Home Again

I came home last night and surprised hubby, who expected me this morning instead since it's Father's Day (we went with the boys earlier for lunch and then had dessert here at home). I met some really lovely readers at the booksigning yesterday in Atlantic City, plus got to catch up and visit with some writer friends and acquaintances and made a couple new friends as well. And then when I'd finished, I loaded my things back into the car and drove a few blocks to park and got in a nice walk on the beach and in the ocean, found a couple pretty seashells, and then had amazing pizza on the boardwalk before I drove home.

And now I want to go back for a real visit to the beach. The last time I had even a short visit was October 2019 with one of my girlfriends for a long weekend, so yesterday's brief taste definitely made me want more. I'll have to think about it, the when, how, who might go along, and then figure out the details. But not just yet. The next big thing on my list is getting this short contemporary ready for readers. We're halfway through June, and most of my non-day-job time has been devoted to event prep rather than pub prep. The good news is I still have half the month to work on that writing goals list. The not-as-good news (for the writing goals list, that is) is we have a family birthday coming up before the month is over. That's okay, I'll figure it out.

In the interest of getting some of that writing stuff done before my long weekend, is over, though, I'm going to keep this short-ish and get to this week's story snippet, this week from Protecting Medusa.

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            Philomena parked beside her mother’s house. She’d arrived first, and she needed to get dinner on in a hurry. Once Jason got home, she’d be too distracted to focus on cooking.

            She went in the back door, balancing a grocery bag while she reset the alarm, then hit the light switch with her elbow as she continued into the kitchen.

            She took her mother’s cast iron skillet from its hook over the counter and put it on the stove, turning the heat to high and dropping in some ground beef before she shed her coat. As she put away the rest of the groceries, the meat began to sizzle.

            She rolled up her sleeves and dug a spatula out of the utensil drawer, but froze when she heard a creak from upstairs. She waited, then shook her head. It was a hundred year-old farmhouse. 

            She stirred the beef in the pan, adding chopped onions she’d picked up at the store--not out of laziness but because she knew she needed to move quickly after three days away and with an excitable six-year-old on his way home. She could take time tomorrow to do her own prep work for dinner.

            The sound came again from upstairs. She set the spatula on the spoon rest and turned the flame under her pan down to low, then tugged up the hem of her long skirt to pull her dagger from its leather sheath on her thigh.

            A loud thud reached her ears, and her heart beat faster.

            Dear Gods, someone really was in the house.

            She crept up the back steps, keeping to the edges where she knew her weight wouldn’t make the stairs creak, the smooth handle of her long knife comforting in her sweat-damp hand.

            More thumping, accompanied by running water.

            She frowned when she got to the top of the steps, wincing as something hit the porcelain bathtub, followed by muffled cursing.

            She stuck her head around the corner, but the partially-closed bathroom door at the other end of the hall blocked her view. All she could see were shadows.

            Two people? In her mother’s bathroom? She wished she’d grabbed the phone on her way up so she could call the police. No, she should’ve called before coming upstairs. Too late now.

            More thumping and a crash.

            Her jaw clenched, and she stepped into the hallway, her pulse pounding in her ears.

            “I’ve called the police,” she lied, moving slowly along the hall. Frigid air drifted toward her. Either the bathroom window was open, or something was seriously wrong with the furnace. She frowned, holding tighter to her knife.

            A dark blur went out the window, and her eyes widened. It was quite a drop to the ground, even with all the snow mounded below from the big storms so far this winter.

            When a large, naked man with a gun went to look out the window, she froze in the middle of the hall, her dagger shoulder high.

            Naked. 

            She swallowed, and then he turned around. Her lungs stopped working.

            “Hello, Philomena. Have I ever told you how much I love a woman who can handle a blade?” He caught the edge of the door and pulled it wide open.

            She’d know that voice anywhere, and that face, even if she’d only seen him in photos. Ryder Ware, Jason’s father.

            And wow, was she seeing him in person. 

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I should figure out how much PTO I have for the rest of the year this week, if I'm going to figure out at least a long weekend at the beach. Maybe I'll add that to tomorrow's to-do list of things to cram in before I go back to work Tuesday. I do get a bonus day off mid-week this week, for Juneteenth, which means an extra day for writing things. Yay!

Are you planning a vacation getaway for this summer? Or have you already done that and are just counting down to your trip now? I'd love to hear about it!

Until next week, happy reading!