The new novel is progressing and I'm getting that familiar feeling of excitement and anticipation as the story starts to come together and take off. The hope is to have it ready by the end of May, so I'm really going to have to make the most of my writing time. So, to cut this short, I'm giving you a fun little snippet of HOLD ON FOREVER.
To set up the scene, Mark has accidentally broken Riley's front door knob and is going to get a new one. Riley is concerned that the new knob matches the style of the home. Enjoy!
Without
batting an eyelash, she asked, “Who is the designer credited for Americanizing the
Craftsman style?”
He
blinked.
She
took advantage of his silence. “Gustav Stickley. 1856 to 1942. Furniture
designer and architect. See that rocking chair over there?”
He
glanced at an old square rocker in the corner next to the fireplace. Oak.
“It’s
a Stickley,” she said. “Someone was throwing it out! You don’t throw out an old
Stickley just because it’s a little beat up. You bring it home and polish it up
and put it in a Craftsman style home that maybe you’re only renting but would
someday like to buy if you finally decide to stay in one place longer than
twelve months, that’s what you do.”
He
blinked again. “Would you . . . like to come help pick it out?” She was out of
her freaking mind.
She
marched over to the front door and swung it shut. It bounced, shuddered, and
slowly swung open again. “Somebody broke my front door. I have to stay and
protect the Stickley, among other things.”
He
rubbed his face. This was not the morning he had planned. He glanced around the
room. “With your baseball bat?”
She
gave him a hard look, but only said, “Send me a pic from the store.”
“Yes,
ma’am.”
“I’m
not your mother.”
He
covered a smile. “No, ma’am.”
She
growled and put her hands on her hips. “You’ll need my number.”
“Yes
I will. Riley.”
She
paused, looking up at him. In that brief moment, with the banter stopped, he
found it hard to breathe. Then just like that, Riley Madigan was standing close
to him, her hair threatening to poke him in the eye, putting her phone number
into his phone.
She
gave it back to him, and he detected a little shake in her hand. “There. I
didn’t mean to be so bossy. I tend to go a little nuts over old things.” She
looked up at him, her freckles clear now in the light streaming through the
window. “I’m sorry.”
“Your
eyes are the color of moss you see in the woods,” he said. “It’s a cool,
soothing color.”
She
blinked and looked away, now her cheeks blushing pink.
“It’s
deceiving,” he said. “You’re not very soothing at all.”
He
watched her eyes open wide.
“You
. . .”
He
chuckled and made for the door.
“You
. . .” she repeated.
He
waved goodbye and made it off the porch.
“You
. . . are no Gustav Stickley!” she called from the open door.
I used to post on here fairly regularly and share all kinds of writerly stuff. The last time I posted I was sharing all the wonder of releasing THREE books in one month! That was pretty sweet and I remember it fondly.
But life is funny and when lots of big things happen, priorities have a way of slamming themselves in order, and sadly, this little blog took bottom rung, patiently waiting for me to, well, remember it existed as we traversed life's wrecking balls and celebrations. Our family has been reminded that stumbling blocks can become stepping stones, and our journey here moves forward in surprising, exhausting, wondrous ways, whether we want it to or not.
That sounds way more cinematic than I intended. If you'd like to catch up with what we've been up to lately, visit the kickyloo&co blog. It's a little crazy over there.
And now, what do you know, I'm back here. Which has made me consider what I want to use this blog for. In the past, I've shared things I've learned about the writing process and industry. I've shared all of the news about my books and their releases, and I've conducted contests for those occasions. I've interviewed other authors and I've had regular post series (Tuesday Edit Crunch, anyone?).
But blogging has changed a bit in the last couple of years. I know I still visit blogs if I'm researching a specific topic or following an interesting link. But I remember the days of blog lists and weekly visits to my favorites. Ah, the sweet bygone days of where-did-I-find-the-time-to-do-that.
Honestly, my favorite posts were the shared writing tips, thoughts on writing, and the news about my own books. So maybe if I just focus on those things, I'll be more apt to hop over here and post. Simple. I'll still conduct giveaways and such for my book releases, etc, but I'll do that from Facebook. I've been posting from my FB Author page for most of that news. If you'd like to keep up-to-date on how things are going, like my page HERE. It's not too in-your-face, and pretty laid-back. Promise.
EXCEPT WHEN A NEW COVER COMES OUT FOR MY NEXT BOOK!
So go on over there and see what my next book, KISSES IN THE RAIN, looks like! There is also a sneak-peak at the back cover! And a contest! Yup, a chance to win a signed copy of KISSES. It comes out in JUNE. THAT'S CLOSE.
See? I may have been absent from this blog, but I was working hard. I love this job. And I hope you love this new book.
If someone told Jillian Parish moving on is easy, she would argue that it depends on what someone is leaving behind, and how much chocolate is available.
Jill has worked hard to build up a life far different than the one scarred by her mother's alcohol abuse. She works at a busy publishing house, is writing the novel of a lifetime, and goes home alone every day to a little dog, a spotless apartment, and a piece of 70% cacao and sugar. But in one day, Jill’s phone is stolen, she is tackled by a childhood love who has no idea who she is, and finds her long-lost sister on her front doorstep. In two days, Jill’s carefully controlled world is turned upside-down. In three days, she wonders if chocolate will ever be enough again.
When Scott Gentry moves to the city of Portland, Oregon and spots Jillian at church, he learns her reputation as a lost cause. But something compels him to get Sister Parish's attention, no matter how difficult that may prove. As Scott stumbles, crashes, and falls into Jill's guarded world, he finds himself with more attention than he bargained for, and more willing to do anything he can for the woman who is not made of stone, but of strength.
Grace brings Jill and Scott together, but can grace erase the past, or save the abandoned hearts left in its wake?
I knew this was coming, I just wasn't sure how soon. But it's here. Finally. And I love it. I LOVE IT! I can't tell you enough how well this cover embodies the feel of this story.
I think it's time for a celebratory giveaway . . . maybe some chocolate. Maybe more books . . .
And what could be better in showing how I feel about this cover, than giving away a decadent assortment of Chocolove bars?
Delicious Belgian chocolate in a wrapper with a love poem written on the inside. Four of these babies could be yours. You may want to think about giving one of them away yourself. See what happens... ;)
And the book giveaway? A rollicking romance set in the Old West. Michelle Paige Holmes' Captive Heart is adventurous, sassy, and warm.
I'm changing the entry rules a little bit for this contest. All that is required to enter is:
1) "Like" my Facebook Author page, here: Krista Lynne Jensen Author, or go to the Facebook box in the sidebar on the right and click "like". Easy peasy.
2) Leave a comment here telling me what you think about the new cover. Am I just asking for trouble or what? :)
3) Share this contest on Twitter, Facebook, your blog, email to your family, post it on the bulletin board at work, send it in a note to your kids' teachers, sky-writing, that kind of thing. Let me know what you did in a comment here. You will be entered for each mode of sharing the love, each day you share. The more you share, the more entries you'll have!
Contest will close at midnight, Wednesday, November 9th.
*Just a note: If you entered a previous contest, you do have to share the new contest and leave a comment for your follow and "like" status to count. That's a possible 4 entries right there!
Now, I'm going to sit back and bask in the wonder that this is really happening. A couple more months and I'll be holding this book in my hands! Eeeeee!
First of all, congratulations to Sarah and Megan, the winners of this month's Countdown Celebration giveaways! Hooray! As an extra treat, here is another sneak peek into Of Grace and Chocolate, coming in January!
Picture by Vincent Lock - flickr
He dropped his eyes to the ground and kicked at a tuft of grass growing along the road. “I’ve been reading your book.”
“I asked you not to—”
“I know. But after this morning, I had to go back and reread.”
“Why?”
“Because before . . . I didn’t know you.”
“And now you do?” She searched him warily. Before this morning, she was just some woman who had snubbed his attempts. Now . . .
“Yes. I mean, of course I don’t know you as well as—but I know more about where you come from, where you were once.”
He knew where I was once. The truth warmed and frightened her. How many people in her life could say that? She wrapped her arms around her body as she sensed the danger of letting him get closer, the risk of getting hurt.
She swallowed and straightened her shoulders. “So now you’re a biased reader who thinks my writing is wonderful because you feel you owe me?” She gave him a small smile, but she meant what she said. If her friends and coworkers had all been correct in their glowing reviews of her writing, she should be a bestseller by now.
“I don’t think your writing is wonderful.”
Her heart dropped, and she hated that she cared what he thought.
“I think it’s soulful and poignant and funny. I think it’s genuine.”
She stared at him, soaking in his words but trying not to. He began to walk again, and it took her a second to make her feet move.
*sigh*
Now onto the news.
The Christmas anthology I'm part of, A Christmas to Remember, is now available in both Kindle and paper formats! My author copies arrived Friday night. I got home from work, tore open the box, gazed lovingly, then left again for a movie. On Sunday I snuggled up and read all the stories. What a warm and cup-filling collection! I hadn't seen the other stories until then, and it was wonderful to have so many different and fresh perspectives on the true meaning of Christmas. It really is a beautiful compilation. I'm ready to put up the Christmas decorations, but it's a bit early, even for me.
The Deseret Books catalog arrive yesterday. We turned the pages, scanning each, and turned, and turned . . . and there it was, in the bottom right corner of page 15! My name is very tiny and fuzzy and a little shaded, but it's there and people will be reading a little true story I wrote about the Christmas we lost our baby girl and the strength we found in that holiday. It's my hope it will bring comfort and reassurance to anyone who has experienced loss. This really is such an unexpected way to begin my published works, but I'm grateful and delighted.
In celebration of my first publication, I'm throwing in a Bonus Grace and Chocolate Countdown Celebration giveaway! The prize?
A COPY OF A CHRISTMAS TO REMEMBER and a bag of COCOA-DUSTED ALMONDS.
This will be one giveaway of both a book AND chocolate! And just so you understand, these are organic roasted almonds, double-dipped in creamy chocolate, then dusted lightly with rich cocoa powder. You may keep these gifts for yourself or give them away! You may have a hard time doing that, though.
All that is required to enter is:
1) Become a follower of this blog.
2) "Like" my Facebook Author page, here: Krista Lynne Jensen Author, or go to the Facebook box in the sidebar on the right and click "like". Easy peasy.
3) Share this contest on Twitter, Facebook, your blog, email to your family, post it on the bulletin board at work, send it in a note to your kids' teachers, sky-writing, that kind of thing. Let me know what you did in a comment here. You will be entered for each mode of sharing the love, each day you share. The more you share, the more entries you'll have!
*Just a note: If you entered a previous contest, you do have to share the new contest for your follow and "like" status to count. :)
This contest will close at midnight, Friday, October 21st. Remember, I'm giving away prizes every month until the release of OF GRACE AND CHOCOLATE! And then we'll have even more giveaways! HOORAY!
I've drawn the first pair of winners of the Grace and Chocolate Countdown Celebration, thanks to random.org.
Sarah M. Eden's SEEKING PERSEPHONE goes to Afton Grant!
And the Chocolate-Covered Cinnamon Bears go to Michelle Teacress!
Winners, please send me an email at kristalynnej at yahoo dot com!
Thank you to everyone for entering and spreading the word about the release of OF GRACE AND CHOCOLATE! The response was amazing, with 75 entries! You all deserve to win! As a bonus, I'm giving you a sneak peek into the book:
“Have you ever been to Pacific City?”
Jill shook her head. “We would go to Newport, mostly. Once, though, we went to Lincoln City.”
“Well, that makes sense, being from Lebanon. And everyone goes to Lincoln City. Did you like it?”
“Mm-hm. I remember the kites. And the wind.” The breeze brushed her hair as they passed the dark houses and rose over the dune. The beach grass swiped against her jeans. She paused, bending down to pull off her shoes and socks. Laura joined her, and they rolled the hems of their pants while the kids caught up.
Her bare feet sank into the cool of the dune then flipped little puffs of it up as she walked. The sound of the waves grew louder, and her feet hastened to get her to the top.
The night stretched out, black sky meeting black water in motion, the moonlight bouncing off the gentle crests of each low wave running to the shore. Jill took a deep breath as she stood, absorbing it.
Laura sighed. “I never get over it.”
Neither did Jill. The beach was the one place—the one place—with only happy, peaceful memories. Her mother must have loved it enough. They hadn’t gone often as a family. Maybe that was a factor. “It almost makes it all go away,” she whispered, unsure if she meant the last couple days or her troubled past.
October's prizes will be announced on October 10th, and they are FABULOUS. Please come back and enter again, and tell your friends!
Until then, I'll be posting more news about OF GRACE AND CHOCOLATE, and I'm especially excited to bring you more details about the Christmas anthology I'm part of, A CHRISTMAS TO REMEMBER.
A writer and nothing else: a man alone in a room with the English language, trying to get human feelings right.
~John K. Hutchens, New York Herald Tribune, 10 September 1961
I am getting The Inn ready for submission, diving into another edit. It is the sequel to The Orchard and centers around Elizabeth Embry, Alisen's older, snobby, successful sister. It had to be different because Elizabeth is such a different character from Alisen. Alisen was so open and searching. Elizabeth is closed and cautious, skeptical. Alisen had never been away from home. Elizabeth is hardly ever home. Alisen had innocence. Elizabeth has been there, done that. It was very interesting, finding her story. But they both had their childhood, shared the pain of the loss of their mother, and, though Elizabeth's awareness of it is latent, are looking for home... a place to belong.
The Inn has been my most difficult novel to write so far. It was my first novel without a definite inspiration (The Orchard was based on Jane Austen's Persuasion) and so I still worry about where it goes, plot and conflict. But I do love the emotion, because Elizabeth is so guarded. I loved having her true feelings forced to the page. So, while I struggle with the twist and timing, here is a snippet of emotion I do like. The X's are to eliminate a spoiler.
She flipped on the entry light and looked around. The cathedral ceilings made the room feel extra large, or maybe she just felt small tonight. The furniture was simply arranged in front of the fireplace on the right wall, and the back windows overlooking the golf course were black, only reflecting the room and her own image. She took a deep breath and headed for her bedroom.
She hung up the dress in her closet, set down her bag, and sat on the bed. Her heart began to thud a little too uncomfortably and she took another breath. Gripping her phone, she pressed the button.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Paul.”
“Liz. How are you?”
She pictured his smile.
She breathed as she spoke, trying to hide the rapid movement she felt from her heart to her throat. “I’m good. I’m sorry I couldn’t return your call earlier. I’ve been on the road.”
“Where to this time?”
“Actually, not too far. XXXXXXXXX.”
There was a pause. “Well, that’s great.”
“Yes, it is.” She tried not to overdo the enthusiasm as she smiled. “It was lovely.”
“Good, Liz. Man, its great to hear your voice.”
Something occurred to her. She looked at the clock. “Are you still in Hong Kong?”
He laughed quietly. “No. I’m in Maine. I opened a restaurant here a while back.”
“Oh.” She hadn’t expected that. “It’s still late, though. I’m sorry.” He didn’t say anything. “Should I call back in the morning?”
“No, no, of course not.”
“So, Maine?”
“Yes. An old friend of mine offered me a chance at his place and I couldn’t turn it down. I missed the homeland. And the restaurant is doing really well…”
He sounded as if there was more. She waited, gently biting her manicured thumbnail. “And…?”
He took a deep breath and she pictured him scratching his hair back and forth as he raised his eyebrows. “…and, I’m getting married, Liz.”
She blinked and felt heat rising up her neck, then her face. She didn’t breathe as her mind flipped like a deck of cards, too fast to land on something to say.
“I wanted to tell you… before you heard it from somebody else.”
She nodded, somehow finding her voice. “Anyone I know?”
“No, no. She’s a schoolteacher here in Maine. She’s… she’s really great, Liz.” His voice was gentle, not boasting.
Elizabeth swallowed, hoping that would affect the water accumulating in her lower lids. It didn’t. “I hope she is.”
They were silent for a few stretched moments. Finally, he spoke.
“Liz… I,” he cleared his throat, “take care of yourself, okay?”
She nodded. She was good at that. “Paul?” A rough rock lodged in her throat.
“Yes?”
She felt the hot, unwelcome sting of a tear escape down her cheek. “I hope everything works out… with the restaurant, and… everything.”
“Thanks, Liz.” He paused. “Liz?”
Couldn’t she just go, now? “Uh-huh?”
He hesitated, then whispered low, “You’re more than you think you are.”
Her hand came to her stomach as if she’d been hit, and she tried to swallow. He had said those words to her before, in a much different situation. She had to let them sink in once more.
Finally, she whispered back, “Goodbye, Paul.”
“Goodbye.”
She hit cancel and dropped the phone. She sat there holding her stomach, holding back the tears, steadying her breathing.
Twenty minutes later, she slowly got up and changed into her nightgown, skimming past the shimmering red kimono robe, noting to herself that she could never wear it again, and hating herself for being that sentimental.
She climbed into bed, set her alarm, pulled the light covers up, and closed her eyes. An hour later, the silent sobs came when she was too tired to fight them any longer.
And she knew her cries weren’t just for him.
Emotion is such a personal thing to write. How do you take words and form them into feelings, while staying true to the character? Share your thoughts.
With the harsh scrape of chair against linoleum, Jill jerked out of her day dream as the dripping moss-hung trees of an ancient forest dissipated into the bland meeting room of the offices of Brasher Books, Inc. Blinking, she heard more chairs pushed away from the conference table. They had been dismissed.
It wasn’t like her, to lose focus like that.
She looked over the notes she’d just taken, circling the number she was to call the minute she returned to her desk, where she’d absently left her phone on a pile of paper. Again, out of character. People filed out of the room, murmuring about trends, clients, and the Labor Day weekend they had planned.
“Is this a manuscript?”
Jill hastily looked to the manicured fingertips pressed on the stack of documents next to her. “Oh,” her gaze moved up to the face belonging to the red lacquered nails, “Ms. Martin. Yes. I mean, no. I mean . . . I was just cleaning out my desk before the meeting and it was tucked in my—“
Rowena Martin, managing editor of Brasher Books Publishing, pointed to the name under the title. “This is you?”
“Yes.”
“What is it about?”
“Umm . . .” She swallowed. She had just read somewhere that an author should have two really good sentences at the ready, so she can answer that exact question. Jill hadn’t taken the time to think of any. “It’s a novel . . . based on a woman’s faith . . . and overcoming obstacles against all odds.” Ugh. Boring. “It’s a romance.”
“What faith, if I may ask?”
She took a deep breath. “I’m LDS.” Wait for it. “It’s a Mormon novel.”
Ms. Martin’s sharp eyebrows rose. “And this is the title?”
“Yes. Tentatively.”
In a quick movement Jill’s manuscript was in the woman’s arms. “Are you any good?” She looked down, lifting the top page. What kind of question was that? The woman didn’t seem to expect an answer. “I’ll take a look. We’re exploring a new division, as you heard. Faith-based fiction. Ripley and Grosskopf have already approached me with their own ideas.”
Jill thought to argue that though Ripley and Grosskopf were slush-pile editors, given the mind-bending task of sorting through doubtful first submissions, they were probably above mere secretaries on the publishing ladder. She held her tongue.
The woman perused the unbound pages. “This falls into that category, does it not?”
Jill nodded numbly, her voice receding somewhere deep inside her abdomen, not to be found. The woman turned on her heels and walked away.
Jill blinked, then panic slapped her in the gut, dislodging her voice. “Ms. Martin!”
The woman turned, looking over her rectangular glasses.
Jill stood and steadied herself, eyeing the manuscript in such powerful hands. “I’m sorry, Ms. Martin, but I can’t let you take that.”
The woman stared, disbelieving.
“I mean . . . that’s only the second draft, a partial. It’s a mess. Since then I’ve cut two characters, an aimless subplot, and thirty pages off the ending. That’s not the copy you want.” She swallowed and tried to stop grasping at her hands. She pulled them behind her back. “Actually, I’ve already submitted it to Brasher. The edits were based on remarks in the rejection letter.” Jill lowered her eyes, but then blew out a breath and stepped forward, lifting her chin. “I can get you a copy of the finished revision, though. It’s on my jump-drive.”
Ms. Martin gazed at Jill, then snapped her wrist over and glanced at her watch, then at the title page in her grasp. She handed the manuscript back.
Jill’s voice fled back to its hiding place, along with any hopes this encounter had conjured.
“I’ll be in Bob Brasher’s office until 2:00. Get the copy to me before I leave, Miss Parish.”
Jill’s heart raced. “Yes. Thank you. I will.”
The glass door closed behind Rowena Martin, soundless.
Jill stood, magnetized in place, trembling hand holding the partial manuscript. She had nearly thrown it out while cleaning her desk, but decided last minute to hang onto it with the crazy notion it might, just might, be valuable someday. It was sheer luck that she’d mistakenly grabbed it with her notebook in her haste to get to the meeting.
“I would get on that if I were you.”
Jill jumped at the soft voice next to her ear. A shiver dispelled any lock the moment had on her. It was not pleasant.
“Not so close, Ortiz, I’ve got your wife’s cell phone on speed dial.”
He put his hands up defensively, his dark eyes wide in feigned innocence. “Hey, hey. Just sayin’ you shouldn’t waste time, that’s all.”
Jill cut him a sharp look, ignoring his smoldering grin and heady cologne, and gathered her things.
He chuckled. “I love it when you call me by my last name.”
Ugh. She pushed through the door. She could think of a few things she’d rather call him. She made her way to her cubicle.
Marci popped up over the partition, her red bob bouncing. “Hey, how’d it go?”
“You mean besides the visual groping I just received from Ortiz?” Marci grimaced. Jill took a deep breath. “Ask me in twenty minutes.”
“Right-o.” Marci dropped back down.
Jill liked that about Marci. Not too pushy. She opened the top drawer of her desk. “Keys, keys, keys . . .” they weren’t there. She began again, methodically this time.
“My keys are gone. My keys are gone . . . Marci.”
Marci popped up. “Yes?”
“Have you seen my keys? You know, four keys, library card, very important zip-drive?”
Marci was nodding her head, searching the unusually littered desktop over the partition. “Yeah, with the silver palm tree. No, I haven’t seen them. Wow, I’ve never seen your desk this messy.”
Jill spoke from below the desktop. “I was cleaning it out.”
“Why are you cleaning your desk now?”
“I wanted it done before the long weekend.” Jill blew out an exasperated breath and scanned her desk on her knees. She attacked the drawer where she kept her keys once more. “Wait a minute.” Her eyes came up, searching. “Where’s my phone?” She stood up. I left it here on top of this pile.” She glanced around the office. “Has anyone been at my cubicle?”
“I didn’t see anyone while I was here. But I’ve been down in editing for the last hour.”
Jillian sat down hard on her chair and rubbed her hand over her forehead. “Okay, okay, I’ve got it at home.” She looked at the time. She’d never make it. And her keys were missing. She dropped her elbows on the manuscript. “Why would this happen right now?”
Abruptly, music started playing and she jumped.
“Is that your phone?” Marci asked.
“No, I don’t have that ringtone.”
“Well, it’s coming from your desk.”
“It is coming from my desk. What in the . . .?” She sorted under some files and wrapped her fingers around the slim phone. She pulled it up. 3 Doors Down played Away From the Sun. “This is not my phone, but the call is my number.”
“Well, answer it.”
“Don’t you think this is odd?”
Marci shrugged, her blue eyes unquestioning.
Jill lifted the phone to her ear. “Hello?”
“Hey, I believe you have my phone.”
“Who is this?”
“Stand up.”
She didn’t have time for this. “Why should I? Do you have my phone?”
“Relax, Sister Parish, and the phone won’t get hurt.” His voice was friendly. “Stand up . . . please.”
Carefully, she stood.
“Now, walk to the east windows.”
Marci followed her as Jill canvassed the east windows beyond the next row of cubicles. She entered the empty conference room she had just left and stood facing the next glass building on their block. Cape & Moore Publishing occupied the same floor in that building as her company did in this one. They were a smaller company, new.
“Is something going to blow up?” she asked, only half joking. Marci widened her eyes and stepped back, twirling a short lock of red hair in her fingers.
The voice chuckled. “No. Well, maybe your temper, but I hope not.”
Jill took a deep breath and folded her arms. “Who is this and how did you get my phone?”
“Fourth window from your right, straight across.”
She counted. She saw him. “Wave.”
He did. He placed his hand in his pocket. Scott Gentry.
Marci peered forward. “Ooh, do you know him?”
Jill covered the phone and steadied her breathing. She did know him. A little. She doubted he remembered. “He moved here a couple of weeks ago . . . goes to my church.”
“Hm. Church-going, and bold. And cute. At least from here. Well, what does he want? Not to blow us up, I hope.”
Jill’s curiosity was overcome by her sense of minutes ticking away.
His voice came across again. “Do you have a key to that drawer in your desk?”
Jill took a deep breath. “Yes.” She pictured it in the tray, next to the place her keys should have been.
“Hm. You should use it. By the way, your desk is a mess.”
“How dare you. Listen, I—“
She stopped at his soft laugh and watched him as he paced casually behind the window. “Please, the front desk was busy, so I asked someone where I could find you. I only wanted to get your attention.”
Her heart flopped unpleasantly. “Why would you want to do that?” If he remembered anything at all, he would say so now.
“I don’t know, I was hoping we—“
Wrong answer. “So you stole my keys?”
“Well, I didn’t want you driving off. And I borrowed them. They’re ransom.”
“My phone isn’t?”
“Well, you have my phone.”
“Not for long. You have my attention Brother Gentry, but I don’t think it’s the kind you’re after.”
“See, you do know me. And it’s Scott.”
Her teeth ground at the clumsiness of her heartbeat. “Listen, Scott, I am in dire need of those keys.” She glanced at her watch. “There is something on that zip drive and if I don’t get it in the next ten minutes, I could miss the opportunity of a lifetime. Do you understand me?”
She watched him fumble in his pocket, then look at the drive in his hand.
“I’m sorry.” The play in his voice had gone. “What do you want me to do?” He looked her way.
She thought. Elevators would take too long. Sprinting down the stairs in heels would be risky in more than a few ways. “Unless you have a high-powered slingshot, I suggest you stick that drive in the nearest computer and send me the file called Grace and Chocolate.” She’d like to tell him where else he could stick it, but hung on to what was left of her composure.
“You’re serious?”
“Yes, Scott, I am. So serious, my fingers are hovering over the number for the downtown Portland Police Bureau.”
He disappeared from the window. “I’m uploading the file right now. Where do I send it?”
“jparish at brasherbooks dot com.” She shook her head at the ceiling and made her way back to her cubicle. “What were you thinking?”
“Is this a book?”
“Yes, and you are to delete the file as soon as I receive it, got that?”
“Hey, this is you. So, you’re a writer.”
“Aren’t most of us?” She could name at least a dozen aspiring authors on her floor alone.
“There, it’s sent.”
She breathed a silent sigh of relief as she watched her inbox. “I hope it prints in time,” she mumbled.
Marci leaned over her back. “Does somebody want it?”
“Maybe. Rowena Martin.”
“Rowena Martin?”
Jill found herself annoyed Scott Gentry was still on the phone. “Yes, Scott, Rowena Martin, Managing Editor of Brasher Books. She gave me until two. O’clock.” His silence reminded her of her previous question. “Well, what were you thinking?”
“I . . . well it’s pretty lame, now . . .”
“I’m thinking it was pretty lame before.”
“I asked about you. I heard you were . . . well, that you were . . .”
“That I was what?”
“That you were difficult to . . . distract.”
“Distract from what?”
“From your busy life.”
She felt a small lurch in her stomach. “Well, Scott, you’ve certainly succeeded in distracting me for several infuriating minutes, but now I have to get back to that busy life and see if I can make something of it. I have the file. You can pick up your phone at our front desk. I’ll expect to find mine there, too. And my keys. Goodbye.”
She handed the phone to Marci. “Could you please take that down for me? Scott Gentry.”
“Sure.” Marci took the phone. “Mind if I wait around, have a peek when he brings yours in?”
“If you do I don’t want to hear about it.”
Marci gave her a pout, turned her petite frame, and pranced away to the elevators. Jill sent the file to the high-speed printer in the copy room, and only then did she fold her arms over her messy desk and drop her head on top of them.
Difficult to distract? Difficult to distract? Compelling a man to theft? Whatever happened to a rose and a telegram, like in the old movies? Or a chance encounter . . . briefcases colliding and eyes meeting over the mess of papers. That is a distraction. Finding each other at sunset along a tropical shore . . . But, theft? Who had he been talking to? And he certainly did not remember . . . it was a long time ago. A lifetime.
Jill groaned into her arms. “I have a busylife.”
Her eyes lifted to the computer screen. Printing: 85% complete.
She jumped out of her chair, stuffed her purse into the cabinet and locked it with the key from the drawer. She hurried to the copy room, only then remembering the phone call she had been assigned to make as the meeting let out. Jill reached for her cell phone, then pulled her hand back from her empty pocket. The call would have to wait.
Jill strode toward the desk in front of Robert Brasher’s corner office, the manuscript feeling warm, thick, and new in her arm. She had almost slipped it into one of the large copy envelopes, but decided against it, using only a big jaw clip on the top edge. Out of sight, out of mind. She looked down again at the title page. Right out in the open.
Saved By Grace and Chocolate
Jillian Parish
“Whoa—” Something heavy slammed against the book and her arms. She felt the pages fan out and her fingers grappled to keep them together in that thickness she loved, but the clip had other ideas, slipping away and flinging to the floor, followed by the gentle fluttering of three hundred and twenty-eight newly printed pages of a faith-based fiction romance.
“Oh no,” she heard him say.
She dropped to her knees as her eyes were drawn to the origin of that voice. Scott Gentry was dropping down with her, tossing his own things aside, scrambling to pick up page after page after page . . .
I have now posted all of chapter one of The Orchard, as it now reads. The publishers are still in the review process, but I thought I would get over a little fear and just post the entire chapter for you (are there three, or four of you?). Enjoy!
Click here, or at the link to the right. *NOTE: Because THE ORCHARD is now under contract, I cannot post the first chapter without the publisher's permission. I will post it again if permission is granted. SORRY!
I was able to spend a few days in Jackson, Wyoming, while my husband attended a conference there at the beginning of this week, and I was very anxious for two reasons. One, I hadn't been away from home without the kids for a very long time, so it was a nice retreat. Two, the sequel to The Orchard, The Inn, is situated in Jackson, at this very time of year. When I wrote it last year, I hadn't been there for several years. It was so fun to trace Elizabeth's steps and find out I was right on in some instances, a little off on some, and that I could add more detail and exactness to the setting. And it was nice and quiet in the mornings, before I hit the boardwalks of town, so I could sit in my hotel room and go back over The Inn, adding and fixing what I had discovered.
It rained. A lot. But I had already written that in my book, so it felt right.
Mountain weather.
The Orchard is a fictional romance set in the Flathead Valley of Montana, an area I know through summer vacations spent there.One of my favorite but lesser known novels, Jane Austen’s Persuasion, inspired the basic plot line, but my attempt is to tell the story behind Miss Austen’s characters, and adapt it to modern life, weaving elements of the gospel throughout.
The book is a romance novel and is intended for that audience of young adult and adult women, though my husband loves it, too.
Gospel elements in the book include missionary work, trials, sacrifice and attained blessings, choices, healing blessings, love, spirit and earthly family, prayer, and the influence of the Holy Ghost.
The first half of the book is written in answer to questions I asked myself about how the characters could have gotten themselves into the places they were when Jane Austen’s novel picks up. The reader does not need to be familiar with Persuasion to understand and appreciate The Orchard, though some subtle references are made with respect and a little humor. The second half of the book takes those characters and intertwines them into Miss Austen’s plot.
After the sudden death of her mother, Alisen Embry finds comfort and purpose working the cherry orchard adjoining her family's home on Flathead Lake. When she meets Derick, a boy with dreams and spirit, she realizes his answers fill a void in her life she did not know she had. Their connection is threatened by the prejudices of her father, and just when Alisen thinks she has found everything that could make her happy, she is given choices testing her love, and loyalty.
Derick Whitney is a compulsive returned missionary with his future mapped out, and beautiful Alisen quickly seals her place in those plans, and his heart, with her endless questions and obvious desire for the truth. But when his plans are ripped apart, he buries the whispers of wisdom and direction in bitterness and blame.
One letter and many decisions bring these two lost spirits to face the choices they have made, and learn that losing themselves may be the only way they find home.
