Category Archives: Travels

A Snippet of Love and Romance

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As a writer of both erotica and romance, I thought I’d provide you with an excerpt of my romance novel, Second Chances, published by Bookstrand. Somewhat sweet, somewhat sensual, it is the story of three women, ranging in age from 18 to 50+, who get a second chance at life and love! The novel takes place in the U.S. and France, from a small town in the South to NYC, and from Paris to Carcassonne. In fact, the photo of the fortress currently on the header of my blog was taken in Carcassonne, and is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. It was one of the many places I visited on my honeymoon:-)…along with my beloved city of Paris. Just like the women in my novel, I found love when I least expected to;-). Second Chances is now available both digitally and in print. I hope to have some updates for you regarding a few other projects I’m working on. Hope you enjoy!

Excerpt:

Always an early riser, Jeanne rose with the sun, regardless of the time her head hit the pillow. At exactly five, her eyes popped open. Just as well. There was plenty to do. She donned her bathing cap and swimsuit, and before six had completed ten laps in the pool. Harry had given her a difficult time about installing it, but she knew if she could convince him it would be good for business the pool would be hers.

The only form of exercise that didn’t bore her, swimming sculpted her fifty-four year old body. The result was a sleek and toned look—all the incentive she needed to jump in each morning at exactly five fifteen. All thoughts drifted from her mind as her body took over, her breathing rhythmic and the movement of her arms and legs, synchronized.

* * * *

Gwen stood near the bedroom window and watched Jeanne complete lap after lap. Why, the older woman was in better shape than she was. She examined herself in the mirror and frowned, turning away. No wonder Jay left me for another woman. Look at me! Lumpy clusters of cellulite formed pockets around her thighs, and her muscle tone reminded her of one big bowl of Jell-O.

Admittedly, she had allowed all those society luncheons to go straight to her hips and thighs. Her sallow complexion gave no indication that summer had arrived. After throwing on a robe, she plopped onto the side of the bed and felt the tears coming on. A knock at the door constructed the only barrier between her composure and another crying jag.

“Gwen, are you awake?” whispered Delia. The wind chime effect of her voice surprised Gwen each time she heard it. She rose and opened the door. There stood Delia. The freshness of youth belied the effects of the festivities of the night before. Oh, to be young again.

“Hey, what do you say we go for a swim? I know it’s early, but I just love the water and I figured you could use a swim.”

“You noticed, huh?”

“Noticed what, Gwen?”

“That I need to drop a few pounds, that I need some exercise, that I’m overweight, and just not what I used to be?”

“Well, no, that’s not exactly what I meant, Gwen. You look fine to me. I just wanted some company. But, hey, if that’s how you really feel, then it can’t hurt to join me, can it?”

Gwen found herself at a loss for words. I suppose she’s right, she thought. Before she could respond, Delia interrupted.

“Larry never appreciated my opinions, but I was never one to hold back on them. I tell it like it is most times, Gwen. Now I’m going to throw on a T-shirt and shorts and I’ll meet you down there.”

Delia was already in the pool when she arrived downstairs. Jeanne, in the kitchen preparing breakfast, hummed to herself.

“Go on, Gwen. Go for a swim with the girl. She could use some company. Seems to me she’s had a hard life for a child so young.” Jeanne made a clucking sound with her tongue and shook her head. “I don’t know what the world is coming to. God only knows where her mother and father are, but I tell you, if she were mine, she wouldn’t be running around almost getting herself killed.”

“You’re right, Jeanne. She can use the company, and I can use the exercise, so off I go. But look, let’s talk later. I don’t know what Delia has in mind as far as where she’s headed, but I can’t see dropping her off on some street corner and leaving her in the hands of who or whatever is out there. She’s got a good head on her little shoulders, and you know I’ve grown quite fond of her in this short time.” Gwen knew that she couldn’t allow Delia to put her life at risk on the streets again. “Funny, though, here I am giving advice and I don’t even know where I’m going!”

“Oh, you’ll find your way, dear. You’re young and attractive. Why, you have your entire life ahead of you,” said Jeanne, sorting through a colander filled with blueberries.

“Do you really think so?”

“Have you ever looked at yourself?” Jeanne wiped her hands on the apron tied around her waist and turned to Gwen. “You probably don’t even realize how lovely you are.”

Gwen’s eyes grew moist. “Thanks, Jeanne. I really needed to hear that. Now I’d better get out there before I change my mind.” She wrapped her towel around her waist and snatched a blueberry from the sorted and washed batch. Smiling at Jeanne, she made her way down to the pool.

Delia floated on her back then broke into a leisurely backstroke when she arrived. “Come on in,” she shouted, “the water’s fine!” At home in the water, she slid under then emerged. Hair slicked back and glistening in the sun, her smile revealed even white teeth.

“Okay, Miss Mermaid, give me a moment, won’t you?” Gwen shed the towel that covered the shorts and tank top she’d hurriedly stuffed into her small luggage bag. Delia giggled and continued gliding across the sparkling surface of the water. She slipped into the pool and began the process of becoming reacquainted with the water. Never comfortable in water, it took her a few moments to get her bearings. I must have drowned in a past life, she thought as she tried to coordinate the movement of her arms and legs in addition to trying to breathe without inhaling water. She’d do okay in a swimming pool with a lifeguard nearby, but if she happened to go overboard on a cruise or sailboat in a real body of water, she’d be a goner. It wasn’t long until those swimming lessons she’d hated as a girl came back to her with each stroke.

She counted the laps in her head and decided that six would be enough for today. She lost her concentration when she detected what she thought was a muffled scream. Gwen lifted her head above the water in time to see Delia dragged—kicking and screaming—toward an old Chevy by a giant of a man.

Coffee Book and Blog at Coffee Time Romance

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I had a wonderful time this weekend guest blogging at Coffee Time Romance! I didn’t realize that it could be so much fun, connecting with the readers was great! I think I wouldn’t mind traveling the web and visiting fellow writers blogs and chatting with readers – it’s nice to get out every once in awhile;-). If you’re interested in reading my visit, click here:

Coffee Book and a blog with Ursula Grey

Part Deux

Thanks for having me!

Thanks to Karenne for her hospitality and assistance!

Inspiration for A Day in April, 1944

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Perhaps inspiration is not the correct word. I certainly wasn’t inspired by what I’d seen. Saddened, sickened, and shocked are words that immediately come to mind. I’ll never forget the stop we made to a small village in the Limousin region of the southwest of France. There was no need for the SILENCE sign posted at the entrance to the village.

What was special about Oradour-sur-Glane? Perhaps special is not the correct word, infamous comes to mind. I imagine that before the war it had been a thriving little village with a doctor, a seamstress, a few grocers and teachers and bakers—all the occupations required to sustain a place that a small group of approximately 662 called home. That was before the 2nd Waffen SS Panzer Division Das Reich’s 1st Battalion arrived on June 10, 1944. On that day, 642 inhabitants of Oradour-sur-Glane, (197 men, 240 women and 205 children) were massacred. The men were shot and burned—the women and children herded into a church and burned alive. The old village of Oradour-sur-Glane remains as the Waffen SS left it—a memorial to the lives lost there.

Although we may never really know why this village was targeted, many believe it was in retaliation for the acts of sabotage the Maquis (French Freedom Fighters) perpetrated on the Nazis or for the capture of a German Commander of the SS on the previous day. The bravery of the men and women of the Maquis, (there were several female members of the French Resistance), left a lasting impression upon me. From sabotaging German supply lines to harboring members of the Allied Forces, life was perilous and could end suddenly.

I could not stop thinking about the place and began to wonder what life must have been like in war torn France. What would it have been like to be a member of the Resistance, to risk not only your life, but the lives of the men, women and children of the place you called home? It was then that Lisette came to life for me. I later imagined Oradour-sur-Glane as being similar to the village where Lisette, a character in A Day in April, 1944 might have resided.

Visiting Normandy and the beaches where the Allied Forces landed, and where countless young American soldiers lost their lives, evoked powerful emotions. I could only picture the rough seas and the men, who were recently boys, going to meet their fate. What were they thinking on the way to the landing? Most likely they thought of their loved ones and whether they’d ever see them again. It was then that Jack came to life for me.

Fortunately, for Lisette and Jack there is a happy ending—but that is only because I wanted it that way.

There’s something about Paris

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There’s something about Paris that can have a magical effect upon a woman. One can become reborn in this city just as I did a few years back…From the first moment I spied the Eiffel Tower in the distance, I knew I would be a changed woman. I tingled with excitement and anticipation as the sights and sounds of Paris grew closer. Was it just the magnificent beauty of the City and admiration for the culture and people that had created it that caused this feeling? Or had it also something to do with the fact that the French had always valued femininity and the belief that a woman grew more interesting as she aged, that she had a story to tell that her younger counterparts perhaps did not?

Having come to the realization that I was a woman of “a certain age” in the States, I began to wonder exactly what that meant? All the emphasis in our society is on youth, looking younger than we are, acting younger (not necessarily a good thing); and yet women were chastised if they tried to look, act, or dress too young. Which one was it? I wasn’t exactly enamored of the clothing I was supposed to wear at “my age”-it felt too dowdy, I wasn’t ready to transition into the drab conventional garb designed for my age group. On the other hand, I didn’t want to don the dress of a girl. I wanted to be the woman I was, looking as good as I possibly could-for a woman of a certain age. I wasn’t ready to undergo plastic surgery to maintain a youthful appearance…I thought I was fine the way I was.

Not that I put much stock in what the media and Hollywood have to say, but if you notice, much has changed in the past few years regarding the way a leading lady should look. The prerequisites for today’s sought after actresses should be that they are under 25, have large breasts, perfect teeth, a semi-muscular body-if these qualifications are not met then they can play lesser roles and assume the role of the older woman but not the sexy leading lady. Would the stars of yesteryear make it onto the silver screen of today?

How refreshing it was to see “real” women walking the streets of Paris. “Imperfection” could be beautiful. I saw women with real breasts and teeth and hair as I strolled the avenues of the city. Each one was unique. If she chose to, she could wear her hair long and free at sixty-or short and cropped at forty. Large and beautifully ornate jewelry adorned the older woman as well as the younger…but those I noticed seemed confident and comfortable being who they were. There was no artifice. Perhaps it is something about the French style, the French look…Those who seemed most comfortable in their own skin were confident, it was revealed in their walk, the way they carried themselves down the streets of Paris. Perhaps that was the secret-they were confident. It didn’t matter what their chronological age was, their hair, make-up, and clothing choices were dictated by their personal preferences and how they reflected who they were.

Of course I’m painting both places with a broad brush stroke and making generalizations…I believe we all need to do what makes us feel better about ourselves. However, how we feel about ourselves as women has to come from the inside and not from outside sources.

I came away with a new sense of style and self…and the realization that I didn’t have to follow any preconceived notions of who I should be when I reached “a certain age.” I would be who I was. All that mattered was whether I liked the person I’d become. If not, I could recreate myself every so often. It’s good for the soul…