Dear Gentle Readers,We have something new for you (and me) today. I have been tagged by the delightful Viv Drewa in this Author Blog Hop. Viv is the author of THE ANGLER AND THE OWL (which I reviewed here on Vision and Verse on June 25, 2014, for those who want to look in the Archives), THE OWL AND THE SIPAN LORD, and From the Pages of Grandfather's Life. She lives in Michigan and studied Medicinal Chemistry at the University of Michigan. She loves owls and has a terrific sense of humor.
Okay, now for my part.
Author Bio:
Carol Ann Kauffman is an American author from Ohio, in the Midwest. She is a retired teacher in the Niles City School district, where she taught first grade for most of her thirty-five year career, but also second and third grade and was a reading specialist for her last three years. She loves to travel, play Bridge, and to garden. She grows African violets and orchids. She is the author of the Time After Time series, which follows a pair of lovers through their many lifetimes together. Her novels, classified as romantic action adventures with a sci-fi/ fantasy twist, are about life, love, loss, and lunacy. Connect with Carol on Twitter at @Cay47. Visit her website at carolannkauffman.weebly.com or visit her blog, Vision and Verse at visionandverse.blogspot.com.1. What are you working on?
I am working on MacKalvey House, a Time After Time novel.
2. The beginning of your work-in-progress.
Chapter
One
Too Many Cooks
“Yes, sir.”
“And do
not bother me with this nonsense again!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why is
it suddenly SO bloody difficult to find suitable, decent, dependable domestic help? My father never had any trouble finding or
keeping suitable staff. Are the whole
lot of these new domestics slow on the uptake?”
“I
believe so, sir.”
“They’d
all rather be on the dole than work for a decent wage.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What the
hell has happened to this country?”
“I have
no idea, sir.”
“Thank
you, Edwards. I’ll not be needing you
for the rest of the evening. Get some
rest. You look tired, Bernard. See you in the morning.”
Bernard
Edwards gave Mr. MacKalvey a slight nod and disappeared down the hallway and
into his room. It was harder and harder
to find suitable, decent household help because Mr. Kenneth MacKalvey was
becoming more and more demanding, increasingly irritable, and terribly unpleasant.
Bernard remembered a discussion with a former
employee, the sweet, wonderful, Italian cook, Loretta Colavita.
“Bernardo,
does he think he owns us? He is so
critical! Nothing is ever to his
satisfaction. He is never pleased with
anything or anyone. He never smiles
anymore. He’s never happy anymore. I hardly recognize him as the sweet, lovable
gentleman who hired me years ago. What
the hell happened to him? He criticizes
everything. He nitpicks about every tiny
thing we do. He wants constant
perfection. And then he goes on and on
like some nag of an old woman. He can be
so mean and vindictive. He acts so
superior and he treats us all like pond scum.
He’s just plain nasty.”
“I
know, Loretta. I think he must be a very
sad man on the inside.”
“Yea,
well, on the outside, too.”
“I’m so
sorry to see you go, my dear. You are a
terrific cook. I have never eaten so
well in my life. And you are… delightful
company. You are truly a wonderful woman
and… and a joy to be around. And I… I…”
he stopped himself.
“Well,
I’d rather scrub toilets in a men’s prison for the criminally insane than stay
in the same house with the likes of that foul bastard and cook for him one more
day. If I cook him one more meal, I
swear it will be laced with arsenic.
Goodbye to you, my dear sweet Bernardo, and good luck to you, too. When are you going to get disgusted enough to
leave that miserable fart all alone, which is what he truly deserves?”
“Oh, dear
Loretta, I’m afraid it’s not that easy.
I’ve been with his family since I was a child. You could say we grew up together.”
“Except
that one in there, he never grew up.
He’s still a spoiled little mean-spirited rich boy, who has lost his
charm, if he ever HAD any charm in the first place. Which I am beginning to doubt!”
“Oh,
that’s not true, Dear Loretta. He is a good man.”
“I
know, I know. I’m just so angry with him
at the moment.”
“He
will regret this day, I assure you, and he will beg you to come back. Goodbye, my dear Loretta. And until that day comes, I shall miss you. Terribly.”
Bernard gave her a hug.
“Well, until
that cold day in hell comes, I shall miss you, too, sweet man,” said Loretta,
kissing one cheek, and then the other. And
the exceptionally good Italian cook, Loretta Colavita left MacKalvey House. Bernard waved as he watched her car pull out
of the driveway and disappear down the long road toward town.
“I miss
Loretta Colavita already, Sir,” Bernard sighed.
“Damn
it, Edwards! I know you do! I saw the way you mooned after her. I heard her call you ‘Bernardo’ and ‘sweet
man’. I saw her fuss all over you when
you caught a cold or complained about a sore throat. I miss her, too,” he sighed, “very much. So let’s not go getting so attached to the
next cook, what do you say?”
“Yes, sir.”
The
delightful Loretta Colavita was followed by three less than stellar cooks. The red-haired Irish woman told him off,
brandishing a kitchen knife at him, and left within the week. She was followed by the Swedish matron who
only made fish, fish for breakfast, fish for lunch, fish for dinner. She lasted almost three weeks, and that was only
because she understood very little English and had no idea the Master of the
House was insulting her and her cooking day in and day out after every meal.
“Bloody
hell! I feel like a hapless prisoner of
war aboard a Viking warship in the middle of the damn miserable ocean! Fish.
Fish. Fish. MacKalvey House positively reeks with the
disgusting smell of dead fish! Luckily
our nearest neighbor is more than thirty-two kilometers away, or they’d all be
complaining about our stench and reporting us to the clean air authorities.”
The
Swedish matron was replaced by Greta, a German woman who hardly spoke and made
decent, stick-to-your-ribs food three times a day with absolutely no
conversation.
“Well,
finally, some luck in the kitchen! The
Italian, though an outstanding cook and a good woman with a heart of pure gold,
was just a tiny bit over-sensitive to criticism. The Irish woman was obviously part of a
coven. And the Swede was trying to kill
us both with mercury poisoning. But this
German woman, the food is decent and she is nice and quiet, she’s okay.”
Greta
stayed in her room when she wasn’t cooking.
She spoke to no one. She looked
hauntingly out the window. One Tuesday evening, after dinner, she shot
herself.
“I can
hardly believe this bad luck of mine! I
can’t seem to find a decent cook without mental problems!” said Mr. MacKalvey
after the police and coroner left the next day about noon.
“Loretta
Colavita was wonderful, Sir. No mental
problems. Excellent mushroom risotto. Exquisite lasagna Florentine. Wonderful woman,” sighed Bernard
nostalgically.
“And
now that the police and the coroner have finally finished, I have to have that
room cleaned and repainted and hardwood floor refinished. Buy a new mattress set and bed linens. A new small carpet. A completely unnecessary expense. AND I need to find another cook! I tell you, Edwards, it’s a bloody
nightmare!”
“Yes, sir.
A bloody nightmare,” agreed
Bernard. It must have been a bloody
nightmare for poor Greta also, he thought, with never a kind word or a nod of
appreciation in her direction. Never a
soul to talk to, no one to care. Maybe
if she had someone to talk to, things would have turned out differently for her.
“Sir, did
you remember today is Wednesday?”
“Wednesday,
yes. What of it?”
“Miss
Michelle Rosemont is coming today to photograph the grounds of the estate for the
May issue of Historic Hazelton Magazine?”
“Oh,
damn the hell, YES, I forgot all about it.
Edwards, can you be a dear a handle it for me? I haven’t the stomach for schmoozing with an
American photographer today, when I have all this dead Greta mess to deal with. I don’t feel like chatting. And I hate painters in the house. They’re messy and smelly. And noisy.
And talk about noisy, hardwood floor refinishers with their power equipment,
my head will ache for a week after they are done! Do you think we could find one who doesn’t
use power equipment?”
“So,
you would like one quiet man, preferably a mute, who uses only sandpaper?”
“Yes,
Edwards, that would be lovely! Could
you?” Mr. MacKalvey perked up.
“I’ll
make some phone calls, sir, and see what I can find to suit you.”
“Thank
you, Edwards.”
“Ahh. sir? You also invited Miss Rosemont to have lunch
with you here at the estate when she was finished. I think you shall have to chat and schmooze,
just a little.”
“Lunch? Chat?
Schmooze? LUNCH? I did?
Yes, I did, I remember now. Oh,
no!”
“Yes, sir,
that was before Greta so rudely offed herself, without giving any consideration
to your ever-expanding social calendar.”
“This
is such a major inconvenience! What on
earth would possess me to DO such a thing?”
“I
don’t know, sir. It seemed so very out of
character for you at the time, I almost doubted your sanity. It was so… social.”
“What in
heaven’s name was I thinking?”
“I have
NO idea, sir.”
“We
have no cook. Well, just tell her… tell
her I’m… ill,” said Mr. MacKalvey with a dismissive wave, turned, and went
upstairs to his suite and closed the door.
A few
hours later, the doorbell rang and Mr. MacKalvey heard the lilt of a female
voice in the house. He crept to the top
of the stairs where he could hear everything, but still remain hidden. Lovely voice.
Now he remembered her voice from their phone conversation. He knew that voice. It made him smile. Pleasant.
Cheerful. Silken. But from where? That voice, THAT’S what made him invite her
to lunch, the sound of her voice. He
wanted to hear more of it. Damn siren’s
call. It compelled him. She was probably horrendously ugly and shaped
like a manatee.
“Miss
Rosemont, I am so very sorry to inform you that Mr. MacKalvey is very ill and
will not be able to join you for lunch, but I could fix you a bowl of shredded
wheat and a cup of tea if you wish, because our cook is just dead.”
“No, please
don’t worry about lunch. I’m not
hungry. But I am so terribly disappointed! I was so looking forward to meeting THE
Kenneth MacKalvey.”
“You
were? Why on earth?”
“Something
about that man fascinates me, Bernard.”
Kenneth
MacKalvey leaned his head back on the door and gave a little smile as he
listened to the conversation. That sweet,
lovely voice! Saying sweet, lovely
things. About him.
“You’ve
got to be joking,” Edwards said with a laugh.
“No,
Bernard. I’m not. I only agreed to do this photo shoot way out
here in the middle of nowhere so I could get to meet him. I’m really disappointed that he’s ill. I do hope it’s nothing serious.”
“Oh,
I’m afraid it is. Terminal, in fact. Have you heard about his reputation?”
“His reputation? As an author?
Or as an art critic, you mean?”
“Ah,
yes! That’s the one I mean.”
“Well,
I heard he can be a little harsh at times as an art critic. But I’ve read every book and article he’s
written that I could lay my hands on, and I love the way he writes. I love his choice of words. I love the way he weaves in nuances and
undertones, always completely proper, but with whispers of deep, white-hot
passion hidden just beneath the surface, laced with longing, regret, and
unspoken desire. It has movement as natural
as the ebb and flow of the tides. Sometimes
it’s like a warm, bittersweet dance with your former boyfriend on his wedding
day to a really nice girl. And sometimes,
it’s more than that, it’s like a telepathic orgasm with a total stranger across
the room, sizzling, white hot, overpowering, wild, crazy, blissful, quivering, flushed,
standing in a crowded room, with no one else around you having any idea of what
just happened. You gulp hard and lick
your lips. No evidence. And then, from across the room, you see him. He raises one eyebrow, with just the faintest
smile. Ahhh!”
Kenneth
MacKalvey felt himself blush. His heart
was racing. Finally, someone who
understood the height, the width, and the depth of the emotion in his work and actually
appreciated it. Most people didn’t get
it at all.
“No, no,
my dear, this is KENNETH MacKalvey we’re talking about.”
“Yes, yes,
I know. Kenneth. He’s so multi-layered!”
“Like
an onion, you mean?”
“And
SO-O insightful!”
“Really? James MacAdoon reckoned Mr. MacKalvey’s
treatment of him was more like a public flogging.” Kenneth MacKalvey stiffened and held him
breath. Why would Edwards want to bring
that up now in front of her? Michelle
let out a little giggle.
“Oh, Jimmy
MacAdoon is as overly-sensitive as they come.
He cries easily. I’VE made him
cry, and I’m a gentle soul. Scottish men
are unreasonably hard on themselves and each other,” she said with a giggle. “They hold themselves and their male
countrymen up to unbelievably high standards on conduct and accomplishment. That’s why they as a group have made such terrific
contributions to society in general.
Cloning. Engineering. Banking.
Golf. Tennis. William McKinley. Alexander Graham Bell. Charles MacIntosh, the raincoat. Highway surfacing, John MacAdams. Steam engine, James Watt. John Boyd Dunlop, tires. Postage stamps, John Chalmers. Kirkpatrick MacMillan, the bicycle. James MacGregor, bleach. John Logie Baird, the television. John Paul Jones, the U.S.Navy. Sir Robert Watson Watt, radar. John Napier, logarithms, Alexander Fleming,
penicillin. James Young Simpson, anesthetics. Shall I go on? They just need a little extra attention every
once in a while, and they’re just fine.”
Kenneth
MacKalvey rushed to his room, changed his shirt, washed his face, combed his
hair, and put on a little cologne, all of a sudden craving a little attention
from this obviously intelligent, gentle and kind woman, even if she were very homely. Looks are highly over-rated. An ugly woman can still be a great companion
when she’s this intellectual and perceptive, and appreciates a man of his
caliber and distinction. He casually
strolled down the hallway and the staircase.
“Oh,
Edwards! I’m suddenly feeling much
better. Is Miss Rosemont still about? Edwards?
Edwards!” No answer. He heard a car door shut and looked out the
window just in time to see a black Nissan sedan pulling down the driveway, and
Edwards waving her off.
3. Links in to my work:
I have eight books online at amazon.com., five full-length novels in the Time After Time series, BLUE LAKE, BELTERRA, THE BASLICATO, BENTLEY SQUARE, and LORD OF BLAKELEY, a novella Waiting for Richard, a short story/cookbook Echo of Heartbreak, A Recipe for Life, and a Christmas short story Madison's Christmas. Another full length novel, CHARMING DECEPTION, is at my editor's, and is not yet available online.
http://www.amazon.com/Carol-Ann-Kauffman/e/B0076OMJY8/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1407199415&sr=1-2-ent
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Carol-Ann-Kauffman-Author/248958045181202?ref=hl&ref_type=bookmark
Twitter @Cay 47
Also on Goodreads
4. What is your writing precess like and what makes your work different?
My work does not follow any formula or rules. I have given up the outline and the notecards because my stories tend to stray too far from them. I write about life, love, loss, and lunacy. Once I begin and story and it starts to roll along, it takes on a life of it's own. I incorporate actual events into my stories, my experiences, or those I am familiar with, and real life doesn't follow an outline. My work is not sexually explicit or graphically violent.
The series, TIME AFTER TIME, follows a pair of quintessential lovers, Richard and Nicole, through their lives together, in different places, in different times, with different names and faces and sometimes even on other planets. This follows the alternative theory that the relationships we forge in this lifetime, both the good and the bad, are continued into the future, and are rooted deeply in our past. Whatever we do, whomever we love, and the good and evil deeds we do today follow us into the future. Unsettled issues will present themselves again and again, until they are ultimately resolved. Those people who have had a profound effect on us in this lifetime will find us again in the future. And although everything changes, love remains.
5. Hop Along Time!
You are it, Kath and Jo! Post on August 18.
Kathy Bryson Bio:
Kathy Bryson knew she wanted to be a writer when she finished reading through her school and local children's libraries. She spent 20 years honing her writing skills on marketing brochures, websites, and several unfinished manuscripts before going into teaching and finishing a book with all the stuff she enjoys most - from coffee to love to Shakespeare! Kathy lives in Florida where she caters to the whims of two spoiled cats and wonders what possessed her to put in 75 feet of flower beds.
Her first book, Feeling Lucky, won the 2014 National Excellence in Romance Fiction Award for Best First Book.
Josie Cara"s Bio:
Once I decided to end my working career, the desire to write became more and more prominent in my mind. Living in NYC all my life made it easier for me to find a home base for my stories. NYC is a wonderland of information and ideas. My first book, In a Heartbeat, is based on a two minute news story I heard late one night and it just caught my attention. Before I knew it, I had a story going on in my head. But, life itself brings many stories our way and these are what I want to write about, especially how life affects women in today's world. I hope you enjoy reading my books as much as I enjoy writing them.
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