Cello Wars

I played the violin in 5th/6th grade school orchestra back in the day and my best friend played cello. When I saw this video, I simply had to share because as Lyle Lovett says, "There's always room for cello." Besides, electric cellos are so cool.

Writing Advice: It's Not One Size Fits All

The biggest thing I discovered since starting to write is that there is no one-size-fits-all when it comes to writing how-to's. You take other peoples’ advice and try it on for size, but rarely are you going to find something that works for you as is. You must tweak. Adjust. Abandon.

As a newbie writer, I was distressed because I couldn’t plot an entire story when I wrote the synopsis. (I tried to write a synopsis first, because I was following the "rules" I'd learned in English class and from the few writing books I'd been able to check out of the public library.) My synopses started out well enough, but by the time I hit the middle, the story fizzled. I knew where I wanted the characters to end up, but had no specifics as to how that was going to happen. Therefore, my synopses were filled with general statements such as: “Brad and Janet work together to overcome obstacles in their quest to find a telephone during the storm.” What were those obstacles? I had nary a clue and felt awful because I couldn't plot a book. Other people did it. Surely I should be able to do it, too. Maybe I wasn't cut out to be a writer. But I couldn't stop writing.

Finally I gave up on doing things the “right” way and simply wrote a story without having a synopsis, totally unaware that many, many authors use that method. I managed to write an entire book, even though the middle gave me fits because I didn't know what was going to happen. I wrote my next story, which sold to Harlequin, in the same way. At the time I knew nothing about character arcs, etc. I simply wrote by instinct. I made errors in the first draft of that story—mainly plotting and structural errors—but my voice was good and because of that, I was lucky enough to have an editor work with me.  I rewrote the book three times before it sold...and that was when I realized that my gift lies in revisions. The real book often appears after my second go. So in a way, my first draft becomes my synopsis. A really, really big synopsis.

Currently my method is a hybrid of plotting and pantsing. I use novel plotting templates—but usually not until I’ve hit the middle of the book. By that time I know my characters and many of those surprise situations I hadn’t anticipated have shown up and must be woven into the story. I do write a synopsis before I begin, since I now understand arcs and internal and external conflicts, and I usually follow the synopsis. But I love it when I'm writing that first draft and suddenly I’m off in a direction I never expected and the story becomes richer because of it. And now I'm confident I can smooth everything out during revisions.

So my advice is to experiment. Read all the how-to articles you can, then follow your gut. Write the way that feels most comfortable to you. When I try to fill out character sheets, my characters become wooden. When I simply write, my characters come to life. The opposite can happen for other authors. Keep tweaking and adjusting until you come up with the method that feels most comfortable to you, regardless of what everyone else is doing. 

I Wish It Would Snow!

We're rolling up onto Christmas and still no snow. Here in the high desert, if there's no snow pack to melt slowly during the summer, our creek goes dry in late June or early July, which means that the trees get very little water through the heat of July, August and September. That tends to be rough on them. I do water them from the house well, but I can't give them nearly the water they get from the pump in the creek.

Losing the creek also means I have to water the stock out of the house well--which means I have to remember to turn off the water running into the stock tanks, which sometimes doesn't happen. I really hate sitting up in bed in the middle of the night because it suddenly hits me that I didn't turn the water off.

I'm still hopeful that we might get snow. We had a couple smallish storms in December last year, followed by the driest January on record. January was followed in turn by recording breaking (or close) snows in February and March. Last summer was the third time in 18 years that the creek ran all summer long. The trees were so happy.

So here's hoping for a white Christmas, which doesn't seem to be in the cards, or at the very least a white Valentine's Day.

Undercover Cook Chapter One

The second book in the Too Many Cooks? series will be on the shelves in January. It's already available as an ebook. I hope you enjoy my "middle child".

  UNDERCOVER COOK

CHAPTER ONE

 "COOKING LESSONS?" Detective Daphne Sparks paused with her coffee halfway to her lips and made an are-you-kidding face. "We have a missing, probably dead, informant, and your solution is cooking lessons."

 "Dumb idea," Marcus Jethro echoed from across the table.

 Nick Duncan kept his eyes on Daphne, his partner, because if he looked at Marcus he was going to say something he regretted.

"It's simple," he said. "I go with Granddad to the lessons at the catering kitchen, get the layout, figure how best to get at the company financial records." And from those, determine whether Tremont Catering, based in Reno, was laundering Lake Tahoe drug money. As he’d said.  Simple.

 He pushed his chair back slightly to make room for his legs under the small table in the back corner of a Virginia Street deli—the place where he and Daphne usually met for lunch in the late afternoon, after the noon-hour crowd was gone and they could talk.

 "How is it that the lessons happen to be at this particular kitchen?" Daphne asked mildly, pushing long black hair over her shoulders. Nick shrugged. "I see," she said, lifting her coffee cup in a small salute.

 "Any information you get that way is totally inadmissible," Marcus interjected in a superior tone, before adding a carefully measured half teaspoon of sugar to his coffee. He hated to be left out, and since he was a forensic accountant for the Reno PD, and because of that usually chained to his desk, he often was. Marcus had visions of crime fighting glory that weren’t quite working out.

 "I'm not going to seize the records," Nick said. "I'm going to examine them, see if we're wasting time on something that isn't going to pan out."

 He and Daphne had been working for months as Reno PD members of the Washoe-Tahoe Drug Task Force, trying to get a toehold into the drug traffic moving through the Tahoe Summit Hotel and Casino. They knew kitchen personnel were involved, and they'd gotten some indication of how the money might be moving. But task force funds were spread so thinly that after eight fruitless months of investigation, the Tahoe Summit had been shoved to the back burner…despite the fact that Nick and Daphne's twenty-one-year-old confidential informant, Cully, had recently gone missing. Nick thought that circumstance warranted further investigation. His lieutenant had disagreed. Strongly.

 "I don't like it," Marcus said.

 It didn't matter if he liked it, because Nick didn't answer to him. Technically, since his asshole lieutenant had suspended him for thirty days after their heated "discussion," Nick didn't answer to anyone in the department, which was why his investigation into Tremont Catering fell into the unofficial category. His own time, his own dime. But how the hell else was he supposed to get the answers he needed, not only to work on the drug trafficking, but to find out what had happened to Cully?

 "What do you suggest?" he finally asked Marcus, more to mollify him than anything. They needed his expertise once Nick got copies of the financial records.

 The accountant rolled his shoulders and then took on a thoughtful expression while slowly stirring his coffee. "If you decide to go with the cooking lesson angle, you could use it as a means to conduct an indirect investigation and try to determine if there are indications of expenditures exceeding legal income. Then go before a judge and ask for a warrant."

 "And perhaps wait for a glacier to melt in the process?" Nick asked.

 He flushed. "It's the only course of action that will lead to admissible evidence."

 "Look," Nick said. "I understand admissibility. And I don't like doing things this way, but I also don't want to waste time." He stabbed his fork into a bowl of ravioli, spearing one and holding it poised in the air. "I don't need to make a formal case. All I need is enough information to get Justin Tremont to roll and give me names if he's involved."

 "And if he isn't?" Marcus asked, putting the spoon on a napkin.

 "Then we're at a dead end. For now."  In Nick's last discussion with Cully, the CI had indicated that Tahoe Summit drug money was being laundered through a small Reno business. He'd sounded excited when he'd called to set up a meeting, and Nick had been relieved to finally get a break in the case. Chasing dirty money often resulted in a bust.

 But Cully never showed for the meeting. Or called.  Suspecting the worst, Nick and Daphne had started digging into small businesses connected with Tahoe Summit personnel. It hadn't taken long to discover that only one person on the kitchen staff had ties to a small business. Justin Tremont, part time pastry chef, owned a catering business with his two sisters.

 Marcus shook his head. "Risky. My way may take time, but at least you won't end up getting investigated by Internal Affairs."

 "That won’t happen," Nick said.

 "You hope." Daphne eyed him over the top of her coffee cup.

 "Stop being such a ray of sunshine," he muttered.

 "I vote against this idea," Marcus said, pushing his lank dark hair to the side of his forehead.

 "You don't have a vote," Nick said.

 "When you want me to look at the figures, you might change your mind on that."

 "All right, you have a vote. But it's still two against one."

 "Marcus," Daphne said, fixing her large, coffee-brown eyes on his face in a way that told Nick she was on her last nerve. Marcus was, of course, oblivious. "I have sworn to uphold the law. I truly believe in the law, but I want to get the sons of bitches that nailed Cully. Don't you?"

 "Of course I want to get them," the accountant said adamantly. He wanted anything that Daphne wanted—he'd had a wild crush on her since he'd first come to work two years ago.

 "Then man up!" she said, and Marcus went instantly red.

 "Fine," he sputtered. "I'll man up. I'm more than capable of bending the rules."

 “You don’t need to bend anything,” Nick said. "All we want is your unofficial expertise after I get the financial records in an unofficial way. All right?"

 Marcus was still red. He shot a quick look at Daphne who stared back impassively. "Yes. All right. But I'm not the dweeb you think I am."

 "No one said you were a dweeb," Nick insisted, since Daphne wouldn't. She had no patience with their colleague and Nick couldn't blame her, since Marcus was hell-bent on impressing her and impervious to hints—or blatant declarations—that she wasn’t interested.

 "You don't have to say it," the accountant said sullenly. “I can see what you think.”

 Daphne dropped her napkin onto her plate, obviously having had enough. She reached for her purse, took out a handful of one dollar bills and started counting them.

 "What are you going to do now?" Nick asked.

 "I am going to take my partnerless self back to the office to work on busting drug buys near the campus. Because it looks good in the newspaper." She raised her eyes. "I don't care how much of a jerk Lieutenant Davidson is, don't ever do this to me again."

 Nick pulled a twenty from his wallet. "I'll try very hard to never rile him again." Frankly, he wasn't normally the lieutenant-riling kind, but this Cully deal bugged the hell out of him. Yeah, Cully had been slick, but he'd also been a sweet, personable kid, with plans, no less. Both Nick and Daphne had, during weak moments, mentioned that as much as they appreciated what he brought them, he needed to find a safer line of work.

 Cully had laughed them off, saying that he was eventually going to Police Officer Standard and Training academy to become a professional undercover agent. He wouldn't have gone to ground without contacting either Daphne or Nick, and it had now been four weeks since they'd last heard from him.

 EDEN TREMONT KICKED off the killer heels she wore to all her client meetings the instant she stepped inside the back door of the catering kitchen. She sighed as her bare feet hit the blessedly cool tile floor, then reached for her orange kitchen clogs. It didn't pay to be short.

Sunday morning meetings were not the norm for her. Usually she spent that time prepping meals for the two families she cooked for on a weekly basis—the Stewarts and the Ballards—in addition to her catering duties. Today, however, was the only time a prospective bride with a vicious travel schedule could meet with her, and Eden went with it. Happily so, since she had a signed contract in her hand.

 No one was in the kitchen yet, so she stowed her portfolio and her purse in the small back office. Grabbing an elastic band off the top of her desk, she pulled her blond hair into a haphazard knot and secured it just as the rear door of the kitchen banged open, scaring the bejeezus out of her. Patty Lloyd, their prep cook, did not slam. Ever.

 Then one of the lockers next to the back door rattled and Eden let out a breath. Justin. Her brother. Who wasn't supposed to be in until early afternoon.

 "Why are you here now?" Eden demanded, leaning out the door.

 "Guess." Justin barely held back a yawn before pulling a white, jersey cotton stocking cap over his choppy blond hair. Sometimes Eden wondered if he still cut it himself, as he had when they were kids. It wasn't that he couldn't afford a haircut. He was just never able to find a barber who could give him the dangerous skater punk do he wanted.

 "You took a cake order when you shouldn't have?" Her voice dripped sisterly sarcasm.

 "Hey, you're one to talk. You volunteered to help with geriatric cooking lessons when you're swamped."

 "I'm not as swamped as you, I have help with the lessons and it's only for six weeks." She folded her arms. "Besides, it's community service and that's not only great for the soul, it's excellent public relations." She cocked her head, scowling at her brother. Sometimes she honestly worried about him. "How late did you get in last night?"

 Just in shrugged into a chef's jacket with a blue food color stain dribbled down the front. His favorite jacket. He said it unleashed his creativity. "Two? Two-thirty?"

 "So you got what? Three hours sleep?"

 "I'm too tired to do the math," he said as he headed past her to one of the two stainless fridges and pulled open the door. A weary smile transformed his angular face as he glanced over his shoulder at Eden.  "Did I tell you that I love Patty? That I'm going to make her my bride?"

He pulled out a stainless steel bowl of what had to be cake filling, and held it up. "One less thing to do. If I play my cards right, I may be able to sneak in a nap before I head back up to the Lake." The Lake being shorthand for Lake Tahoe, where Justin had his second job. By day, Justin was the Tremont Catering dessert chef, but he also worked three nights a week at a Lake Tahoe resort hotel as the pastry chef, and, in spite of those two jobs filling much of his time, he kept making high-end cakes. The more he made, the more the orders poured in as word spread. And they all seemed to be rush jobs. If they weren't to begin with, then by the time Justin fit them into his jammed schedule, they became rushes.

"You've got to stop doing this," Eden muttered. Her words were barely audible, since she knew they would do no good. She'd been saying the same thing over and over again for how long now? Since he'd taken that first emergency cake order for a bakery that'd had an electrical fire. Even on that first order he'd been pushing things. They'd had three big catering events that week, yet he'd still somehow pulled off a masterpiece. And Eden knew the argument she'd get in return—the cakes brought in a lot of extra income. Some old equipment had finally been replaced, thanks to those cakes, and Justin had been able to refurbish the classic Firebird he'd bought from one of Eden's clients. Plus he was socking away money to make a balloon payment on his condo.

At some point all this was going to catch up to him, physically, if nothing else. It would, even if he did have Patty. When, exactly, had she made the filling? She was supposed to have gone home shortly after Eden left. Obviously she hadn't. Their prep cook needed to be needed, and with their sister, Reggie, out on maternity leave, and Justin's ridiculous schedule, Patty was working at the right place.

"When's this cake due?" Eden asked as she started breading beef for stew. She made five days of container meals for the Stewarts and the Ballards every Sunday and delivered them late Sunday evening. During the remainder of the week, between catering events and prep, she planned menus and typed up reheating instructions, which she saved to her computer for repeat performances. She had the personal chef gig down to a fine science now.

 "Tomorrow," Justin said. "I have Donovan coming over to help me deliver."

 "Then I can have the van tonight?"

 "All yours," Justin agreed.

 "Great." Eden hated delivering in her small Honda Civic.

 "Am I making crème brûlée for the Wednesday deal?"

 "Yes. And mini tarts."

 "Got it." Justin disappeared back into the alcove known as the pastry cave, and turned on his music. Eden chopped vegetables in time to classic Green Day songs as she browned the sausages for the lasagna the Ballard family requested as a weekly staple. Easy for two teenage boys to fill up on.

 By the time Patty came in at eight-thirty, Eden had every burner on the stove going, as well as two ovens. She tended to hog the kitchen on Sunday, which was why they avoided Monday events if at all possible.  Today was officially Patty's day off, so she would be coming in for only one reason….

"Good morning," she said, pulling a scarf from her permed curls. "I thought I'd stop by and see if Justin needed some help."

 "You know he does," Eden said. "How late were you here last night?"

 "Only until eight, but I didn't put down the extra hours. It was my choice to stay."

 "Put down the hours," Eden said. "It comes out of the cake money, since that’s what you were here for."

 "If you insist," Patty said. "Even though I'm happy—"

 "I insist. But, really, you shouldn't stay late to help Justin out of situations he gets himself into."

 "It's for the good of the company."

 "Yes." Hard to argue with that.

 "The oddest thing happened last night," Patty said as she tied on her oversize apron. "When I went out to my car, there was a young man hanging out in the alley near the van."

 Eden looked up from the carrots she was dicing. "Just…hanging around? Loitering?"

 Their Reno neighborhood was a quiet one, consisting of a couple small bistro type restaurants that were open only for breakfast and lunch, law offices and boutique stores in refurbished houses, and a quiet, upscale lounge two blocks away. They didn't get many people lingering after hours—especially in their alley, which was dead-end.

 "Yes. I thought it was strange, but I just walked straight to my car, got in and locked the doors. Once I had it started, I checked and saw the man slipping into the space between our building and the law office, apparently on his way to the street. When I pulled out of the alley, he was gone. Or he may have been hiding between the buildings."

 "Any chance it was—"

 "It wasn't Ian," Patty said in a definite voice, referring to Eden’s ex-boyfriend.

 "Hey, Justin?" Eden called, loudly enough to be heard over the music. Her brother came out of the pastry room, stainless steel spatula in hand. "Patty said there was someone hanging around the van last night when she left. Maybe you should take a look at it, see if he tried to pry the doors open or something."

 "Yeah. Sure." He put the spatula down on the counter nearest him and headed for the back door. "Any chance it was Ian?"

 "Patty says it wasn't," Eden answered wearily.

 A few minutes later he was back. "Nothing. Maybe just a homeless guy looking for a place to sleep."

 "Probably," Patty agreed.

 "But maybe you should park out front on the days you're working late," Eden said. "And keep an eye on your surroundings, all right?"

 Patty sniffed. She was the designated lecturer.

 "For your safety," Eden added. Ever since Reggie—her and Justin’s older sister—had started maternity leave, Patty had all but declared herself a full partner in Tremont Catering. Granted, they needed her. She was dependable and honest, and without her Justin would be in deep trouble. But she did have a few quirks, control issues being at the top of the list.

"I'll watch myself," she said. "And I am positive it wasn't Ian. This man had dark hair."

 Eden gave a quick nod of understanding before she walked into the dry storage area. She hated that Patty was so aware Ian would be her number one suspect. Eden very much liked to keep her private life private. It was her own fault, though, that Patty was so well informed on the ex-boyfriend front, since Eden had taken a strip off his cheating hide when he'd had the audacity to show up at the kitchen with flowers  and an apology, delivered with the perfect combination of sincerity and humility.

 Eden hadn't budged, and after a few words it became clear that he didn't think coming on to his best friend's wife in the guest bedroom at a dinner party counted as cheating. He had, after all, been drunk, and they hadn't done anything but a little kissing and groping. It was all a big misunderstanding. Surely Eden could see that? His friend understood, so why didn't she?

 Shattering her trust? No big deal. Being drunk? Hell of an excuse.

 Eden dragged the stepladder from one end of the metal shelving units to the other and started climbing so she could get two large cans of fire roasted crushed tomatoes. After a stressful childhood with a father who said anything to keep people happy, then did as he damned well pleased, she had no tolerance for subterfuge, lying or "misunderstandings." Which was why she didn't care how many bouquets of flowers or apologies Ian sent her way.

They'd dated once before and he'd left her, shortly after college. It'd taken her a long time to get over him. When he'd appeared back in Reno six months ago, he'd come to see her. Apologized for being such a short-sighted jerk. Asked her back into his life. Eden had taken a chance, thinking they’d both grown and that Ian had dealt with whatever issue had caused him to leave her in the first place.

 And the flame had burned hot.

 Now it had abruptly gone out, and that was it. Over was over, and he needed to get that through his thick head. Unfortunately, Ian hated to lose. That probably made him a good  lawyer. It also made him a pain in the ass.

 Amazing just how quickly things changed once a person discovered that the guy who was supposed to be watching her back was actually more interested in someone else's boobs.

 "WHAT DO YOU mean, you aren't taking the cooking lessons?" Nick stared at his stubborn grandfather, who stood next to the patio door of his small apartment wearing his favorite plaid flannel shirt and baggy police tactical pants. A couple quail ran across the courtyard lawn outside.

 Gabe pulled the door open. The quail instantly took cover in a juniper bush. "Why in the hell would I want to take cooking lessons?" he asked as he grabbed the bag of seeds off the bookcase by the door.

 Because I want to take them. "Lois says you guys need to eat better. This is one way to do that."

 "I'm eating just fine."

 "You're downing too much salt and fat. She said your blood pressure has redlined a couple times. If you don't start eating right, she's going to sentence you to the cafeteria."

 "When did this happen?" Gabe asked, shaking his head before reaching into the bag and tossing a handful of seeds out into the grass.

 "What?"

 "When did I hit the point in my life when I have to be treated like a damned child?" He didn't look at Nick, just threw more seeds, his movements jerky. Angry.

 Nick didn't have an answer for that. His grandfather was a seventy five-year-old heart attack survivor. After the heart attack it became apparent that living alone in his north Reno home was no longer a possibility, so Nick had helped him sell the house and move into the Candlewood Center, an assisted living facility that would allow him the most personal freedom. It cost a bundle, but Gabe had made a huge profit on the house, which allowed him to pay the fees and still have money in the bank.

 Not a bad outcome, except for the part where Gabe resented being told what to do.

 He did okay with community living, and had made several friends. But while he happily played poker, took the weekly trip to the golf course, sat in front of the huge TV and ate low sodium popcorn while watching sports with his friends, he steadfastly refused to partake in the meal plan offered by the facility.

 After Gabe had balked, so had a couple of his new buddies. Their rebellion was driving the woman in charge of health care in Gabe's block of apartments crazy as their blood pressures inched up. Fortunately, Lois was no pushover and had come up with this cooking lesson angle as a way to get the guys to eat healthier meals. And when she'd mentioned her plan to Nick—in hopes that he'd convince his grandfather, the ringleader, to cooperate—he'd had the happy suggestion that perhaps she'd like to contact Tremont Catering, which was less than a mile away, and see if they could rent their large kitchen for the lessons. It made more sense than trying to squeeze all the participants into the relatively tiny cafeteria kitchen at the facility.

 The only downside was that instead of simply renting the kitchen, the Tremonts had insisted on being involved with the lessons. Nick would have preferred to have the place to himself, in order to snoop around while Lois did her thing, but this was definitely better than nothing.

 "I'm not going to live forever," Gabe said, pushing the door shut. Little quail heads appeared out of the juniper. "But while I am alive, I want to eat decent food."

 "That's what the class is all about. Taking stuff you love and making it healthier."

 "Making it taste like cardboard, you mean. Your grandmother went on a health food craze twenty years ago. Let me tell you, that stuff she made with those healthy—" Gabe's mouth twisted into a disdainful sneer  "—recipes was awful. And your grandmother was a damned fine cook."

 "Things have changed." Nick assumed they'd changed, anyway—hadn't everything changed in the past twenty years? He knew nothing about cooking, other than frying up the occasional steak. Everything he ate came from the freezer or a take-out bag. "I was kind of hoping you'd take the lessons for my sake."

 “Your sake?” Gabe sounded surprised, then his expression shifted. “There’s no possibility that an attractive woman might be teaching these lessons, is there?”

 Not that again.

 Nick toyed with the idea of simply saying yes, but heaven only knew what his grandfather would do then. Nightmare scenarios shot through his head. Nick’s wife, Miri, had died more than two years ago in a car accident and Gabe, who’d adored her, had grieved along with Nick. But after a year and a half had passed and Nick had remained buried in his work, with no social life and showing no sign of changing his ways, his grandfather had grown impatient. It was time for Nick to move on, “join the land of the living” as Gabe put it.

 Nick was in the land of the living; he’d finally gotten over the raw pain of losing his wife, but he felt no desire whatsoever to try to fill the void she’d left in his life. Yes, the void was dark and unfulfilling, but it didn’t hurt. Why fill it with something that might cause him pain later?

 “I want to learn some cooking techniques, Granddad,” he said in an exasperated voice. “Not flirt with the instructor.”

 Gabe’s mouth twisted in annoyance. "Take your own damned lessons, then. Leave me out of it."

 "Damn it, Granddad. Stop being so effing stubborn."

 "Effing? In my day, we just came out and said—"

 "I'm trying to be polite."

 "Why aren't you at work?" Gabe suddenly asked.

 Nick rolled his eyes. He wasn't going to explain about his tool of a lieutenant or the reason he’d been suspended. For one thing, it was embarrassing. For another, Gabe would want every detail leading up to the suspension, and Nick wasn't discussing the matter. Nick did not have a short fuse, but he'd been hot with the lieutenant. A little too hot.

 He honestly had a soft spot for the kid who’d been feeding them information and had then so abruptly disappeared. Wanted to look into the matter instead of having it shoved onto the back burner in favor of easier and more high-profile case—such as busting drugs near the campus. Maybe they hadn’t made much headway in eight months, but in light of what had happened, pulling them entirely off the case made no sense either.

 "Different assignment, different hours," he said dismissively. Gabe narrowed his eyes thoughtfully and Nick was suddenly reminded of all the times he’d unsuccessfully tried to pull a fast one on the old guy when he’d been a kid. "Come on, Granddad. Take the lessons. I want to join you, since I know jack about cooking, and I can't if you don't."

 "You want to take the lessons? You want to learn to make old-people food?"

 "I want to learn to cook something healthy so I don't end up having a heart attack."

 Gabe scowled at him, then shoved a hand through his thick white hair. "That's dirty pool."

 "Only two of the guys have signed up, but more will if you do. And I honestly want to go."

 Gabe grunted, setting the birdseed bag down on the small table next to the window. "Sign me the hell up, then. You're not going to rest until you do."

 "No. I'm not. It's a win-win."

 Gabe then said the word that Nick had avoided in the name of politeness.

 NICK WANTED TO take cooking lessons? Ha. Nick wanted to maneuver his grandfather into doing something he didn’t want to do and wasn’t above using emotional blackmail. Gabe still wasn’t quite sure why he’d let himself get wrangled into these lessons, except that it was obvious Nick had an ulterior motive and Gabe was curious as to what it was. Too bad it wasn’t the one he’d suggested—a cute teacher his grandson wanted to get to know.

 Nick had changed since his wife had died. Drawn into himself, which was to be expected under the circumstances, and thrown himself into his work to deal with the grief. But after two years, he was still withdrawn, still totally focused on work and nothing but work, which worried Gabe.

 He’d done the same back in his prime, after his wife had left him. And the result had not been good—in fact it had cost him dearly—and now here he was, alone, stuck in an old folks’ home. And he didn’t even have any decent memories to keep him company. The only think that helped was that he was with some of his own kind. Lenny Hartman, the old son of a bitch, had been in law enforcement down in Vegas, and Paul Meyer had been a firefighter until he retired. Both men had checked into Candlewood voluntarily, after their wives had passed away, something Gabe would never understand. He’d hung on to his independence until the last possible moment—where it was either Candlewood or Nick moving in with him after the heart attack. Nick had offered. Gabe had declined. His grandson needed to be in a position to get on with his life, and living with a cranky grandfather was not conducive to bringing home a hot woman.

 Gabe walked over to his computer and brought up a screen, pleased that he was feeling a lot more comfortable using the contraption. For years he’d put off learning to use one, had allowed himself to be intimidated even though Nick had given him a laptop, until that damned Lois had forced him and the other guys into taking a basic class just a few months ago.

 He couldn’t remember seeing a more intimidated group of men than he and his fellow inmates when they’d first settled in front of the computer screens at the community college technology lab. Lenny’s first  official act had been to pour coffee over his keyboard by “accident,” only to find that all the instructor had to do was unplug that keyboard, set it out to dry and plug in another.

 After that they decided resistance was futile and discovered, grudgingly, that, yes, a computer could change a guy’s life. Open his world.

 Make it seem less like he was in stir.

 Gabe sat in his chair—an ergonomic model Nick had given him for Christmas instead of the recliner he really wanted, a blatant effort to get him to learn to use the laptop. He had to admit, though, that he liked the chair and because of it spent more hours on the computer than he had ever expected.

 Which was how he knew that Nick didn’t even have a Facebook page.

 How in the hell was he going to socialize if he didn’t have the gumption to sign up for a social network?

 Somehow Gabe had to come up with a way to kick his grandson in the ass and make him get on with his life—to not make the same damned mistakes Gabe had made in the name of professional achievement.

And fear.

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The Baby Truce Chapter One

The first book of my first trilogy, Too Many Cooks?, will be released in a few days. The Baby Truce is already available as an ebook, but there's something special about seeing your book actually on the shelves. And I get to do it three times in a row!

The Too Many Cooks? stories are about two sisters and a brother who run a catering business in Reno, Nevada. They haven't had the easiest lives--their mother died when they were in grade school and their father spent most of his time on the road long haul trucking. They raised themselves and now they're still close enough to run a business together without killing each other.

Reggie, the oldest sister, is the logical sibling, who does the books and business planning. In fact she plans every aspect of her life. Getting accidentally pregnant throws her for a serious loop. Eden is the impatient say-what-she-thinks sibling who hates being called perky--even if she is a touch perky. She has serious trust issues, so falling for a guy who isn't being truthful with her in the second book, Undercover Cook, is a problem.  Justin, the youngest, made a career out of getting into trouble and visiting the emergency room while growing up, but now he's a laid back pastry chef. Or so it seems... When he hooks up with his childhood nemesis in the third book, Just Desserts, to help her break into her former school to steal her material back, he ends up in a situation where he has to take a hard look at his life and the secret he's been trying to keep.

I'm posting the first chapters as they become available. Here is Chapter One of The Baby Truce. Next week I'll post Chapter One of Undercover Cook.

THE BABY TRUCE

Jeannie Watt

PROLOGUE

TOM GERARD CAME AWAKE suddenly, aware that something wasn't right. He reached out and found the other side of the bed empty, the sheets cool to the touch.

"Reg?"

The suite remained silent, and although he couldn't see into the living room, he felt the stillness.

"Reggie!" He got out of bed and walked out there naked. His clothes were still scattered across the floor, but hers were no longer there.

He stood taking in the emptiness, not liking it. She was gone, and he didn't think she was out getting coffee and the newspaper. That had been his Sunday morning task during the year they'd been together. Hers had been to laze in bed until he returned. Then they would drink coffee, share the paper, make love again.

Those days were almost a decade past, but when Reggie had come to his suite with him last night, he'd assumed everything would be the same. For a while anyway, until they went back to their real lives—hers in Reno, his in New York City…or wherever he got hired. So far San Francisco was a bust, but he didn't care, because, honestly, he was an East Coast chef. California cuisine didn't do it for him.

The phone rang and Tom scooped it up. "Reggie?"

"It's Pete." Tom's long-suffering business manager, who took a nice slice of his income in return for that suffering. "I just booked you a ticket to New York. You leave at noon. Jervase Montrose wants to talk about a job. It looks good."

"Great." Tom wasn't surprised to have nailed an interview with Jervase, despite Pete's concerns. Yeah, he'd gotten his ass fired a couple weeks ago—the second time in two years—but he was still one of the top chefs in the country. Jervase would be lucky to get him.

Pete gave him the flight information, then added, "Be on your best behavior."

Hey. It wasn't like he was a wild man. He simply knew his own worth and he didn't suffer fools gladly. Was it his fault that he'd run into a hell of a lot of fools lately?

"I'll call you when I land." He hung up the phone and stood regarding the empty suite.

In all the time he'd known her, Reggie had never once walked out on him without a word.

CHAPTER ONE

REGGIE TREMONT SNAPPED off the TV and tossed the remote onto the sofa, startling her fat cat, Mims. "Damn it, Tom."

Fired again.

Not a world event, but he was enough of a bad-boy chef to get a small blurb on the E! entertainment network. Volatile chef dismissed. Celebrity witnesses involved.

They'd flashed a photo that made him look more like a pirate than a chef, with his black hair pulled into a ponytail, scruffy facial hair, dark eyes glinting. She was quite familiar with that unrepentant expression—a mask he popped on when he didn't want anyone getting too close. Or when he was getting ready to walk away.

Reggie grabbed her red cardigan off the arm of the recliner, where she'd left it the night before. She slipped it on while Mims twined around her ankles.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." She headed for the pantry, where the cat food was stored. Like she'd forget to feed the cat. Mims was as wide as she was high.

Reggie opened the can and dumped it into the ceramic dish with Meow spelled out on the bottom, wrinkling her nose as the scent of fish mixed with who-knew-what hit her nostrils. Her stomach roiled. Second day in a row. That did it. She was going back to the old brand.

She fanned the air as she retreated from the kitchen. She had to make a quick stop at the catering kitchen she ran with her sister, Eden, and her brother, Justin, to pick up her portfolios, before her client meetings and site visits. At noon she'd trade her business heels for kitchen clogs and prep for a luncheon the following day. Full days were good days.

She glanced at her watch after pulling her hair into a barrette at the back of her neck and double-checking her makeup. Please let the traffic be with me for a change.

The kitchen still smelled of the awful cat food and she tried not to breathe as she retrieved her keys from the hook next to the sink. Once she got outside the house and took a deep breath of fresh, non-catfood-tainted air, she felt better. Well, a little better, anyway. The scent of the lilacs blooming beside the house was surprisingly strong and cloying, but not nearly as bad as Mims's new food.

Reggie pressed the flat of her hand to her stomach as she walked to her car, parked on the street, since her tiny brick house had no garage. She would not, could not, come down with something while they were short one prep cook.

Mind over matter. That was the trick.

EDEN SWIVELED in her chair as soon as Reggie walked into the tiny Tremont Catering kitchen office. "We have three applicants for the prep cook position!"

Finally. The employment agency they used for catering temps had taken its sweet time. Eden and Reggie had been fighting to keep their heads above water after their last employee quit.

"Have you set up interviews?" Reggie asked, dropping her tote bag on the floor next to her small workstation. She was still fighting queasiness and now her forehead felt damp.

"Day after tomorrow. Back to back, starting at one o'clock."

"Great."

Eden slipped an elastic band off her wrist and gathered her dark blond hair into a haphazard knot, then pulled a clean white chef's apron off one of the hooks next to her station. She wrapped the strings twice around her before she tied them. Eden was petite, but…

"I think that's Justin's apron," Reggie said.

"It'll do," she replied distractedly. "After the agency called about the applicants, I got news that the Dunmores have an unexpected guest this week, so I have to figure how to stretch what I made yesterday and add a couple more dishes. Then I still have all the morning prep for that luncheon."

Reggie glanced at the handwritten schedule she kept next to her computer. "Justin's coming in at nine?"

"New cake order and he wanted to get started."

"Of course," she murmured. He wasn't quite overextended enough and had to take on that one extra project to tip the scales.

 When they'd first started Tremont six years ago, all three of them had worked extra jobs to keep the business afloat. Reggie, who like many would-be restaurateurs and caterers, had taken business and accounting classes along with her culinary courses, did the books for a couple small firms. Eden worked as a personal chef and Justin had snagged a part-time job as a backup cook for a resort at Lake Tahoe.

Reggie had long ago given up the bookkeeping to run Tremont full time, but Eden still cooked for three families on a weekly basis and Justin was a backup pastry chef and fill-in cook at the same hotel. And he made cakes. Exquisitely crafted and gloriously expensive cakes that were gaining popularity and bringing some serious money into the business. At the same time they were forcing him into a ridiculous work schedule that didn't involve a lot of sleep.

"I saw that your ex got the ax again," Eden said.

"I saw it, too," Reggie said, without looking up. She tucked her site notes into the wedding portfolio.

"I guess he should have kept his mouth shut." Eden breezed by her and disappeared into the kitchen.

"A lesson for all of us," Reggie muttered. A lesson Tom wasn't learning.

She shut off her monitor before shouldering the leather portfolio. Her stomach tightened as she walked into the kitchen, where Eden had beef stew simmering.

"There's something wrong with your stew," Reggie said, wrinkling her nose. She stopped a few feet away from the stove.

"What?" Eden lifted the spoon and sniffed.

"Can't you smell it? It's…off."

Eden sniffed again, then tasted. "No it's not."

Reggie came closer, took a deep whiff of the rich brown broth, and her stomach roiled violently. She clapped a hand over her mouth.

"Reg?"

The leather portfolio hit the rubber floor mat in front of the stove as Reggie turned and raced for the bathroom, barely making it before she heaved. She pushed away from the porcelain bowl as sweat broke out on her forehead. Then pulled herself closer as she heaved again.

"Reggie!" Eden knelt beside her, one hand on her back, offering her a wad of toilet paper.

"I'm fine," Reggie said automatically, taking the tissue to wipe her mouth.

"Oh, yes. Totally fine."

"No. Really." Reggie focused on her sister. "I feel better."

Eden regarded her for a moment. "Could you stop by the seafood shop right now?"

Reggie's stomach convulsed at the mere thought of fish. It must have showed.

"Uh-huh." Eden helped her to her feet. "You need to go home and lie down before you get really sick."

"This was just a fluke. Besides, I have meetings." That she couldn't afford to throw up in.

"How long have you been feeling like this?"

"A couple days," Reggie said. "Just a little out of sorts. Kind of sick in the mornings."

"Morning sickness?!"

Reggie met her sister's eyes, then slowly started shaking her head. "No. I feel sick in the morning. There's a difference."

"Oh, yeah? And what is that difference?"

"I believe what you're talking about is called pregnancy," Reggie said.

"No chance…?" Eden asked.

"Who are you talking to? I never take chances."

Eden merely stared at her in a decidedly unconvinced way.

"Ever," Reggie added. She glanced down at her shoes, which, thankfully, hadn't suffered any damage.

"You've been damned cranky lately and now you're puking in the morning." Her sister lifted her chin, looked Reggie in the eye and asked flatly, "You swear there's no chance at all?"

Next she'd have her putting her hand on the Bible.

"None," Reggie replied. After all, she and Tom had used condoms.

TOM WALKED DOWN Fifth Avenue, hands shoved deep in his pockets, chin tucked low to his chest against the pelting rain. He hated rain. Right now he hated just about everything, and especially Jervase Montrose. It was one thing to get canned, and another to get canned in front of his kitchen brigade just after service. Jervase had planned it that way. He'd all but called in a news crew. And he'd made such a fricking big deal about having taken a chance on him.

What chance? Tom had delivered everything he'd promised. The number of covers had increased exponentially since he'd taken the helm of Jervase's restaurant.

Ungrateful bastard.

Tom climbed the four stone steps to the entryway of Pete's office building. The security guard nodded at him as he passed on his way to the elevator. His business manager's receptionist did the same, then ignored him during the twenty minutes Pete kept him waiting. He hadn't even sat down in one of the sleek ebony chairs on the opposite side of the equally sleek but cluttered desk when Pete announced, "It was your fault."

Tom didn't bother sitting after that, since it was going to be one of those kinds of meetings. Pete might be a good six inches shorter than Tom and generally soft spoken, but didn't take crap from anyone. "My fault? How the hell did you come to that conclusion?"

"Eyewitness reports."

"What? Who? Because anyone there last night could tell you—"

"Not last night. The night before. When you told the group of diners how ridiculous upper management was."

Tom shifted his weight impatiently. "I didn't say anything that wasn't true." Rampant inefficiency was making it damned hard for him to do his best work, and it wouldn't have been that tough to fix it.

"But unfortunately, you said it to one of the men responsible."

Tom snorted. "All the more reason to say something. If they would have listened to me weeks ago—"

"Play the freaking game, Tom! Other people do. Why can't you?"

He placed his palms on Pete's desk and leaned closer. "Because the game bites. If there's a problem, you identify it and fix it."

"Well, apparently Jervase has identified the problem and fixed it."

Tom had no answer for that. Jervase was within his rights to fire him. He was stupid to, but within his rights.

"What now?" he asked.

"What the hell do you mean, what now? You're burning bridges faster than I can build them."

"Build faster."

Pete slumped back in his chair. "Jervase is well respected. I hate to say this…but you may have burned your last bridge. For a while, anyway."

"Meaning?"

"If he wants to, he can blackball you."

Tom's chin came up. "He's a money man. He doesn't know squat about running a restaurant—or creating a menu." One of their first bones of contention. "I mean, seriously."

"Money talks." Pete got out of his chair and came around his desk. "Consider an apology. Possibly even a public one."

"An apology?" Tom almost choked. "Give me one frigging reason why I should apologize to him when his head is so far up his—"

"He can do you some major damage, no matter how good you are." Pete paused, then added significantly, "Even more damage than you're causing yourself."

"I am not the problem."

"So this has all been what?" Pete asked calmly. "A run of bad luck?"

Tom slapped his hand down on the desk. Why in the hell couldn't the man see what was going on? "It's been a run of idiots with money thinking they know more than the experts they hire. Assholes who can't handle hearing the truth because they didn't think of it themselves."

"Assholes who do the hiring and firing." Pete pointed a finger at him. "Assholes who hold your future in their hands."

"They don't hold my future," Tom said. "I hold my future."

"Don't be so sure of that."

Tom's head started to pound. Pete was missing the point, and Tom needed to get the hell out of there before he really blew. He turned and headed for the door. "I've got to go."

"Don't do anything stupid," Pete said. "Or should I say stupider."

"Wouldn't dream of it." Tom yanked the heavy paneled door open and strode out into the hall. "I'll check back with you."

Pete didn't answer. Tom didn't know whether that was good or bad, and didn't care. Pete had been his manager since he'd been a candidate for the James Beard Upcoming Chef awards, and once they weathered this particular storm, things would be good again. He could see why Pete wanted to make nice with Montrose—after all, Tom wasn't Pete's only client. But he was his biggest name, and Tom would pound nails with his knife before he'd apologize for speaking the truth.

Let the man do his worst.

THE UNOPENED PREGNANCY TEST stood like a sentinel on Reggie's kitchen island. She walked slowly around the granite-topped fixture, not quite ready to take the plunge, mainly because she couldn't be pregnant.

No. Way.

She and Tom had used condoms. Both times.

So why didn't she just pee on the stick and get it over with?

Because the possibility of being tied to Tom for the next eighteen years was simply too much for her to handle. Yeah, she'd once loved him. But that wasn't why she'd slept with him.

Never sleep with someone you don't want to raise a kid with—no matter how hot they are. Her ninth-grade health teacher's words, which had been repeated at least fifty times during the semester.

No question about Tom being hot. And if Reggie pushed aside her resentment about how he'd walked out on her, how he'd chosen a high-risk job on the other side of the ocean over staying with her and starting the catering business that had become Tremont, she could concede that he had good points besides hotness. But he wasn't father material. Fathers needed to be steady. And there.

Reggie grabbed the box and opened the top. Enough. She was settling this once and for all.

IT TOOK TOM A LONG TIME to wake up enough to realize that the constant ringing was not in his head. He pushed himself upright on the sofa, stared at the cell phone he held in his hand, then answered.

"Are you crazy?" Pete barked into his ear, making him wince.

"According to you, I am," Tom said, his voice thick. He cleared his throat twice, trying to ease the cotton mouth. "Why?"

"Do you recall talking to any reporters lately?"

Tom planted a palm on his forehead, trying to hold in the pressure. "Why in the hell are you calling me about reporters?"

"Because of what greeted me in the paper this morning!" Pete, normally the most patient of men, even when Tom was on a rampage, sounded utterly pissed. "I sent you the link. Take a look once your vision clears enough to read it." The phone went dead.

Tom let his head fall back against the sofa cushions. Closed his

eyes. His head was throbbing. Mescal? Was that what he'd drunk? He remembered demanding something strong to kill the disappointment of having everyone he'd called for a job lead give him a helpful suggestion as to somewhere else he might want to call.

Whatever he'd drunk, it'd been a killer night. But he hadn't talked to any reporters. He was certain of that.

The room spun as he got to his feet and trudged naked to the bathroom. A woman's red sequined top hung on the doorknob by one strap. He stared at it for a moment, then continued into the john, closing the door just in case. When he came back out, he looked around the apartment, which didn't take long since it was only four small yet highly expensive rooms. No woman.

He sat in front of the computer, brought up his email and clicked on the link Pete had sent. Obviously some tabloid had manufactured a few lies, twisted a few truths.

And that tabloid was called the New York Times.

Oh, shit.

In a small but clear photo he had one arm draped over a woman wearing a sequined top very similar to the one on his bathroom doorknob. With the other hand he pointed directly at the camera, his mouth open as he obviously expounded.

And how he'd expounded, according to the article beneath the photo. The text wasn't long, but it was colorful and explained exactly what he thought of Jervase Montrose and his restaurants, plus his feelings on all corporately managed eating establishments. The reporter had also helpfully included Tom's insights into the personal habits of several food critics. There were many, many quotation marks.

Tom slammed the laptop shut and jumped to his feet, needing to move. He sensed the need for some damage control.

He punched Pete's number into his phone. The business manager answered on the first ring. "You read it?"

"Yeah."

"Then you'll understand what I'm about to say next."

"Which is?"

"I quit. Please seek other management."

REGGIE HAD HEARD OF WOMEN in denial buying three and four different pregnancy tests, just to make certain the first two or three were correct. She was about to join their ranks. The only thing that stopped her was the landline ringing as she went for her purse and keys. Ignore her sister or get it over with?

If she ignored her, Eden would show up at her door.

"Well?" Eden said when she answered.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"No!"

"I said I don't want to talk about it." Reggie planted the palm of her free hand on her throbbing forehead, trying to ease the tension there. "I'm going to buy another test. This one may have been old."

"Old?"

"Or compromised in some way."

"Or the reason you're throwing up is because you're pregnant."

Reggie dropped her hand. She couldn't bring herself to respond. "I'll be right over," Eden added.

"Don't tell Justin," Reggie said through gritted teeth. Her brother did his best to appear as if nothing bothered him, but it was a front. Justin was the most protective male of her acquaintance, and right now she didn't need protection. She didn't need to hash this through with Eden, either, but better to get it over with now, while she was still numb.

"Wouldn't think of it," Eden said. "See you in twenty. Just…stay calm."

Reggie rolled her eyes and hung up. Stay calm. Oh, yeah. She headed for the door. She had just enough time to get to the nearest drugstore and back again.

No. She'd wait for Eden and then go to the drugstore. They could go together. Reggie stopped in the middle of the room and pressed her palms against her abdomen. How? How could there possibly be a baby growing inside her?

When Eden showed up twenty minutes later, Reggie was sitting on the sofa, holding Mims on her lap and staring at the opposite wall. This was real. She had accidentally become pregnant at the age of thirty.

Unless, of course, the test was wrong. It happened.

Reggie stood as Eden let herself in with her own key. They were dressed almost identically in white T-shirts and jeans…and Eden's jeans were going to fit her in six months. For a moment the two sisters simply stared at each other, then Eden crossed the room to wrap her arms around Reggie and hug her tightly.

"You're not alone in this. All right?"

"I know."

Eden released her and stood back. "It's none of my business—"

"Tom." No sense being coy.

"Gerard?" Eden's mouth fell open. She waited, as if expecting Reggie to say, "Just kidding." That didn't happen. "When…where…? Isn't he in New York?"

"Sommelier class. San Francisco. He was staying at the hotel while interviewing for a job. We ran into each other the first day of class."

"So you slept with him?"

Reggie gave her sister a weary look. Obviously.

"You—"

"We used protection," Reggie said. "It didn't work."

"But…Tom?"

She wasn't going into the wherefores and the whys—mainly because they sounded lame. And she didn't want anyone to know that she'd gotten pregnant proving to herself that she was over a guy; that she could walk away, just as he had. Especially when she'd made the rather startling discovery that physically, at least, she wasn't over him. Regardless of what her very logical brain was telling her. Sleeping with Tom after all these years had been…something. And if it hadn't been for her realization that she still had issues with him, she would have pushed back her departure. Had another night with him.

"Yes, Tom." She picked up a squirming Mims, who'd had about enough of being used as a security pillow. "And now I have to tell him."

Eden's expression became closed. "Why?"

Reggie hugged Mims tighter, holding the cat's plump gray body against her chest. "What do you mean, why? Because he's the father. He has a right to know."

Eden let out a sigh as she reached up to pat Mims, who escaped to the back of the sofa after Reggie released her. "It's just that he made you so damned unhappy when you guys broke up, and now…" She gave a small shrug. "But it isn't like he's going to want to settle down or anything."

"No." Again, obviously. He hadn't settled into anything for more than a couple years since leaving her. Her kid was going to have a normal life, and Tom's life was anything but normal.

Her kid. What a concept.

"And I guess he should pay support," Eden added.

"I don't know that I want him to." Because if he paid support, he'd have a say in the child's upbringing.

But would he want a say?

She'd been officially pregnant for all of an hour and was already drowning in unanswered questions and potential complications. And she was still grappling with the thought of a tiny being growing inside her. "I guess the smart thing to do, after I go to a doctor and make sure I'm really pregnant, is to see a lawyer." She sat on the sofa, reaching up to stroke Mims on the cushion next to her head. "It's going to take a while to get used to this idea."

"For all of us."

Reggie dropped her hand into her lap and looked up at Eden, who still stood next to the recliner. "I always figured that if one of us got into this mess, it would be Justin."

Eden's mouth twisted in ironic acknowledgment. "Instead, it's the responsible Tremont. Go figure."

The responsible Tremont who had no idea what to do next.

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Blast From the Past

Recently my editor, Victoria Curran, did a webinar as part of Harlequin’s So You Think You Can Write digital conference.  The topic was Beyond the Call: Working with a New Writer. (Check it out.) I’m the new writer—or I was. Now I guess I’m more of a seasoned author.

The examples for the webinar were taken from the line edits of my first book, A Difficult Woman. I went through the original line edited document, now almost six years old, looking for examples and thus reliving one of the more amazing periods of my life—one filled with firsts. First contract, first line edits, first galleys, first ISBN, first cover. I’d love to say first revisions, but no—I believe those were my fourth on that book.

Short of receiving The Call, there is nothing like getting your first cover. Every day I brought up my Amazon page, only to be greeted with a white blank where the cover should be. Then one day, ta da—no white blank. Instead I had a cover. There it was, with my name on it and everything.

The scene was just as I’d described in my art fact sheet. The heroine was spot on. The only minor, minor problem was the hero…I didn’t recognize him. Not that there is one thing wrong with the hero on the cover—it’s just that I lived with this guy in my head for over three years and I know what he looks like. We’d been through a lot, he and I, and for the record, he looks like this. 

<------

Actually, since he wears glasses, he really looks more like this. That’s my hero. For the record.     ------>

So in conclusion, if you have thirty minutes and get an in depth look at a writer-editor collaboration, check out Victoria’s webinar.

Meanwhile back at the ranch...

I stopped blogging (and doing laundry) sometime in mid-July, around the time that the overlapping deadlines for my three-book continuity Too Many Chefs? reached their pinnacle…and my husband decided to paint the house. I thought painting a house would take a week--you know, one day for each of the short sides and two days for each long side. Uh…no. Big lesson there.

I confess that I’m exaggerating about not doing laundry for six months, but with deadlines and slinging paint, something had to give. I suggested laundry, but my husband rebelled, so it ended up being sewing and blogging and, for too short of a time, housework.

Now I’m back to all three. I also had an epiphany during my time off—blogs can be short. Perhaps because I write Superromances, I think long. Short is good. Short is doable. Short is the plan.