had everyone upset. Avery was certainly at his worst — for whatever reason.

The driver had deposited her at the hotel entrance. Normally, Avery would have been at the steps with an umbrella.

This day, there was no Avery, no umbrella. She ran through the downpour, through the lobby and up the elevator to the apartment.

She rang the bell and The Colonel’s manservant opened the door.

“Colonel say Missus wait,” he said while Leah removed her coat and wet shoes. “He be berry busy on base.”

He took Leah’s wet things and padded into the recesses of the apartment, leaving Leah alone in the living room.

Business? It must be something terribly urgent, she thought as she poured vodka at the large lacquer bar.

She looked around the room. What she had once thought was beautiful now struck her as downright offensive. Gaudy, garish and tasteless.

How could she have been taken in by this place? And by this man? She had to get out of this, somehow —-but how? She had to think of David, and French, and any other man on this base who happened to look at her ——

She heard the front door open and shut. “Sorry I’m late,” Avery pecked her cheek absently. “Have you been waiting long?”

“Not long.” She fixed him a drink, automatically. “What was the emergency?”

“Business, Leah.”

“That’s all you men can do, is tell me its business. Do you think I can’t understand?”

“It’s classified.”

“Does it have anything to do with David?” she blurted.

“It has everything to do with your husband, and you, and me--and every American in this camp. It has to do with Korea and the Goddamned Russians and war —

“War?” she said lightly. “That sounds ominous.”

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Marilyn Celeste Morris, multipublished author of The Women of Camp Sobingo and Forces of Nature, My Ashes of Dead Lovers Garage Sale, Sabbath’s Gift, and Sabbath’s House, with Vanilla Heart Publishing, has also published Sabbath’s Room, a supernatural mystery, and Once a Brat, part travelogue, part therapy session about her world-wide travels with her army officer father from her birth in 1938 to his (their) retirement in 1958.

She is the co-facilitator of the Fort Worth Lupus Support Group, North Texas Chapter, Lupus Foundation of America and counsels newly diagnosed persons and their families about the ravages of systemic lupus erythematosus. She has taped various radio interviews, such as Artist First, local cable television programs, most recently Sizzlin’Seniors on Comcast Television and is accustomed to speaking to groups on the subject of lupus. Being involved in the military brats communities, the Lupus Foundation and her children and grandchildren are her passions.

She has a black cat named Cleopatra, or, rather, Cleopatra has Marilyn! Marilyn says "Cleopatra is highly neurotic, but I love her anyway." When she can find the time in between her work and her writing work, her family and her involvement in her many organizations, Marilyn is a voracious reader, "reading almost anything," she says, and watching the Discovery Channel and History Channel.

Destiny Beach by Angelica Taylor

Destiny Beach

by Angelica Taylor

If I’d known that today was the day, I would’ve painted my toenails last night. Instead, I spend the evening curled up on the couch, stuffing my face with popcorn and watching a movie that was trying too hard to be funny. Not a nice image, and believe me, I’m disgusted with me too. But I had no idea that tomorrow – now today – was the day that would change my life. My first problem, therefore, is being clueless.

The second and much older problem is that I’m gorgeous. I know that doesn’t sound like a hardship, but when you’re a tall, shapely, bosomy blonde named Candy and have no interest whatsoever in stripping or acting, you feel like a living cliché, or at least I do. People point and kids ask for my autograph. I usually sign it Marilyn Monroe.

Thus longstanding problem number three: my appearance is a hindrance in the dating department. I mean, men who are rich don’t have to look moneyed unless they want to, but how do you hide a couple of 42 double D’s and a perfect face?

Still not convinced it’s a problem? Okay, imagine this: you’re sitting in a fancy restaurant with a guy who you believe actually likes you. He leans over and looks into your eyes and tells you how beautiful you are, how stunning, how sexy and on and on, yadda yadda, yadda. Then he recognizes someone across the restaurant and waves him over, and within seconds, it’s painfully obvious that he’s bragging. Though their conversation may be benign, what he’s really telling his buddy is I’m better than you are because, well, just look at her. Nudge, nudge, wink, wink.

And finally, there’s the supposedly endless range of guys I’ve dated since reaching puberty, all of whom I thought would be different from the last, but weren’t.

And now that you know my entire pathetic romantic history, back to the painted toenails. My pink toenail polish is the subject of my guy’s opening line, and how I’ll know he’s the one for me, according to the recurring dream I’ve been having for the last two years. He’ll say something about my pink toenails, though the comment changes every dream. Sometimes, he says something brainy, like how the juxtaposition of bright polish and pale surf is the perfect metaphor for the conflict between the artificial and natural worlds. Sometimes the words are nonsensical: “Cougars breathe pink toenails under the computer.” That was after some young brat at work – I’m sure he was 12 – thought he was complimenting me by saying I was one hot cougar and why didn’t I meet him at Merv’s Bar that night. Sometimes it’s simply, “I like your pink toenails.” A little unimaginative maybe but at least non cryptic and there are benefits to falling in love with a straight forward kind of guy according to my mother, god rest her soul.

Anyway, at midnight I staggered off to bed, putrid with popcorn butter, brainless entertainment, and self-pity, and in the early morning hours, the dream came again. However, this time instead of saying one of his vague statements, my dream man says, “Hey Pink, I’ll see you tomorrow.” I wake instantly. Tomorrow…

Tomorrow?

Tomorrow!

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Angelica Taylor is not a born islander, but she certainly has taken to the way of life, quickly becoming addicted to hiking ocean shores and strolling the beaches of Vancouver Island, preferably in the company of her husband. When not writing, hiking, or hanging out with her family, she can be found in various garden centers, collecting more treasures to add to her slowly expanding gardens. She hopes that Destiny Beach, her first romantic story, is the first of many.

Paco's Visions by Robert Hays

Paco’s Visions

by Robert Hays

Paco was only twelve years old, but he already knew he had a gift: He saw visions. This was something he’d just discovered and he hadn’t told anyone yet, not even Rosa or Mama Jan. They still believed that Marmalade, the old tortoiseshell tomcat, would come home sooner or later and he hadn’t the heart to tell them what he’d seen. It wasn’t unusual for Marmalade to disappear for days on end and then show up at the back door, tired and hungry, and flaunt his independence; where he’d been was nobody’s business. But Paco knew where he’d been this time—he’d been prowling around the swamp again and he wasn’t coming back. The terrible vision of poor Marmalade being snatched off a log by a hungry alligator had been so vivid Paco might have been standing on the log behind him.

Rosa would believe him if he told her about his gift, even if he didn’t tell her about Marmalade. Rosa understood these things. He wasn’t sure about Mama Jan. Mama Jan would listen, but she wouldn’t necessarily take his word the way Rosa did. Paco and Rosa had been through a lot more than most brothers and sisters their ages—Rosa was two years older—and had learned to trust one another completely, no questions asked.

Their lives had been much more comfortable since they came to Sanibel Island with Mama Jan nearly a year ago. That was when Mr. Sebastian hired her away from the Hotel Creole in New Orleans, where she barely eked out a living on the housekeeping staff, giving her a generous salary and a place to live. Not just any place, but his wonderful old Sanibel mansion.

Mr. Sebastian said there should always be people in the mansion to take care of it, and it had enough room for them to live there and still leave plenty of space for him whenever he came to the island. He also let Mama Jan use the old Chrysler minivan that otherwise gathered dust in the mansion’s three-car garage. Mr. Sebastian lived in Chicago and had been to Sanibel just once since they’d moved in. The only other non-family person who’d been in the house during that time was old George, the handyman Mama Jan hired when something needed fixing or there was a problem with overgrowth on the grounds. The two men who showed up regularly to mow the grass never came inside.

Paco and Rosa loved the island, but Mama Jan still missed the city. Rosa said she was lonely. She had friends in New Orleans and there had been gentlemen callers from time to time. Most of these were old men who lived in the neighborhood, seeking companionship and pleased to be seen in the company of a pretty woman like Mama Jan. They usually brought her chocolates or flowers or sometimes both.

Paco still got goose bumps just thinking about their trip from New Orleans. They had been driven to Biloxi in Mr. Sebastian’s long black limousine and then rode on his yacht along the coast of the Gulf of Mexico and down the length of Florida to the island. This had proved a long and tiring trip for Mama Jan, but for Paco and Rosa it had been the most exciting thing they’d ever done. Even yet there was hardly a day they didn’t talk about it.

Marmalade had been a big hit with the yacht crew. They said having a male tortoiseshell cat on a boat brought good luck.

“According to legend, he’ll protect us from storms and ghosts,” Captain Dupuis proclaimed. “Every sailor knows that.”

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Robert Hays has been a newspaper reporter, public relations writer, magazine editor, and university professor and administrator. A native of Illinois, he taught in Texas and Missouri and retired in 2008 from a long journalism teaching career at the University of Illinois. He has spent a great deal of time in South Carolina, the home state of his wife Mary, and is a member of the South Carolina Writers Workshop. His publications include academic journal and popular periodical articles, short-story fiction, and eight books. His three novels, Circles in the Water, The Life and Death of Lizzie Morris (a 2009 Pushcart Prize nominee), and The Baby River Angel, were published by Vanilla Heart Publishing. Robert and Mary live in Champaign, Illinois.

A Firefly for Thanksgiving by Kathie Harrington

A Firefly for Thanksgiving

by Kathie Harrington

“I want you to meet someone.” Karyn’s brother, Darren, nudged her arm as she sat down in a chair at the food court. “This is Jason. He’s one of my fraternity brothers who loves books like you do, Firefly.”

“Firefly?” questioned Jason.

“Our dad nicknamed Karyn, Firefly, when she was about three-feet tall for the way she danced around and spread her arms. He’d say she was just like a firefly, with a pair of wings for balance in flight.

“Darren, what kind of an introduction is that? Brothers! Hi, Jason. I’m Karyn, this guy’s big sis. How do you put up with him at the fraternity house? He used to drive me crazy when he lived at home.” They all laughed and identified with that sibling statement.

“He’s a handful alright, but it’s nice to see he has a well balanced sister.” A man with a sense of humor, thought Karyn. How refreshing and to think he is a friend of my brother.

“I’m headed to the sports shop. You two stay here or don’t, but have fun. I’ll catch up with you in an hour or so.” Darren was off.

“I do like books,” admitted Jason.

“I love books. Want to browse in the bookstore?” questioned Karyn. They were off.

Karyn first went to the romance section. “Do you always just read the first pages?” Jason observed Karyn’s style of how she browsed her reading material.

“I do, so I can pick what I want to put on my iPad.”

“I don’t have one of those. Do you like yours?”

“I travel, so it’s convenient. It can hold thousands of books this size. I do miss touching the actual pages of a book but I read more this way.” Jason’s smile was genuine and his interest, unmistakable, as he continued to watch Karyn peruse.

“You travel in your job?”

“Far away.” Karyn’s reply was brief and solemn.

“What do you do?”

Karyn took Jason by the hand. “I’ll show you.” She led Jason to the section titled War.

“What am I supposed to find?” asked Jason. “These are about war, not about travel or jobs.”

“War is my job. I’m a Marine. I’m home on leave and deploy in three weeks for Afghanistan.”

Jason stood speechless. He didn’t know whether to salute, hug, or walk away. He didn’t do any of them. “I didn’t realize we have female Marines. Would you like to go to dinner tonight?”

“Women Marines since 1918, and, yes, I’d love dinner tonight.”

More... Passionate Hearts: An Anthology of Love, Passion, and Romance

Kathie Harrington, M.A., CCC-SLP (speech/language pathologist) graduated with her Master’s Degree from Truman State, Kirksville, MO, in 1981. She is the owner and president of a private practice, Good Speech, Inc., Las Vegas NV. Kathie is the author of two books on autism, two speech strategy/technique books, numerous short stories included in a variety of serials and anthologies: Chicken Soup Series, Chocolate for A Woman’s Soul, award winning poems, and a self-published children’s book, The Boo Cow also on-line audio at Stories That Lift. Kathie has an on-line continuing education unit on autism with Parent Pals that includes an article ”How to Teach a Person with Autism to Drive a Car.” Kathie’s romantic short story about adults with autism, Shilo, is on line at The White Rose Publishing. Kathie is currently completing her first novel, To Dance with Fireflies. Kathie blogs at Kathie’s World and On the Road with Humpty Dumpty.