💖💙💚💛💜💗💜💛💚💙💖
One Last Note:
Some of those on my list I have read, reread, & even listened/re-listened so I've included the review posted in my latest read/listen. Also, those that are read/re-read as a series the latest review may be an overall series review. If any of the purchase links included here don't work be sure and check the authors' websites/social media for the most recent links as they can change over time for a variety of reasons.
A Position in Paris by Megan Reddaway
Summary:
Paris, 1919. World War One is over, and wounded hero James Clarynton is struggling to face life without one leg, one eye, and the devilish good looks he had before the conflict. Now he must pay for affection, and it leaves him bitter. He’s filling the time by writing a book—but it’s the young man who comes to type it who really intrigues him.
Edmund Vaughan can’t turn down the chance to be secretary to the wealthy James Clarynton. He’s been out of work since the armistice, and his mother and brother depend on him. But he has secrets to hide, and the last thing he wants is an employer who keeps asking questions.
As they work together, their respect for each other grows, along with something deeper. But tragedy threatens, and shadows from the past confront them at every turn. They must open their hearts and trust each other if they are to break down the barriers that separate them.
A heartwarming romance with some dark moments along the way.
Original Review August 2018:
In Paris 1919, the war is over and for James Clarynton he faces not only adjusting to civilian life again but he must do it minus a leg and an eye. Without his devilish good looks he finds himself paying for affection but it leaves him feeling empty so when a friend suggests writing a book he dives in but needs a secretary. Edmund Vaughan needs work that has been lacking since the end of the war as his mother and brother depend on him so when the need for a secretary becomes available he jumps at the position. Trust and respect between James and Edmund begins to grow into more but when trust is challenged will the pair find peace together?
This is my first Megan Reddaway read and as always a new author can be scary for some but for me its exhilerating. Not only do I have the anticipation factor of each new page but I had the added thrill of will this be an author to watch for or a one-time-wonder? Well, Megan Reddaway is definitely not a one-time-wonder for me, she has definitely found a place on my authors-to-watch list. It probably helped that the first time I read her it is a post-WW1 era story, in my honest opinion there is just not enough of that time period in M/M romance genre so I tend to grab all I come across. A Position in Paris was well worth the grabbing.
Let's take a look at our duo. You can't help but fall in love with both characters, James because he is dealing with a whole new level to living and Edmund because he is caring for his family the best way he can. They both have amazing characteristics that certainly make them adorable, loveable, and just plain likeable but they also both need to be honest with each other. Course, if they were honest with each other about everything then this would have been a very short and not too exciting story so I can forgive the not-so-honesty elements😉😉. Plus, I have no idea what its like to be a gay man in post-WW1 Europe but I imagine that added a separate level of secrecy to their lives as well.
I really won't say too much more for risk of spoilers but I will say that I found it to be refreshing that the book James is writing and Edmund is helping him with is not fiction so it is not a catalyst for their attraction. Yes, their working together helps fan the flames but the content they are writing does not, anywho I just found that to be a pleasant idea. As for the historical element, it is clear that the author has a healthy respect for the era with her attention to detail and that only heightened the reading experience for me. From beginning to end, A Position i Paris is a lovely read with just the right amount of drama, attraction, historical, and romance that kept me completely entertained.
RATING:
Count the Shells by Charlie Cochrane
Murder Between the Pages by Josh Lanyon
Audiobook Review November 2019:
I'm sad to say that this Josh Lanyon gem slipped by my re-read radar but then when I decided to do some audiobook "re-reads" this year it showed up on the recommends for you listing it seemed like fate😉. Murder Between the Pages was even better the second time around.
As for Felix and Leonard, well I have always loved films such as Charlie Chan, Mr. Moto, and Mr. Wong so their Constantine Sphinx and Inspector Fez mysteries banter was incredibly entertaining for me. It added a level of nostalgia that was much appreciated and showed the respect the author has for history.
Kale Williams once again brings life to the characters. Were the voices as I heard them in my head when I originally read Murder three years ago? Not necessarily but they were fitting and I loved it. As I've said before in some reviews, I've been a fan and collector of old radio shows out of the 30s, 40s, & 50s since I was 10 years old and I don't know if its the setting, the mystery, the characters, or all of it together but Kale Williams' narration reminded me very much of the radio shows such as Screen Directors Playhouse, Lux Radio Theater, and Suspense. This element also brought a moment or two of nostalgia that only heightened the whole storytelling experience.
Original ebook Review November 2016:
Another great Josh Lanyon murder mystery! I don't know if there are any plans for future Day/Fuller mysteries or if it's just a standalone but either way, what a wonderful addition to my historical romantic suspense shelf. Murder Between the Pages is a perfect blend of history, romance, mystery, and humor that is very reminiscent of film noir of the 1940s. Ethan Day and Leonard Fuller may not appear to like each other but they have more than one common interest and when a murder happens right before their eyes, lets just say those common interests become very interesting and extremely entertaining. The duo may not be up to Holmes & Moriarity or Adrien & Jake caliber but Day & Fuller are still fun and their connection is definitely intriguing. As for the mystery, well I've been watching and reading mysteries of all kinds ever since I was old enough to sit up so very few actually stump me anymore. Personally, a mystery is not just about the who and why but also about the journey getting from the deed to the discovery and trust me, the journey in Murder is awesome.
RATING:
Alasdair and Toby Investigations #1
The war is over. The battle for love has just begun.
As Marines, Cal and Jim depended on each other to survive bloodshed and despair in the Pacific. Relieved to put the horrors of war behind him, Jim went home to his apple orchard and a quiet life with his wife and children. Knowing Jim could never return his forbidden feelings, Cal hoped time and an ocean between them would dull the yearning for his best friend.
But when Jim’s wife dies, Cal returns to help. He doesn’t know a thing about apple farming—or children—but he’s determined to be there for Jim, even as the painful torch he carries blazes back to life. Jim is grateful for his friend’s support as he struggles with buried emotions and dark wartime memories. Then Jim begins to see Cal in a new light, and their relationship deepens in ways neither expected. Can they build a life together as a family and find happiness in a world that would condemn them?
***Note: Contains scenes of violence and post-traumatic stress. 95,000 words***
Original Review March 2015:
What can I say about this story? It's freaking amazing! I loved the blend of wartime and postwar dramatics. Some might find the alternate wartime and 1948 POVs to be a bit of a flow issue, but I did not. You can't help but love both Cal and Jim. Cal's wit is a perfect companion to Jim's straight-laced by-the-book way of life that you just know when the moment comes, they will be adorable and explosive at the same time. I was pleasantly surprised how the author took Sophie, Jim's daughter. When we first meet her, she's not exactly too keen on welcoming "Uncle Cal". In my reading experiences, there are usually 3 kinds of ways to write kids. The first is super sweet and immediately accepting of all things new. The second, complete brats that never come around until the last page. Then the third, bratty turned lovable after some kind of crisis or disaster. All three types have a place in stories but I found Semper Fi fell into the third category, although "crisis" is a little strong for the scenario that starts to warm Sophie to Cal, and done expertly. I really thought I wasn't going to be too fond of Sophie but I came to love her. This is the first time I've read this author but I can safely say it won't be the last.
RATING:
A party of females emerged from the French windows as Michael and Richard came across the lawn. Caroline, Michael’s sister, holding hands with Lily, and Alice, the nursery maid, close behind.
“I was about to send out a search party, although I suppose they’d never risk missing luncheon, would they, Lily?” Caroline said, as her men folk approached.
“Not in a million years.” Michael winked at his nephew. “Especially as we’ve spent the morning wrestling with giant squids and fending off vicious mermen. It’s hungry work.”
Caroline rolled her eyes. “I guess there’s no chance you’ll ever grow up.”
“I’m afraid not. Beyond hope.” Michael ruffled Richard’s hair. “Let’s hope this youngster turns out more to your approval. Go on, Richard. Hands to wash.”
Richard surrendered to the ministrations of Alice, who whisked him and his sister off to get Lily ready to take her meal and to make her brother presentable for appearing at the table with the adults.
“I’ve never disapproved of you, Michael,” Caroline said, once her son was out of earshot. “I wish you wouldn’t say that in front of the boy.”
Michael slipped his arm through his sister’s. “It was in jest. Richard’s used to my ways, and he knows what’s meant seriously and what’s just fun.”
“He’s only a boy.”
“That’s as may be, but he’s a lot smarter than either of you give him credit for. He notices what goes on. He understands it.”
“Does he? Then he’s taking after his uncle.” Caroline patted his arm. “He thinks the world of you. You’d never disappoint him, would you?”
“I’ll always try my best never to let him down. He’s too important to me. Nearest thing I’m likely to have to a son.” Michael steered his sister towards the flower bed, which lay in full bloom by the steps up to the house, then stopped. “He mentioned Thomas.”
Caroline frowned. “Did he?”
“I wouldn’t have said if he hadn’t, would I? Sorry,” he stroked her hand, “shouldn’t have snapped at you. He did. He said he was highly amused by the state of Thomas’s hair in a photograph you must have of the both of us. I didn’t realise you’d kept one.”
Caroline, blushing, kept her gaze on the petunias. “Oh, it’s an old one. I have it at home. Remembrance of when we were much younger. You and me here, Thomas at Broch, Eric at— Whatever was his uncle’s house called?”
“Cataclews.” It had been a ghastly gothic pile, on its last legs when Eric’s family had used it for holidays. “The only good thing about it was being the vehicle to his meeting us.”
“So he says, as well.” Caroline smiled. “Anyway, that picture kept me going all those long days when the family waited for the next letter from you.”
Michael nodded. Many a photograph must have kept families, wives, and sweethearts comforted over the years. “Not just me, I suspect. You always had a soft spot for Thomas, didn’t you?”
“He was rather handsome. We all liked him.”
Did she know how far Michael’s liking had gone? It wasn’t something they could ever have freely discussed, but Caroline was far from stupid. She must have noticed exchanges of glances, overheard whispers or mysterious laughter, wondered why Michael wasn’t quite the same with Thomas as he was with other friends. Or had she simply assumed that was how men were when they had close friendships? Many people lived in blissful ignorance of what really went on between some couples of the same gender who shared a house or habitually holidayed together.
“Michael?” Caroline nudged him. “Are you feeling all right?”
“Yes. Just lost in memories. I can almost see him here, now. Running along this very lawn with that wretched kite.”
“The one he couldn’t get to fly?” Caroline snorted.
“That’s the one.” They’d have been fifteen, the family holidaying here and Michael introducing Thomas to them for the first time. He’d lived not far away, at a house called Broch, which was apparently some type of ancient Scottish dwelling and had been the brainchild of a previous, Celtic, owner of the property. Thomas had dropped in on the Grays on an almost daily basis, although nobody had complained at the intrusion. As Caroline had pointed out, he had been universally liked. It had been a glorious summer of warmth and light, the two boys teetering on the brink of understanding that their camaraderie was not like that of their schoolmates. “I was glad when that kite broke. I always felt he’d get so enthralled he wouldn’t realise where he was running and he’d go down the path and right over the cliff with it.”
Caroline, sly smile creeping over her face, patted his hand. “I have a terrible confession to make, although I won’t do it until you swear you won’t tell Richard.”
“I swear,” Michael promised, intrigued.
“I was the one who broke that kite. I had exactly the same concern as you did—he was so terribly reckless, so . . .” She shrugged. “I’ve lived with it on my conscience, but it had to be done.”
“And it was well done. I was tempted to do the same, but never had the courage. I wonder if he ever suspected?” Although given that Thomas had such an open, trusting mind, that was unlikely.
“I always feel it’s a shame I couldn’t have taken up all those guns in France and broken them. Such a waste, but you don’t need that particular sermon.” Caroline shook herself. “Come on, luncheon.”
As usual, any mention of the war had been forestalled, although she’d revealed more about herself in these last few minutes than she had in the year. Michael was going to have to reassess his view of his sister.
As Michael finished tidying himself up, the gong announced that lunch was imminent; he entered the dining room to find himself the last to arrive.
“Sorry to keep you. Too much sand to get off me,” he said, with a self-deprecating smile.
“You’re forgiven.” Caroline unfolded her napkin as a sign to begin, the wonderful aroma of freshly cooked fish pervading the air as it waited to be served. New potatoes and peas gently steamed in their bowls, reminding Michael of days when he’d eagerly awaited every meal, desperate for permission to get stuck in. School days, army days, so often things had revolved around filling one’s stomach.
Eric said a short grace—most likely for his son’s benefit—then the maid dished out the trout. At nine, Richard was granted the privilege of taking his luncheon with the grown-ups, an honour his sister was some years short of. The Grays had never believed in children being seen and not heard, and he took his full part in the conversation. It was clear he’d already learned to moderate his talk in accord with the situation, his carefree chatter of the morning made less happy-go-lucky. He asked his father if there had been any interesting stories in the newspaper and was either genuinely interested in the response, or managed to feign a genuine interest, just as impressive a skill.
Eric gave a brief account of what might be of relevance to a nine-year-old boy, finishing his résumé with, “I saw that one of your teachers has got himself wedded.”
“Mr. Grimshaw?” Richard nodded. “We thought that, although we weren’t supposed to know. Not officially.”
“So how do you find these things out?” Caroline gave her son a helping of peas likely far in excess of what he’d have taken for himself.
“Somebody’s mother saw the announcement of his engagement. Word soon spread. Thank you.” Richard gave his mother one of his dazzling smiles.
“You’re like a bunch of old women for gossiping.” Caroline helped herself, then passed the bowl to Michael.
The next few minutes were taken up with little in the way of chat, everybody properly appreciative of what was on their plates, albeit it wasn’t there for long. The trout had tasted as good as the aroma had promised.
After the maid had cleared their plates and before pudding arrived, Richard turned to Michael and, as innocently as if asking whether they’d be fishing later, enquired, “Why have you never married, Uncle? Is it because you don’t like girls?”
Michael, taken unawares by the question, was grateful for having raised his glass for a mouthful of water, and so had time to gather his thoughts. And to pray that his sister wouldn’t leap in and make some comment which made matters even more awkward.
Rescue came, unexpectedly, from Eric. “Just because you’re not keen on the female of the species, don’t tar everyone with the same brush, young man. For all you know, your uncle has left a trail of broken hearts behind him.”
“Sorry, Father.” Richard sounded—and appeared—suitably abashed.
“He’s under the influence of his pal George, apparently.” Michael managed a grin. “George has three sisters.”
“And doesn’t think much of them, or so we’ve been told. His—” Caroline was interrupted by the arrival of the fruit salad. Once the maid had departed again, she continued. “His mother despairs of him at times. Says he’ll end up as a woman hater.”
“I don’t hate women.” Michael could say that with complete candour. “How could I have grown up with an elder sister such as you and not admire the fairer sex?”
“Oh, tush,” Caroline said, with a not-hidden-soon-enough grin. “Don’t swell my head.”
“See, Richard?” Michael winked at his nephew. “Ladies simply require careful handling.”
“Behave. That’s enough about ladies or we’ll turn on you.” Caroline wagged her finger. “Now, tomorrow. If Lily’s tooth is through and she’s not as grizzly, how about a picnic on the beach for all the family?”
And with that skilfully imposed change of subject, talk turned to what were the best provisions to avoid the peril of sand with everything. Sometimes domestic talk was the only safe talk.
Megan Reddaway
Josh Lanyon
Keira Andrews
After writing for years yet never really finding the right inspiration, Keira discovered her voice in gay romance, which has become a passion. She writes contemporary, historical, fantasy, and paranormal fiction and — although she loves delicious angst along the way — Keira firmly believes in happy endings. For as Oscar Wilde once said:
“The good ended happily, and the bad unhappily. That is what fiction means.”
An Act of Detection by Charlie Cochrane
Semper Fi by Keira Andrews
Here at Padme's Library I feature all genres but followers have probably noticed that 95% of the posts and 99% of my reviews fall under the LGBT genres, so for this year's Pride Month I am showcasing 20 of my favorite M/M post-war reads in no particular order. Most fall into post-WW1 era but there are some post-WW2 as well and are a perfect blend of romance, drama, healing, and heart, creating unforgettable reads.
One Last Note:
Some of those on my list I have read, reread, & even listened/re-listened so I've included the review posted in my latest read/listen. Also, those that are read/re-read as a series the latest review may be an overall series review. If any of the purchase links included here don't work be sure and check the authors' websites/social media for the most recent links as they can change over time for a variety of reasons.
💖💙💚💛💜💗💜💛💚💙💖
A Position in Paris by Megan ReddawaySummary:
Paris, 1919. World War One is over, and wounded hero James Clarynton is struggling to face life without one leg, one eye, and the devilish good looks he had before the conflict. Now he must pay for affection, and it leaves him bitter. He’s filling the time by writing a book—but it’s the young man who comes to type it who really intrigues him.
Edmund Vaughan can’t turn down the chance to be secretary to the wealthy James Clarynton. He’s been out of work since the armistice, and his mother and brother depend on him. But he has secrets to hide, and the last thing he wants is an employer who keeps asking questions.
As they work together, their respect for each other grows, along with something deeper. But tragedy threatens, and shadows from the past confront them at every turn. They must open their hearts and trust each other if they are to break down the barriers that separate them.
A heartwarming romance with some dark moments along the way.
In Paris 1919, the war is over and for James Clarynton he faces not only adjusting to civilian life again but he must do it minus a leg and an eye. Without his devilish good looks he finds himself paying for affection but it leaves him feeling empty so when a friend suggests writing a book he dives in but needs a secretary. Edmund Vaughan needs work that has been lacking since the end of the war as his mother and brother depend on him so when the need for a secretary becomes available he jumps at the position. Trust and respect between James and Edmund begins to grow into more but when trust is challenged will the pair find peace together?
This is my first Megan Reddaway read and as always a new author can be scary for some but for me its exhilerating. Not only do I have the anticipation factor of each new page but I had the added thrill of will this be an author to watch for or a one-time-wonder? Well, Megan Reddaway is definitely not a one-time-wonder for me, she has definitely found a place on my authors-to-watch list. It probably helped that the first time I read her it is a post-WW1 era story, in my honest opinion there is just not enough of that time period in M/M romance genre so I tend to grab all I come across. A Position in Paris was well worth the grabbing.
Let's take a look at our duo. You can't help but fall in love with both characters, James because he is dealing with a whole new level to living and Edmund because he is caring for his family the best way he can. They both have amazing characteristics that certainly make them adorable, loveable, and just plain likeable but they also both need to be honest with each other. Course, if they were honest with each other about everything then this would have been a very short and not too exciting story so I can forgive the not-so-honesty elements😉😉. Plus, I have no idea what its like to be a gay man in post-WW1 Europe but I imagine that added a separate level of secrecy to their lives as well.
I really won't say too much more for risk of spoilers but I will say that I found it to be refreshing that the book James is writing and Edmund is helping him with is not fiction so it is not a catalyst for their attraction. Yes, their working together helps fan the flames but the content they are writing does not, anywho I just found that to be a pleasant idea. As for the historical element, it is clear that the author has a healthy respect for the era with her attention to detail and that only heightened the reading experience for me. From beginning to end, A Position i Paris is a lovely read with just the right amount of drama, attraction, historical, and romance that kept me completely entertained.
RATING:
Summary:
Michael Gray returned from World War One injured, but at least he returned. Others were not so fortunate, including his first and greatest love, Thomas Carter-Clemence, with whom Michael had parted bitterly before the conflict began.
Broch, the Carter-Clemence home in Porthkennack, was an integral part of pre-war holidays for the Grays, the two families drawn together in the wake of their sons’ friendship. Returning to the once-beloved Cornish coast for a break with his sister and her family, Michael has to find the courage to face old memories . . . and dare new relationships.
When Thomas’s brother Harry makes an unexpected appearance, Michael is surprised to find himself deeply attracted to Harry for his own sake. But as their relationship heats up, it unearths startling revelations and bitter truths. Michael must decide whether Harry is the answer to his prayers or the last straw to break an old soldier’s back.
Original Review November 2017:
Michael Gray returned home from the Great War injured but his first and dearest love Thomas did not. While vacationing with his sister and her family at Porthkennack where so many memories of Thomas reside, Michael comes across Harry, Thomas' younger brother. Will learning some unknown truths weaken or strengthen Michael and Harry's blossoming romance?
First, I just want to say I have never read any of Riptide's Porthkennack series', contemporary or historical, so I really can't say to how much any of them are connected other than the island itself but since its from a variety of authors and they are tagged as standalones I'm going to believe that the tag is accurate. As for Charlie Cochrane's Count the Shells, well followers of my blog and reviews will probably remember that I am a huge Cochrane fan especially of her historicals. Her contemporaries are good but her devotion to detail and blending it into a fictional journey is absolutely amazing in my opinion and Count is no different.
I won't go into plot details because of the mystery aspect with the revelations that Michael discovers but let me just say, even though I had an inkling where it was headed, Miss Cochrane still surprised me and kept me enthralled and turning(or swiping) the pages till I reached the last and when I reached the last I was devastated to find I was there so soon. This is always an indication for me just how darn good the book was: can't put it down because I need to know what happens and then once reached the conclusion getting mad at myself I didn't read it slower to savor the journey.
Count the Shells is a great post-war story that doesn't linger on the horrors the soldiers witnessed and experienced but nor does it gloss over it and expects us to accept that everything is A-Okay. From Michael the returning veteran to his sister who waited on the homefront to his young niece and nephew the children who grew up after. Charlie Cochrane gives us a story that encompasses all of it but never so much that we lose sight of a wonderful heartwarming(and breaking at times) love story.
RATING: 
Michael Gray returned from World War One injured, but at least he returned. Others were not so fortunate, including his first and greatest love, Thomas Carter-Clemence, with whom Michael had parted bitterly before the conflict began.
Broch, the Carter-Clemence home in Porthkennack, was an integral part of pre-war holidays for the Grays, the two families drawn together in the wake of their sons’ friendship. Returning to the once-beloved Cornish coast for a break with his sister and her family, Michael has to find the courage to face old memories . . . and dare new relationships.
When Thomas’s brother Harry makes an unexpected appearance, Michael is surprised to find himself deeply attracted to Harry for his own sake. But as their relationship heats up, it unearths startling revelations and bitter truths. Michael must decide whether Harry is the answer to his prayers or the last straw to break an old soldier’s back.
Michael Gray returned home from the Great War injured but his first and dearest love Thomas did not. While vacationing with his sister and her family at Porthkennack where so many memories of Thomas reside, Michael comes across Harry, Thomas' younger brother. Will learning some unknown truths weaken or strengthen Michael and Harry's blossoming romance?
First, I just want to say I have never read any of Riptide's Porthkennack series', contemporary or historical, so I really can't say to how much any of them are connected other than the island itself but since its from a variety of authors and they are tagged as standalones I'm going to believe that the tag is accurate. As for Charlie Cochrane's Count the Shells, well followers of my blog and reviews will probably remember that I am a huge Cochrane fan especially of her historicals. Her contemporaries are good but her devotion to detail and blending it into a fictional journey is absolutely amazing in my opinion and Count is no different.
I won't go into plot details because of the mystery aspect with the revelations that Michael discovers but let me just say, even though I had an inkling where it was headed, Miss Cochrane still surprised me and kept me enthralled and turning(or swiping) the pages till I reached the last and when I reached the last I was devastated to find I was there so soon. This is always an indication for me just how darn good the book was: can't put it down because I need to know what happens and then once reached the conclusion getting mad at myself I didn't read it slower to savor the journey.
Count the Shells is a great post-war story that doesn't linger on the horrors the soldiers witnessed and experienced but nor does it gloss over it and expects us to accept that everything is A-Okay. From Michael the returning veteran to his sister who waited on the homefront to his young niece and nephew the children who grew up after. Charlie Cochrane gives us a story that encompasses all of it but never so much that we lose sight of a wonderful heartwarming(and breaking at times) love story.
Summary:
Best of Enemies, Worst of Allies—and Now the Killer is After Them!
When the notorious author of sure-to-be scandalous roman à clef is shot dead by an invisible assailant during a signing at Concord’s staid and stately Marlborough Bookstore, it falls—for reasons still hard to explain—to feuding mystery authors Felix Day and Leonard Fuller to solve a real life murder.
Despite the fact that they’re technically both suspects, it’s the perfect opportunity for Felix and Len to match wits and sleuthing skills. But while they’re busy trying to outsmart (and impress) each other, a ruthless murderer is closing in on our two intrepid investigators…
I'm sad to say that this Josh Lanyon gem slipped by my re-read radar but then when I decided to do some audiobook "re-reads" this year it showed up on the recommends for you listing it seemed like fate😉. Murder Between the Pages was even better the second time around.
As for Felix and Leonard, well I have always loved films such as Charlie Chan, Mr. Moto, and Mr. Wong so their Constantine Sphinx and Inspector Fez mysteries banter was incredibly entertaining for me. It added a level of nostalgia that was much appreciated and showed the respect the author has for history.
Kale Williams once again brings life to the characters. Were the voices as I heard them in my head when I originally read Murder three years ago? Not necessarily but they were fitting and I loved it. As I've said before in some reviews, I've been a fan and collector of old radio shows out of the 30s, 40s, & 50s since I was 10 years old and I don't know if its the setting, the mystery, the characters, or all of it together but Kale Williams' narration reminded me very much of the radio shows such as Screen Directors Playhouse, Lux Radio Theater, and Suspense. This element also brought a moment or two of nostalgia that only heightened the whole storytelling experience.
Original ebook Review November 2016:
Another great Josh Lanyon murder mystery! I don't know if there are any plans for future Day/Fuller mysteries or if it's just a standalone but either way, what a wonderful addition to my historical romantic suspense shelf. Murder Between the Pages is a perfect blend of history, romance, mystery, and humor that is very reminiscent of film noir of the 1940s. Ethan Day and Leonard Fuller may not appear to like each other but they have more than one common interest and when a murder happens right before their eyes, lets just say those common interests become very interesting and extremely entertaining. The duo may not be up to Holmes & Moriarity or Adrien & Jake caliber but Day & Fuller are still fun and their connection is definitely intriguing. As for the mystery, well I've been watching and reading mysteries of all kinds ever since I was old enough to sit up so very few actually stump me anymore. Personally, a mystery is not just about the who and why but also about the journey getting from the deed to the discovery and trust me, the journey in Murder is awesome.
RATING:
An Act of Detection by Charlie Cochrane
Summary:Alasdair and Toby Investigations #1
Stars of the silver screen Alasdair Hamilton and Toby Bowe wow the post WWII audiences with their performances. But when they depict Holmes and Watson life starts to imitate art. They get asked in by a friend to investigate a mysterious disappearance only to find a series of threatening letters—and an unwanted suitor—make real life very different from the movies.Then there's an unpleasant co-star who's found murdered during an opening night. Surely detection can’t be that hard?
An Act of Detection
Original Review September 2019:
Original Review September 2019:
The Case of the Overprotective Ass
This pair was just as fun and fascinating to read as they were the first time around in the author's Home Fires Burning duo. I loved reacquainting myself with the boys and although I recalled the outcome, I was never bored or put off having remembered the ending. Sometimes mysteries just cannot be revisited, knowing the whos and whats and whys just don't make it fun but not Charlie Cochrane's mysteries, I can reread them for years to come.
Home Fires Burning containing The Case of the Overprotective Ass
Original Review February 2015:
Both tales are amazing. It's the simplest and easiest way to describe it. In This Ground Which Was Secured At Great Expense, you can't help but feel what Nicholas is going through. Not only is he dealing with the heartaches of war but he's also has his heart set on a man he didn't reveal his feelings for before leaving. He's given a chance at exploring physical love when he has a new tent mate in Nicholas. In The Case of the Overprotective Ass, we see 2 actors entertaining post WW2 audiences with Sherlock & Holmes but they are given a chance to play detectives for real. Alastair and Toby share similarities with Miss Cochrane's famed Orlando and Jonty from her Cambridge Fellows series, but they are definitely their own pair. Both tales, although shorter than what I would like, are most enjoyable and very entertaining reads.
RATING:
This pair was just as fun and fascinating to read as they were the first time around in the author's Home Fires Burning duo. I loved reacquainting myself with the boys and although I recalled the outcome, I was never bored or put off having remembered the ending. Sometimes mysteries just cannot be revisited, knowing the whos and whats and whys just don't make it fun but not Charlie Cochrane's mysteries, I can reread them for years to come.
The Case of the Undesirable Actor
When I originally read Alistair and Toby in another of the author's collections I knew I wanted more. Now we got it. I won't speak for the mystery as I don't want to give anything away but there are plenty of twists and turns to keep you guessing right up to the reveal. As for the boys themselves, there are no doubts whatsoever how they feel about one another and though they can't love openly in 1950s England they can do so behind closed doors and that's enough for them. The friendships, the bickering, the romance, the banter, all blended with mayhem make this an absolute reading gem.
Overall Duet Review:
Let's face it, on the surface the idea that two actors playing Holmes and Watson trying their hands at a little real life detecting sounds like a cliche joke but it is really a perfect setup. Character driven fun mixed with loads of mayhem and set in a pretty accurate historical setting(I can't speak from personal knowledge that this is how the acting community behaved in 1950s London but knowing the author's love of history I'm willing to accept this as spot on) just makes her stories a joy to lose yourself in. Rom Com + Romantic Suspense = You Can't Put It Down.
Original Review February 2015:
Both tales are amazing. It's the simplest and easiest way to describe it. In This Ground Which Was Secured At Great Expense, you can't help but feel what Nicholas is going through. Not only is he dealing with the heartaches of war but he's also has his heart set on a man he didn't reveal his feelings for before leaving. He's given a chance at exploring physical love when he has a new tent mate in Nicholas. In The Case of the Overprotective Ass, we see 2 actors entertaining post WW2 audiences with Sherlock & Holmes but they are given a chance to play detectives for real. Alastair and Toby share similarities with Miss Cochrane's famed Orlando and Jonty from her Cambridge Fellows series, but they are definitely their own pair. Both tales, although shorter than what I would like, are most enjoyable and very entertaining reads.
RATING:
Semper Fi by Keira Andrews
Summary:The war is over. The battle for love has just begun.
As Marines, Cal and Jim depended on each other to survive bloodshed and despair in the Pacific. Relieved to put the horrors of war behind him, Jim went home to his apple orchard and a quiet life with his wife and children. Knowing Jim could never return his forbidden feelings, Cal hoped time and an ocean between them would dull the yearning for his best friend.
But when Jim’s wife dies, Cal returns to help. He doesn’t know a thing about apple farming—or children—but he’s determined to be there for Jim, even as the painful torch he carries blazes back to life. Jim is grateful for his friend’s support as he struggles with buried emotions and dark wartime memories. Then Jim begins to see Cal in a new light, and their relationship deepens in ways neither expected. Can they build a life together as a family and find happiness in a world that would condemn them?
***Note: Contains scenes of violence and post-traumatic stress. 95,000 words***
What can I say about this story? It's freaking amazing! I loved the blend of wartime and postwar dramatics. Some might find the alternate wartime and 1948 POVs to be a bit of a flow issue, but I did not. You can't help but love both Cal and Jim. Cal's wit is a perfect companion to Jim's straight-laced by-the-book way of life that you just know when the moment comes, they will be adorable and explosive at the same time. I was pleasantly surprised how the author took Sophie, Jim's daughter. When we first meet her, she's not exactly too keen on welcoming "Uncle Cal". In my reading experiences, there are usually 3 kinds of ways to write kids. The first is super sweet and immediately accepting of all things new. The second, complete brats that never come around until the last page. Then the third, bratty turned lovable after some kind of crisis or disaster. All three types have a place in stories but I found Semper Fi fell into the third category, although "crisis" is a little strong for the scenario that starts to warm Sophie to Cal, and done expertly. I really thought I wasn't going to be too fond of Sophie but I came to love her. This is the first time I've read this author but I can safely say it won't be the last.
RATING:
A Position in Paris by Megan Reddaway
1
James’s Journal
Paris, Friday, December 6th, 1918
I must find something to interest me, or I shall lose my mind.
The war has taken my youth and my strength, my leg and my eye. Now it is over, and those who once applauded a hero turn away in search of more pleasant sights. The urchins of Paris point to my eye patch, my sewn-up trouser leg, and my crutches, shouting “Le pirate! Le pirate!” as I hobble from the street door to my carriage.
I cannot hope for love unless I pay for it. I have plenty of money, and for that I should be grateful. Yet when I see other wounded men, cripples in tattered uniforms begging in the streets, I envy them. They still have a reason to struggle.
Diana came this afternoon, and from loneliness and tedium I did the stupidest thing I have done since that hopeless charge at Reims. I proposed.
She was telling me of her two suitors. My leg bothered me— the amputation is not healing as it should— and I felt so dull that I could think of nothing to amuse her in return, so I let her run on.
“They say there is a shortage of men, but I have never had so many courting me. Bill is my natural mate, perhaps. He would give me no unpleasant surprises. Johnny is an adventurer, who says motor cars will make him rich. He offers me more passion, but I am not sure it will last. Which of them do you think I should marry, James?”
Parkin came in to stoke the fire. He is not always so attentive to my guests’ comfort, but he approves of Diana.
“Why should you marry at all?” I asked her. “A widow can do as she likes. Are you not happy as you are?”
“No. I want companionship and the devotion of one man.”
“But you are not in love with either of them?”
“Love— what is love?” She brushed a crumb from her skirt with the cotton gloves she wears to hide hands still reddened by the ammonia of the hospital wards. “Love comes and goes. One can rely on it for three months at best. Then the honeymoon is over, and what counts in a marriage is respect. Respect and friendship.”
“Then marry neither of them,” I said, in a burst of nostalgia. “We are friends, and we respect one another. Marry me.”
I succeeded in amusing her, at least. She tossed her head back and laughed.
“You would have married me in 1913,” I said, stung.
“Perhaps.”
She reached for her cigarette case. I found mine first and flipped it open for her. She let me light her cigarette, watching the flame with faraway eyes.
“Yes, you were a handsome devil,” she said. “I suppose you might have enticed me up the aisle, had you tried— but we would both have regretted it.”
Bitterness clouded my vision. “You would have regretted it, at any rate. No one could call me a handsome devil now.”
She sat up straight, her eyes big with distress. “I didn’t mean that! You know I didn’t. And I am awfully fond of you, of course I am, in a sisterly way.”
“Dear Diana. I always wished for a sister.”
She looked away from me and breathed out a ring of blue smoke. We watched it spread and distort until it vanished somewhere in front of the bookcase.
“In 1913, I didn’t know what you were,” she said. “We were all so innocent, and I more than most. I scarcely knew what men and women did together, let alone what men might do with other men. But I have seen a good deal since.”
No doubt. And I had not pursued her, in that spring before my disgrace when we first met, because my interest had been in her brother, who had not returned it. He was dead two years later, and so was the man Diana had married.
She had taken the double bereavement hard. Soon afterwards, she had joined Queen Alexandra’s Nursing Service. When we met again last summer, at the field hospital where I began to recover from my wounds, we had become two different people— two people, however, who understood each other better than our younger selves ever had.
She turned back to me. Her voice was brittle and light as she said, “I hear a dreadful young man comes calling several times a week.”
“I shall end that.”
“I suppose if you were respectably married, your father might relent and admit he has a second son?”
My leg throbbed. I shifted in my seat, but it did not ease. “He might, but don’t count on it. I have my uncle’s legacy. It would be plenty for us both. I would make you an allowance, and you would have your freedom. You could flit between your Bills and your Johnnies without having to choose one and stick to him till death do you part.”
“And you? What would you gain from it?”
“Companionship, as you said? An interest in life?”
She appeared to be considering my offer, and a chill ran through me. Did I mean her to take me seriously? What should I do if she accepted? I would have a friend by my side, a trained nurse— I believe I had been thinking mostly of that.
But all was well. A moment later she reached over to stub out her cigarette in the silver tray between us, and again she laughed.
“My dear James, if you want company and an interest in life, go to every party and keep a journal.”
And so I have found this book and begun.
Sunday, December 8th
Loulou came to supper last night. He is the young man to whom Diana objected. He spoke of the theatre and the liaisons of his friends, and praised the fashion houses that will break out in bright colours next year, he says, after the gloomy restrictions of the war. He mentioned how exquisite my apartment looked by candlelight and complimented me on my new waistcoat. In short, he said all the right things.
After an excellent meal and two Benedictines, accompanied by Loulou’s chatter and his easy smile, I persuaded myself that his tenderness and passion were real, not the result of the thousands of francs that have passed from my hands to his. I told Parkin I did not need him: Monsieur Louis would help me to bed.
Parkin’s face was a mask. He does not like Loulou.
When Loulou left in the morning, he folded into his pocket the cheque I had given him for drawing lessons, or the care of his grandmother, or whatever it was this time. I turned away from the closing door and caught sight of my face reflected in the looking glass, without the patch over the empty socket— a grinning death’s-head. Then I knew the truth of our relations, and a profound depression fell upon me.
I cannot think badly of Louis. It is commerce to him, and he keeps his side of the bargain. I only despise myself.
I am twenty-nine years old, and I feel sixty. No, older still— for Parkin is sixty, and there is more love in his life, and more life in his love, than in mine.
There is a tale behind Parkin’s appointment. It may amuse me to tell it.
Parkin is not an old family retainer, as my visitors assume. The family retainers were retained by my family when my father cast me out. Parkin was recommended to me when I had been transferred from the field hospital to Paris and was close to being released into the world.
I could not go back to England. My father has threatened to make my life impossible if I try to settle there. But I was fortunate to have a sympathetic great-uncle, a gracious old gentleman who had spent most of his life in Paris. Our tastes were similar, though our personalities were very different. I visited him on all my leaves until he died in 1917, bequeathing to me most of his wealth and this apartment.
The building could not be more convenient. The apartment has electric wiring and a telephone, and— most importantly for me on my crutches— there is a lift, worked by the concierge, in the shaft where the service staircase used to be. So when they let me out of the convalescent home, I installed myself here to see out the war and consult the cream of Paris’s doctors.
My uncle’s servants had left, pensioned off under his will, so I looked for replacements. I wanted a French cook and an English valet, if I could get them— the best possible combination. The other way around would be a disaster!
I got the cook without too much trouble. His name is Henri and, like me, he is one of the limping wounded. An English valet was harder to find until I chanced upon Parkin, who had worked from boyhood in one of the most illustrious houses in England. He consented to come to me because he wished to stay in Paris and I agreed to be flexible in the matter of “afternoons.”
If I have a tea or dinner party, Parkin is always here to serve it. Otherwise, he takes one afternoon and one evening each week, on whichever days he chooses— different days every week. I do not know how late his evenings run, but he does not stay out all night. If I wake after a bad dream and ring the bell, he answers it.
This lack of routine does not disturb me. My main requirement is that he be here every morning to bring me tea, dress me, make my breakfast, and help me face the beginning of each day. That is when I cannot do without a gentleman’s gentleman. At the end of the evening I do not need him so much, because it does not matter how I look. The concierge can step in, or Loulou if he is here. Nevertheless, Parkin’s wish for flexibility struck me as remarkable.
“The duke did not dismiss you?” I asked at our first interview. I had his reference in front of me, but I wanted to hear it from him.
“No, sir. His Grace is returning to England, his son being well enough to travel, and I should prefer to stay.”
This preference was so astonishing, I could not let it pass without comment. “My experience of English servants is that their dislike of ‘foreign parts’ amounts almost to an allergy.”
“That is no doubt true in most cases, sir.”
“And they prize regularity in their afternoons off above all things.”
“Again, I am sure you are correct.”
“And yet you wish to live in foreign parts and be irregular in your afternoons? You intrigue me, Parkin. I believe we shall get on very well.”
Which we do, but I did not let the matter rest until I had discovered his secret. It is simple and rather charming. At the age of fifty-nine, he had suffered what the French call a coup de foudre, a lightning bolt, and had fallen in love with the English butler in the house next to the one the duke and duchess had taken on a famous boulevard. His feelings were returned, so Parkin wished to stay in Paris. The butler’s employer is a well-known French nobleman, active in both government and society, and the butler has to take his time off when he can— thus Parkin’s need for flexibility.
I have never seen them together, but I imagine them as a stately, respectable pair taking tea in a little attic room they might rent in Montmartre.
Yes, it has cheered me to write that. Perhaps there is something in this idea of a journal.
Thursday, December 19th
The weeks pass. I am going through torture. The new man wrenches my shoulder every day. It will become straight in time, he says. They tried to fit a false leg, but the stump became inflamed again and would not take it. The socket is not well-enough healed for anything to be done in the place where my eye once was.
It will be months before I see any real improvement.
I am a useless creature who should have been killed outright. I loathe myself, and Loulou, and all the world.
Saturday, December 21st
Claude made a suggestion:
“You are becoming insupportable,” he said. “Either let me find you a new young man, or write a book. Your mind is as sharp as a razor, and it needs activity, or it will injure you and all your friends.”
I was sceptical at first. Claude is the only one who can discuss art with me with any degree of intelligence, and I have asked a lot of him in the last few months. He may be tired of me. Writing a book would keep me quiet and take me off his hands.
But is it such a bad idea? I could write a novel, perhaps. A war story? No, people do not want that now. They want to read about love and dancing . . . but writing about love and dancing would make me unutterably sad.
Not a novel, then.
Something philosophical?
Or a book about art— about chinoiserie? Yes, that might be the thing. My uncle left me his collection of eighteenth-century imitations of Chinese lacquer and porcelain with the apartment. I have picked up more and become quite an expert.
Claude could lend me any reference books I need. I shall tell him he must also find me a secretary, a good shorthand typist. I do not wish to write in French, so he will have to track down a British one, or perhaps an American. A woman would be best. If it is a man, he must not be of the Loulou type. In my dependent state I should be easy prey.
Paris seems full of English-speaking voices, so he should not have too much trouble. People are flooding back. A crowd of them come to play bridge and chatter to each other in my apartment several times a week.
“Everyone has returned to Paris now,” they told me today. “Last year was so difficult, with the bombs and the influenza! One would bury oneself in the country until one felt so dull that death lost its sting, then return to Paris until fear overcame boredom, and back to the country again. Now everyone is in Paris, nonstop. Such a relief.”
“Then the epidemic has ended?” I asked.
“They say the worst is over. Anyway, it has spread to the country, so one may as well stay in Paris, where at least one can have an agreeable time.”
Diana is not in this circle. The nurses, like the men who have fought, do not speak so lightly of death.
Society is split in two. On one side are those who saw action and the truly bereaved. On the other, those who kept clear of the blood and mud. I do not know how I have become associated with the second type. I suppose my money attracts them, and I do not care enough to send them away. Anything is better than being always alone or with others as scarred as myself.
Friday, January 3rd, 1919
I see I have written nothing since before Christmas. I have no wish to describe all the parties, so I shall leave it thus.
Claude sent me a potential secretary today— a loud, bouncing, jolly woman of fifty, like the worst kind of medical nurse. She had not been in the apartment five minutes before I was longing to throw her from the windows. Fortunately, at the end of the interview she admitted she could only offer afternoons.
I rang for Parkin to show her out before she had finished speaking. Then I telephoned to tell Claude it was no use sending me people with such limitations.
He feigned innocence. “I thought you would like her, mon cher. She is not at all like Louis.”
“Louis be damned. You have not understood my requirements. I must have three full days— either Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, or Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. On the days my secretary comes, I will dictate in the morning. In the afternoons I may have engagements, or I may need to rest. She can spend that time typing from her shorthand notes. The following day, when she is not there, I will make corrections and plan the next section. Then she returns on the third day, and we repeat. Do you see?”
“Yes, but if you are so precise in your demands, you must expect to pay a higher rate. You offer half a post while giving your employee little chance of finding anything to fill her other three days.”
“Then I shall pay for a full week. Money is not a barrier. I must have the person at my beck and call. And, Claude— please find someone quiet.”
Count the Shells by Charlie Cochrane
Chapter 1
“Count the shells, please, Uncle Michael.”
“As you’ve asked so nicely, Richard, I will. Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq.” Michael Gray smiled indulgently at his nephew as he laid down each limpet shell in turn. He picked them up to lay them down again, one by one. “Uno, dos, tres, cuatro, cinco.”
Richard Cavendish scooped them into a pile, dropping them into Michael’s hands with a plea for him to count again. Nothing changed; children throughout time must have enjoyed repetition of their favourite things. Michael tipped his hat forward, shading his eyes against a sun that was beating fiercely down on the beach and performing dazzling dances on the sea. He’d always loved the beaches on the Porthkennack headland, since he could first remember coming here as no more than a toddler. This area had always been a place of refuge, of comfort, of hope.
“Uncle?” Richard tapped his arm.
“Sorry, old man. I was woolgathering. Where was I? Yan, tan, tethera, pethera, pimp.” He laid the last shell down with a flourish of his hand, like a conjuror performing a trick.
Richard burst into giggles. He always liked the sheep-counting style best of all the ones Michael used. “Again, please.”
“Yan, tan, tethera, pethera, pimp.” Michael, stifling a yawn, spoke the words slowly and pompously this time, lining up the shells like a colonel inspecting his troops. The mewing of gulls, the susurration of the waves—he’d almost forgotten how soporific sounds of the seaside could be.
“Are you tired, Uncle Michael? Is it your leg?” Richard was the only one in the family who referred casually to his wound, with a child’s typical candour.
“No, the leg’s fine.” He’d come out of things a lot better off than many of his comrades. The thing functioned pretty well, despite being pockmarked where they’d taken all the shrapnel out, although his foot looked a mess where the little toe had gone. He couldn’t—and wouldn’t—complain. “Simply the effect of the local beer I had last night, making me a bit sluggish. Don’t tell your mother.”
“I promise I won’t.” Richard put his hand on his heart while making the vow. “Will you do the ‘Einz vie’ one?”
“Eins, zwei,” Michael replied, automatically. He’d known this was going to happen, and he couldn’t refuse the request, not without having to tell a lie about why it upset him. Just saying he couldn’t use the language of his once-enemy wasn’t enough; it wasn’t true, anyway. The words had acquired new connotations in his mind, over the years, connotations Richard might never understand.
Michael collected all the shells, took a deep breath, then began to lay them down one by one.
“Eins.”
Number one was Thomas. Thomas Carter-Clemence. Eins. One. The first. Never to be forgotten, even after they’d parted in such a dramatic fashion, with the mother of all rows, the spring of 1909.
“Zwei.”
That would be Laurence; Laurie, as Michael had preferred to call him, especially in the heat of passion, when “Laurence” seemed so ridiculously formal. Simple remembrance of those times brought a prickle to the back of Michael’s neck.
“Drei.”
Jimmy. No, not him; Jimmy hadn’t been the third. Michael had forgotten Freddie.
Freddie was third. Or maybe third and fifth, because he’d been an extra station on the line of romance when Michael and Laurence had suffered a temporary estrangement. A station which had been passed through and left behind when Michael and Laurence had made things up again, then revisited when their paths had crossed years later. He had no idea where Freddie was now, couldn’t begin to say whether he was alive or dead, or whether he remembered that fleeting, if chilly, night by the river at Maidenhead or the equally fleeting, if warmer, encounter in Brighton.
Time to lay down another shell, before Richard became suspicious of the silence. He might be still a child, but he possessed a startling maturity of awareness and an unnerving habit of speaking his mind.
“Vier.”
The fourth one was Jimmy: bright, lively, and first seen pulling pints. Michael had been on a couple of days leave in London and gone for a drink in . . . What had that pub been called? Frustrating that he couldn’t remember, even though he recalled every minute of the night they’d spent together.
“Fünf.”
Little Wilfred. They’d met in Scarborough, fleetingly, in a stationer’s of all places. Shared a joke, shared a glance, shared an appreciation of a particularly fine pen. Shared a bed, sort of, briefly.
“Sechs.”
“There isn’t another shell, Uncle.” Richard shook his head indulgently, as though he were dealing with Lily, his three-year-old sister.
Michael jolted. He’d been far away, among lovers, mud, and metal shells.
“Sorry about that, old man. Got carried away. Discount sechs.” Lucky that Richard was too young to get the play on words. No sixth shell and no sixth bloke as of yet. Discount sex indeed, at least for the time being. It would happen when it happened, although how long he’d be prepared to wait was a moot point. Freddie had been an act of desperation, as had Wilfred. Always a dangerous game to play when you weren’t sure of the ground you were playing on.
“Can we paddle?” Richard tugged at Michael’s sleeve.
“Of course we can.” Barefoot already, so they could enjoy the sensation of sand between their toes, they scampered down to the sea as spontaneous as a pair of children, to splash among the shallows.
“Do you like the seaside or the city best?” Richard posed the question as solemnly as a bishop might when addressing confirmation candidates.
“Seaside, naturally. Much more freedom here.” The hustle and bustle of crowded streets no longer appealed. Not like the lapping of the waves at his feet and the mewing of gulls overhead. “What about you?”
“What a silly question. Here!” Richard flicked water with his toes as they walked along the waterline. “I wish I could be on holiday every day, rather than going to school to learn algebra and grammar.”
“It’s a burden that has to be borne, old man. Same for me when I was your age.”
“But why has it got to be learned about? Do you ever use algebra?”
“Can’t say I do, much. But I couldn’t do without grammar. I say. What’s that?” Michael stopped by a mound of rocks, where little pools of trapped water promised boyish delights. He reached beneath the surface of one to draw out something green and glistening.
“A bottle of course.” Richard shook his head at such dim-wittedness.
“Ah, but is it an ordinary bottle or a magic one? If we rub it will a genie come out and grant us three wishes? And how would we divide them if he did?”
Richard frowned; clearly neither algebra nor grammar held the answer to that. “One each and one for mother,” he stated, at last, and with a conviction that could brook no argument. “None for Lily because she’s too young to use them sensibly.”
“You’re probably right.” Would Richard ever regard his sister as being old enough to act sensibly? “I like that way of dividing them. What would you wish for? All the sweets in the shop?”
Richard giggled, looking exactly like his mother when she was the same age. “That’s the kind of thing Lily would want. I’d wish an end to algebra or grammar lessons for any boys forever. What about you?”
“I’m not sure. You’ve taken care of the school stuff, already.”
“I know what mother would wish for,” Richard said, suddenly serious.
“And what’s that?” Michael asked, attention only half on his nephew, the other half considering what he would do if really presented with the opportunity to make that wish. To have such power—the responsibility would be overwhelming.
“She’d wish for all the soldiers who were hurt in the war to be whole again.”
“Oh.” Michael, unable to say anything further, kept his gaze straight out at sea. Maybe if he concentrated extremely hard, he could keep at bay the tears that threatened to unman him.
“Yes, and she’d wish for the dead to come home too.”
The only safe reply was a simple nod. Michael thought of the shells he’d just counted, the parade of names. How could he trust himself not to break down, to blurt out that roll call, then have to provide a backstory to each of them? Richard had the knack of making all his defences too relaxed to work effectively.
“Don’t you think that’s a good idea?”
Michael forced a reply. “I think it’s excellent. What a shame it’s only an empty bottle with nothing in it.”
“Yes. Fairy tales never come true, I suppose.”
“No. That’s one of the sad things you learn in life, alongside the algebra.”
Richard made a disdaining face, although whether that was at the algebra or the fairy tales, Michael couldn’t tell. “It is sad. Otherwise we could have wished home your friend Thomas.”
“Thomas?” Having just recovered his composure, Michael felt unmanned again, the waves beating more violently about him than they’d done previously—or was that simply the rushing of blood in his ears? He steadied himself with a hand on his nephew’s shoulder.
“Are you feeling ill, Uncle? Come on, back up the beach.” Richard took his hand, leading him like a small child.
“It’s only a touch of something. Made me feel odd for a moment. Dizzy.” He managed a smile. “Probably that beer last night.”
“Mother says people shouldn’t drink too much. So does Father.”
“They’re right.” Eric would be giving his professional point of view, being a medical man. “And last night I was a good boy and only had one pint. I probably had a dirty glass.”
“I won’t snitch.”
“Good man.” They’d reached the place where they’d made their little camp of towels, shoes and shells; Michael settled himself on a flat rock, then took a deep, steadying breath. Caroline never discussed the war in his presence, or those who’d been lost in it, but she must be ready to discuss it with her family when he wasn’t there. And mention quite freely those people she never spoke to him about.
“You’ve got a better colour now. You were as white as if you’d seen a ghost.”
“Not quite.” Not seen, merely thought of one. “Thanks for playing nurse. We should get ourselves home or we’ll be in trouble.”
By the time they’d dried their feet and got their shoes and socks back on, Michael had pulled himself together enough to ask, “How did you know about Thomas? Has your mother been talking about the time he yanked her pigtail?”
“No. Did he really?” Richard’s eyes widened. “He must have been very brave to do that.”
“I suspect it was a case of foolhardy rather than brave. He regretted it afterwards.” Michael could just about smile again in remembrance of those fond, silly adventures from that summer of emerging manhood, when Thomas had first come to visit the Gray family and left a never-to-be-erased mark on everyone’s hearts.
“Mother has a picture of you and him, at home. Did he always have funny hair?”
“He certainly did. I never knew anybody who looked more like the scullery maid had upended him and used him for a mop.” Especially after they’d been playing tennis. Or in the morning, after a night in which it had been tousled by passion.
“Was he a good friend? Do you miss him?” Richard was wearing his serious face again, his ever-changing thoughts and emotions plainly displayed.
“Yes and yes.” Michael concentrated on sorting out a nonexistent knot in his laces. “He was my very best friend at school. Like that rascal George you hang around with.”
Richard giggled. “George isn’t so bad. He has three older sisters, poor thing.”
“Then he deserves a medal.”
George was supposed to be with them, but a mysterious rash had struck his family and he’d been quarantined along with his sisters. Once the all clear was given, he’d be allowed to travel down, and until then, Michael was doing his avuncular duty to the best of his ability.
He held out his hand. “Come on. Home. Or we’ll be court-martialled.”
* * * * * * *
At the top of the trail which led up in a zigzag from the bay, a small gate gave onto a path cutting through shrubs and borders to High Top, the house the Gray family had taken for the summer ever since Michael could remember. The views across the bay were stunning, the beach close by, if a bit of a scramble, and the lawns smooth enough for croquet or tennis. There were maturer pleasures close at hand too: the twin delights of dances or dinners down in Porthkennack or Padstow, although Michael had always preferred the simpler things. Nobody could try to pair him up with an eligible girl when he was out on the rocks, sketching.
“I was about to send out a search party, although I suppose they’d never risk missing luncheon, would they, Lily?” Caroline said, as her men folk approached.
“Not in a million years.” Michael winked at his nephew. “Especially as we’ve spent the morning wrestling with giant squids and fending off vicious mermen. It’s hungry work.”
Caroline rolled her eyes. “I guess there’s no chance you’ll ever grow up.”
“I’m afraid not. Beyond hope.” Michael ruffled Richard’s hair. “Let’s hope this youngster turns out more to your approval. Go on, Richard. Hands to wash.”
Richard surrendered to the ministrations of Alice, who whisked him and his sister off to get Lily ready to take her meal and to make her brother presentable for appearing at the table with the adults.
“I’ve never disapproved of you, Michael,” Caroline said, once her son was out of earshot. “I wish you wouldn’t say that in front of the boy.”
Michael slipped his arm through his sister’s. “It was in jest. Richard’s used to my ways, and he knows what’s meant seriously and what’s just fun.”
“He’s only a boy.”
“That’s as may be, but he’s a lot smarter than either of you give him credit for. He notices what goes on. He understands it.”
“Does he? Then he’s taking after his uncle.” Caroline patted his arm. “He thinks the world of you. You’d never disappoint him, would you?”
“I’ll always try my best never to let him down. He’s too important to me. Nearest thing I’m likely to have to a son.” Michael steered his sister towards the flower bed, which lay in full bloom by the steps up to the house, then stopped. “He mentioned Thomas.”
Caroline frowned. “Did he?”
“I wouldn’t have said if he hadn’t, would I? Sorry,” he stroked her hand, “shouldn’t have snapped at you. He did. He said he was highly amused by the state of Thomas’s hair in a photograph you must have of the both of us. I didn’t realise you’d kept one.”
Caroline, blushing, kept her gaze on the petunias. “Oh, it’s an old one. I have it at home. Remembrance of when we were much younger. You and me here, Thomas at Broch, Eric at— Whatever was his uncle’s house called?”
“Cataclews.” It had been a ghastly gothic pile, on its last legs when Eric’s family had used it for holidays. “The only good thing about it was being the vehicle to his meeting us.”
“So he says, as well.” Caroline smiled. “Anyway, that picture kept me going all those long days when the family waited for the next letter from you.”
Michael nodded. Many a photograph must have kept families, wives, and sweethearts comforted over the years. “Not just me, I suspect. You always had a soft spot for Thomas, didn’t you?”
“He was rather handsome. We all liked him.”
Did she know how far Michael’s liking had gone? It wasn’t something they could ever have freely discussed, but Caroline was far from stupid. She must have noticed exchanges of glances, overheard whispers or mysterious laughter, wondered why Michael wasn’t quite the same with Thomas as he was with other friends. Or had she simply assumed that was how men were when they had close friendships? Many people lived in blissful ignorance of what really went on between some couples of the same gender who shared a house or habitually holidayed together.
“Michael?” Caroline nudged him. “Are you feeling all right?”
“Yes. Just lost in memories. I can almost see him here, now. Running along this very lawn with that wretched kite.”
“The one he couldn’t get to fly?” Caroline snorted.
“That’s the one.” They’d have been fifteen, the family holidaying here and Michael introducing Thomas to them for the first time. He’d lived not far away, at a house called Broch, which was apparently some type of ancient Scottish dwelling and had been the brainchild of a previous, Celtic, owner of the property. Thomas had dropped in on the Grays on an almost daily basis, although nobody had complained at the intrusion. As Caroline had pointed out, he had been universally liked. It had been a glorious summer of warmth and light, the two boys teetering on the brink of understanding that their camaraderie was not like that of their schoolmates. “I was glad when that kite broke. I always felt he’d get so enthralled he wouldn’t realise where he was running and he’d go down the path and right over the cliff with it.”
Caroline, sly smile creeping over her face, patted his hand. “I have a terrible confession to make, although I won’t do it until you swear you won’t tell Richard.”
“I swear,” Michael promised, intrigued.
“I was the one who broke that kite. I had exactly the same concern as you did—he was so terribly reckless, so . . .” She shrugged. “I’ve lived with it on my conscience, but it had to be done.”
“And it was well done. I was tempted to do the same, but never had the courage. I wonder if he ever suspected?” Although given that Thomas had such an open, trusting mind, that was unlikely.
“I always feel it’s a shame I couldn’t have taken up all those guns in France and broken them. Such a waste, but you don’t need that particular sermon.” Caroline shook herself. “Come on, luncheon.”
As usual, any mention of the war had been forestalled, although she’d revealed more about herself in these last few minutes than she had in the year. Michael was going to have to reassess his view of his sister.
As Michael finished tidying himself up, the gong announced that lunch was imminent; he entered the dining room to find himself the last to arrive.
“Sorry to keep you. Too much sand to get off me,” he said, with a self-deprecating smile.
“You’re forgiven.” Caroline unfolded her napkin as a sign to begin, the wonderful aroma of freshly cooked fish pervading the air as it waited to be served. New potatoes and peas gently steamed in their bowls, reminding Michael of days when he’d eagerly awaited every meal, desperate for permission to get stuck in. School days, army days, so often things had revolved around filling one’s stomach.
Eric said a short grace—most likely for his son’s benefit—then the maid dished out the trout. At nine, Richard was granted the privilege of taking his luncheon with the grown-ups, an honour his sister was some years short of. The Grays had never believed in children being seen and not heard, and he took his full part in the conversation. It was clear he’d already learned to moderate his talk in accord with the situation, his carefree chatter of the morning made less happy-go-lucky. He asked his father if there had been any interesting stories in the newspaper and was either genuinely interested in the response, or managed to feign a genuine interest, just as impressive a skill.
Eric gave a brief account of what might be of relevance to a nine-year-old boy, finishing his résumé with, “I saw that one of your teachers has got himself wedded.”
“Mr. Grimshaw?” Richard nodded. “We thought that, although we weren’t supposed to know. Not officially.”
“So how do you find these things out?” Caroline gave her son a helping of peas likely far in excess of what he’d have taken for himself.
“Somebody’s mother saw the announcement of his engagement. Word soon spread. Thank you.” Richard gave his mother one of his dazzling smiles.
“You’re like a bunch of old women for gossiping.” Caroline helped herself, then passed the bowl to Michael.
The next few minutes were taken up with little in the way of chat, everybody properly appreciative of what was on their plates, albeit it wasn’t there for long. The trout had tasted as good as the aroma had promised.
After the maid had cleared their plates and before pudding arrived, Richard turned to Michael and, as innocently as if asking whether they’d be fishing later, enquired, “Why have you never married, Uncle? Is it because you don’t like girls?”
Michael, taken unawares by the question, was grateful for having raised his glass for a mouthful of water, and so had time to gather his thoughts. And to pray that his sister wouldn’t leap in and make some comment which made matters even more awkward.
Rescue came, unexpectedly, from Eric. “Just because you’re not keen on the female of the species, don’t tar everyone with the same brush, young man. For all you know, your uncle has left a trail of broken hearts behind him.”
“Sorry, Father.” Richard sounded—and appeared—suitably abashed.
“He’s under the influence of his pal George, apparently.” Michael managed a grin. “George has three sisters.”
“And doesn’t think much of them, or so we’ve been told. His—” Caroline was interrupted by the arrival of the fruit salad. Once the maid had departed again, she continued. “His mother despairs of him at times. Says he’ll end up as a woman hater.”
“I don’t hate women.” Michael could say that with complete candour. “How could I have grown up with an elder sister such as you and not admire the fairer sex?”
“Oh, tush,” Caroline said, with a not-hidden-soon-enough grin. “Don’t swell my head.”
“See, Richard?” Michael winked at his nephew. “Ladies simply require careful handling.”
“Behave. That’s enough about ladies or we’ll turn on you.” Caroline wagged her finger. “Now, tomorrow. If Lily’s tooth is through and she’s not as grizzly, how about a picnic on the beach for all the family?”
And with that skilfully imposed change of subject, talk turned to what were the best provisions to avoid the peril of sand with everything. Sometimes domestic talk was the only safe talk.
Murder Between the Pages by Josh Lanyon
Chapter One
Felix
The first person I spotted when I stepped into Marlborough Bookstore that blustery May afternoon was Leonard Fuller.
Which, now that I think about it, was rather remarkable given that the room was packed and Josiah Shelton had already begun speaking.
“Is the book a roman à clef? I suppose you might call it that.” Shelton said in his mellifluous voice to the spellbound audience. He was a large man. Not handsome. His iron gray hair was as wild and unkempt as a roadside hedge in winter. His pale eyes protruded in such a way that he seemed perpetually outraged, even now when he was smiling and cheerful and in his element. His nose was too long, his mouth too wide, but the overall effect was of a powerful intellect, a force to be reckoned with.
I made my way through the crowd and found a place near the back of the room.
Shelton continued, asking rhetorically, “Is it satire? No. It is a sincere effort to capture themes and motifs that have absorbed, nay, consumed me for much of my adult life.”
“Poppycock,” muttered an elderly gentleman in the row seated before me.
His female relations tried to hush him.
“Don’t you shush me,” he hissed right back. “He’s in it for the money. Trading on other people’s misfortunes, that’s what he’s done.”
It made me angry to hear him, but no one else seemed to take any notice. Anyway, Shelton didn’t have to prove anything to these people, and certainly not to this old relic who probably thought the pinnacle of Concord’s literary heritage was when Ralph Waldo Emerson and his fellow Transcendentalists used to pop into the Marlborough to check on their book sales.
An unpleasant draft whispered against the back of my neck; the chilly spring breeze finding its way through the gaps in the one hundred-and-fifty-year-old mullioned windows facing the street. The crowded room smelled of wool and tobacco and ladies’ perfume, but mostly it smelled of a century’s-worth of old books.
“With two world wars behind us, who here hasn’t wondered what, if anything, lies beyond the gates of death?” Shelton asked. “Though I have the reputation of a skeptic, even a cynic, I began this project without bias.”
That wasn’t true, of course. No one was without bias. Even a great man like Shelton. In fact, it probably followed that a great man would have great biases.
Or perhaps not. But anyone who knew Shelton knew he was rather opinionated. In fact, we’d had quite an argument over practical occultism only a month ago. Shelton was a ferocious arguer and I always loved a good debate. However, I’d sensed a certain strain since, which was why I’d felt it important to come to his reading that afternoon.
I and everyone else in Concord, it seemed. We’re not Boston but we pride ourselves that we know a thing or two about books and scholarship.
I glanced at Leonard Fuller who was--very rudely--engaged in whispering conversation with Georgie Wolfe, the poetess. Women always gravitate to Fuller, which would be amusing if it wasn’t so ludicrous. His blond head bowed toward her still fairer one, and he was smirking, which is his usual expression with the fairer sex.
As though feeling my gaze, Fuller lifted his eyelashes and met my eyes. His own are a startling and azure blue. It’s a color one feels in the solar plexus -- like jumping out of a plane into cold, empty sky. Your heart seems to stop.
Fuller’s lip curled in greeting. I bared my incisors in reply.
He writes the Inspector Fez so-called mysteries under the moniker of L. F. Monarch. Inspector Fez is nothing but a pale imitation of my own Constantine Sphinx, celebrated gentleman sleuth and Egyptologist, which makes all the more laughable Fuller’s accusation that I stole the idea for The Sphinx from him.
Ha!
Happily my publisher, Mr. James Cornell--coincidentally also Shelton’s publisher--was able to prove to the jury’s satisfaction what hogwash that was when I sued Fuller in open court for slander.
Fuller has never forgiven me--and I have never forgiven him. Which suits us both beautifully.
Of course we are bound to run into each other now and then, given the size of Concord’s literary community, but not so frequently as to make things awkward.
Fuller was once more listening with fake attentiveness to Georgia. I knew what they were discussing given Georgia’s indiscreet glances at a tall, veiled woman sitting in front of an open-backed bookshelf that towered all the way to the ceiling.
Though wedged in by people, the veiled woman maintained an air of splendid isolation.
Everyone--well, certainly those of us who had read the advance copies of Shelton’s book--knew that the character of Madam Galen was based on Lucinda Lafe, the society hostess and celebrity medium. It was either very brave or a deliberate ploy for publicity for La Lafe to show up here today.
Did that mean the Woolriches were also attending the reading?
Surely not.
I scanned the crowded seats and to my dismay spotted the stony, patrician features of Miranda Woolrich a few rows up. Beside her was Ingham, looking as faded and fragile as papyrus.
A great writer couldn’t be inhibited by other people’s feelings. He had to write the words the Muse whispered in his ear. Even so. I wished the Woolriches hadn’t attended today’s event. It was bound to be painful for them. Even more so once Fuller had finished speaking and the press began to ask their questions.
That was another thing. I hadn’t realized there would be reporters. Not including Bill Reed of the Courant, I counted at least two other newshawks. From Boston? New York? If the New York press had resumed interest in Shelton, he truly was restored to his rightful place in the New England literary pantheon.
I risked another glance at Fuller.
Georgia had wandered away to interrupt someone else’s enjoyment of Shelton’s talk, and Fuller was now standing to the left of a marble bust of Emerson. Fuller had the kind of cinematic good looks that appeal to some people, still there was an uncanny likeness to Emerson’s profile, particularly about the nose. Their twin aquiline appendages tilted upwards as though some noxious odor had assaulted their chiseled nostrils.
Fuller was no admirer of Shelton’s--he was too egotistical to admire anyone he didn’t recognize off a reflective surface--but he could never bear to miss an opportunity to suck up to James. The free food was probably another inducement. It was hard to imagine the Inspector Fez books were still selling well.
Perhaps when the reading was over we would meet upstairs in the lending library and exchange a few unpleasantries over the inevitable tea and cookies. I always looked forward to our skirmishes.
Meanwhile, Shelton was in fine form.
“It is easy to become a Theosophist. Any person of average intellectual capacities, and a leaning toward the metaphysical; of pure, unselfish life, who finds more joy in helping his neighbor than in receiving help himself; one who is ever ready to sacrifice his own pleasures for the sake of other people; and who loves Truth, Goodness, and Wisdom for their own sake, not for the benefit they may confer--is a Theosophist.”
God almighty he could--and did--talk.
“Mr. Shelton, do you consider yourself a Theosophist?” called someone from the audience.
The voice was male and mocking. I couldn’t make out the speaker, hidden as he was amidst the blooms of a garden’s-worth of ladies’ hats. I suspected the heckler was another reporter. We seemed to have a regular infestation of them that afternoon.
“I consider myself to be an artist,” Shelton said. “Art is its own philosophy. My only allegiance is to the written word.”
On the dais behind him, Donald Marlborough, owner of Marlborough Bookstore, James, and Viktor Merlin--who happens to be my own agent as well as Shelton’s--were beaming. They knew the book was going to do wonderfully well and make them all pots of money.
Which was excellent news given how unfairly Shelton’s last two books had been received by the reading public. Not the critics. The critics never failed to appreciate his genius. But a man couldn’t live on praise, however warm.
And speaking of warmth, it was getting stuffy. I loosened my scarf, partially unbuttoned my coat. I hated crowds, though I was glad for Shelton’s sake he was getting such a good audience.
I hoped when the time came he would not read the chapter where the first séance takes place. It was well written, naturally, but it would be impossible not to wonder what the Woolrichs felt hearing those things aloud. Yes, the book was fiction, but it was also the truth. Viktor had told me at lunch over a month ago that he believed this time for sure Shelton would surely be sued for libel.
Shelton never cared about such things. And even Viktor hadn’t seemed unduly worried. He thought the publicity would sell even more copies of the book.
“Maybe that sounds arrogant,” Shelton was saying. “But the true artist has to remove himself from the artificial restraints of a bourgeois morality.”
Fuller yawned widely.
A sigh ripple through the other latecomers standing in the back of the room with me. There were soft whispers, some shifting of weight. Shelton had been speaking for over forty minutes. I wouldn’t have minded a drink, myself. And not tea.
BANG!
A shot rang out.
A gunshot in Marlborough Bookstore.
Shelton jerked back a step at the loud and unmistakable crack, sounding even louder and more unmistakable in the confines of the crowded room. The tang of gunpowder--no, that was cordite--cut the woolly fug that had settled over the audience.
A .32, I thought. That sounded like a .32. My wits were infuriatingly slow and sluggish. That’s what peacetime will do to you. The report of a pistol had at one time as familiar as the brassy morning bell on my alarm clock, and was now utterly, shockingly alien.
Alien and terrifying in this environment where there were so many civilians.
As I stared, still trying to assemble my thoughts, Shelton swayed, and crashed down on top of the table that had been set up for his signing. The stacks of books tumbled over, thudding, unautographed, to the floor.
Shelton landed face down atop them.
Felix
The first person I spotted when I stepped into Marlborough Bookstore that blustery May afternoon was Leonard Fuller.
Which, now that I think about it, was rather remarkable given that the room was packed and Josiah Shelton had already begun speaking.
“Is the book a roman à clef? I suppose you might call it that.” Shelton said in his mellifluous voice to the spellbound audience. He was a large man. Not handsome. His iron gray hair was as wild and unkempt as a roadside hedge in winter. His pale eyes protruded in such a way that he seemed perpetually outraged, even now when he was smiling and cheerful and in his element. His nose was too long, his mouth too wide, but the overall effect was of a powerful intellect, a force to be reckoned with.
I made my way through the crowd and found a place near the back of the room.
Shelton continued, asking rhetorically, “Is it satire? No. It is a sincere effort to capture themes and motifs that have absorbed, nay, consumed me for much of my adult life.”
“Poppycock,” muttered an elderly gentleman in the row seated before me.
His female relations tried to hush him.
“Don’t you shush me,” he hissed right back. “He’s in it for the money. Trading on other people’s misfortunes, that’s what he’s done.”
It made me angry to hear him, but no one else seemed to take any notice. Anyway, Shelton didn’t have to prove anything to these people, and certainly not to this old relic who probably thought the pinnacle of Concord’s literary heritage was when Ralph Waldo Emerson and his fellow Transcendentalists used to pop into the Marlborough to check on their book sales.
An unpleasant draft whispered against the back of my neck; the chilly spring breeze finding its way through the gaps in the one hundred-and-fifty-year-old mullioned windows facing the street. The crowded room smelled of wool and tobacco and ladies’ perfume, but mostly it smelled of a century’s-worth of old books.
“With two world wars behind us, who here hasn’t wondered what, if anything, lies beyond the gates of death?” Shelton asked. “Though I have the reputation of a skeptic, even a cynic, I began this project without bias.”
That wasn’t true, of course. No one was without bias. Even a great man like Shelton. In fact, it probably followed that a great man would have great biases.
Or perhaps not. But anyone who knew Shelton knew he was rather opinionated. In fact, we’d had quite an argument over practical occultism only a month ago. Shelton was a ferocious arguer and I always loved a good debate. However, I’d sensed a certain strain since, which was why I’d felt it important to come to his reading that afternoon.
I and everyone else in Concord, it seemed. We’re not Boston but we pride ourselves that we know a thing or two about books and scholarship.
I glanced at Leonard Fuller who was--very rudely--engaged in whispering conversation with Georgie Wolfe, the poetess. Women always gravitate to Fuller, which would be amusing if it wasn’t so ludicrous. His blond head bowed toward her still fairer one, and he was smirking, which is his usual expression with the fairer sex.
As though feeling my gaze, Fuller lifted his eyelashes and met my eyes. His own are a startling and azure blue. It’s a color one feels in the solar plexus -- like jumping out of a plane into cold, empty sky. Your heart seems to stop.
Fuller’s lip curled in greeting. I bared my incisors in reply.
He writes the Inspector Fez so-called mysteries under the moniker of L. F. Monarch. Inspector Fez is nothing but a pale imitation of my own Constantine Sphinx, celebrated gentleman sleuth and Egyptologist, which makes all the more laughable Fuller’s accusation that I stole the idea for The Sphinx from him.
Ha!
Happily my publisher, Mr. James Cornell--coincidentally also Shelton’s publisher--was able to prove to the jury’s satisfaction what hogwash that was when I sued Fuller in open court for slander.
Fuller has never forgiven me--and I have never forgiven him. Which suits us both beautifully.
Of course we are bound to run into each other now and then, given the size of Concord’s literary community, but not so frequently as to make things awkward.
Fuller was once more listening with fake attentiveness to Georgia. I knew what they were discussing given Georgia’s indiscreet glances at a tall, veiled woman sitting in front of an open-backed bookshelf that towered all the way to the ceiling.
Though wedged in by people, the veiled woman maintained an air of splendid isolation.
Everyone--well, certainly those of us who had read the advance copies of Shelton’s book--knew that the character of Madam Galen was based on Lucinda Lafe, the society hostess and celebrity medium. It was either very brave or a deliberate ploy for publicity for La Lafe to show up here today.
Did that mean the Woolriches were also attending the reading?
Surely not.
I scanned the crowded seats and to my dismay spotted the stony, patrician features of Miranda Woolrich a few rows up. Beside her was Ingham, looking as faded and fragile as papyrus.
A great writer couldn’t be inhibited by other people’s feelings. He had to write the words the Muse whispered in his ear. Even so. I wished the Woolriches hadn’t attended today’s event. It was bound to be painful for them. Even more so once Fuller had finished speaking and the press began to ask their questions.
That was another thing. I hadn’t realized there would be reporters. Not including Bill Reed of the Courant, I counted at least two other newshawks. From Boston? New York? If the New York press had resumed interest in Shelton, he truly was restored to his rightful place in the New England literary pantheon.
I risked another glance at Fuller.
Georgia had wandered away to interrupt someone else’s enjoyment of Shelton’s talk, and Fuller was now standing to the left of a marble bust of Emerson. Fuller had the kind of cinematic good looks that appeal to some people, still there was an uncanny likeness to Emerson’s profile, particularly about the nose. Their twin aquiline appendages tilted upwards as though some noxious odor had assaulted their chiseled nostrils.
Fuller was no admirer of Shelton’s--he was too egotistical to admire anyone he didn’t recognize off a reflective surface--but he could never bear to miss an opportunity to suck up to James. The free food was probably another inducement. It was hard to imagine the Inspector Fez books were still selling well.
Perhaps when the reading was over we would meet upstairs in the lending library and exchange a few unpleasantries over the inevitable tea and cookies. I always looked forward to our skirmishes.
Meanwhile, Shelton was in fine form.
“It is easy to become a Theosophist. Any person of average intellectual capacities, and a leaning toward the metaphysical; of pure, unselfish life, who finds more joy in helping his neighbor than in receiving help himself; one who is ever ready to sacrifice his own pleasures for the sake of other people; and who loves Truth, Goodness, and Wisdom for their own sake, not for the benefit they may confer--is a Theosophist.”
God almighty he could--and did--talk.
“Mr. Shelton, do you consider yourself a Theosophist?” called someone from the audience.
The voice was male and mocking. I couldn’t make out the speaker, hidden as he was amidst the blooms of a garden’s-worth of ladies’ hats. I suspected the heckler was another reporter. We seemed to have a regular infestation of them that afternoon.
“I consider myself to be an artist,” Shelton said. “Art is its own philosophy. My only allegiance is to the written word.”
On the dais behind him, Donald Marlborough, owner of Marlborough Bookstore, James, and Viktor Merlin--who happens to be my own agent as well as Shelton’s--were beaming. They knew the book was going to do wonderfully well and make them all pots of money.
Which was excellent news given how unfairly Shelton’s last two books had been received by the reading public. Not the critics. The critics never failed to appreciate his genius. But a man couldn’t live on praise, however warm.
And speaking of warmth, it was getting stuffy. I loosened my scarf, partially unbuttoned my coat. I hated crowds, though I was glad for Shelton’s sake he was getting such a good audience.
I hoped when the time came he would not read the chapter where the first séance takes place. It was well written, naturally, but it would be impossible not to wonder what the Woolrichs felt hearing those things aloud. Yes, the book was fiction, but it was also the truth. Viktor had told me at lunch over a month ago that he believed this time for sure Shelton would surely be sued for libel.
Shelton never cared about such things. And even Viktor hadn’t seemed unduly worried. He thought the publicity would sell even more copies of the book.
“Maybe that sounds arrogant,” Shelton was saying. “But the true artist has to remove himself from the artificial restraints of a bourgeois morality.”
Fuller yawned widely.
A sigh ripple through the other latecomers standing in the back of the room with me. There were soft whispers, some shifting of weight. Shelton had been speaking for over forty minutes. I wouldn’t have minded a drink, myself. And not tea.
BANG!
A shot rang out.
A gunshot in Marlborough Bookstore.
Shelton jerked back a step at the loud and unmistakable crack, sounding even louder and more unmistakable in the confines of the crowded room. The tang of gunpowder--no, that was cordite--cut the woolly fug that had settled over the audience.
A .32, I thought. That sounded like a .32. My wits were infuriatingly slow and sluggish. That’s what peacetime will do to you. The report of a pistol had at one time as familiar as the brassy morning bell on my alarm clock, and was now utterly, shockingly alien.
Alien and terrifying in this environment where there were so many civilians.
As I stared, still trying to assemble my thoughts, Shelton swayed, and crashed down on top of the table that had been set up for his signing. The stacks of books tumbled over, thudding, unautographed, to the floor.
Shelton landed face down atop them.
An Act of Detection by Charlie Cochrane
Whitlock hadn’t exaggerated.
George Howell was far beyond the help of medical aid, with what appeared to Toby’s untutored eyes to be a stab wound plumb in the left side of his chest, the blood massing on his crisp white dinner shirt. The actor was lying in an alcove off one of the corridors back of house, just around a corner from the office where Toby had made his telephone call. Most likely George had been lying there already dead while Phyllis was being contacted, although why had nobody noticed him before?
“Nobody ever comes along here,” Whitlock said, his thoughts clearly going down the same lines. “I only went to investigate because…” He turned a ghastly greenish shade, as though about to decorate the carpet with his stomach contents.
“Steady on. Let’s go back around the corner where we can’t see him. There’s nothing we can do to help the chap now, except keep gawkers away. Mr. O’Connor will have ensured the police are on their way.”
They’d encountered the doorman in the corridor, Whitlock asking him to contact the authorities as a matter of urgency. And to ensure all the external doors were locked and kept locked after he’s done so.
Once they’d got safely out of sight, Toby halted. “You were saying?”
“What? Oh, yes. Nobody would usually be going to that part of the building at this time of day. Haunt of cleaners and the like. I only went to investigate because of the theatre cat. He’s black and white you see, only when he came round the corner and trotted towards me I noticed that the white bits were—” Whitlock paled again.
“Yes, I get the drift.” Like the old joke, black and white and red all over. “It might be an idea to see if we can locate the cat before he’s had the chance to clean himself. He could be carrying vital evidence.” As would the killer themselves, given how far the blood had spread, although the moggy might have had something to do with that aspect. The soiled murder weapon would be tricky to hide, especially to smuggle out of the building—why had the killer not left it there in an attempt to make it look like an unusual suicide? Although the killer could be long gone by now, those locked theatre doors having been locked too late to prevent the horse bolting.
The sound of Alasdair’s voice, in conversation with Sir Ian, floated up the stairs. Toby sprang to head them off. “I’m afraid it’s definitely George. Stabbed to death by the look of it. Mr. Whitlock’s in a fair state about the situation.”
Alasdair gave him a brief are-you-all-right glance, to which Toby nodded. He’d seen much worse during the war, and among men he’d liked better. Alasdair turned to O’Connor, who had followed them, a few steps behind. “Best take Mr. Whitlock downstairs to the green room and get a sweet tea into him if somebody will rustle one up.”
“Oh, God,” Sir Ian groaned, when they’d taken him to view the body. “I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.” He eyed the corpse again, then ran his hands through what little hair still adorned his pate. “This is terrible, and not just for him. You’ll think me hard-hearted, but what about the publicity? For the theatre and for the studio.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that.” Alasdair’s stern tones were evidently as clipped as he dared when addressing somebody who had such power over his career. “It’s the sort of sensation that will make people flock to his last film, anyway. The man plying the murderer is himself murdered.”
Toby nodded. A cynical viewpoint, admittedly, but probably an entirely realistic assessment of the situation.
“I’m not thinking of that, so much as…” Sir Ian appeared to be struggling for words, even though he’d have seen men killed much more brutally the best part of forty years previously. “There were plenty of Landseer people here tonight. What if one of them killed Howell? A viper in our midst.”
That was a scenario that even Alasdair’s finest raising of the insured eyebrow wouldn’t have been expressive enough to remark upon.
George Howell was far beyond the help of medical aid, with what appeared to Toby’s untutored eyes to be a stab wound plumb in the left side of his chest, the blood massing on his crisp white dinner shirt. The actor was lying in an alcove off one of the corridors back of house, just around a corner from the office where Toby had made his telephone call. Most likely George had been lying there already dead while Phyllis was being contacted, although why had nobody noticed him before?
“Nobody ever comes along here,” Whitlock said, his thoughts clearly going down the same lines. “I only went to investigate because…” He turned a ghastly greenish shade, as though about to decorate the carpet with his stomach contents.
“Steady on. Let’s go back around the corner where we can’t see him. There’s nothing we can do to help the chap now, except keep gawkers away. Mr. O’Connor will have ensured the police are on their way.”
They’d encountered the doorman in the corridor, Whitlock asking him to contact the authorities as a matter of urgency. And to ensure all the external doors were locked and kept locked after he’s done so.
Once they’d got safely out of sight, Toby halted. “You were saying?”
“What? Oh, yes. Nobody would usually be going to that part of the building at this time of day. Haunt of cleaners and the like. I only went to investigate because of the theatre cat. He’s black and white you see, only when he came round the corner and trotted towards me I noticed that the white bits were—” Whitlock paled again.
“Yes, I get the drift.” Like the old joke, black and white and red all over. “It might be an idea to see if we can locate the cat before he’s had the chance to clean himself. He could be carrying vital evidence.” As would the killer themselves, given how far the blood had spread, although the moggy might have had something to do with that aspect. The soiled murder weapon would be tricky to hide, especially to smuggle out of the building—why had the killer not left it there in an attempt to make it look like an unusual suicide? Although the killer could be long gone by now, those locked theatre doors having been locked too late to prevent the horse bolting.
The sound of Alasdair’s voice, in conversation with Sir Ian, floated up the stairs. Toby sprang to head them off. “I’m afraid it’s definitely George. Stabbed to death by the look of it. Mr. Whitlock’s in a fair state about the situation.”
Alasdair gave him a brief are-you-all-right glance, to which Toby nodded. He’d seen much worse during the war, and among men he’d liked better. Alasdair turned to O’Connor, who had followed them, a few steps behind. “Best take Mr. Whitlock downstairs to the green room and get a sweet tea into him if somebody will rustle one up.”
“Oh, God,” Sir Ian groaned, when they’d taken him to view the body. “I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.” He eyed the corpse again, then ran his hands through what little hair still adorned his pate. “This is terrible, and not just for him. You’ll think me hard-hearted, but what about the publicity? For the theatre and for the studio.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that.” Alasdair’s stern tones were evidently as clipped as he dared when addressing somebody who had such power over his career. “It’s the sort of sensation that will make people flock to his last film, anyway. The man plying the murderer is himself murdered.”
Toby nodded. A cynical viewpoint, admittedly, but probably an entirely realistic assessment of the situation.
“I’m not thinking of that, so much as…” Sir Ian appeared to be struggling for words, even though he’d have seen men killed much more brutally the best part of forty years previously. “There were plenty of Landseer people here tonight. What if one of them killed Howell? A viper in our midst.”
That was a scenario that even Alasdair’s finest raising of the insured eyebrow wouldn’t have been expressive enough to remark upon.
Semper Fi by Keira Andrews
Cal’s throat felt drier than the dirt road as he steered his Cadillac past the painted sign reading Clover Grove Orchard in neat script above a faded red apple. Gravel pelted the undercarriage of the car, which had only ever driven down paved city boulevards. The laneway took a few gentle turns before ending at a two-story farmhouse. He pulled up next to a rusted red pickup and killed the engine.
The white wooden house had a red door and a few small windows, and the shingled roof rose to a peak above the second floor. To Cal, it was exactly what he imagined a farmhouse should be. Simple and unadorned. Workmanlike yet homey. Off to the left was a small barn, its dark green paint peeling. A cow and two horses wandered a fenced-in area of brownish grass beside it, and a large storage shed stood behind the barn.
Beyond that the ground sloped down to the orchard, where row upon row of apple trees grew into the distance. Cal got out of the car and stretched, breathing the spring air deeply. He caught movement at the top of the rise, and Jim walked over the crest of the gentle hill, his light hair gleaming in the sun. Breath caught, Cal forced his lungs to expand.
He should never have come.
Tall and lean, Jim had the body of a man who worked the land from sunup to sundown. The sleeves of his plaid shirt and light jacket were rolled to the elbows, and his dungarees fit his slim hips snugly. He walked with an even, measured stride—not too fast, not too slow. Steady as always.
It was all Cal could do not to run to him. The longing burned his chest, and his heart thumped. In the past three years, Cal had almost convinced himself his feelings had faded. Almost.
A big shaggy brown dog bounded out of the orchard, barking loudly. Jim whistled and brought it to heel as he reached Cal. Smiling softly, Jim extended his hand. Cal tried to ignore the flare of excitement that skittered up his spine as their palms connected, keeping his smile relaxed.
They hugged briefly, slapping each other on the back. They were both just over six feet, with Jim a little taller, and Cal couldn’t help but think of how perfectly they fit together. Jim’s scent sparked a hundred memories that flitted through his mind like a newsreel.
Concentrating on an easy tone, Cal stepped back and let the dog smell his hand. “I see you’ve got quite a guard dog here.” After a cursory sniff, the animal licked Cal’s fingers and rubbed against his leg.
“Oh yeah. Finnigan’s a real killer. His bark is a heck of a lot worse than his bite, but he does keep the deer away from the trees.”
“Deer give you trouble? Hey, you don’t have any bears out here, do you?” Cal put on an exaggeratedly serious expression.
“Tons of bears. They love city slickers.”
“They are known for their refined palate.” Cal crouched down and scratched behind Finnigan’s floppy ears. “This guy keeps the deer from eating your crop?”
“Yep, he patrols the orchard. I built him a little house out there, and he does a real fine job. Comes and sees us every so often throughout the day, but always does his rounds. Best employee I’ve ever had.”
“You’re my competition, huh, Finnigan?” The dog eagerly flopped on his back and Cal rubbed his tummy. “Which breed is he?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. He showed up one day a few years ago, limping and awfully thin. We couldn’t turn him away.”
“And now you’ve got another stray at your doorstep.” Cal stood, grinning.
Jim grinned back. “I guess I do. Did you find the place all right?”
“Yep. It looks great, Jim.” Cal waved his arm around to indicate the orchard. “This is all yours?”
“All sixty acres.” He shrugged. “It’s not much, but it’s home. I’m sure it’s awfully…basic compared to what you’re used to in the city.”
“Hey, in case you’ve forgotten our jaunt through the Pacific already, I’ve roughed it with the best of them.”
Jim chuckled. “True enough. Look, it’s not the jungle, but are you sure you’re up for this? Not that I don’t appreciate your help, but I’m sure I could find someone local. I don’t want to put you out.”
Cal clapped a hand on Jim’s shoulder. “After being cooped up in New York and London, I’m ready for a little fresh air and hard work. Point me to the nearest shovel. Or whatever I need to take care of apple trees.”
Jim’s eyes twinkled. “Let me show you around first.”
They fell into a comfortable stride as if no time had passed at all. Jim led the way into the barn past a small coop where several chickens clucked. The dim, hay-strewn interior of the building revealed farming equipment, several stalls for animals, and a well-worn ladder leading to a small loft.
It smelled of animals and musky earth with the hint of manure, but wasn’t unpleasant. In fact, Cal’s blood stirred as Jim leaned close to him to point out the chicken coop. It had only been minutes, and simply being near Jim set him off. How was he going to spend hours a day with him and not humiliate himself?
“I know it needs a good cleaning. It’s just been at the bottom of the list.”
Cal realized he was frowning, and quickly smiled. “No, no, it’s great. So the cow and horses live in here?”
As Jim explained the daily schedule for milking the cow, Mabel, and caring for the horses and chickens, Cal nodded and tried to pay attention. But his belly flip-flopped, and he felt like a schoolgirl going to her first dance. He truly had been a fool to think time and distance could change anything.
He followed along into the house through the kitchen door. Pale yellow curtains fluttered in the breeze over the sink, and a round wooden table fit neatly in the corner by the pantry. A gas stove stood in the other corner with a pot of something that smelled like oniony beef stew simmering on top.
Cal inhaled loudly. “Are you telling me you could’ve been whipping up gourmet delights all those years we were starving in the jungle?”
Jim feigned offense. “Hey, no one unwrapped a D-ration bar quite like I did. But I can’t take credit for this.” He motioned toward the pot. “Courtesy of Mrs. O’Brien. She helps out with Adam during the day and cooks dinner. She’ll be meeting Sophie off the school bus now before she heads home. There’s frozen applesauce too. You’ll be sick of apples soon enough, but I thought you’d like it tonight. Tastes almost like ice cream.”
“Sounds great.” Dessert was swell, but at the mention of Sophie and Adam, Cal’s stomach knotted. He hadn’t spent more than five consecutive minutes with children since he’d been one himself. He hoped they wouldn’t be too…complicated.
By the stove stood a starkly white refrigerator. Cal smiled. “Look at this. First electricity and now a refrigerator. Next you’ll tell me you’re getting a phone.”
Jim’s forehead furrowed. “Who would I talk to out here?”
“The rest of the world? People who might want to buy your apples?”
“I already have people to buy my apples. Wilson’s grocery stores buy all the apples I can grow. I don’t need the rest of the world. Besides, I had a shower head put in last year. Things are plenty modern around here.”
“Very true. Although you could have talked to me on the phone.”
“I wrote you letters, Cal. It’s not my fault you’re a terrible correspondent.”
“Moi? I take offense at that insult to my fine, upstanding character.”
Chuckling, Jim led him through a dining area and sitting room off the main hall. The walls were covered with faded floral wallpaper—small bouquets of pink, white and yellow on a blue background. A fine layer of dust covered the figurines displayed in a hutch by the dark sofa. Cal suspected the furnishings were Jim’s mother’s choices when the house was built after World War I.
Upstairs were three bedrooms. The first at the front of the house contained two small beds, with an open toy chest beneath the window. Several dolls spilled out, and Jim tidied them up as if embarrassed by the clutter.
Next was the neat and spare guest room. A double bed filled the center of the room, and a wooden chair sat in the corner. The oak dresser rested against pale blue wallpaper.
“Hope this’ll be okay for you.”
Cal smiled. “Of course. It’s perfect. Everything I need. Nice big window and everything.”
Next was the bathroom, and then the main bedroom at the back of the house. Jim’s headboard was simple dark wood, and Cal breathed deeply as he took in the bed. Jim would be sleeping here every night. So close but so incredibly far away.
A cheval glass stood in the corner by the window, and two dressers of matching dark wood filled the rest of the room. The closest was Jim’s, with a simple comb resting on top, alongside—
Cal’s heart skipped a beat. Beside the comb was the gold watch. He swallowed hard. “You know you’re supposed to wear that. It tells time and everything. That’s why I gave it to you.”
Jim’s lips twitched. “Yes, I heard a rumor. But I don’t want to get it scratched up out in the orchard. It’s for special occasions.”
“Guess you use the position of the sun to tell time, huh? Like Davy Crockett?”
Jim smiled. “Yeah, something like that.”
Beside the watch sat Jim’s battered dog tags, coiled neatly. Cal brushed them with his fingertips. In London he’d come close one night to throwing his tags into the Thames, but in the end he’d locked them away in a safe deposit box with his papers.
Cal’s eyes were inexorably drawn to the other dresser. Atop it sat several items on a yellowing lace doily. A velvet jewellery box that had probably never held anything like the diamonds and gold that adorned Cal’s mother. A gilded brush and comb set, neatly arranged side by side. A small bottle of perfume that Cal guessed smelled of some sort of sweet bloom. A pot of face cream.
The remnants of a life.
Cal turned to Jim, who wore the stoic expression Cal had etched in his memory since boot camp—only his eyes betraying a weary sadness. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it back for the funeral.”
“You were working in London. I understand.” Jim tried to smile, but didn’t quite make it. He reached for the other item resting on the dresser, a silver-framed wedding photo.
Ann wore a simple white dress without a veil, and only a sprig of delicate flowers tucked into her dark hair to match her small bouquet. She smiled widely on Jim’s arm, her eyes crinkling. Jim stood ramrod straight, posing seriously.
Jim straightened the frame’s position a fraction of an inch before stepping back. “I’m sorry you never got the chance to come out and meet her.”
“Yeah. So am I.”
Cal’s gut burned with shame. Standing in the woman’s bedroom six months after her death, deep down he still prickled with jealousy and resentment. She’d had what Cal never would. Never could. Part of him still hated her for that, as unfair as it was.
As much as he’d shared with Jim in those three and a half years of the war, it could never be this. The truth was, Cal had hoped he wouldn’t have to meet Jim’s wife, and had used every excuse in the book to avoid it. He’d often wondered what they’d make of each other. Now she was gone, and he’d never know.
He should tell Jim he’d made a mistake. Make his excuses and speed away from Clover Grove. Never, ever looking back. It would be best for both of them in the end. Cal would only mess everything up if he stayed, and Jim would understand if Cal left now. Jim always understood.
Squaring his shoulders, Cal took a deep breath. No. He wouldn’t run. He’d stayed away this long for his own sake. Now he had to put Jim first. Even if they couldn’t be together in the way Cal wanted, it would be enough. He hadn’t been here when Jim needed him, and Cal wouldn’t let him down this time.
“It’s a beautiful home you’ve got here, Jim.”
Jim exhaled. “Thanks.” The door slammed downstairs, and footsteps echoed. Jim’s solemn expression melted away, and his face lit up in a way Cal hadn’t seen in a very long time.
“Come meet the kids.”
“I’m beginning to think they’re out of boats.”
Jim kept his gaze forward and whispered, “What?”
As they marched on in close order drill in the gray afternoon, backs ramrod straight, legs striding in unison to the DI’s cadence, Cal didn’t turn his head either. “The only reason they could possibly have for marching us around this much is that we’re walking to Japan.”
Lips twitching, Jim fought a smile. “Right through the ocean, huh?”
“Yep. This rain is just a warm-up for the real thing.”
“Plaatooon, halt!” Tyrell bellowed.
The men staggered to a stop, rifles clattering together. Jim blinked the rain out of his eyes and waited to find out why Tyrell had stopped them. It could be safely assumed that the recruits had done something wrong. As always.
From the corner of his eye, he could see Tyrell slowly stride down the column of men, eyes sharp like a predator stalking its prey. Jim prayed he would pass Cal by just this once and pick on one of the other recruits. Not that Jim wished them any harm, but he hadn’t gotten to know them. Everyone knew that once their six weeks of training was through, their platoon would be scattered throughout the Corps. No sense in getting attached.
But it was different with Cal. As much as Jim wanted the time to go quickly so he could officially be a Marine—and not stuck in this purgatory—he dreaded the day he would no longer have Cal at his side to raise a sardonic eyebrow or give him a hand, strong and sure, when he struggled at the top of the climbing wall during PT.
“Forrrward march!”
As they set out again, it happened so quickly that Jim wasn’t sure if Tyrell tripped him or if Cal had unluckily stumbled. Jim could only catch the edge of Cal’s rain poncho for a moment before Cal sprawled forward in the mud, crashing into the man in front of him, who staggered but remained upright.
“Plaatooon, halt!”
Shouldering his rifle, Jim sank to his knees beside Cal, who sputtered, wiping mud from his face as he glared up at Tyrell looming over them.
Tyrell narrowed his gaze on Jim. “Recruit! On your feet!”
The words were out before Jim could stop them. “He could be hurt, sir.”
Jim had grasped Cal’s shoulder, but Cal shook him off. “I’m fine.” He hissed under his breath as he moved to his feet, “Get up!”
Clambering up as well, Jim stood at attention once more, eyes on the helmet of the man in front of him. They all waited with bated breath for Tyrell’s next move. The freezing rain pelted down, and all else was silent. Jim tensed from head to toe, wondering if Cal was hurt. Cal seemed to be standing fine beside him.
Finally Tyrell spoke. Instead of his usual red-faced roar, he addressed Cal with an eerie calm. “This is what happens when you don’t stay in step, recruit.”
“Yes, sir.” Cal’s voice was flat.
“You’re filthy, recruit.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get out of that disgusting uniform.”
Cal hesitated. “Sir?”
With a swift intake of air, Tyrell unleashed at full volume. “Did I stutter? You’re a disgrace to this platoon! You’re not fit to wear that uniform, so get it off! On the double! Down to your skivvies!”
From the corner of his eye, Jim watched as Cal stripped, awkwardly shifting his rifle from arm to arm since he couldn’t dare put it down in the mud. He hopped on one foot as he struggled to yank his trousers off over his boots. Jim clenched his fists, pressing his arms to his sides.
Once Cal stood at attention again, Tyrell inspected him. He barked, “Pick up those revolting pieces of clothing. You think I’m gonna carry them back to the barracks for you?”
Cal did as he was told, balling up his uniform and tucking it under this arm. “No, sir!”
“Forrrward march!”
They were off again. Jim caught glimpses of Cal’s chest, the dark hair scattered across it matted down by the relentless, icy rain. As they marched on interminably, Cal began to noticeably shiver. Jim wanted to give him his own poncho and tell Tyrell to go to the devil, but knew it would only make things worse.
When they finally returned to the hub of the base, Marines laughed and hollered at Cal, whistling and breaking into a ribald song. Jim could see the stony set of Cal’s jaw as he ignored them. They were finally dismissed for an hour to write letters, but Cal headed straight to the head.
Although he was eager to write home, Jim followed. The empty shower room was large and open. Still in his muddy boots, Cal dropped his gear and clomped over to one of the showers and turned on the water. His soaked white briefs clung to his buttocks.
For some reason, group showers always made Jim strangely bashful and uncomfortable, even back in high school phys ed. He’d seen Cal and all the other recruits naked by this point, and didn’t want to be labeled a prude. Yet there was something about the sight of Cal in his boots and see-through skivvies that made Jim flush and turn away.
He realized Cal needed dry clothes, and hurried back to the barracks to retrieve Cal’s spare uniform and towel. When he returned, Cal still stood beneath the spray of water, his legs parted and arms braced against the wall.
Jim spoke, his voice croaking. “Cal?” He cleared his throat. “You’d better get dressed. Tyrell’s likely to call off the personal time any minute and get us marching again.”
With a nod, Cal turned off the water. A crooked smile lifted his lips when he saw Jim holding his spare clothes. “Thanks.”
As Cal bent to unlace his boots, Jim made himself busy at the sink, scrubbing his hands even though they didn’t need it. In the chipped mirror, he glanced at Cal toweling dry and dressing. When Cal swore under his breath, Jim turned around. “Okay?”
“Damn buttons.” Cal had on his undershirt, but struggled with his uniform.
Jim stepped closer and realized Cal’s hands were shaking. He reached out and covered Cal’s fingers with his own, wincing when he felt how cold they were, even after the warm shower. “Here. Let me.”
Although clearly about to argue, Cal acquiesced and lowered his arms to his sides. Jim inched closer, but found his own hands clumsy as he tried to button Cal’s shirt in the opposite way he was used to. “Wait, this’ll be easier.”
He moved behind Cal and reached around him, pressing against his back as he pushed each button through its hole. Cal seemed to be holding his breath, and didn’t move a muscle. When the last button was through, Jim stepped back and slapped Cal lightly on the back. “There you go. Ready for action.”
Cal mumbled a reply, face flushed. Jim was glad the shower and dry clothes had done the trick and that Cal was warming up again.
The white wooden house had a red door and a few small windows, and the shingled roof rose to a peak above the second floor. To Cal, it was exactly what he imagined a farmhouse should be. Simple and unadorned. Workmanlike yet homey. Off to the left was a small barn, its dark green paint peeling. A cow and two horses wandered a fenced-in area of brownish grass beside it, and a large storage shed stood behind the barn.
Beyond that the ground sloped down to the orchard, where row upon row of apple trees grew into the distance. Cal got out of the car and stretched, breathing the spring air deeply. He caught movement at the top of the rise, and Jim walked over the crest of the gentle hill, his light hair gleaming in the sun. Breath caught, Cal forced his lungs to expand.
He should never have come.
Tall and lean, Jim had the body of a man who worked the land from sunup to sundown. The sleeves of his plaid shirt and light jacket were rolled to the elbows, and his dungarees fit his slim hips snugly. He walked with an even, measured stride—not too fast, not too slow. Steady as always.
It was all Cal could do not to run to him. The longing burned his chest, and his heart thumped. In the past three years, Cal had almost convinced himself his feelings had faded. Almost.
A big shaggy brown dog bounded out of the orchard, barking loudly. Jim whistled and brought it to heel as he reached Cal. Smiling softly, Jim extended his hand. Cal tried to ignore the flare of excitement that skittered up his spine as their palms connected, keeping his smile relaxed.
They hugged briefly, slapping each other on the back. They were both just over six feet, with Jim a little taller, and Cal couldn’t help but think of how perfectly they fit together. Jim’s scent sparked a hundred memories that flitted through his mind like a newsreel.
Concentrating on an easy tone, Cal stepped back and let the dog smell his hand. “I see you’ve got quite a guard dog here.” After a cursory sniff, the animal licked Cal’s fingers and rubbed against his leg.
“Oh yeah. Finnigan’s a real killer. His bark is a heck of a lot worse than his bite, but he does keep the deer away from the trees.”
“Deer give you trouble? Hey, you don’t have any bears out here, do you?” Cal put on an exaggeratedly serious expression.
“Tons of bears. They love city slickers.”
“They are known for their refined palate.” Cal crouched down and scratched behind Finnigan’s floppy ears. “This guy keeps the deer from eating your crop?”
“Yep, he patrols the orchard. I built him a little house out there, and he does a real fine job. Comes and sees us every so often throughout the day, but always does his rounds. Best employee I’ve ever had.”
“You’re my competition, huh, Finnigan?” The dog eagerly flopped on his back and Cal rubbed his tummy. “Which breed is he?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. He showed up one day a few years ago, limping and awfully thin. We couldn’t turn him away.”
“And now you’ve got another stray at your doorstep.” Cal stood, grinning.
Jim grinned back. “I guess I do. Did you find the place all right?”
“Yep. It looks great, Jim.” Cal waved his arm around to indicate the orchard. “This is all yours?”
“All sixty acres.” He shrugged. “It’s not much, but it’s home. I’m sure it’s awfully…basic compared to what you’re used to in the city.”
“Hey, in case you’ve forgotten our jaunt through the Pacific already, I’ve roughed it with the best of them.”
Jim chuckled. “True enough. Look, it’s not the jungle, but are you sure you’re up for this? Not that I don’t appreciate your help, but I’m sure I could find someone local. I don’t want to put you out.”
Cal clapped a hand on Jim’s shoulder. “After being cooped up in New York and London, I’m ready for a little fresh air and hard work. Point me to the nearest shovel. Or whatever I need to take care of apple trees.”
Jim’s eyes twinkled. “Let me show you around first.”
They fell into a comfortable stride as if no time had passed at all. Jim led the way into the barn past a small coop where several chickens clucked. The dim, hay-strewn interior of the building revealed farming equipment, several stalls for animals, and a well-worn ladder leading to a small loft.
It smelled of animals and musky earth with the hint of manure, but wasn’t unpleasant. In fact, Cal’s blood stirred as Jim leaned close to him to point out the chicken coop. It had only been minutes, and simply being near Jim set him off. How was he going to spend hours a day with him and not humiliate himself?
“I know it needs a good cleaning. It’s just been at the bottom of the list.”
Cal realized he was frowning, and quickly smiled. “No, no, it’s great. So the cow and horses live in here?”
As Jim explained the daily schedule for milking the cow, Mabel, and caring for the horses and chickens, Cal nodded and tried to pay attention. But his belly flip-flopped, and he felt like a schoolgirl going to her first dance. He truly had been a fool to think time and distance could change anything.
He followed along into the house through the kitchen door. Pale yellow curtains fluttered in the breeze over the sink, and a round wooden table fit neatly in the corner by the pantry. A gas stove stood in the other corner with a pot of something that smelled like oniony beef stew simmering on top.
Cal inhaled loudly. “Are you telling me you could’ve been whipping up gourmet delights all those years we were starving in the jungle?”
Jim feigned offense. “Hey, no one unwrapped a D-ration bar quite like I did. But I can’t take credit for this.” He motioned toward the pot. “Courtesy of Mrs. O’Brien. She helps out with Adam during the day and cooks dinner. She’ll be meeting Sophie off the school bus now before she heads home. There’s frozen applesauce too. You’ll be sick of apples soon enough, but I thought you’d like it tonight. Tastes almost like ice cream.”
“Sounds great.” Dessert was swell, but at the mention of Sophie and Adam, Cal’s stomach knotted. He hadn’t spent more than five consecutive minutes with children since he’d been one himself. He hoped they wouldn’t be too…complicated.
By the stove stood a starkly white refrigerator. Cal smiled. “Look at this. First electricity and now a refrigerator. Next you’ll tell me you’re getting a phone.”
Jim’s forehead furrowed. “Who would I talk to out here?”
“The rest of the world? People who might want to buy your apples?”
“I already have people to buy my apples. Wilson’s grocery stores buy all the apples I can grow. I don’t need the rest of the world. Besides, I had a shower head put in last year. Things are plenty modern around here.”
“Very true. Although you could have talked to me on the phone.”
“I wrote you letters, Cal. It’s not my fault you’re a terrible correspondent.”
“Moi? I take offense at that insult to my fine, upstanding character.”
Chuckling, Jim led him through a dining area and sitting room off the main hall. The walls were covered with faded floral wallpaper—small bouquets of pink, white and yellow on a blue background. A fine layer of dust covered the figurines displayed in a hutch by the dark sofa. Cal suspected the furnishings were Jim’s mother’s choices when the house was built after World War I.
Upstairs were three bedrooms. The first at the front of the house contained two small beds, with an open toy chest beneath the window. Several dolls spilled out, and Jim tidied them up as if embarrassed by the clutter.
Next was the neat and spare guest room. A double bed filled the center of the room, and a wooden chair sat in the corner. The oak dresser rested against pale blue wallpaper.
“Hope this’ll be okay for you.”
Cal smiled. “Of course. It’s perfect. Everything I need. Nice big window and everything.”
Next was the bathroom, and then the main bedroom at the back of the house. Jim’s headboard was simple dark wood, and Cal breathed deeply as he took in the bed. Jim would be sleeping here every night. So close but so incredibly far away.
A cheval glass stood in the corner by the window, and two dressers of matching dark wood filled the rest of the room. The closest was Jim’s, with a simple comb resting on top, alongside—
Cal’s heart skipped a beat. Beside the comb was the gold watch. He swallowed hard. “You know you’re supposed to wear that. It tells time and everything. That’s why I gave it to you.”
Jim’s lips twitched. “Yes, I heard a rumor. But I don’t want to get it scratched up out in the orchard. It’s for special occasions.”
“Guess you use the position of the sun to tell time, huh? Like Davy Crockett?”
Jim smiled. “Yeah, something like that.”
Beside the watch sat Jim’s battered dog tags, coiled neatly. Cal brushed them with his fingertips. In London he’d come close one night to throwing his tags into the Thames, but in the end he’d locked them away in a safe deposit box with his papers.
Cal’s eyes were inexorably drawn to the other dresser. Atop it sat several items on a yellowing lace doily. A velvet jewellery box that had probably never held anything like the diamonds and gold that adorned Cal’s mother. A gilded brush and comb set, neatly arranged side by side. A small bottle of perfume that Cal guessed smelled of some sort of sweet bloom. A pot of face cream.
The remnants of a life.
Cal turned to Jim, who wore the stoic expression Cal had etched in his memory since boot camp—only his eyes betraying a weary sadness. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it back for the funeral.”
“You were working in London. I understand.” Jim tried to smile, but didn’t quite make it. He reached for the other item resting on the dresser, a silver-framed wedding photo.
Ann wore a simple white dress without a veil, and only a sprig of delicate flowers tucked into her dark hair to match her small bouquet. She smiled widely on Jim’s arm, her eyes crinkling. Jim stood ramrod straight, posing seriously.
Jim straightened the frame’s position a fraction of an inch before stepping back. “I’m sorry you never got the chance to come out and meet her.”
“Yeah. So am I.”
Cal’s gut burned with shame. Standing in the woman’s bedroom six months after her death, deep down he still prickled with jealousy and resentment. She’d had what Cal never would. Never could. Part of him still hated her for that, as unfair as it was.
As much as he’d shared with Jim in those three and a half years of the war, it could never be this. The truth was, Cal had hoped he wouldn’t have to meet Jim’s wife, and had used every excuse in the book to avoid it. He’d often wondered what they’d make of each other. Now she was gone, and he’d never know.
He should tell Jim he’d made a mistake. Make his excuses and speed away from Clover Grove. Never, ever looking back. It would be best for both of them in the end. Cal would only mess everything up if he stayed, and Jim would understand if Cal left now. Jim always understood.
Squaring his shoulders, Cal took a deep breath. No. He wouldn’t run. He’d stayed away this long for his own sake. Now he had to put Jim first. Even if they couldn’t be together in the way Cal wanted, it would be enough. He hadn’t been here when Jim needed him, and Cal wouldn’t let him down this time.
“It’s a beautiful home you’ve got here, Jim.”
Jim exhaled. “Thanks.” The door slammed downstairs, and footsteps echoed. Jim’s solemn expression melted away, and his face lit up in a way Cal hadn’t seen in a very long time.
“Come meet the kids.”
**********
1942“I’m beginning to think they’re out of boats.”
Jim kept his gaze forward and whispered, “What?”
As they marched on in close order drill in the gray afternoon, backs ramrod straight, legs striding in unison to the DI’s cadence, Cal didn’t turn his head either. “The only reason they could possibly have for marching us around this much is that we’re walking to Japan.”
Lips twitching, Jim fought a smile. “Right through the ocean, huh?”
“Yep. This rain is just a warm-up for the real thing.”
“Plaatooon, halt!” Tyrell bellowed.
The men staggered to a stop, rifles clattering together. Jim blinked the rain out of his eyes and waited to find out why Tyrell had stopped them. It could be safely assumed that the recruits had done something wrong. As always.
From the corner of his eye, he could see Tyrell slowly stride down the column of men, eyes sharp like a predator stalking its prey. Jim prayed he would pass Cal by just this once and pick on one of the other recruits. Not that Jim wished them any harm, but he hadn’t gotten to know them. Everyone knew that once their six weeks of training was through, their platoon would be scattered throughout the Corps. No sense in getting attached.
But it was different with Cal. As much as Jim wanted the time to go quickly so he could officially be a Marine—and not stuck in this purgatory—he dreaded the day he would no longer have Cal at his side to raise a sardonic eyebrow or give him a hand, strong and sure, when he struggled at the top of the climbing wall during PT.
“Forrrward march!”
As they set out again, it happened so quickly that Jim wasn’t sure if Tyrell tripped him or if Cal had unluckily stumbled. Jim could only catch the edge of Cal’s rain poncho for a moment before Cal sprawled forward in the mud, crashing into the man in front of him, who staggered but remained upright.
“Plaatooon, halt!”
Shouldering his rifle, Jim sank to his knees beside Cal, who sputtered, wiping mud from his face as he glared up at Tyrell looming over them.
Tyrell narrowed his gaze on Jim. “Recruit! On your feet!”
The words were out before Jim could stop them. “He could be hurt, sir.”
Jim had grasped Cal’s shoulder, but Cal shook him off. “I’m fine.” He hissed under his breath as he moved to his feet, “Get up!”
Clambering up as well, Jim stood at attention once more, eyes on the helmet of the man in front of him. They all waited with bated breath for Tyrell’s next move. The freezing rain pelted down, and all else was silent. Jim tensed from head to toe, wondering if Cal was hurt. Cal seemed to be standing fine beside him.
Finally Tyrell spoke. Instead of his usual red-faced roar, he addressed Cal with an eerie calm. “This is what happens when you don’t stay in step, recruit.”
“Yes, sir.” Cal’s voice was flat.
“You’re filthy, recruit.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get out of that disgusting uniform.”
Cal hesitated. “Sir?”
With a swift intake of air, Tyrell unleashed at full volume. “Did I stutter? You’re a disgrace to this platoon! You’re not fit to wear that uniform, so get it off! On the double! Down to your skivvies!”
From the corner of his eye, Jim watched as Cal stripped, awkwardly shifting his rifle from arm to arm since he couldn’t dare put it down in the mud. He hopped on one foot as he struggled to yank his trousers off over his boots. Jim clenched his fists, pressing his arms to his sides.
Once Cal stood at attention again, Tyrell inspected him. He barked, “Pick up those revolting pieces of clothing. You think I’m gonna carry them back to the barracks for you?”
Cal did as he was told, balling up his uniform and tucking it under this arm. “No, sir!”
“Forrrward march!”
They were off again. Jim caught glimpses of Cal’s chest, the dark hair scattered across it matted down by the relentless, icy rain. As they marched on interminably, Cal began to noticeably shiver. Jim wanted to give him his own poncho and tell Tyrell to go to the devil, but knew it would only make things worse.
When they finally returned to the hub of the base, Marines laughed and hollered at Cal, whistling and breaking into a ribald song. Jim could see the stony set of Cal’s jaw as he ignored them. They were finally dismissed for an hour to write letters, but Cal headed straight to the head.
Although he was eager to write home, Jim followed. The empty shower room was large and open. Still in his muddy boots, Cal dropped his gear and clomped over to one of the showers and turned on the water. His soaked white briefs clung to his buttocks.
For some reason, group showers always made Jim strangely bashful and uncomfortable, even back in high school phys ed. He’d seen Cal and all the other recruits naked by this point, and didn’t want to be labeled a prude. Yet there was something about the sight of Cal in his boots and see-through skivvies that made Jim flush and turn away.
He realized Cal needed dry clothes, and hurried back to the barracks to retrieve Cal’s spare uniform and towel. When he returned, Cal still stood beneath the spray of water, his legs parted and arms braced against the wall.
Jim spoke, his voice croaking. “Cal?” He cleared his throat. “You’d better get dressed. Tyrell’s likely to call off the personal time any minute and get us marching again.”
With a nod, Cal turned off the water. A crooked smile lifted his lips when he saw Jim holding his spare clothes. “Thanks.”
As Cal bent to unlace his boots, Jim made himself busy at the sink, scrubbing his hands even though they didn’t need it. In the chipped mirror, he glanced at Cal toweling dry and dressing. When Cal swore under his breath, Jim turned around. “Okay?”
“Damn buttons.” Cal had on his undershirt, but struggled with his uniform.
Jim stepped closer and realized Cal’s hands were shaking. He reached out and covered Cal’s fingers with his own, wincing when he felt how cold they were, even after the warm shower. “Here. Let me.”
Although clearly about to argue, Cal acquiesced and lowered his arms to his sides. Jim inched closer, but found his own hands clumsy as he tried to button Cal’s shirt in the opposite way he was used to. “Wait, this’ll be easier.”
He moved behind Cal and reached around him, pressing against his back as he pushed each button through its hole. Cal seemed to be holding his breath, and didn’t move a muscle. When the last button was through, Jim stepped back and slapped Cal lightly on the back. “There you go. Ready for action.”
Cal mumbled a reply, face flushed. Jim was glad the shower and dry clothes had done the trick and that Cal was warming up again.
Megan Reddaway has been entertained by fictional characters acting out their stories in her head for as long as she can remember. She began writing them down as soon as she could.
Since she grew up, she’s worked as a secretary, driver, waitress, and flower-seller, among other things, but she always has a story bubbling away at the same time. She lives in England.
Charlie Cochrane
As Charlie Cochrane couldn't be trusted to do any of her jobs of choice - like managing a rugby team - she writes. Her favourite genre is gay fiction, predominantly historical romances/mysteries, but she's making an increasing number of forays into the modern day. She's even been known to write about gay werewolves - albeit highly respectable ones.
Her Cambridge Fellows series of Edwardian romantic mysteries were instrumental in seeing her named Speak Its Name Author of the Year 2009. She’s a member of both the Romantic Novelists’ Association and International Thriller Writers Inc.
Happily married, with a house full of daughters, Charlie tries to juggle writing with the rest of a busy life. She loves reading, theatre, good food and watching sport. Her ideal day would be a morning walking along a beach, an afternoon spent watching rugby and a church service in the evening.
Bestselling author of over sixty titles of classic Male/Male fiction featuring twisty mystery, kickass adventure and unapologetic man-on-man romance, JOSH LANYON has been called "the Agatha Christie of gay mystery."
Her work has been translated into eleven languages. The FBI thriller Fair Game was the first male/male title to be published by Harlequin Mondadori, the largest romance publisher in Italy. Stranger on the Shore (Harper Collins Italia) was the first M/M title to be published in print. In 2016 Fatal Shadows placed #5 in Japan's annual Boy Love novel list (the first and only title by a foreign author to place on the list).
The Adrien English Series was awarded All Time Favorite Male Male Couple in the 2nd Annual contest held by the Goodreads M/M Group (which has over 22,000 members). Josh is an Eppie Award winner, a four-time Lambda Literary Award finalist for Gay Mystery, and the first ever recipient of the Goodreads Favorite M/M Author Lifetime Achievement award.
Josh is married and they live in Southern California.Her work has been translated into eleven languages. The FBI thriller Fair Game was the first male/male title to be published by Harlequin Mondadori, the largest romance publisher in Italy. Stranger on the Shore (Harper Collins Italia) was the first M/M title to be published in print. In 2016 Fatal Shadows placed #5 in Japan's annual Boy Love novel list (the first and only title by a foreign author to place on the list).
The Adrien English Series was awarded All Time Favorite Male Male Couple in the 2nd Annual contest held by the Goodreads M/M Group (which has over 22,000 members). Josh is an Eppie Award winner, a four-time Lambda Literary Award finalist for Gay Mystery, and the first ever recipient of the Goodreads Favorite M/M Author Lifetime Achievement award.
After writing for years yet never really finding the right inspiration, Keira discovered her voice in gay romance, which has become a passion. She writes contemporary, historical, fantasy, and paranormal fiction and — although she loves delicious angst along the way — Keira firmly believes in happy endings. For as Oscar Wilde once said:
“The good ended happily, and the bad unhappily. That is what fiction means.”
Megan Reddaway
Charlie Cochrane
Josh Lanyon
EMAIL: josh.lanyon@sbcglobal.net
A Position in Paris by Megan Reddaway
Count the Shells by Charlie Cochrane
Murder Between the Pages by Josh Lanyon
An Act of Detection by Charlie Cochrane
Semper Fi by Keira Andrews
