Thursday, April 4, 2024

⚾️⏳Throwback Thursday's Time Machine⏳⚾️: Carbon and Ash by Chris Owen



Summary:
Former minor league baseball player and little league coach Myles figures he and his buddy Todd have a lot in common. They're both single dads, they both love baseball and camping, and their sons get along great. They also have this thing they do, this touching thing a few times a year that Myles figures is just all about creature comfort.

The thing is, as they both think about dating other people and breaking up their late night tradition, Myles starts to realize maybe he's not as casual about Todd as he thought. In fact, he has to take a long hard look at how he feels, and hope he doesn't strike out.


Original Review April 2018:
Carbon and Ash is a lovely, short read that has just the right amount of heat and sweet.  Would I have liked to seen more of Myles and Todd and their sons? Of course.  Does the story lack anything by not having more background or future to their journey? Not at all.  Perhaps one day we'll see what these lads are up to but if not, I loved this short read and can honestly say I'll be re-visiting them again next year as spring training starts and I am in a baseball mood.  This is my first Chris Owen read but it will definitely not be the last.

RATING: 



The evening sun is warm on his back as Myles sends his team onto the field for the final inning. He watches them go, little legs full of far less energy after almost an hour of playing, but he can see their eyes still bright with interest and enthusiasm; it's just the limits of being six and seven years old that makes them slower. He knows how they feel -- the pull of the game warring with the limits of the body, the need to cram as much fun into a day as they can.

Myles makes sure that Joey stays to the right of the outfield instead of drifting off to the left where Matty Jones is. If those two get too close together they won't pay close attention to the game and will start looking for bugs again between batters. It's usually not a problem, but with exhaustion and the fleeting attention span of seven year olds, it would be far too easy for them to miss a play and descend into emotional meltdown. He knows about that, too, frustration and disappointment taking the joy out of baseball.

One of his charges, Sherry, is going even slower than the rest and Myles can see her feet kicking up little storms of dust as she crosses the diamond to second base, so he goes out after her. "Almost done, kiddo," he says, crouching down to meet her eyes. "Think you can catch that ball for me?"

She nods firmly, squinting a little as the sun shines on her upturned face. "Yes, Coach," she promises. "But I'm hungry."

"I'm sure you are," he says sympathetically. "More than an hour since supper, right? There's apples and oranges for you guys after the game."

She smiles and nods again. "Yum."

"You betcha." Myles stands up and pats her shoulder, being careful to keep the touch light and clearly a Good Touch. "You can do it," he tells her.

She looks up at him with six-year-old wisdom, her eyes clearly saying he's crazy. "Of course I can."


Chris Owen

Chris Owen lives with her family on the east coast of Canada. A writer, reader, board game player, knitter, and dog lover, she explores themes of chosen family in her work, often inserting her own hobbies into the characters lives.

A mother of two children who are rapidly reaching adulthood, she can frequently be found with a cup of coffee in one hand, staring dreamily at her yarn and pile of writing resources, dreaming of the day she can have a proper office with a door that closes.

Wednesday, April 3, 2024

March Book of the Month: The Pitiful Player by Frank W Butterfield



Summary:
A Nick Williams Mystery #14
Friday, July 8, 1955

Ben White, a movie producer working on Nick's dime, is ready to show off what he's been up to, so Nick and Carter head to Hollywood to see what there is to see and, to be polite, it stinks.

Ben's director has an idea and he says it's gonna make Nick even richer than he already is.

But, before they can start the cameras rolling, leading man William Fraser is found murdered at the lavish Beverly Hills mansion of seductive silent screen star Juan Zane. Carlo Martinelli, Ben's lover, is arrested and charged with murder even though everyone in town knows he's innocent, including the District Attorney.

Meanwhile, the Beverly Hills Police Chief makes sure that Nick knows that his kind of help isn't wanted in the posh village, home to some of Hollywood's most famous stars. The chief is running a good, clean, wholesome town, after all.

From Muscle Beach to Mulholland Drive, Nick and Carter begin to piece together the clues that point to who did it and why. Somehow they manage to do so in the sweltering heat and noxious smog of the Southland.

In the end, however, will anyone be brought to justice? It's Hollywood, so you'll have to wait for the final reel to find out.



Gotta start by saying this is the first of Frank W Butterfield's full-length novels I've read in the world of Nick Williams and Carter Jones.  As a series-read-in-order kind of gal it's unusual for me to start in the middle.  I was looking for recs that had a Hollywood/acting theme as Oscar season had arrived and The Pitiful Player came to my attention.  I knew starting the middle would normally throw me for a loop but I also knew(or suspected to be more accurate), having read Butterfield's Nick & Carter Holiday short story series there probably wasn't too many side characters that I wouldn't recognize and that for the most part it sounded like these mysteries were standalones.  

In I jumped . . . what a glorious splash landing it was.

I won't talk about the mystery part so I don't spoil it for anyone but I loved it, I loved the intricacies, the twists and turns that Nick and Carter found in their quest to free their friend.  Sometimes it seemed like every time a question was answered it only led to more questions but eventually everything works itself out with the aid of N&C and their merry band of ever-growing employees and friends.

I'm afraid my knowledge of the LA landscape comes from what I see in films/tv shows so I can't speak to the accuracy of said setting but I can't help but think Butterfield got it pretty spot on considering how awesome his attention to detail was in the N&C Holiday shorts. I do know that the inclusion of real Hollywood actors helped to pull me into the story, to make me feel like a customer at the Brown Derby or Joe's Diner witnessing everything firsthand.

A couple of examples that stood out, that made me stop reading for a second to appreciate the author's efforts:

1. William Hopper at the fundraising event.  I'm guessing not too many people realized that Bill Hopper, aka Paul Drake from TVs Perry Mason, was the son of Hedda Hopper.  I'll admit I didn't know it until about 10 years ago when I thought I saw him in a bit part of an old movie I was watching and looked it up on Wikipedia.  Such a tiny blip in this great story and yet for me it went a long ways to express the respect of the era the author has.

2. The speech Nick gave at above mentioned fundraising event for polio research and vaccine.  Nick speaks of a cop's daughter he met not needing an iron lung but still dealing with the disease and probably will for years to come.  My grandmother had polio when she was younger but also did not need the iron lung.  I think too many people don't understand there were other ways polio hit and just how important the vaccine was.  Butterfield including this again spoke volumes to me, such a small point in terms of wordage and pages but a huge point in establishing the era.

Now that those points have been made, I'm going to close out my review by saying even when the time comes and I've read all 32 entries as well as a few others in the Nick and Carter universe, the couple and their found families will never get old, will never fail to entertain. They are just so likeable and loveable you just can't help but gravitate towards them.

RATING:




Chapter 1 
1198 Sacramento Street
San Francisco, Cal.
Friday, July 8, 1955
Half past 7 in the morning 
I stood up from the kitchen table and said, "No." 

Carter stood and said, "Excuse us, everyone. We're gonna move this argument into the other room." 

We'd been having breakfast in the kitchen with Mrs. Strakova, our wonderful cook, Mrs. Kopek, her friend and our housekeeper, and Ferdinand, our gardener and ersatz chauffeur. The other three kids who worked for us had already left the table. 

I said, "Thank you, Mrs. Strakova, for another delicious meal." With that, I turned on my heel and made my way through the dining room and into the great room. 

As I did, I heard Carter say, "Yes, thank you." 

Mrs. Strakova replied, "You are very welcome, Mr. Carter."

As I stood in the great room, looking at the roaring fire that Carter had built while we were waiting for breakfast, I sighed audibly. I was, to put it mildly, sick and tired of having the same conversation over and over again. 

Right then, I heard Carter say, "What is the problem, Nick?" 

I shook my head and made my way for the stairs. As I made my way up, I could hear him following me. At the top of the stairs, I sped up, passing the two bedrooms on either side of the hallway, and breaking into a trot before banging open the door to our bedroom. I discovered a startled Gustav, our butler and valet, who was putting away the laundry he'd picked up the day before from down on Clay Street. 

He looked at me from where he was standing in front of the bureau. "I am sorry, Mr. Nick," he said apologetically. 

I slammed the bedroom door behind me and leaned against it. "Don't apologize, Gustav," I said with a sharpness to my voice that he didn't deserve. 

"Is this about—" 

"Yes." 

He smiled wanly and said, "I agree with you." 

As Carter knocked on the door behind me and started fiddling with the doorknob, I said, "That's fine, Gustav, but no one asked you." As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I instantly regretted it. I said, "I'm sorry." 

He shrugged. "That is fine, Mr. Nick. Shall I come back again to finish?"

"Go ahead and finish. I'm not letting him in." As I said that, Carter banged a little louder on the thick oak door. 

Gustav raised his eyebrows for a moment and then turned to finish unfolding and refolding the clothes he was putting away. He had a very specific way that he liked to fold our BVDs and socks. He'd stopped trying to get the laundry to follow his instructions and, instead, had decided he would just have to do it on his own each time the clothes came back. 

"Nick." That was Carter. "Let me in." 

"You said I was stubborn and you're right. I've already told you. It's not gonna happen." I leaned against the door and kicked off my shoes. 

Gustav looked down at my stocking feet with a question on his face. 

In a whisper, I said, "Makes it easier to get traction on the rug. My shoes will slip. I may need your help." I wasn't really serious but I wouldn't have turned him down if he offered. Carter banged again. 

"No, Mr. Nick. I must not get involved. We all have our little fights, now and then." 

I grinned but was also tempted to walk over and knock his block off for quoting me back to me. However, right at that moment, I was too busy trying to figure out which piece of furniture would be heavy enough to keep my very tall, muscular, ex-fireman of a husband from getting in the door. I knew that I had little chance of keeping him out. But I wasn't going down without a fight. 

"Nick, I'm gonna start pushing my way in, son. You better get ready."

"I don't care, fireman. You don't scare me." I hoped that by saying those words, usually reserved for our romps in the hay, that I might defuse the tension. 

"Look, Nick," said Carter from behind the door. "I have a meeting at 10. We need to get to work. And I don't want to have this argument again." 

"If you don't wanna have this argument again, then you should stop asking me about it." 

Carter sighed. "But I refuse to believe that you're gonna keep refusing me what I want." He was playing dirty. That was talk straight from our bed. I tried to get mad about it but realized I'd just done the same thing. 

"Gustav is in here, fireman." 

"Are you gonna stay in there with him and leave me out here, all alone?" 

Gustav looked at me with a grin on his face. 

I couldn't help but laugh. I stepped away from the door. As I did, Carter opened it. I bent over to pick up my shoes and should have known better because I left myself wide open. Carter took advantage of the situation and gave me a hard swat on my ass. I stood up and turned on him. "What was that for?" 

"For being an ass about all of this." He looked down at me with half a smile. 

For some reason, I could feel the tension come back. I nodded, walked over to the bench by the bed, and began to put my shoes on. 

"What are you doing?" asked Carter. 

"What does it look like I'm doing?" 

"I know what you're doing. Why do you need to do it?"

"Because these are new and the soles are still too slick." 

"Too slick for what?" 

Finished, I stood and said, "For getting traction to keep that door closed." 

Carter folded his arms. "You thought you were going to be able to keep me out?" 

Gustav, who didn't appear to be finished, made a beeline for the door. Without saying anything, he slipped out and pulled the door closed behind him. 

I nodded, putting my stone face on. "I did." 

"Don't try that look with me, Nicholas Williams." 

I melted a little, like I always did when he used my full name. But I wasn't ready to give in. Not yet. "Or what?" 

"You know." 

That tension was back. And it was riding on the back of unreasonableness. "Look, Carter. Cut the crap." 

He rolled his eyes. "What the hell is wrong with you?" 

I took a deep breath and thought about his perfectly reasonable question. After a moment, coming up with nothing, I replied honestly. "I don't know." 

"Well, I wish you would either tell me what is bothering you about all of this or just get mad and try to slug me or something." His voice cracked at the end. 

I blinked several times, trying to keep the tears from getting out. "I dunno. Really, Carter, I don't." 

Carter, whose face had been contorted in a frown, appeared to relax. He sighed. "You've been through a lot this year—"

I exploded. "And so the hell have you! So what? Why do you keep saying that? Yes, this has been a tough six months." I waved my hands in the air. "Seven months. However long it's been, it's been tough. But it's over." I brought my voice down. "Can't you see that it's over? Life is back to normal. Why do you have to keep bringing all of that up, over and over again?" I knew I was losing it, but I had a point and I wanted to make it. "Maybe, just maybe, if we stopped talking about it and just got back to living our lives, then it would go away." I plopped down on the bench and looked out the window. "It is fucking cold as fuck in this goddam house. Why the hell do we have all the goddam windows fucking open?" 

Suddenly, I couldn't stand the house any more. I wanted out of our gilded cage. I was sick of dealing with all our staff and running the business. I just wanted out. 

I looked at Carter for a long moment, wondering if he understood. He just stared at me as if he did but didn't know how to reply. Not knowing what else to do, I stood up, grabbed the shoe box by the wall, and pitched it against the mirror over the bureau. It shattered into several long pieces of glass and made quite a racket. I stood there, not quite sure how to respond to my own violence, and felt really, really cold. 

Carter walked over to me and put his hand on my shoulder behind my neck. He ran one finger up and down my spine. It felt soothing in a way I hadn't felt in a while. I thought I was going to cry, but the tears didn't come. 

There was a loud knock on the door. "Mr. Nick? Are you OK?" It was Mrs. Kopek. 

Carter replied, "We're fine, Mrs. Kopek. We need some time alone."

"Yes, Mr. Carter." 

I could hear her walk away down the hall. Whispered voices spoke in Czech and then faded as whoever was there made their way downstairs. 

Carter grabbed me by the shoulders and turned me towards him. He looked down at me for a long moment. His eyes were red but no tears came for him either. I wondered if we were just both cried out. 

He pulled me over to the bench. We both sat and he put his arm around me. We sat there for a long time. Finally, he stood and walked over to the side of the bed. He picked up the phone and dialed a number. After a moment, he said, "Marnie?" There was a brief pause. "Fine. Look, neither of us are coming in today. I have a meeting at 10. Burgess can take care of it. And, whatever is on Nick's calendar, just move it around or do whatever you have to do." There was a long pause. "We're fine. We just need to find some warm weather, that's all. Now, can you get Robert on the line for me?"




Nick Williams Mystery Series
In 1953, the richest homosexual in San Francisco is a private investigator.

Nick Williams lives in a modest bungalow with his fireman husband, a sweet fellow from Georgia by the name of Carter Jones.

Nick's gem of a secretary, Marnie Wilson, is worried that Nick isn't working enough. She knits a lot.

Jeffrey Klein, Esquire, is Nick's friend and lawyer. He represents the guys and gals who get caught in police raids in the Tenderloin.

Lt. Mike Robertson is Nick's first love and best friend. He's a good guy who's one hell of a cop.

The Unexpected Heiress is where their stories begin. Read along and fall in love with the City where cable cars climb halfway to the stars.

Long before the Summer of Love, pride parades down Market Street, and the fight for marriage equality, San Francisco was all about the Red Scare, F.B.I. investigations, yellow journalism run amok, and the ladies who play mahjong over tea.


Saturday Series Spotlights
Part 1  /  Part 2  /  Part 3
Nick & Carter Holiday Series
Welcome to a year of holidays with Nick Williams and Carter Jones!

This is a series of short stories with each centered around a specific holiday.

From New Year's Day to Boxing Day, each story stands on its own and might occur in any year from the early 1920s to the first decade of the 21st Century.




Frank W Butterfield
Frank W. Butterfield is the Amazon best-selling author of 89 (and counting) self-published novels, novellas, and short stories. Born and raised in Lubbock, Texas, he has traveled all over the US and Canada and now makes his home in Daytona Beach, Florida. His first attempt at writing at the age of nine with a ball-point pen and a notepad was a failure. Forty years later, he tried again and hasn't stopped since.


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The Pitiful Player #14

Nick Williams Mystery Series

Nick & Carter Holiday Series


Monday, April 1, 2024

⚾️Monday's Mystical Magic⚾️: Spiritual Whispers by VL Locey



Summary:
In a tiny Vermont town two men are about to discover the joys of falling in love all over again.

Taliesin Wadleigh has lived in Couton-on-the-River for his entire life. Six of those twenty-six years were spent with the first man who had ever captured his heart. Those times were the happiest of his life and then, without warning, his fiancΓ© was taken from him. Physically at least. Spiritually Carmichael is still in that whimsical shop with his beloved. Having a charming spirit close at hand to share late night tea with has helped heal Taliesin’s aching heart and he’s happy spending his days selling antiques to tourists and avoiding the outside world and all those who inhabit it. Or so he tells himself…

Then a tall, handsome stranger walks into his shop and Taliesin, as well as Carmichael, senses that their life – and perhaps their afterlife – is going to change dramatically.

When Eason Dunne retired from professional baseball two years ago he had plans. Amazing plans. Happy plans. Two years after he hung up his cleats all those glorious ambitions have fizzled. He’s now divorced and flitting from one project to another hoping to find…something special. Inheriting an old inn in some one horse – pardon him one moose – town in Vermont was not at all something special. Lacking anything else of meaning in his life he makes the trip from Las Vegas to Couton-on-the-River to try his hand at innkeeping. It’s in this little tourist trap that he wanders into the local antiquity shop and meets the eclectic, bespeckled, adorable owner. A man with somewhat offbeat taste in furnishings, a cross-eyed cat, a seemingly haunted radio, and one rather protective ghost. Eason isn’t sure what to make of the situation or his attraction to the skinny man in the bow tie but when danger threatens Taliesin both the men who love him are going to have to work together to save him.

Spiritual Whispers is a standalone small-town gay paranormal romance with a lovely age gap, a quirky antique shop owner, a disillusioned retired baseball player, a ghostly protector, a lazy shop cat, lots of tea, the occasional moose, and a happy-ever-after.


Original Review October 2023:
Paranormal stories may not be VL Locey's go-to genre for storytelling but that doesn't mean she isn't good at it, it just means when she ventures down that rabbit hole it was a story the characters were ready to clue her in on.  With Spiritual Whispers, Taliesin and Eason had a whopper of journey to share.

This is a lovely, fun, heat-filled, slightly spooky tale of moving on.  I say slightly spooky because the ghostly visits from Taliesin's love, Carmichael, are not scary at all, a bit mischievous once Eason enters the picture but not scary.  Though to be completely honest I can't deny my first reaction probably wouldn't be much different than Eason's freakout.  On the surface, Taliesin and Eason appear to be an opposites attract scenario which is true in part and yet they are perfectly suited.  From business associates to friends to lovers, the chemistry is there from day one and watching it grow is just one of the things that makes Spiritual Whispers such an enjoyable treat.

There are tendrils of drama in their journey which are wonderfully meshed within the fun side.  Some authors will rely on those dramatic tendrils a little too heavily which is fine if the story needs them but when they aren't needed it can weigh down an otherwise enjoyable read.  Locey pulls at those tendrils just enough to further weave an intriguingly fun web.  I loved how the author balanced all the elements and emotions which made Spiritual Whispers such a delightful read.

RATING:



Chapter One
Taliesin
I was pretty sure exactly what had spurred Winston to sit on my face.

Generally, three possibilities lead to having a cat butt in the face at the crack of dawn. My old, fat tiger cat was hungry. My old, fat tiger cat was hungry. And my old, fat tiger cat was hungry.

“Winston, honestly, it’s too early,” I groaned, pushing a furry ass off my forehead, then attempting to roll over. With the twenty-pound tom on the blanket, moving was difficult. I huffed and lay there, staring at the window of my bedroom, blinking blindly at the small electric alarm clock on my bedstand. The numbers were unreadable. Slapping at the stand for my glasses, I yawned, the sound of rain hitting the window finally reaching me through the thunderous purrs.

I lay there for another moment, Winston resting on my chest, whiskers tickling my scruffy chin as he watched me with his cross-eyed stare, and reminisced. Rainy fall days had always been Carmichael’s favorite. Autumn really made the man insanely happy. He’d bounce around the shop humming those silly old songs from the twenties that we played all day long at Afterlife Antiquities. He’d always said he’d been born in the wrong era. He had a passion for all things from the turn-of-the-century to the forties. The shop was packed full of delightfully different furnishings, knick-knacks, clothing up on the second floor, and various odd and disarming tidbits that tourists filing into Couton-on-the-River, Vermont, to leaf peep gobbled up.

With the pitter-patter of precipitation on the panes, I let my eyes close as the memory of Carmichael’s strong arms soothed the loneliness away. If only we’d known he would go so soon, we would have moved up the wedding. But fate was unkind that way. We’d dilly-dallied. We’d postponed several times so that his children could come to terms with their father falling in love with a much, much younger man.

Even though Carmichael had lost his wife Penelope to cancer years ago and then came out to his two grown children before leaving the UK, his two daughters loathed me. They felt that I’d been using my youthful charms to bewitch their father in some sort of internet gigolo scheme. As if I had any charms! And we’d not even met online. We’d met years after he’d settled in Vermont, far away from the painful memories in their Cotswold cottage. Charms. Pfft. It was preposterous. I was a beanpole ginger with wild curls and a wickedly terrible myopia. Oh, and there were my freckles and the fact that a good New England wind could blow me down the main street of Couton-on-the-River. Yep, I sure was beguiling. Not. The fact that Carmichael had left me this shop was still a source of contention with the girls, but there was nothing they could do legally. They’d tried, God knows, sapping me of most of my funds, which made buying new antiquities difficult. Guess they figured if the courts wouldn’t help them, they’d just keep burying me in legal fees until I had to sell. To them.

Winston patted my face with his paw. I blinked at him. “Right. Yep. I’m on it.”

He proceeded to walk down my middle, stepping on my full bladder and my left nut. So all in all, a typical Monday in Couton-on-the-River. I heard Winston patter across the floor and out to the living room to use his scratching post. Still suffering from the effects of another midnight tea, I snuggled under the covers, inhaling the smell of wisteria fabric softener on the beautiful white chenille bedspread Carmichael had so loved. Eighteen months ago it had smelled of him and me but now all traces of his scent were gone on the bedding. Sighing deeply, I willed away the melancholy, but the rain and wind blowing outdoors didn’t help. Without warning, the blanket was tugged from under my chin. I smiled at the ceiling as the faintest trace of that familiar sea-faring scent tickled my nose.

“Okay, I’m up. I’m up.” I kicked off the covers, let my feet fall to the smooth wooden floorboards, and rubbed my hands over my face. Knowing that would be the last I’d hear from the other side for the rest of the day, I blew out a breath and found my glasses. Once they rested on my nose, the rest of the world came into sharp view. The small bedroom piled with to-be restored or priced items, many of which had been here when Carmichael had died, the four-poster bed of dark walnut, the huge armoire that held our suits, the Cheval floor mirror in the corner, and the old window with the Queen’s lace scalloped topper. I moved to one of several throw rugs. My feet grew cold quickly and I ran a hand over the chilly pane as if I could swipe away the droplets magically. “Please rest. You expended too much corporeal energy last night,” I whispered to the empty room. If he heard me or not, I couldn’t say.

Winston reappeared, rubbing around my bare ankles. With a smile, I left the window and padded to the cramped bathroom to piss and wash my hands. I’d shower after breakfast to give the ancient water heater time to warm enough water to bathe in. I slid my feet into my slippers, pulled a smoking jacket on, and made the bed. That habit I’d picked up from Carmichael. For a man who lived among so much clutter, he insisted the bed was always to be made. Not wishing to disturb anything we’d shared, I simply did as he did.

Leaving the bathroom, I slippered my way into my living quarters. It was a congested area that doubled as a living room/dining nook/kitchen space that kicked off awkwardly from the rear of the shop. I sighed when I spied the pink rose Royal Albert tea set and pot sitting in the sink, still dirty from last night’s midnight tea.

“Sorry,” I said to the ether. Carmichael was rather fastidious about his tea sets. He would have never let a rare set like that sit overnight with tea in it. He claimed doing so would stain the fine porcelain. Given that he had spent nearly forty years in the antique business, I generally deferred to his vast knowledge. What I knew about Balmoral vanities, drop-leaf tables, and Blue Willow dishes could fit into one of the sterling silver thimbles that were on display in the main showroom. I was more of a button, bow tie, and hat man, but since losing my fiancΓ©, I was learning fast. I had to. Antiquities were hot commodities, especially in a tourist town that sat about forty miles from Manchester, Vermont. There was a woman in Manchester who ran a huge shop that pulled in triple the sales that I did. Her name was Cruella. Not really. It was Davina Crook, and her last name suited her. She had oodles of cash and always outbid me at the sales we attended.

“I’m going to use electric today,” I mumbled to whoever was listening. I could picture him scowling at me as he always did when I took the lazy way out.

“One must make real tea properly,” he would say and then insist I use the kettle on the stove so I wouldn’t overboil the water, which would remove oxygen. He would add, “When you get to my age, my sweet, you learn that taking time to do things with love is the only proper way to live.” After, he would kiss me softly and supervise the tea making from the breakfast nook.

“It’ll be Earl Grey,” I offered to the silent little apartment, knowing that would placate him. “Hot,” I added, then winked. I’d often teased him about being my version of Captain Picard. They resembled each other greatly, from the suave British accent to the balding head to the love of history and antiquities. Carmichael would usually preen a bit after the comparison was made, and rightfully so. Sir Patrick Stewart was incredible.

Making a mental note to clean the teapot and cups before I opened the shop, I brewed a cup of Earl Grey, toasted a bagel, and then fed poor starving Winston. The old tom dove into the dry food in his dish as if he’d not eaten in months. Which was simply not true. His dish was empty because he was a piggy. Still, I adored the old man. Guess I really did have a thing for mature men, be they furred or balding.

Winston and I ate in companionable silence as a cold September rain beat on the windows. Afterward, I showered, shaved, and got dressed in a blue checkered suit with a white shirt and blue bow tie. I’d always loved skinny suits and bow ties. It was my esthetic. I raked my fingers through my wet curls—combing was impossible as I’d forgotten to condition the snarled mass of ringlets—and splashed on some sandalwood bourbon cologne. It stung a bit. I put on my wristwatch, checked the time, and entered Afterlife Antiquities via the woefully empty storeroom. I placed some bills and coins into the register and pulled up the playlist of songs from bygone eras on my phone and fed it through the stereo system via Bluetooth. That was one small concession I’d gotten Carmichael to make. He’d used cassettes for years for background music. I took pride in bringing computers and a small bit of tech to our store. It sure made bookkeeping easier.

Breathing in the smell of lemon furniture polish and fine wood, I made a quick sweep of the store to check for dead mice. Winston had a habit of leaving partially eaten rodents lying around, which skeeved out the customers. The ground floor held most of the antiques left in stock. We carried anything from a massive parlor organ and hand-crafted wardrobes to small trinkets and fine jewelry. Upstairs we had a small nook filled with antique clothing, ties, shoes, hats, and more hats. There was a small sitting area with two armchairs and a round table. In the corner was a maple stand that held a cathedral style radio circa 1931, the tubes on their last legs, but the teakwood veneer was still in perfect condition. I ran my fingers over the burnished knobs that controlled the volume, tone, and the lighted dial for seeking stations.

That was where we had midnight tea when the ether was conflux to supernatural communications. I’d found Carmichael here dead that day, sitting in the armchair on the left, reading one of the dusty old books that he loved so much, a cup of Earl Grey still steaming as it rested on its China saucer. He’d not been gone thirty minutes, citing his need for a break on that particularly busy early summer day. When I called him down for lunch, he’d never replied, so I went looking. Sometimes he would nap up there, but this time...well, this time he wasn’t asleep. The aneurysm had been painless, according to our local doctor. Which was a small blessing.

The rattling of the door pulled me from my memories. I patted the radio, straightened my bow tie, and hustled down the stairs to unlock the front door. I’d been expecting a slow morning due to the cold and rain. Peering around the sign that had our hours of operations on it, my gaze went up, up, up and locked on a woefully sodden man with a face of a battle god, scarred, yes, but masculine and beautiful. Dark hair plastered to his head and his shoulders drawn up by his ears.

The fine hairs on the nape of my neck rose as our eyes met through the wet glass.

“He’s so beautiful.” I sighed, my breath fogging the glass.

Mr. Handsome and Soggy jerked his wet hand at the door in a “Are you going to open the door or what?” gesture. I gasped at my rudeness, threw the deadbolt, and yanked open the door. A chilly wind whirled around me as rain blew into the shop.

“I’m so sorry, I—” I began. The door then flew out of my hand and slammed shut. My gaze flew around the shop. “What are you doing?!” I spat to the specter who had to be hovering nearby. Obviously, I got no reply. It wasn’t the proper time for communication across the void. Stunned by Carmichael’s behavior, I rattled the knob to no avail. “What on Earth?!” I growled, jerking on the knob with all my strength. It creaked open an inch. Mr. Handsome and Soggier said something that sounded rather snippy, and then the door crashed shut yet again. The deadbolt locked tightly a second later. “Why are you being such a temperamental turd?!” I shouted as I battled with the lock, to no avail.

Wasn’t this a fine way to start the day?


VL Locey
V.L. Locey loves worn jeans, yoga, belly laughs, walking, reading and writing lusty tales, Greek mythology, the New York Rangers, comic books, and coffee.
(Not necessarily in that order.)

She shares her life with her husband, her daughter, one dog, two cats, a flock of assorted domestic fowl, and two Jersey steers.

When not writing spicy romances, she enjoys spending her day with her menagerie in the rolling hills of Pennsylvania with a cup of fresh java in hand.


EMAIL: vicki@vllocey.com