Saturday, February 22, 2025

Saturday's Series Spotlight: Kitchen Gods by Beth Bolden Part 2



Savor Me #3
Summary:
When Chef Xander Bridges leaves the warmth and safety of his car on a cold, stormy night and approaches a stranger, the last thing he expects to find is a future. He’s wanted to leave his job for awhile, but with no good opportunities on the horizon, he’s been stuck in a long, painful rut. But when he befriends the stranger viciously tearing up his own vineyard, Xander discovers something inexplicable. Maybe he’s not the bitter, sarcastic man that everyone, including himself, has endured for years.

Maybe, with someone like Damon in his life, he could be something more. Something better.

Damon Hess doesn’t just want more, he demands it. With his alcoholic past, there are no gray areas for him. Only black and white. In love or not. Sober or drunk. But the chance meeting with Xander opens Damon’s eyes, and gives him a vision full of something he hasn’t experienced in years: hope.

Hope that he can expect companionship and affection, hope that he doesn’t have to grapple with his family’s questionable Napa legacy any longer, and most importantly, hope that there’s a future worth believing in. But the longer he and Xander spend cultivating that future, the more Damon realizes that the key is so much simpler than he ever imagined--it’s Xander.

Savor Me is an 80,000 word contemporary m/m romance starring an irascible man with a soft, gooey marshmallow center and another who knows he likes men, but has never been with one before. It is third in the Kitchen Gods series, but can be read as a standalone.




Indulge Me #4

Summary:
Chef Bastian Aquino is a notorious control freak. For two very long years, Kian Reynolds has worked for Bastian as his special assistant, doing whatever he and his restaurant needs. The toughest part isn’t even all the impossible tasks he expects Kian to complete flawlessly—it’s the hopeless, endless love he feels for his older boss.

Falling for someone so far above him might be agonizing, but at least his feelings aren’t unrequited. Bastian fell in love right alongside him, but at the very beginning, they made the choice to abstain for logical, smart, professional reasons.

But love isn’t logical, it isn’t smart, and it definitely isn’t professional. It defies containment, even by Bastian. While he watches Bastian struggle with their attraction, Kian finally comes to the conclusion that he’s done.

He’s done standing off to the side, done not getting any of the credit, done letting Bastian define the boundaries of their relationship. Most importantly, he’s done waiting.

Indulge Me is an 85,000 word contemporary romance, featuring an enormous amount of pining, a boss/employee relationship, an age gap and very delicious risotto. It is the fourth and final book in the Kitchen Gods series, and to receive a fuller, more enjoyable reading experience, I would recommend reading at least one other book in the series first.



Savor Me #3
Hands down, it was one of the best meals Damon had ever eaten. Even though he’d watched Xander prep it with his own two hands, it was a marvel that he’d done it with only those hands. It was a far better meal than any he’d ever had at Terroir, and that was prepared by an entire staff and countless pieces of expensive equipment.

Xander had come to his house with a bag of groceries and a knife, borrowed a pan and a pizza cutter, and had made an astoundingly delicious meal. It was talent and drive, all wrapped up in one package.

A cute package.

Damon had been telling himself not to notice—or if he was going to notice, then he should just ignore the attraction. But sitting across from Xander, staring at him in the candlelight, it was much harder than he’d imagined. Especially when he looked relaxed and much more at peace than he had that night a year ago.

At first he’d been too worked up himself to notice the anxiousness that Xander wore like a cloak. Or a very difficult-to-scale wall complete with archers equipped with fiery arrows and soldiers pouring boiling oil.

But tonight his guard had fallen a little, and despite everything, Damon wanted desperately to believe it was more than just quitting a job he’d really hated.

Damon wanted to believe the smile on Xander’s face had something to do with him.

“Thank you,” Damon said. “If that was an audition, you nailed it.”

“I know.” He was a little smug, and it was more than a little adorable. The way his nose scrunched up, the eye crinkles, the expressive look in his dark brown eyes.

Damon had imagined he might be in danger, hanging around Xander all the time, especially considering the impression he’d made on him in such a short time, but this was Trouble with a capital t.

“You’d better watch yourself. Not sure your head’s gonna fit back through the back door,” Damon teased.

“You wanted a chef,” Xander said, spreading his arms. “You got one.”

“They’re sort of thick on the ground in Napa,” Damon softly insisted, “but it turns out I’m particular.”

“Imagine that, a Hess particular.” The sarcasm in Xander’s voice cut through the dreamy romantic quality of the candlelight and let in a little of the real world. Specifically his family.

He couldn’t exactly tell Xander he didn’t ever want to talk about his family. After all, this land was their legacy, and his trust fund was making the restaurant a reality. Truth was, he really didn’t want to talk about them, and it felt like Xander brought them up as some sort of defense mechanism. Damon still didn’t understand why, and this was definitely not the first time it had happened.

“What’s your deal with the Hesses?” Damon asked. Might as well be honest, at least before Xander walked back in the house and signed the contract that would tie them together for the near future. Of course, that also meant the question had barely made it out of his mouth.

Something ugly churned deep in his stomach, exactly the opposite reaction he should have had after that incredible meal.

What if he changes his mind?

“Nothing,” Xander said, but his chin was jutting out again, and his fingers were drumming anxiously against the wood tabletop. It sure didn’t look like nothing.

There was a definite voice in his head, begging him to leave it, to make sure he didn’t drive Xander away with his insistent questioning. After all, Xander wasn’t signing with Hess Vineyards, he was signing with Damon, who stayed as far away from his family as possible.

But Damon’s last name was still Hess, and it wasn’t going to change.

“Really?” Damon asked.

Xander sighed. “I said it was nothing, and it is. It’s stupid.”

“I don’t want it to interfere,” Damon offered. “Not with what we’re about to build.”

“It won’t. I promise. I know you’re not your family. And to be honest, that’s what it is. I’ve had a few run-ins with Hess employees. But you’re not like them.”

The thing Damon had discovered before coming back to Napa, and definitely after returning to the Valley, was that he could run as far and as hard as he could, but his family was still his family. Time and distance couldn’t alter his blood, no matter how much he wished otherwise.





Indulge Me #4
“I’m sorry,” Bastian said quietly. “I’m sorry I gave Xander the sous job, not when you deserved it.”

Kian had been dying for this apology for six months, but even the tender, apologetic look Bastian swiftly shot him wasn’t enough.

He wanted more. He wanted Xander’s old job. He wanted more than just the fleeting touch of Bastian’s fingers on his cheek. He wanted another kiss. He wanted even more than that.

It didn’t matter that it was dangerous or that Bastian had said it was impossible. It didn’t even matter that a part of Kian believed he was right, because there was another part of him that was actively rebelling. That part wanted more, and was not going to be placated with less.

“And you’re still going to try to convince him to come back?” Kian said incredulously. He didn’t need Xander back; they both knew it. Bastian could promote Kian and the kitchen would probably run better, not worse.

But Bastian couldn’t have looked more surprised than if Kian had been the one to walk out in the middle of prep.

“I don’t think you understand,” Bastian began, and Kian knew him well enough, knew his mental gymnastics well enough by this point that he knew exactly what he was going to say. I don’t apologize to anyone, and I’m apologizing to you. You’re special, you’re important, and you need to stay exactly where I’ve put you.

Kian had liked that place, but even at the beginning, it hadn’t quite felt like enough, and by now, two  years in, Kian was tired of it and bored.

“I understand,” Kian cut him off. “More than you realize.”

Bastian’s hand dropped to his side and he flexed it, like he was trying to forget the way Kian’s skin had felt under his fingertips. Even if he never forgot, it wouldn’t be enough. Kian wanted to weasel his way under his skin, until there was nothing else between them. Until Kian didn’t know where he stopped and Bastian began. He loved him. Why had he ever thought this sort of half-relationship would ever be enough?

“I guess you do,” Bastian said slowly.

“I need to check on the soup,” Kian said and walked away.

He wanted to be shocked and incredulous that in one breath, Bastian would tell him that Kian should have had the job that was Xander’s and in the next, tell him he was getting Xander back. But the truth was, Kian wasn’t, at all.

He’d known the person Bastian was for a long time now, and he’d loved him anyway. Believing that his mother’s advice was solid, he’d loved the good and the bad parts of him, and that wasn’t going to change, at least not anytime soon. But he was done tolerating Bastian’s shit and he was done giving in.

Most of all, Kian was done being jealous of Luc for having things he never would.



Saturday's Series Spotlight
Kitchen Gods
Part 1  /  Part 2

Charleston Condors
Part 1  /  Part 2

Miami Piranhas
Part 1  /  Part 2

Food Truck Warriors
Part 1  /  Part 2

Los Angeles Riptide

The Rainbow Clause

Star Shadow



Beth Bolden
A lifelong Pacific Northwester, Beth Bolden has just recently moved to North Carolina with her supportive husband. Beth still believes in Keeping Portland Weird, and intends to be just as weird in Raleigh.

Beth has been writing practically since she learned the alphabet. Unfortunately, her first foray into novel writing, titled Big Bear with Sparkly Earrings, wasn’t a bestseller, but hope springs eternal. She’s published twenty-three novels and seven novellas.


FACEBOOK  /  TWITTER  /  FB FRIEND
WEBSITE  /  NEWSLETTER  /  CHIRP
TANTOR  /  AUDIBLE  /  FB GROUP
BOOKBUB  /  AMAZON  /  GOODREADS



Savor Me #3

Indulge Me #4

Kitchen Gods Series

Charleston Condors

Rainbow Clause

Los Angeles Riptide Series

Food Truck Warriors

Star Shadow


Friday, February 21, 2025

πŸ“˜πŸŽ₯Friday's Film AdaptationπŸŽ₯πŸ“˜: A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L'Engle




Summary:

Time Quintet #1
NEWBERY MEDAL WINNER • TIME MAGAZINE’S 100 BEST FANTASY BOOKS OF ALL TIME • NOW A MAJOR MOTION PICTURE FROM DISNEY

Read the ground-breaking science fiction and fantasy classic that has delighted children for over 60 years!

"A Wrinkle in Time is one of my favorite books of all time. I've read it so often, I know it by heart." —Meg Cabot

Late one night, three otherworldly creatures appear and sweep Meg Murry, her brother Charles Wallace, and their friend Calvin O'Keefe away on a mission to save Mr. Murray, who has gone missing while doing top-secret work for the government. They travel via tesseract--a wrinkle that transports one across space and time--to the planet Camazotz, where Mr. Murray is being held captive. There they discover a dark force that threatens not only Mr. Murray but the safety of the whole universe.

A Wrinkle in Time is the first book in Madeleine L’Engle’s Time Quintet.



CHAPTER 1
Mrs Whatsit
It was a dark and stormy night.

In her attic bedroom Margaret Murry, wrapped in an old patchwork quilt, sat on the foot of her bed and watched the trees tossing in the frenzied lashing of the wind. Behind the trees clouds scudded frantically across the sky. Every few moments the moon ripped through them, creating wraithlike shadows that raced along the ground.

The house shook.

Wrapped in her quilt, Meg shook.

She wasn't usually afraid of weather.—It's not just the weather, she thought.—It's the weather on top of everything else. On top of me. On top of Meg Murry doing everything wrong.

School. School was all wrong. She'd been dropped down to the lowest section in her grade. That morning one of her teachers had said crossly, "Really, Meg, I don't understand how a child with parents as brilliant as yours are supposed to be can be such a poor student. If you don't manage to do a little better you'll have to stay back next year."

During lunch she'd rough-housed a little to try to make herself feel better, and one of the girls said scornfully, "After all, Meg, we aren't grammar-school kids anymore. Why do you always act like such a baby?"

And on the way home from school, walking up the road with her arms full of books, one of the boys had said something about her "dumb baby brother." At this she'd thrown the books on the side of the road and tackled him with every ounce of strength she had, and arrived home with her blouse torn and a big bruise under one eye.

Sandy and Dennys, her ten-year-old twin brothers, who got home from school an hour earlier than she did, were disgusted. "Let us do the fighting when it's necessary," they told her.

—A delinquent, that's what I am, she thought grimly.—That's what they'll be saying next. Not Mother. But Them. Everybody Else. I wish Father—

But it was still not possible to think about her father without the danger of tears. Only her mother could talk about him in a natural way, saying, "When your father gets back—"

Gets back from where? And when? Surely her mother must know what people were saying, must be aware of the smugly vicious gossip. Surely it must hurt her as it did Meg. But if it did she gave no outward sign. Nothing ruffled the serenity of her expression.

—Why can't I hide it, too? Meg thought. Why do I always have to show everything?

The window rattled madly in the wind, and she pulled the quilt close about her. Curled up on one of her pillows a gray fluff of kitten yawned, showing its pink tongue, tucked its head under again, and went back to sleep.

Everybody was asleep. Everybody except Meg. Even Charles Wallace, the "dumb baby brother," who had an uncanny way of knowing when she was awake and unhappy, and who would come, so many nights, tiptoeing up the attic stairs to her—even Charles Wallace was asleep.

How could they sleep? All day on the radio there had been hurricane warnings. How could they leave her up in the attic in the rickety brass bed, knowing that the roof might be blown right off the house, and she tossed out into the wild night sky to land who knows where?

Her shivering grew uncontrollable.

—You asked to have the attic bedroom, she told herself savagely.—Mother let you have it because you're the oldest. It's a privilege, not a punishment.

"Not during a hurricane, it isn't a privilege," she said aloud. She tossed the quilt down on the foot of the bed, and stood up. The kitten stretched luxuriously, and looked up at her with huge, innocent eyes.

"Go back to sleep," Meg said. "Just be glad you're a kitten and not a monster like me." She looked at herself in the wardrobe mirror and made a horrible face, baring a mouthful of teeth covered with braces. Automatically she pushed her glasses into position, ran her fingers through her mouse-brown hair, so that it stood wildly on end, and let out a sigh almost as noisy as the wind.

The wide wooden floorboards were cold against her feet. Wind blew in the crevices about the window frame, in spite of the protection the storm sash was supposed to offer. She could hear wind howling in the chimneys. From all the way downstairs she could hear Fortinbras, the big black dog, starting to bark. He must be frightened, too. What was he barking at? Fortinbras never barked without reason.

Suddenly she remembered that when she had gone to the post office to pick up the mail she'd heard about a tramp who was supposed to have stolen twelve sheets from Mrs. Buncombe, the constable's wife. They hadn't caught him, and maybe he was heading for the Murrys' house right now, isolated on a back road as it was; and this time maybe he'd be after more than sheets. Meg hadn't paid much attention to the talk about the tramp at the time, because the postmistress, with a sugary smile, had asked if she'd heard from her father lately.

She left her little room and made her way through the shadows of the main attic, bumping against the ping-pong table.—Now I'll have a bruise on my hip on top of everything else, she thought.

Next she walked into her old dolls' house, Charles Wallace's rocking horse, the twins' electric trains. "Why must everything happen to me?" She demanded of a large teddy bear.

At the foot of the attic stairs she stood still and listened. Not a sound from Charles Wallace's room on the right. On the left, in her parents' room, not a rustle from her mother sleeping alone in the great double bed. She tiptoed down the hall and into the twins' room, pushing again at her glasses as though they could help her to see better in the dark. Dennys was snoring. Sandy murmured something about baseball and subsided. The twins didn't have any problems. They weren't great students, but they weren't bad ones, either. They were perfectly content with a succession of B's and an occasional A or C. They were strong and fast runners and good at games, and when cracks were made about anybody in the Murry family, they weren't made about Sandy and Dennys.

She left the twins' room and went on downstairs, avoiding the creaking seventh step. Fortinbras had stopped barking. It wasn't the tramp this time, then. Fort would go on barking if anybody was around.

—But suppose the tramp does come? Suppose he has a knife? Nobody lives near enough to hear if we screamed and screamed and screamed. Nobody'd care, anyhow.

—I'll make myself some cocoa, she decided.—That'll cheer me up, and if the roof blows off at least I won't go off with it.

In the kitchen a light was already on, and Charles Wallace was sitting at the table drinking milk and eating bread and jam. He looked very small and vulnerable sitting there alone in the big old-fashioned kitchen, a blond little boy in faded blue Dr. Dentons, his feet swinging a good six inches above the floor.

"Hi," he said cheerfully. "I've been waiting for you."

From under the table where he was lying at Charles Wallace's feet, hoping for a crumb or two, Fortinbras raised his slender dark head in greeting to Meg, and his tail thumped against the floor. Fortinbras had arrived on their doorstep, a half-grown puppy, scrawny and abandoned, one winter night. He was, Meg's father had decided, part Llewellyn setter and part greyhound, and he had a slender, dark beauty that was all his own.

"Why didn't you come up to the attic?" Meg asked her brother, speaking as though he were at least her own age. "I've been scared stiff."

"Too windy up in that attic of yours," the little boy said. "I knew you'd be down. I put some milk on the stove for you. It ought to be hot by now."

How did Charles Wallace always know about her? How could he always tell? He never knew—or seemed to care—what Dennys or Sandy were thinking. It was his mother's mind, and Meg's, that he probed with frightening accuracy.

Was it because people were a little afraid of him that they whispered about the Murrys' youngest child, who was rumored to be not quite bright? "I've heard that clever people often have subnormal children," Meg had once overheard. "The two boys seem to be nice, regular children, but that unattractive girl and the baby boy certainly aren't all there."

It was true that Charles Wallace seldom spoke when anybody was around, so that many people thought he'd never learned to talk. And it was true that he hadn't talked at all until he was almost four. Meg would turn white with fury when people looked at him and clucked, shaking their heads sadly.

"Don't worry about Charles Wallace, Meg," her father had once told her. Meg remembered it very clearly because it was shortly before he went away. "There's nothing the matter with his mind. He just does things in his own way and in his own time."

"I don't want him to grow up to be dumb like me," Meg had said.

"Oh, my darling, you're not dumb," her father answered. "You're like Charles Wallace. Your development has to go at its own pace. It just doesn't happen to be the usual pace."

"How do you know?" Meg had demanded. "How do you know I'm not dumb? Isn't it just because you love me?"

"I love you, but that's not what tells me. Mother and I've given you a number of tests, you know."

Yes, that was true. Meg had realized that some of the "games" her parents played with her were tests of some kind, and that there had been more for her and Charles Wallace than for the twins. "IQ tests, you mean?"

"Yes, some of them."

"Is my IQ okay?"

"More than okay."

"What is it?"

"That I'm not going to tell you. But it assures me that both you and Charles Wallace will be able to do pretty much whatever you like when you grow up to yourselves. You just wait till Charles Wallace starts to talk. You'll see."

How right he had been about that, though he himself had left before Charles Wallace began to speak, suddenly, with none of the usual baby preliminaries, using entire sentences. How proud he would have been!

"You'd better check the milk," Charles Wallace said to Meg now, his diction clearer and cleaner than that of most five-year-olds. "You know you don't like it when it gets a skin on top."

"You put in more than twice enough milk." Meg peered into the saucepan.

Charles Wallace nodded serenely. "I thought Mother might like some."

"I might like what?" a voice said, and there was their mother standing in the doorway.

"Cocoa," Charles Wallace said. "Would you like a liverwurst-and-cream-cheese sandwich? I'll be happy to make you one."

"That would be lovely," Mrs. Murry said, "but I can make it myself if you're busy."

"No trouble at all." Charles Wallace slid down from his chair and trotted over to the refrigerator, his pajamaed feet padding softly as a kitten's. "How about you, Meg?" he asked. "Sandwich?"

"Yes, please," she said. "But not liverwurst. Do we have any tomatoes?"

Charles Wallace peered into the crisper. "One. All right if I use it on Meg, Mother?"

"To what better use could it be put?" Mrs. Murry smiled. "But not so loud, please, Charles. That is, unless you want the twins downstairs, too."

"Let's be exclusive," Charles Wallace said. "That's my new word for the day.

Impressive, isn't it?"

"Prodigious," Mrs. Murry said. "Meg, come let me look at that bruise."

Meg knelt at her mother's feet. The warmth and light of the kitchen had relaxed her so that her attic fears were gone. The cocoa steamed fragrantly in the saucepan; geraniums bloomed on the window sills and there was a bouquet of tiny yellow chrysanthemums in the center of the table. The curtains, red, with a blue and green geometrical pattern, were drawn, and seemed to reflect their cheerfulness throughout the room. The furnace purred like a great, sleepy animal; the lights glowed with steady radiance; outside, alone in the dark, the wind still battered against the house, but the angry power that had frightened Meg while she was alone in the attic was subdued by the familiar comfort of the kitchen. Underneath Mrs. Murry's chair Fortinbras let out a contented sigh.

Mrs. Murry gently touched Meg's bruised cheek. Meg looked up at her mother, half in loving admiration, half in sullen resentment. It was not an advantage to have a mother who was a scientist and a beauty as well. Mrs. Murry's flaming red hair, creamy skin, and violet eyes with long dark lashes, seemed even more spectacular in comparison with Meg's outrageous plainness. Meg's hair had been passable as long as she wore it tidily in braids. When she went into high school it was cut, and now she and her mother struggled with putting it up, but one side would come out curly and the other straight, so that she looked even plainer than before.

"You don't know the meaning of moderation, do you, my darling?" Mrs. Murry asked. "A happy medium is something I wonder if you'll ever learn. That's a nasty bruise the Henderson boy gave you. By the way, shortly after you'd gone to bed his mother called up to complain about how badly you'd hurt him. I told her that since he's a year older and at least twenty-five pounds heavier than you are, I thought I was the one who ought to be doing the complaining. But she seemed to think it was all your fault."

"I suppose that depends on how you look at it," Meg said. "Usually no matter what happens people think it's my fault, even if I have nothing to do with it at all. But I'm sorry I tried to fight him. It's just been an awful week. And I'm full of bad feeling."

Mrs. Murry stroked Meg's shaggy head. "Do you know why?"

"I hate being an oddball," Meg said. "It's hard on Sandy and Dennys, too. I don't know if they're really like everybody else, or if they're just able to pretend they are. I try to pretend, but it isn't any help."

"You're much too straightforward to be able to pretend to be what you aren't," Mrs. Murry said. "I'm sorry, Meglet. Maybe if Father were here he could help you, but I don't think I can do anything till you've managed to plow through some more time. Then things will be easier for you. But that isn't much help right now, is it?"

"Maybe if I weren't so repulsive-looking—maybe if I were pretty like you—"

"Mother's not a bit pretty; she's beautiful," Charles Wallace announced, slicing liverwurst. "Therefore I bet she was awful at your age."

"How right you are," Mrs. Murry said. "Just give yourself time, Meg."

"Lettuce on your sandwich, Mother?" Charles Wallace asked.

"No, thanks."

He cut the sandwich into sections, put it on a plate, and set it in front of his mother. "Yours'll be along in just a minute, Meg. I think I'll talk to Mrs Whatsit about you."

"Who's Mrs Whatsit?" Meg asked.

"I think I want to be exclusive about her for a while," Charles Wallace said. "Onion salt?"

"Yes, please."

"What's Mrs Whatsit stand for?" Mrs. Murry asked.

"That's her name," Charles Wallace answered. "You know the old shingled house back in the woods that the kids won't go near because they say it's haunted? That's where they live."

"They?"

"Mrs Whatsit and her two friends. I was out with Fortinbras a couple of days ago—you and the twins were at school, Meg. We like to walk in the woods, and suddenly he took off after a squirrel and I took off after him and we ended up by the haunted house, so I met them by accident, as you might say."

"But nobody lives there," Meg said.

"Mrs Whatsit and her friends do. They're very enjoyable."

"Why didn't you tell me about it before?" Mrs. Murry asked. "And you know you're not supposed to go off our property without permission, Charles."

"I know," Charles said. "That's one reason I didn't tell you. I just rushed off after Fortinbras without thinking. And then I decided, well, I'd better save them for an emergency, anyhow."

A fresh gust of wind took the house and shook it, and suddenly the rain began to lash against the windows.

"I don't think I like this wind," Meg said nervously.

"We'll lose some shingles off the roof, that's certain," Mrs. Murry said. "But this house has stood for almost two hundred years and I think it will last a little longer, Meg. There's been many a high wind up on this hill."

"But this is a hurricane!" Meg wailed. "The radio kept saying it was a hurricane!"

"It's October," Mrs. Murry told her. "There've been storms in October before."

As Charles Wallace gave Meg her sandwich Fortinbras came out from under the table. He gave a long, low growl, and they could see the dark fur slowly rising on his back. Meg felt her own skin prickle.

"What's wrong?" she asked anxiously.

Fortinbras stared at the door that opened into Mrs. Murry's laboratory which was in the old stone dairy right off the kitchen. Beyond the lab a pantry led outdoors, though Mrs. Murry had done her best to train the family to come into the house through the garage door or the front door and not through her lab. But it was the lab door and not the garage door toward which Fortinbras was growling.

"You didn't leave any nasty-smelling chemicals cooking over a Bunsen burner, did you, Mother?" Charles Wallace asked.

Mrs. Murry stood up. "No. But I think I'd better go see what's upsetting Fort, anyhow."

"It's the tramp, I'm sure it's the tramp," Meg said nervously.

"What tramp?" Charles Wallace asked.

"They were saying at the post office this afternoon that a tramp stole all Mrs. Buncombe's sheets."


The story of Meg Murry and her little brother, Charles Wallace, who have been without their scientist father, Mr. Murry, for five years, ever since he discovered a new planet and used the fourth dimension time/space travel concept known as a tesseract to travel there.

Release Date: March 9, 2018
Release Time: 110 minutes

Director: Ava DuVernay

Cast:
Oprah Winfrey as Mrs. Which
Reese Witherspoon as Mrs. Whatsit
Mindy Kaling as Mrs. Who
Storm Reid as Meg Murry
Lyric Wilson as young Meg
Levi Miller as Calvin O'Keefe
Deric McCabe as Charles Wallace Murry
Chris Pine as Dr. Alexander Murry
Gugu Mbatha-Raw as Dr. Kate Murry
Zach Galifianakis as Happy Medium
Michael PeΓ±a as Red
David Oyelowo as The IT
AndrΓ© Holland as James Jenkins
Rowan Blanchard as Veronica Kiley
Bellamy Young as Camazotz Woman
Conrad Roberts as Elegant Man
Will McCormack and Yvette Cason as two gossipy teachers 
Daniel MacPherson as Mr. O'Keefe



 



Madeleine L'Engle
Madeleine was born on November 29th, 1918, and spent her formative years in New York City. Instead of her school work, she found that she would much rather be writing stories, poems and journals for herself, which was reflected in her grades (not the best). However, she was not discouraged.

At age 12, she moved to the French Alps with her parents and went to an English boarding school where, thankfully, her passion for writing continued to grow. She flourished during her high school years back in the United States at Ashley Hall in Charleston, South Carolina, vacationing with her mother in a rambling old beach cottage on a beautiful stretch of Florida Beach.

She went to Smith College and studied English with some wonderful teachers as she read the classics and continued her own creative writing. She graduated with honors and moved into a Greenwich Village apartment in New York. She worked in the theater, where Equity union pay and a flexible schedule afforded her the time to write! She published her first two novels during these years—A Small Rain and Ilsa—before meeting Hugh Franklin, her future husband, when she was an understudy in Anton Chekov’s The Cherry Orchard. They married during The Joyous Season.

She had a baby girl and kept on writing, eventually moving to Connecticut to raise the family away from the city in a small dairy farm village with more cows than people. They bought a dead general store, and brought it to life for 9 years. They moved back to the city with three children, and Hugh revitalized his professional acting career.

As the years passed and the children grew, Madeleine continued to write and Hugh to act, and they to enjoy each other and life. Madeleine began her association with the Cathedral Church of St. John the Divine, where she was the librarian and maintained an office for more than thirty years. After Hugh’s death in 1986, it was her writing and lecturing that kept her going. She lived through the 20th century and into the 21st and wrote over 60 books. She enjoyed being with her friends, her children, her grandchildren, and her great grandchildren.


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Thursday, February 20, 2025

⏳Throwback Thursday's Time Machine⏳: The Poison Pen by Kate Aaron



Summary:
Puddledown Mysteries #3
Spring, 1949

All of Puddledown is excitedly preparing for the upcoming wedding of Helena Fairfax, the Viscount’s daughter, to Walter Evans, a farmer’s son. The unlikely love match is the talk of the town, but Hugo Wainwright and Tommy Granger are dealing with a distraction closer to home. Tommy’s family have announced their intention to visit.

Hugo wants nothing more than to impress his friend’s sister and mother, but Tommy’s brother-in-law, the Rev. Daniel Stone, makes it clear from the moment he arrives he has no time for Tommy. Hugo never considered himself a violent man, but Daniel’s constant dismissal of Tommy brings all his protective instincts to the surface.

Then the letters start arriving.

The community is torn apart as malicious notes are pushed through doors all over Puddledown, and when Hugo receives one, Tommy starts to panic. The police have no suspects, so it’s up to Hugo to expose the culprit before the wedding is ruined and Tommy’s family leave, perhaps never to return. Can he solve the mystery, or will the veiled threats of an anonymous stranger drive Hugo and Tommy apart forever?


Original Review April 2015:
I think what I loved most about this installment of the Puddledown Mysteries, was how Hugo and Tommy pretty much switched places in their relationship.  In The Dead Past and The Coward's Way, Tommy was more confident and outgoing but here we have Hugo stepping up and taking the lead.  I think a lot of that has to do with the visit from Tommy's family.  Most of us turn back the clock a little towards our childhood when we find ourselves with our parents, and here we have Tommy's mother, sister, and brother-in-law visiting Puddledown in The Poison Pen.  As for Daniel, the brother-in-law, he's quite a pill to swallow so I won't even begin to go there.  As for the mystery letters, it may not be murder but I found it just as intriguing because everyone has something they don't want others knowing, so it truly can be anyone wielding The Poison Pen.

RATING: 





CHAPTER ONE 
It was a pleasant morning in February of 1949, and spring seemed to have come early to the small English town of Puddledown. Hugo Wainwright had risen with the dawn and now, still a little before nine o’clock, the sun was already shining brightly through the window in Hugo’s kitchen, a chorus of twittering sparrows serenading him from the hedgerows as he stoked a small fire in the open range, placed a kettle on the hob to boil, and laid out teapot, cup, and saucer on his table. 

The kettle had just begun to whistle when a familiar head passed by the window, and a moment later, Tommy Granger let himself in. 

“Good timing,” Hugo said, greeting Tommy with a kiss. “Kettle’s just boiled.” 

Tommy grinned and sat at the table as Hugo set out an extra mug and glass ashtray, and filled the teapot. Tommy removed his flat cap, lit a cigarette, and relaxed in his chair, idly stirring his tea while he waited for it to cool. 

It wasn’t unknown for Hugo and Tommy to share a companionable breakfast, but it was unusual to find Tommy in Hugo’s kitchen so early on a morning when he hadn’t spent the previous night. As groundskeeper for the Crowe Estate, Tommy lived a little way out of Puddledown, managing the woods in which he lived, plus the acres of open land surrounding the Hall, where Viscount Crowe kept horses and livestock. The Estate itself comprised much of the county, but the vast majority was leased to tenant farmers. Still, there was more than enough work to keep one man busy, and Hugo rather suspected they’d had an easy time of it over the winter. Come summer, he doubted he’d see Tommy barely at all. 

“Looks nice out,” Hugo observed, slicing a crusty loaf of bread he’d procured the previous day from Mrs May at the bakery and spearing the rounds on the tines of a large fork for toasting over the open fire. 

“It is.” Tommy nodded. “It’d be fine for May, this weather.” 

“Forecast says it’s set to stay for the month.” 

“That’ll be good. I can get a start on some of the jobs I’ve had backin’ up.” 

“Is that what you plan for today?” Hugo asked, removing the browned slices of bread and turning them to toast the other side. He didn’t like to intrude on Tommy’s work and couldn’t understand why the man would make the effort to call on him if he had chores which needed doing. 

Tommy took a drag of his cigarette, rolled the lit end delicately against the edges of the ashtray to remove the excess ash, and contem- plated the pointed tip he’d created. “Mebbe.” 

“Tommy, is something wrong?” As a rule, Hugo disliked con- frontation, but his friend appeared to be out of sorts, and he disliked that even more. Ever since he’d met Tommy, some four months earlier, he’d found himself acting more and more in a manner he would once have considered out of character. He supposed at this point, he would be better off accepting that his character had changed. Drab, dull Hugo Wainwright was no more: in his place stood a man in every way his better—no matter what the law had to say on the matter. 

Tommy, with a great show of reluctance, took a crumpled envelope from his jacket pocket and tossed it onto the table. 

Removing the toast from the fire—the rounds weren’t quite done, but they were close enough—Hugo shook them gently off the fork onto a plate and placed it on the table beside the envelope, noting it hadn’t been opened. 

“What is it?” he asked, straining for nonchalance as he lifted the lid from the butter dish and set it and a knife on the table. 

“It’s from our Beth.” Tommy’s sister, Hugo knew. From what he understood, they had rather lost contact when she married a vicar and moved with him to Scarborough. Tommy’s mother now lived with her, too. 

“Why ever haven’t you opened it?” Hugo asked, sitting opposite. “I should have thought you’d have been thrilled to hear from her.” 

“I’ve had several letters,” Tommy admitted, stubbing his cigarette in the ashtray and repositioning himself on his chair. He wouldn’t meet Hugo’s eyes, and his dark hair was sticking out at all angles from the back of his head, usually the result of him running a nervous hand through it. 

“And you didn’t tell me?” Hugo couldn’t keep the hurt out of his voice. Tommy’s family was important, and although they could never know him for who he was in Tommy’s life, Hugo hadn’t thought the reverse was true: that Tommy would keep from telling him about them. 

“It weren’t supposed to be anythin’ much,” Tommy said, having the grace to colour slightly. “After that business with Reg Davies.... Well, he said he’d been there, didn’t he? To Scarborough. I needed to know they was all right.” 

“And are they?” Hugo asked, fresh worry gripping him. Reg Davies had been a madman who blamed Tommy for the death of his son. He had planned to murder Tommy, but not before he killed everyone Tommy held dear first. Hugo felt he was only just beginning to put the night Reg had come for them behind him, and he still flinched whenever he heard his name. He hadn’t thought, in all the time which had passed since, of the safety of Tommy’s family. He felt an utter heel for not suggesting Tommy contact them. 

Tommy shrugged. “Beth says so.” 

“Well what’s preventing you from opening this letter, then?” 

Tommy hung his head. “I invited them to stay,” he admitted. 

“You did what?” 

“It were a spur of the moment thing.” Tommy looked at him, brown eyes wide. “An’ now our Beth’s replied, an’ I don’t know which is worse, if she says she’ll come or not. An’ I feel like a fool for not knowin’.” 

“Now then.” Hugo reached across the table and took Tommy’s hand. “It’s perfectly understandable you’d be conflicted. You haven’t seen them for a long time, and you miss them, but at the same time, you value your independence. That’s not so unusual.” 

“Would you open it?” Tommy asked quietly. 

“Of course, if that’s what you’d prefer.” Hugo released Tommy’s hand and took up the envelope. “Are you sure?” he asked, and at Tommy’s nod, he ripped it open. 

Beth Stone wrote with a small, neat hand in black ink. The paper was expensive and bore the letterhead of the diocese of York, where her husband, the Reverend Daniel Stone, was incumbent. It took Hugo a moment to decipher the handwriting and pass over the usual opening of greeting and well-wishes to get to the crux of the matter. “They’re coming,” he said. “All three of them.” 

“They ain’t!” Tommy snatched the letter to read it for himself. “Oh Lord,” he said, slumping in his chair. “I never expected her to bring him.” 

That Tommy had a fraught relationship with his brother-in-law, Hugo already knew. How much the Rev. Stone actually understood of Tommy’s nature, however, was a mystery. 

“I’m sure it’ll be all right,” he said in an effort to be consoling. “You’ll get a chance to see your mother and sister again. Look at it that way.” 

“There is that,” Tommy grudgingly conceded. “But where am I going to put them up? It says here Daniel’s got a fortnight off, an’ I can’t afford to lodge them in the coach house for two whole weeks.” 

“They can stay here,” Hugo suggested. 

“I can’t let you do that,” Tommy exclaimed. 

“Of course you can. I’ve got two bedrooms.” 

“An’ where will you sleep?” 

“I’ll stay with you.” 

Tommy pulled a face. “I can’t see Daniel acceptin’ that.” 

“Folks do it all the time,” Hugo said easily. “You’ve got a sofa. I’ll say I’m sleeping there.” 

“An’ let them think they’re puttin’ you out of a bed, when you’re a stranger to them?” Tommy shook his head. “It ain’t goin’ to work. I’ll have to speak to Lord Crowe, see if he can forward me some of my wages.” 

Hugo didn’t doubt the Viscount would forward the money and more, happily, given that only days before Christmas he’d offered Tommy the sum of five thousand pounds as reward for his part in convincing his runaway daughter to return home. Money Tommy had refused at the time, seeing no need to have such a large fortune to his name. 

Still, Hugo disliked the idea of Tommy going cap-in-hand to his employer, no matter how highly the man thought of him, and it was a terrible way to squander Tommy’s hard-earned wages when there was no need to go to such expense. 

“I insist,” Hugo said firmly. “If they’re here for a fortnight, I assume I’ll be meeting them anyway, in the guise of friend. For all they know, I’m a little eccentric and enjoy spending my nights on my friends’ furniture.” 

Tommy laughed grudgingly at that. “They’ll think you’re queer all right,” he said. “Do you really mean it?” 

“I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t.” Hugo smiled at his friend. “I must confess to an ulterior motive, however. The thought of having an excuse for spending two weeks sleeping in your cabin is simply too good to pass up.” 

Tommy smiled properly at that, his dark eyes dancing with mischievous intent. “There is that.” 

It wasn’t like Hugo hadn’t spent many nights with Tommy over the previous four months, but there was always the concern of being seen, of his neighbours noticing the nights his house was left empty, or the mornings on which Tommy snuck out before dawn. He and Tommy lived and loved outside the law, and it would never do for them to forget that fact, no matter how improbable or unfair it seemed. 

Hugo knew he couldn’t meet Tommy’s family as the man who loved him—couldn’t ask his mother’s permission to court her son, couldn’t greet his sister as his own—but he still wanted to make a good impression. He realised he wanted them to approve of him, in whatever small way; he wanted them to be happy he was part of Tommy’s life. Hugo liked to think his mama would have accepted Tommy, although she had passed long before they’d met. He only hoped he could earn the respect of Tommy’s family during the short time they were visiting. 




Kate Aaron
Born in Liverpool, Kate Aaron is a bestselling author of the #1 LGBT romances What He Wants, Ace, The Slave, and other works.

Kate swapped the North West for the Midwest in October 2015 and married award-winning author AJ Rose. Together they plan to take over the world.


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The Poison Pen #3
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