FREE Today! Bentley Square by Carol Ann Kauffman

Dear Gentle Readers,

BENTLEY SQUARE, Time After Time, is the story of two unlikely lovers, Miss Rebeca Robbins, wealthy businesswoman and community activist, and Mark Ramsey, a down-on-his-luck office manager, shrouded in danger and mystery.

Strangers meet on the train. She, a beautiful, wealthy businesswoman. He, a down on his luck office manager. They have nothing in common. And yet, they are drawn to each other with an undeniable hypnotic magnetism. This is the story of Rebecca Robbins, daughter of one of the wealthiest men in the country and Mark Ramsay, a man shrouded in dark mystery and hiding in the shadows from death squads amid international intrigue.

It's free today at: http://tinyurl.com/laudaku

I know an author's not supposed to have favorites of her own stories. It's like liking one of your kids more than the rest. BUT I DO like BENTLEY SQUARE and The BASLICATO very much. Here is an excerpt from Bentley Square.

Excerpt:

Deadly Ambush

Becca was ready a little before eight, but wanted to give him a few minutes to walk up from the ad agency. She freshened up a bit, smoothed her favorite lilac skirt and sweater set, and squirted on a little Chanel perfume. She went down to the first floor and watched for him out the window, her heart pounding. When she saw him, she went outside to meet him.

He broke out into a giant smile when he saw her. She was right. He had one gorgeous smile when he decided to let it out. He reached for her hand. She responded, squeezing his hand.

“Hi. Mark!”

That touch! That magic touch of hers, he thought; just the feel of her hand in his was something wonderful. He remembered this warm loving feeling, but from where?  

“I’m so happy to see you. I thought you…” he trailed off.

“I almost made it, Mark, my hand was on the door. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, honey. I understand unreasonable bosses.” He smiled again.

“Mark, I have to tell you something, something I should have told you the day we met.”

“Are you married?” He held his breath, knowing full well he still wouldn’t back off, no matter what she answered. Now that he found her, he would pursue her, even if she were married. It would just be harder and messier. The only way he’d leave her is if she told him to go away, not some husband who obviously ignored her and left her alone too much.

“No.”

“Good. I can handle anything else. Tell me. Is it bad news?”

“Well, no, it isn’t bad for me at all, but you may think it is.”

“No, if you don’t think it’s bad, I won’t, either. I promise. Come on, it’ll sound better over coffee.” He wanted to hold on to this perfect moment with her a little longer before allowing anything in to ruin it and bring him crashing back to reality. They walked the rest of the way down to Sullivan’s hand in hand in silence, smiling over at each other every now and then, and took the booth farthest from the door. It was quieter, a little more private. He sat across from her and reached for her hand, feeling that surge of sheer bliss once again. 

“Feel that?” She nodded. “It’s a cosmic connection…our cosmic connection.”

“It is?” she giggled.

“Yes. And you can’t deny a cosmic connection, you know,” he smiled and nodded. This felt so good, so right to him. He was hopeful, something he hadn’t felt in a very long time. And happy.  Never this happy. Hopeful and happy. “I’ll buy you whatever you want. Are you hungry? You have to be, you’ve been at work all day. Sully makes a good meatloaf. And the pie is homemade. Mrs. Sullivan makes the best pies in the world,” he said, pulling ones and a five and change out of his pocket and laying it on the table. It was all he had until payday, and he didn’t care if he spent every penny of it on her tonight.

“Coffee will be fine. Black.”

“Are you sure?” She nodded. He ordered two black coffees.

“Before you begin, I need to tell you something first. You know I live at the Comstock and I work at Fusco’s Ad Agency. If I miss one day of work, or screw up just one time, he’ll fire me. I got my performance evaluation yesterday morning and it was less than satisfactory. Actually, it was horrible. I think I only got this manager’s position because I was the only one on staff who owned a suit and tie. I have no outstanding qualifications. I can be homeless and jobless very soon. I want to be very honest with you from the start, Becca. I’m no prize. Are you… sure… you want to give me a chance? You might want to think twice about even letting me hold your hand,” he said, still holding her hand, wanting to hold it forever.

“Mark, what are you trying to do? Make my bad news look good by comparison?” He laughed, still not letting go.

“Tell me. Come on. If I told you I could be homeless and jobless within the next three weeks, what could you possibly tell me that would be worse than that? And I appreciate your not running for the door, by the way.” She laughed.

“But, you see, I don’t care about those things. You can come and stay with me. There’s plenty of room where I live.” She played with his fingers. “And I have job connections here in the city, where you’ll at least get a decent lunch hour, and quite possibly some wonderful fringe benefits,” she nodded, flirting with him. “So… don’t worry about a place to live or a job, okay?”

“You’re very sweet. Now, tell me. Come on. You can tell me anything.” He smiled that big, wonderful smile and held on to her hand.

Becca was thrilled. She found him, and he was real. Not only was he real, but he was also considerate and very sweet, with an irresistible smile and big brown eyes. It was evident that he liked her, and he didn’t know she was heir to the massive Robbins fortune, or that she was already a millionaire on her own. Yet.  

“Okay. Here goes. Now don’t get upset.” She squeezed his hand.

“I promise you I won’t get upset. Right now, sitting here with you, holding your hand, I’m feeling incredibly lucky to have found you, and nothing could upset me. I haven’t been this happy, Becca, oh, …ever.” He smiled at her, his heart soaring. “Come on, honey, tell me.”

 “Mark, I’m Rebecca…”

Shots rang out in the diner. Mark leaped over the table and covered her with his body, holding her head down on the booth seat. More shots.

Stay still and be quiet. They’re trained to shoot at any sound or movement.  I’ll protect you, honey, don’t be afraid. I won’t let anything harm you. Ever.

Bedlam ensued. Screaming, glass breaking, more shots, crying, running, more shooting, shouting, something crashing to the floor. Then sirens.

Becca thought, this can’t be happening! She had just found him, and he was all she had hoped for. More, actually. And now they were going to die in this coffee shop bullet barrage. They had, what, fifteen wonderful minutes together before all hell broke loose. And who was the target of this attack? Sully? Her? Who? 

“Becca? Are you okay?”

“Yes, Mark, I’m okay.” She turned to face him. “But… you’ve been hit.” The front of his shirt was covered with blood. 

   “I know,” he said. 

Interview with Author Gus Kenney

Gus Kenney

Western New York

Good morning, Gus, and welcome to Vision and Verse, the place for Art and Authors. What have you written?

I have written a series called the Complications of Being Lucy which contains (in order) The Changeling and the Cupboard, The Changeling and the Borrowed Family, and Traitor's Niece. It is a YA fantasy about a young girl named Lucy Bison who starts her story at the age of 9 learning her entire life is a lie and spends the rest of her life surviving many attempts on it.

What is your favorite genre to write?

Fantasy. I've attempted to dabble at other fictions as well, but will and always have loved fantasy first. Nothing helps escape the problems of this world like running off to an imaginary one. This is as true for reading as it is for writing.

Favorite food.

BBQ Pulled pork. And damn, it better have the coleslaw on it.

Tea or coffee?

Tea. Earl Grey with a spoonful of honey. Mmm.

Pizza or ice cream?

First one then the other. Nah, just kidding. Not a big dessert fan. We didn't do a lot of them growing up. We did do pizza though. Way too much. Church pizza is still the best.

Wine or beer?

Neither. Not much for drinking. Most of it tastes horrible but if it tastes too good then I have too many and steal things. Safer to stick to the energy drinks. They will still kill me but I can get the house clean under their influence.

Where would you like to visit?

Ireland or Scotland. Always been drawn to the beauty of those lands and their connection to other worlds. Plus I'm part one or the other (depends on which family member you talk to) so I guess there is that connection. And I don't look half bad in a kilt.

Favorite musical artist.  Do you listen to music when you write?

What?

Hardest question ever! To pick a favorite artist is tough as I enjoy so many and I also listen to specific genres with certain characters. But I guess what never fails is a woman with sultry voice and a piano, like Jill Tracy or Melody Gardot. I can't actually do any writing if I don't have music. And I listen to all kinds (except Christian rock!).

What makes you laugh?

Old school comedians like Red Skelton, Danny Kaye, Victor Borge, Abbott and Costello, Harvey Korman, I could go on. My dad started me out watching a lot of them and then my wife added a bunch. There is something timeless about their comedy that always makes me laugh.

This is an Art and Author blog, so I am obliged to ask, what is your favorite work of art or sculpture.

I don't have a favorite work of art. Like music, what a piece of art says to me or makes me feel changes often. The closest I can say to a favorite is a piece my wife painted and that I made her hang next to the computer. She hates seeing it as, like many artists, she doesn't feel it is as good as it could be, but I love it and won't let her change it. Not again.

How old were you when you started writing?

Very young. I remember having my grandmother read one of my stories as a kid. It was one and a half pages and I actually had it marked as chapter one. It was horrible but what can be expected from one so young.

Do you plan out your book with outlines and note cards? Or just write?

Both. I do the note card thing (thanks to my sister-in-law) and come up with a vague outline, then I just go at it typing. Sometimes I follow the plan but more often than not the ideas just flow to me and I follow where they go. This is good until I don't reread what I wrote and find out later it conflicts with some earlier part of the story. Then I spend way too much time editing and making the grueling decisions of which scenario or scene works better.

 

Describe your perfect evening.

Any night that I can spend time with my wife and my dogs, and not end up in bed before ten o'clock is about as perfect as it gets. Toss in some laughs and a delicious but bad for me meal and it doesn't get better than that.

Where do you get your inspiration?

Boredom at my nine-to-five allows me time to daydream and usually that is centered on whatever interesting thing I engaged with the night before. Most of my ideas come from the books I read as a kid and the adventures my best friend and I would play out over the course of many years and the entire backwoods we lived around. Sometimes it comes from a simple phrase I catch in a passing conversation or a flicker of a picture as I'm scrolling online. That's half the fun of being inspired: you don't know where it comes from, you just have to be ready to receive it.

What do you do when you get a writer's block?

Switch to a different story. I have too many ideas (see above question) and if I can't move forward on one story, I just go to another. You can't be blocked unless you stop writing all together.

Who is your favorite author?

Terry Pratchett always has and always will hold the top spot. And he will forever be missed.

Best book you ever read.

This is another tough one as no single book stands out. If it's the best fantasy book it would be Guards! Guards! By Terry Pratchett. Best romance- Reckless Angel by Maggie Shayne. Best quasi-biography it would be The Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls by Emilie Autumn. Each of these books are great on their own but they don't really compare with each other to say one is the best. Maybe it is like a parent saying they can't pick their favorite kid. They all shine in their own way.

Last book you read.

I won't go with the last book I read as it was complete and utter crap and doesn't deserve to be mentioned by another soul. Instead I will go with the last good book I read and that would be Beyond the Veil by Vanessa Yorba. It was a beautiful story with an simple artistry to the words and the world will be blessed to have it when the author finishes it and shares it.

What would you do for a living if you weren’t a writer?

Working at Warehouse 13. There are no other options. I would either be writer or an agent of the Warehouse and since the warehouse is fictional (unless it's not then someone please send me and application), a writer is what I shall be.

Who is the one person who has influenced your personal life the most and why?

My wife. She makes me a better person and makes me want to be a better person. She has opened my life to knew experiences and ideas and I can never repay or thank her enough for that.

If you could sit down and have a conversation with ONE person, living or dead, real or fictional, who would it be and why?

Nikola Tesla. My second favorite genre to enjoy is Sci-fi and the man pretty much invented real life versions of everything you read in a good sci-fi book. He was a humble genius, eccentric, and a heck of a card player. Should be interesting.

What advice would you give someone who aspired to be a writer?

Write the story you want to write. Don't cater it or change it to make it fit some idea of what will sell or be received best. Make it your story, your world.

Do you have some links for us to follow you?
Facebook is www.Facebook.com/lucybison and instagram is www.instagram.com/lucybison.

Queen Catherine of Braganza by American Sculptor Audrey Flack

Dear Gentle Readers,

The  Butler Institute of American Art has acquired a new breathtaking beauty. It is one giant plaster sculpture of a woman, Queen Catherine of Braganza, a creation of American sculptor Audrey Flack.


And even though she is big, she has a delicate beauty about her, her lovely spiral curls, her long, slender fingers delicately grasping her alabaster sphere, the elegant flow of her beautiful gown, with one shoe pointing out, about to step off the pedestal.

From the Butler's New Acquisitions Article:

Flack’s 10-foot high plaster sculpture is an homage to Queen Catherine of Braganza, and is part of a series of sculptures by the artist based upon that theme. (The borough of Queens, NY, was named for the Portuguese-born monarch who later became Queen of England after her marriage to Charles II in 1620.)

The plaster statue features a steel and reinforced steel armature, and is presented standing on a half-dome base. An unusual element of Flack’s sculpture is an LED lighted globe that the subject holds in her left hand.

This plaster work was the prototype for a 13-foot bronze sculpture—a commission awarded to the artist by Lisbon, Portugal. The sculpture was a gift to the Butler by the artist, and is installed in the Beecher Center’s Novak Gallery, Youngstown.

Stop in and see this gorgeous lady at Butler Institute of American Art, 524 Wick Ave., Youngstown, OH 44502, Phone 330.743.1107, or online at www.butlerart.com.

Hugs,
Carol

Waiting for Richard by Carol Ann Kauffman

Dear Gentle Readers,
One of my favorite books is Waiting for Richard. It's in the Time after Time series, but this time our lovers do not meet until they're in their sixties. An author finds love and adventure on a book tour down under.

Set-up for the excerpt below:
Not-so-mild-mannered senior citizen Skye McKenna is the manager at a local insurance agent's office. She and co-worker, Rita, go out to dinner.

Except:

Location: Sterling, Ohio

“Run!” said Rita, fear catching in her voice.

“Are you kidding me?” replied Skye. “I’m too damn old to run. Do you want me to have a heart attack? Or fall and break a hip? If some slimy son of a bitch wants a piece of me that bad, then let him come! He’ll be damn sorry.”

“We gotta get out of here. I’m scared,” Rita whispered.

“Calm down, Rita. We’ll be okay.” Skye pulled out her cell phone and tapped 9-1-1. “Yes, we’re in the underground parking garage of the Sterling City Center and we’re being chased by a madman with a knife, and my friend here is scared and I’m too damn old to run. Yes. Skye McKenna. Sixty-six. Well, I’m glad you agree that’s too old to run.”           

“Help is on the way.”

“Skye, you don’t know he has a knife!”

“You’re absolutely right! He could have a gun. Shall I call her back and correct myself?”

Sirens were blaring in the distance.

“Isn’t this illegal? This is at least a misdemeanor, if not a felony. Skye, we could end up in jail.”

“Would you rather be murdered in the underground parking garage?”

“No.”

“Then, cry and sniffle, look weak and helpless, and let me handle Sterling’s Finest. Damn! If I knew there was a chance we were going to die on the way to the car, I would’ve had dessert. They make this wonderful strawberry and mascarpone cream cheese torte in there that is pure heaven on a plate.”

A police car pulled up the aisle. Skye and Rita were shouting and waving.

“We’re here! We’re here. Did you see him? He ran that way,” Skye pointed. One officer, the shorter, younger one, took off on foot in the direction of Skye’s pointing finger. The taller, older one stayed with them and tried to calm them down. He walked them to their car and let them sit to rest.

“It’s okay, ladies, you’re safe now. Can you give me a description of this madman with the knife? Height, weight, clothing?” Rita cried and sniffled, shaking her head no.

“About six feet tall, brown hair, brown eyes, stubbly face, jeans, light green tee-shirt with some band name on it, navy pea coat, old black tennis shoes. No piercings or jewelry. No visible tattoos. Not a bad looking guy.”

“Weight?”

“I’m no judge of weight. Far be it from me to attach a number to the human frame. I know I certainly don’t like it when they do it to me. Not fat, not too skinny, but a slim build. Just right.”

“Age?”

“Thirties, I’m guessing here.

“The knife?”

“Chef’s knife. Silver handle, scalloped grip. You can’t buy those individually, you have to buy the whole set. They come with a wooden butcher’s block.”

“Did he brandish the knife at you?”

“Of course, he did! Do you think we would’ve called for help if he were just a prep chef taking his chef’s knife out for a midnight stroll in the underground parking garage? He threatened us.”

“What did he say?”

“He said, ‘Die, you bitches!'"

The other officer came back, shaking his head.

“Couldn’t find him. I heard running and panting, though. There was definitely someone out there who didn’t want to stop and talk to the police. He got away.”

“Were you in the restaurant?” asked Tall Officer. Skye and Rita nodded. “Did he follow you out?” They looked at each other.

“We don’t know. We ate too much. We were just about rolling out of there. We weren’t paying any attention,” said Skye. “Officer, we’re really tired. This has been a harrowing experience. We want to go home. If we remember anything else, we’ll call you, okay?” He took their names and contact numbers and said he’d be in touch.

“Lock your doors. Go straight home, ladies.”

He patted the hood of Skye’s car and let them go. Skye drove away.

“Skye, I was scared to death. How can you be so calm?”

“This isn’t calmness. It’s boredom.”

“How can you be bored when we’re being stalked by a menacing slasher in a dark underground parking garage at night with a big knife?”

“Did you ever think he might’ve just been some poor shlub walking to his car? Maybe he had a business dinner, or some other meeting. Or maybe he works at Sterling City Center. And, Rita, we didn’t see a weapon, remember?  Just because he was in the parking garage at the same time as we were doesn’t mean he was after us or dangerous or a public menace.  

“No, no, Skye. I know he was. He looked at me funny. And where did you ever come up with that description? That was nothing like him.”

“That cutie pie? Oh, he’s the man in my head! He’s always in there, smiling at me. That one walking in the garage? I’m not sure that he was after us, or after anybody.”

“Well, let’s hope the police don’t find the man in your head. They’ll arrest him.”

“Oh, Rita. I’ve looked for him all my life. If they can find him and detain him, I’ll gladly go bail him out. And take him home and make him some soup and give him a back rub and…” Love him forever, she thought. My Richard. 

“Skye, you’re crazy!” Rita laughed.

“I know,” she sighed. She was resigned to the fact she would never find him, this incredible man in her head with the big, warm, liquid-velvet brown eyes and the sweetest unguarded smile. The cutest dimple. A splash of freckles across the bridge of his nose. He’d been there, in her dreams, smiling at her, for as long as she could remember. If she hadn’t found him by now, she never would. And if she found him now at her age, her hormonal drive was gone, her skin didn’t quite fit her body anymore, and she had succumbed to gravity, what the hell would she do with him besides make him soup and give him a back rub? Still, he was there, in her head. Smiling. Those eyes.

Skye pulled up in front of Rita’s rental house.

“Will you be okay?”

“Sure. See you tomorrow after work. I’ll bring you that letter from my kid brother. It’s causing me sleepless nights. You’ll see what I mean. He always exaggerates I know, but this time he’s in trouble, and it’s worse than the usual. I just know it, but I don’t know what to do about it.”

“Okay, bring it over. We’ll figure out what’s up with him. Good night, Rita. I’ll wait until you get in and check the house for slashers hiding under your bed or in the closet, with my finger on speed dial to the police department.”

“Thanks, Skye. You’re a peach. Good night,” she chuckled.

“Good night, Ri.” Rita went in, checked her apartment and waved Skye off.  Skye went home and went to bed.

Skye was awakened very early by the sound of the doorbell. She pulled on her robe and slippers and shuffled to peak out the window. Sterling Police Department.

“Ms. McKenna?”

“Yes?”

“Ms. McKenna, it’s Detective Samson. This is Officer Metz. May we come in?”

“Yes, of course. What’s wrong?” she said as she moved aside to let them in.

“Ahh, Ms. McKenna, we need to talk to you about what happened in the parking garage at Sterling City Center last night.”

“Well okay, but we told the officers everything we knew last night.”

“There has been a… recent development, Ms. McKenna. Rita Collier is in the hospital. Someone broke into her home sometime last night and shot her. She’s alive, but in serious condition. Head wound. She’s unresponsive, in a coma.”

Skye sank into the couch, hardly able to comprehend what he said. Someone shot Rita? Last night?

“Oh, my God!”