Guest Author Diana Stevan of Campbell River, British Columbia.

Originally from Winnipeg, Diana  now resides in Campbell River, British Columbia, and enjoys meeting with her fellow writers twice a month. She’s written a stage play, some short stories and many poems. She’s had a poem published in the UK journal Dreamcatcher. A short story was published in Escape, an anthology put out by Peregrin publishers in 2012. She self-published her debut novel, A Cry From The Deep in October, 2014, and also hopes to publish soon, her baba’s story, No Time For Tears, that takes place between 1915-1929 in what is now Ukraine, as well as another novel that takes place on a psych. ward in the 70s.   
Together with her husband, Robert, Diana has been fortunate to travel extensively throughout North America, South America, Europe, Asia, and the Middle East. They have two children and three grandchildren.  Her links are below.                                                  

                  An excerpt - A Cry From The Deep.

                                                    

                                                         Chapter Two

Catherine’s view from the airplane, with its endless sky and ocean, triggered thoughts of God and purpose in life. As a child, she believed He was somewhere in heaven, and her guardian angel floated in His realm. That all changed when she learned about other religions. And then, with 9/11, there were more questions, but she still believed in something bigger than herself, something that guided people on some unknown path, for some unknown purpose. She wondered if what she was doing was part of a greater plan.

Three weeks earlier, Catherine had been a contented lavender grower. Well, not completely contented, but pretty good, considering. She frowned as she thought of how soon she’d be meeting Hennesey, a man she despised. From everything she’d read on the Internet, she knew it would take all her resources just to be civil. If these events were not directed by some divine being, then what was this all about?

Distracted by Alex’s fidgeting, she checked her daughter’s seat belt. They were about to land. Catherine hated take-offs and landings, and having a bouncy child by her side didn’t make flying any easier. It hadn’t bothered her when she was in her twenties, but after reading an article that cited the large number of crashes at airports, her body tightened minutes before take-off or landing.

Alex peered out the window. “Mama, I can see the boats.”

Catherine scanned the earth below as the plane flew over a marina. Somewhere down there was Hennesey’s boat.

“Maybe he’ll give us a ride,” said Alex.

Catherine frowned. Why had she agreed to this? Everything pointed to disaster.

 

~~~

 

The Golden Eye, the ultimate in diving boats, was tied up at the far end of the dock. Alex was already running ahead.

“Alex, wait!”

 Catherine caught up with her. “Slow down. The dock might be slippery.”

Alex slowed to a turtle’s pace.

“Very funny. Would you just stop for a minute? I want to take some photos from this angle.”

They were still some distance, but Catherine could see a man hosing down the Golden Eye’s deck. She fastened her long lens onto her Nikon camera and zoomed in on him. She’d have recognized Hennesey anywhere from the press he’d received. He was dressed in a Hawaiian shirt, worn loose over his creased khaki pants. The passing years had not been kind; his modest paunch and thinning hair reminded her of Jack Nicholson in his fifties. She snapped a few pictures—one of him with a water hose in his hand and another of him picking up some diving gear.

As they approached the Golden Eye, a woman with ebony skin and a mass of black, kinky hair pulled back in a pony-tail came up from the galley below. She looked about thirty and was dressed in a lime-green halter top and purple capris too tight for her broad hips. When she spotted Catherine, she said something to Hennesey.

Hennesey came forward from the aft and said gruffly, loud enough for Catherine to hear, “They sent a woman.” If he’d intended to be off-putting from the start, he was certainly successful.

The woman stuck her hand out over the side of the boat and said, “You must be Catherine. I’m Joy. We talked on the phone.”

Catherine smiled and shook her hand. Hennesey had been out the time she called or perhaps, pretending to be out. “He didn’t know I was coming?”

Joy smiled at her and then at Hennesey. “I didn’t tell 'im. He has this thing 'bout women on boats.”

“But you…?” asked Catherine.

“I live with 'im,” said Joy. “Besides, I’m a cook, not a diver. Climb aboard. I’ll show ya around.”

“This is my daughter, Alex.”

“Well, how d’you do, Alex?” Joy turned to Hennesey. “Are you just gonna stand there?” Grumbling, Hennesey reached over the side and swung Alex on board.

The boat’s port side was positioned about six inches from the dock and rocked with each passing boat. As Catherine was about to take Hennesey’s hand to climb over the gunwale, she glimpsed the water between the vessel and the dock. Suddenly dizzy, Catherine closed her eyes to calm her nerves.

When she opened them after a few moments, Hennesey said with a puzzled look, “Are you coming?”

Frowning, she took his hand and climbed over. As she crossed the water, the terror of falling in gripped her like a vise.

She must have blanched, because Hennesey said, “Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine.” She hated lying, but she hated exposing her fear more. “The meal on the flight wasn’t great, and we came straight from the airport.”

“Mama, you said the food was good.”

“I meant good for airplane food.” Catherine rolled her eyes, suggesting that Alex had got it all wrong.

Alex shook her head. “Whatever.”

Joy laughed. “Well, if you two want to get started, I’ll show this minx 'round.” Joy took Alex’s hand as if they’d been friends for life. “I may even have an ice cream for you.”

Alex’s eyes grew round. “You have ice cream on the boat?”

“You betcha. We love our sweets. Can’t ya tell by lookin’ at our bellies?”

Catherine took an immediate liking to Joy. With her on board, the assignment might not be so bad.

 

~~~

 

Hennesey’s office, a short walk from the marina, was on the second level of a small business mall. Piles of books on shipwrecks, navigation, and ocean climates sat on a couple of old wooden chairs, and near them, an ashtray full of cigarette butts revealed an addictive personality. Various papers were strewn on his oak desk and a black phone, a bygone of earlier days, rested on a dusty window ledge overlooking the marina. And on the wall, several photos of Hennesey on the Golden Eye vied for attention with a map of the world showing various diving sites marked by colored pins.

Hennesey pushed aside some papers on his desk and took out a metal box from a filing cabinet behind him. He used a key from the chain he wore under his shirt to open the box, revealing a package wrapped in green silk. He carefully unwrapped it to expose a gold mask about two hands wide, its features simply executed. It was small, but it reminded Catherine of pieces by Henry Moore, a British sculptor who’d used relics from ancient and primitive cultures as inspiration.

She bent down to have a closer look. “It’s exquisite.”

“Inca gold. Worth close to five hundred thousand dollars.”

“And you keep it in a filing cabinet?”

“Not usually. I’m expecting a customer later.”

She was surprised he was showing it to her. Perhaps, he wanted to impress her. “Where did you find this?”

He grinned. “If I tell you, will you cross your heart and spit you won’t tell anyone?”

“On second thought, maybe I don’t want to know.”

He shook his head as he polished the mask with the cloth. “You people have so much morality oozing from your pores, it’s a wonder you’re able to do any work at all.”

She could’ve told him he was an asshole, that she knew he blew a hole in the ocean and was taken to court for dredging a coral reef and killing sea grass, but she said none of this. She didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot.

Instead, she said, “We all have opinions. It’s what makes the world go round.”

“You can keep your fucking opinions. If someone isn’t screaming about the fucking cultural heritage, they’re screaming about the fucking environment. They scream about everything. The last time it was about sea grass, as if there wasn’t enough of it anyway. It’s like lawns, it keeps growing.”

“That’s not what I read.”

“See, the media twists everything.”

She looked him in the eye. “One reporter called you an arrogant son of a bitch, a diver who thinks he’s above the law.”

Hennesey guffawed. “I’ve been called worse. What do you believe?”

She raised an eyebrow. “I’m leaning toward the media.”

“At least you’re honest.”

“I try to be.”

He rewrapped the gold mask, put it back in its box and returned it to the filing cabinet. He locked it and returned the key to its hiding place under his shirt. “So, Frank tells me he wants you for this dive. I find that curious.”

“Why?”

“I did a little background checking of my own. I know about your break from diving and why. Want you to know, I’m no goddamned babysitter.”

She snorted. “You worry about your end, I’ll take care of mine.”

“Yes, sir!” He saluted as he said it.

She hadn’t meant to reply with such a bite, but his attitude, complete with mocking grin, got the best of her. Why was she even considering going? Her instincts were advising her to run. She hadn’t come on board the project yet, and already he was under her skin. The media had one thing right. He was an arrogant asshole.

 

 

 

 

Thank you Diana for sharing part of your intriguing story. I look forward to reading the entire novel. I'm sure she would appreciate your comments.

 

 

You can discover more about this talented writer by visiting her website - www.dianastevan.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Next week, you can help me with a new short story. I will be posting a first draft, unedited sample of a story I am considering  for a novel someday in the future. Let me know your thoughts.

Meet Bella Maggs and Rosa Vartanian - a CSIS Operative.



Don't miss out on an exciting adventure with Drake Alexander and his band of ex-soldiers, a French ex-pat and a stalwart Bengali Cop. Dark Side of a Promise  Available at amazon.com

Guest Author Wodke Hawkinson. An excerpt from Dark Longings.

Wodke Hawkinson is the name under which writing duo PJ Hawkinson and Karen Wodke produce their collaborated works. The authors have been friends since high school, but formed their writing team in 2009. Dark Longings is their latest release. They have four other novels which include Betrayed, Zeke, Sue (a sequel to Zeke), and Tangerine, along with three short story collections: Catch Her in the Rye, Blue, and Alone. They have each produced solo works in addition to their co-authored books. Both authors reside in different Midwestern towns and do much of their collaboration via telephone and internet. However, they have been known to discuss ideas while casting their lines at a quiet lake, as they both enjoy fishing.  

DARK LONGINGS

By Wodke Hawkinson

                                             Prologue

 

The city never slept and even at four in the morning, people moved about. A young mother rushed to an all-night drugstore to purchase medication for a sick child. Music blasted from windows where parties pounded through the night. Teenagers slipped from their slumbering homes to keep forbidden rendezvous. Sirens wailed as emergency vehicles sped along neon boulevards. Women cowered in darkened bedrooms while men bellowed in drunken fury. Shady deals were conducted on dangerous corners and in murky alleys.

A dirt track ran parallel to the broad river that divided the city. Short turnoffs led down to the water every hundred yards or so. The road was largely deserted at this hour, empty lots leading to industrial buildings to one side and dense brush and trees on the riverside. A sedan bounced along the rough road. Two men in the front seat rode in silence. The first turnoff proved occupied by a group of homeless dregs gathered around a small fire. Just as the driver began to turn onto the second dirt ramp, he noticed a pickup truck backed down to the water. He could just make out two forms lounging on the tailgate, holding fishing rods. He swore softly and proceeded onward.

“Tough luck.” The man in the passenger seat shot his partner a horsy smile.

“Maybe the next one,” the driver said, checking the rearview mirror for other vehicles. The roadway remained dark.

At the next turnoff, he scanned the riverside for people. Finding it empty, he backed in and braked smoothly at the water’s edge. After putting the car in park, he and his companion got out, closing their doors quietly.

“Nice night,” the driver remarked, gazing up at the stars.

“Bit chilly, if you ask me,” the other man replied with a grin. His blocky teeth shone in the moonlight.

Together they managed to remove a large tightly-wrapped parcel from the trunk, hauled it to the river, and threw it in. The sound of the splash carried through the crisp air.

Down the riverbank, they heard an excited exchange between a couple of fisherman.

“Holy shit! Did you hear that? Was that a fish?” A man’s voice rang loudly across the water.

“If it was, it was a big one!”

The two men near the sedan looked at each other in the dim glow of the parking lights. “It was a big one alright,” the toothy one snickered.

His partner rolled his eyes, pushed the trunk gently closed with a gloved hand, and got into the car. His associate joined him and they drove back onto the road and into the night.

 

Sunday - September 30

 

Ruby hurriedly tossed her apron into the hamper in the kitchen of Margot’s Café where she worked part-time.

“Done for the day?” A chubby redhead with a pretty face asked as she headed for the swinging door with both arms full of plates of food.

“Nope.” Ruby shook her head. “Got a five-to-nine tonight, Tina. An eleven-to-two tomorrow, and the breakfast shift Tuesday. You?”

“I’m done at two and don’t have to come back until Tuesday afternoon. Have a nice weekend.” Tina shoved a hip into the door and exited the kitchen.

Ruby waved to the rest of the kitchen staff and slipped out the back door. Several steps deeper into the alley, she unlocked a small door next to the restaurant and slipped inside. She was careful to relock the door before turning to climb the stairs. Midway down the hall, she unlocked another door; she was home.

Renting the apartment over the café was one of the perks Ruby enjoyed for being its most dedicated employee; she’d never missed a shift in the two years she’d worked at Margot’s. The rent she paid was measly compared to other apartments in the area and even though it was small she was glad to have the place.

Ruby sighed as she grabbed her homework from her desk. The day was nice for a change but she knew it wouldn’t last long. She bounced down the front stairway, exited through the nondescript door, and made her way to a table under the awning of the café. Lifting her feet into the chair next to her, she leaned back slightly and watched the bare branches sway in the park across the street. Rain was predicted for tomorrow, but Ruby thought it might come earlier.

Tina stepped out the front door. “Fancy seeing you again,” she said with a grin. “Want something to eat?”

“Just an iced tea, please. No sugar.” When her drink arrived, she pulled her feet from the seat, opened her laptop, and powered up. She hoped to get two papers finished before her evening shift.

Time slipped away as her fingers flew over the keyboard. She was nearing the end of the second paper when she paused to stretch. Her attention was drawn to a young man walking toward her with a slight spring to his step. His dark hair was tousled and his intense brown eyes sought hers. Ruby felt a delightful shiver slide up her back. As quickly as the feeling came, she shoved it down. She and Kenny were no longer a couple; no matter how much chemistry sparked between them, or how much she’d like them to be.

Kenny was equally pleased to see Ruby outside Margot’s. He felt his pulse quicken as he drew near. When she looked up, their eyes met and he smiled. Her green eyes seemed to bore into his and he could almost read her thoughts. His smile slipped a little, knowing she wondered if he was still using. He wasn’t, but how could he make her believe him?

“Have you been working out? You’re looking really good,” Ruby commented as Kenny pulled out a chair at her table and sat.

He knew what she was really asking. “I am good, Rube. I got a job running deliveries for Dick’s Auto Parts and moved out of my dad’s place. I’m living with a friend over on Donder Road; 1426, apartment D.”

“A friend, huh?” Though her tone was skeptical, she grabbed her phone and added the info to his contact list.

“A guy, Ruby; his name’s Terry Campbell. You’re the only girl for me and you know it.”

Before Ruby could change the subject, a young man approached their table, hailing Kenny as he came. Kenny frowned and stood up, meeting him a few steps away.

Ruby pretended to return to her report, but she eyed the stranger furtively. He looked sick, like a prison camp survivor. He was gaunt; his chest appeared sunken through the opening in his light jacket. His hair was unwashed and his clothes looked slept in. He fiddled with a dirty bandage on his neck and tried to pull Kenny into a conversation.

Kenny shoved him away, knocking him to one knee. This action surprised Ruby; she’d never known Kenny to be physical. In fact, he usually went out of his way to avoid violence.

As the guy regained his footing, Ruby heard Kenny say, “Just keep away from me, Chad. I’m not going back. I don’t want anything more to do with…” His eyes darted to Ruby, found her watching. He dropped his voice so she was unable to hear anything more.

Turning quickly, Kenny started backing away from the café. Chad’s eyes pled with Kenny to wait.

“I’ll see you later, Ruby,” Kenny called and gave a half-hearted wave in her direction.

Tina stepped out the door with a couple of menus, but by then Kenny was disappearing around the corner and Chad had crossed the street and was stumbling through the park. Ruby watched until she couldn’t see them anymore.

“Huh! Guess they didn’t want anything.” Tina retreated back inside.

What the hell was that all about? Ruby stared blankly at her computer screen for a while. Once she realized she wasn’t going to get back into her school paper, she gathered her things and took them upstairs to her apartment.

She lay on her sofa, staring out tall windows that overlooked the street and remembered back to the days she used to hang out with Kenny at his dad’s. Lord, how she’d loved him, still did. But she was clean now and she couldn’t take a chance of being dragged back into that pit. She finally drifted into a restless sleep, awakening in time for her next work shift.

Her mind returned to Kenny often throughout the evening and she almost hoped he would call her. Maybe it was better if he didn’t; their new relationship was tender, teetering somewhere between friendship and something deeper. By bedtime, she’d reined in her unruly feelings and pushed her longings to the back of her mind where they belonged.





Thank you so much PJ & Karen for sharing an excerpt from your newest Novel. More about the team of Wodke Hawkinson can be found here.
Our novels  Zeke Betrayed Sue Dark Longings Tangerine
Our short story collections: Alone  Catch Her in the Rye Blue
Visit our readers/authors website: Find A Good Book To Read
Visit our website: wodke-hawkinson.com

Next week, I had originally planned to share my latest short story but am postponing it until April 17th. Instead I am featuring guest author Diana Stevan from British Columbia with an excerpt from her novel, A Cry From the Deep.

 

 

Guest Author JP McLean of British Columbia

If there’s one thing I’ve learned about the world of writers, it’s how kind and generous a lot they are. Allan Hudson is a perfect example of that generosity. Thank you, Allan, for inviting me to visit the South Branch Scribbler, and for the support you’ve shown the writers you showcase here. It’s an honour to be invited to your blog.

You’ll find me online at J.P. McLean. I use initials because Jo-Anne is often misspelled, which is deadly in today’s online world of search engines. I live on a small Gulf island off the eastern shore of Vancouver Island, British Columbia. The rugged beaches of the west coast feature prominently in my novels, as it seems I never tire of the landscape.

It’s the perfect setting for the contemporary thrillers that I write, especially because they all contain an element of fantasy that will leave you believing the impossible and wary of the night skies. And if you lose yourself while reading them, or just lose track of time, I’ll have done my job.

When I started writing The Gift: Awakening, I thought it would be a one-off book. But it turns out, writing is more like potato chips for me—all that salty crunchiness, yum—and I couldn’t stop at just one. So, I traded in the one-off idea for a trilogy and outlined two more books, The Gift: Revelation and The Gift: Redemption. 

I thought a trilogy would satisfy my craving, but it didn’t. I’m now in the process of publishing a fourth book, The Gift: Penance. Of course, a fourth book has ruined the whole trilogy concept, and now I’m busy replacing references to The Gift Trilogy with The Gift Legacy. Notice how Legacy makes room for further adventures from these characters who just won’t sit still? That’s what you call learning through poor planning. 

For the South Branch Scribbler, I thought I’d share a sneak peek at Penance. It will be released in April in trade paperback and electronic formats. If the story piques your interest, you can read excerpts and more about the series at https://jpmcleanauthor.com

 

Chapter One

The sturdy concrete piers of the Burrard Street Bridge rose up from the False Creek seabed, its steel girders looming eighty feet overhead. My small kayak felt inconsequential by comparison. I rested my paddle across the hull and drifted forward into the bridge’s shadow. A weak sun struggled behind the overcast sky.

My breath condensed in white puffs. I loved these crisp, cool mornings alone on the water. It was peaceful. Out here, life felt simple, uncomplicated. Almost what I imagined normal felt like. A

light breeze stirred the chilly air. The kayak rocked gently, its yellow hull reflected in the ripples that lapped quietly against the hull. I gazed up toward the underside of the bridge deck where car tires thumped over the expansion joints.

In the distance, the rumble of outboard motors drew my attention. Time to get a move on. I tugged my cap down over my ears and blew a warm breath into cupped hands. The dry suit that kept my body warm did nothing for my head. The temperature hovered around five Celsius and the cold was finally getting to me.

I gripped my paddle and continued seaward, my strokes cautious of the outboard motors that grew louder as they approached from behind. Six strokes later, almost out of the bridge’s shadow, the tandem outboards roared, drowning out all other sound. I darted a wide-eyed glance behind and then hunched my shoulders and braced for the inevitable waves that would follow.

The marine speed limit in False Creek is five knots or dead slow. They had the dead part right. They raced by on either side of me with their throttles wide open. I barely got a glimpse of them before I felt the powerful effect of their wake. My kayak rolled dangerously when the first wave hit broadside, but it was the second wave that swamped me. It struck from the opposite direction and lifted the hull, dumping me into the frigid water.

I

flailed in the dark, trapped upside down in the seat of my cockpit, groping for the tether to my lost paddle. I’d practiced the Eskimo roll that would right me dozens of times, but all of those self-induced rolls hadn’t prepared me for the real thing. It wasn’t the sting of salt water in my eyes, or the frosty temps of a February ocean, which made holding my breath difficult, it was the clear memory of drowning—my drowning.

It’s not something you ever forget: the desperation that compels you to inhale water into your lungs. The way the weight of that water sinks you more effectively than any anchor. It’s the disquieting euphoria of finally letting go. The panic that should have compelled me to jettison, instead froze me in place. A memory flashed by at the watery sight of my outstretched arm. Last summer that same arm reached for a surface that I could see, but couldn’t reach.

Precious seconds ticked by.

I felt my cap lift away in the current. It was enough to shake me from the nightmare. Latent terror galvanized me into action. I yanked on my paddle’s tether and re-established my grip. In an adrenaline-fed stroke, I swept my paddle in a powerful arc and rode the momentum to the surface. The instant my face cleared the water into a halo of light and oxygen, I heaved a ragged breath then coughed and choked in another gulp of air.

“I’ve got you,” a man’s voice called. His red kayak bumped against my hull. A dark beanie covered his head. I pressed my knuckles against my eyes to clear the stinging water. My rescuer steadied the kayak while I caught my breath.

“Thank you,” I sputtered. The mother of all ice cream headaches stabbed across my forehead. As I caught my breath, I took in the man who’d come to my rescue. I put him in his late twenties. A day’s stubble covered cheeks flushed red with the cold. He had the shoulders of a weightlifter and a firm grip on the cleat behind my cockpit. He’d laced his paddle under the bungee cording to steady me.

“That was a lot easier to do in waist-deep water,” I rasped, my throat burning. No wonder the instructor insisted we repeat the Eskimo roll exercise each time we went out. She’d said I’d likely never use it. Yeah.

“You probably shouldn’t have been out here alone. You did well, considering.” He offered a conciliatory smile.

My natural impulse should have been to claw my way out of the cockpit. “I probably should’ve done a wet exit.” I’d practiced those, too, struggling back into the kayak to pump it out. At least the neoprene spray skirt had kept most of the water out of the kayak.

“I saw you go under. Luckily, I was just across the channel.”

“Thank you.” I glanced around for his partner, but was grateful enough for his help to not mention the fact that I didn’t find one. A wave rocked us and he held us steady. His upper arms were impressive.

“We need to report those yahoos,” he said with contempt. “They’re going to get someone killed out here.”

“You know who they are?”

“No, but I know where they rented those boats. Where are you headed?”

“Back to my car. I put in at Kitsilano, but now I think I’d better find somewhere to warm up first.” This outing was supposed to help me build the upper body strength my new kayaking hobby demanded. Perhaps I’d been too ambitious.

“I know a place. Do you know Scuppers?”

“No. Where is it?”

“Not far. It’s where I was headed. Want to follow me?”

“Yeah, thanks,” I said then reached over to offer my hand. “Emelynn Taylor.”

“Owen Cooper,” he said jutting his hand out to take mine in a fierce grip. “Nice to meet you, Emelynn.” He offered a confident smile that reached up and crinkled the corners of his dark brown eyes.

Owen disentangled his paddle from the bungee webbing and swung around. “This way,” he said, paddling landward back under the Burrard Street Bridge. Within minutes we’d slipped under the grey steel and concrete of the Granville Street Bridge. We passed a small marina with swaying sailboats and pulled alongside a dock parallel to the rip-rap shore of Granville Island.

“You can tie up there,” Owen said, pointing to the end of the slim dock. He continued ahead while I secured my kayak. I unfolded myself from the cockpit and climbed onto the dock. My limbs shook from the effort, or maybe it was the receding adrenaline. It didn’t help that the cold breath of winter on my sopping wet head sucked the heat out of me. I needed to get warm and fast. With stiff shoulders, I pulled my dry bag from the rear hatch.

I shivered as I clutched the bag to my chest and scanned the docks for anyone out of place. Constant vigilance was a heavy weight I would gladly shed if I could. I walked to the far end of the dock to find Owen. I was halfway up the ramp when I spotted him and stopped short, staring like an ill-mannered child. Owen operated an electric winch, which had just pulled him from his kayak and deposited him in a wheelchair at the top of the ramp.

He looked over and waved me up. I snapped my mouth closed and checked my footwear. I didn’t know the man, but I could have sworn I saw him grin. I swallowed my embarrassment and continued up the ramp, watching him unhook the harness apparatus.

“Sorry for staring. You caught me by surprise,” I said.

“I usually do.” His grin widened into a smile. “Your reaction was stellar. Maybe one of the best. I wish I had it on film.”

“Guess I’m fortunate you didn’t have a camera,” I said feeling the heat of a blush warm my face. “It was rude. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s cheap entertainment for those of us easily amused. Come on; let’s get warm.”

~~~

The Gift: Penance is coming in April, 2015. If you’re interested in receiving an ARC of Penance in mobi or epub format in exchange for an honest review, I’d be happy to send you one. You can email me at jpmclean@jpmcleanauthor.com

I love hearing from you. Connect with me on Twitter @jpmcleanauthor , Facebook, Goodreads or visit my blog.

Thanks again, Allan. Happy reading, everyone!

Thank you Jo-Anne for sharing from your latest novel.  Please drop by Jo-Anne's website for more information on her writing, her series of novels and what life is like on the west coast.

Next week the 4Q Interview will feature Michael Smart.  Michael spent 8 years sailing around the Caribbean which became the setting for The Bequia Mysteries.