Bookish Musings, Banter & More
It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old…or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!
You never know when I might play a wild card on you!
About the Author:
Cara Lynn James is a debut writer who has received numerous contest awards from Romance Writers of America chapters and the American Christian Fiction Writers. She resides in northwest Florida with her husband Jim. They have two grown children, Justin and Alicia; a grandson, Damian; and Papillion named Sparky.(ISBN#9781595546791, 320pp, $14.99)
N e w Y o r k C i t y , M ay 1 8 9 3
Jack slowed his pace, his courage once more waning at
the sight of the Westbrook home across the way. Anxiety
twisted his stomach in a knot. But in the dusky light,
Lillyâ€™s glow of confidence reignited his own flame. She
understood her parents far better than he did. Since she believed her father
would agree to the marriage, why should he hesitate?
Arm-in-arm they strolled across the road. Among the row of
fine brick townhouses facing them, the Westbrook house stood
three stories tall like all the rest, with long, paned windows overlooking
Mr. Ames, the ancient butler, opened the front door. Jack and
Lilly entered the dimly lit foyer.
â€œWhere is my father this evening?â€ Lilly asked the butler.
â€œIn the back parlor, miss.â€
â€œShall I go with you, Jack?â€
â€œNo,â€ he whispered, squeezing her hand, â€œIâ€™d rather do this
on my own. Say a prayer all will go well.â€
Jack strode toward the parlor, determined to plead his case.
Every nerve ending in his body fired with lifeâ€”and more than
a few with apprehension. Heâ€™d calm himself and then ask Mr.
Westbrook for Lillyâ€™s hand in a respectful tone, solicitous, but
not fawning. Heâ€™d restrain his usual brash attitude and hope Mr.
Westbrook would consent to a marriage most would deem unsuitable.
If he weighed the odds of success, he wouldnâ€™t even try.
Jack inhaled a steadying breath and increased his pace down
the narrow hallway leading to the back of the house. Gas sconces
threw a pale light along the Persian runner that muffled his footsteps
to a soft shuffle. The house lay silent except for the noise of
a sledge hammer beating against his chest.
Lord, I need a large dose of Your strength. Donâ€™t allow me to cower.
Iâ€™ve never been a quitter and I donâ€™t want to start now.
He hadnâ€™t asked God for much in the past, but this was too
important to rely on his own untested powers.
Jack paused before he came to the door of the back parlor,
straightened his bow tie, and squared his shoulders. Voices stopped
him before he moved forward. He recognized Mrs. Westbrookâ€™s
high, girlish tone. Heâ€™d wait for a lull in the conversation, excuse
his entry, and then ask to speak to Mr. Westbrook. Jack waited for
several minutes before he heard his name.
â€œThomas, I noticed Jackson Grail seems especially fond of
Lilly. You donâ€™t suppose he wants to marry her, do you?â€
Jack winced at the worry in her voice. With his back to the
wall he stepped closer to the parlor.
Mr. Westbrook chuckled. â€œNo, my dear, heâ€™s George â€™s friend,
not Lillyâ€™s. She â€™s hardly more than a child.â€
â€œFor goodnessâ€™ sake. Lillyâ€™s nineteen, certainly old enough to
catch the eye of a young man.â€
â€œAll right, she â€™s not my little girl anymore. But ready for marriage?
No, Nessie, I donâ€™t believe so. She has lots of time to choose
a mate. There â€™s no rush.â€
â€œHmm. I wouldnâ€™t want her to delay too long. Iâ€™ve given considerable
thought to her future.â€
â€œIâ€™m sure you have,â€ Mr. Westbrook murmured. Jack pictured
his wry smile.
â€œWell, itâ€™s my duty as her mother to guide her. Oliver Cross
or Pelham Mills come to mind as possible suitors. Maybe Harlan
Santerre. Heâ€™s such a polite young man and his mother and I have
been friends since childhood. Yes, heâ€™s most definitely my first
Jack let out the breath heâ€™d been holding, knowing he should
break away, cease his eavesdroppingâ€”
â€œTheyâ€™re all acceptable to me. But what about young Grail?
You say he might be interested in her. Heâ€™s got a good head on his
â€œBut no money in his pocket. Need I say more?â€
Jack frowned and tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry.
Mr. Westbrook sighed. â€œNo, my dear. Youâ€™re absolutely right.
Heâ€™s not suitable, though I do like him.â€
â€œI do as well. And now heâ€™s as finely educated as our own
George. But he would have to strike it rich quickly in order to court
Lilly,â€ Mrs. Westbrook added. â€œAnd thatâ€™s highly unlikely.â€
â€œNearly impossible, Iâ€™m afraid. So I hope youâ€™re wrong and
young Grail hasnâ€™t set his heart on Lilly.â€ Her father sighed. â€œHeâ€™s
an intelligent boy. Iâ€™m sure heâ€™d know better. Especially when she
has an ambitious mama anxious to make her the perfect match.â€
Mrs. Westbrook laughed. â€œThomas, do stop your teasing.â€
Jack bumped his shoulder against the curlicues of a large gilt
picture frame. Turning to give it a hard shove, he stopped himself.
He wouldnâ€™t let his temper get the better of him. Leaving the oil
painting crooked, he stumbled down the patterned runner, away
from the awful voices. When he came to the foyer he dropped into
a rosewood chair and ignored the curious stare from Mr. Ames.
Jack buried his head in his hands and tried to gather his wits
before he had to face Lilly. But the Westbrooksâ€™ conversation
resounded through his mind. Poor. Unsuitable. Why had he ever
thought theyâ€™d accept him as a son-in-law? His love for Lilly had
banished all reason. Heâ€™d lived in a fog of hope these last several
months, but now it cleared.
At the sound of light footsteps he looked up. â€œWhat did Papa
say?â€ Lilly asked, grasping his hands.
He glanced at her without speaking and then saw his own
anguish reflected in her eyes. He so wished his answer could bring
her joy. She gently pulled him into the dimly lit sitting room. The
sheers and heavy velvet curtains blocked all but the final rays of
daylight from seeping through the windows overlooking the park.
They faced each other in front of the unlit marble fireplace, his arms
tight around her slim waist, her hands lightly touching his vest.
â€œTell me,â€ she said in a rasping voice, barely audible.
â€œI never had the chance to ask, Lilly. When I got to the back
parlor your parents were already discussing appropriate husbands.
And my name wasnâ€™t on the list.â€
â€œThatâ€™s because they donâ€™t know we love each other. Papa
has never refused me anything. It might take some persuasion, but
you can do it. We can approach him together.â€
Lovely, pampered Lilly, who owned her fatherâ€™s heartâ€”
except when it came to marriage partners. And marriage among
the rich was certainly a business transaction. Their kind never
married Jackâ€™s kind. Heâ€™d gone to St. Luke â€™s and Yale with the
wealthy, but as a scholarship student, he didnâ€™t belong to their set
no matter how hard he tried to fit in. Maybe he wouldâ€™ve accepted
the impenetrable barrier if Lilly hadnâ€™t swept into his life.
He gazed at her, drinking in her passion, memorizing her
large, expressive eyes and flawless skin, her tall, slender form and
thick brown hair framing her face.
Her eyes blazed like blue fire. â€œCome. We â€™ll speak to Papa.
Jack caught her wrists. â€œNo, I canâ€™t. Iâ€™m so sorry. He wonâ€™t change
his mind. Itâ€™s pointless to even ask.â€ Save me the humiliation.
Her strangled cry pierced his heart. â€œYou wonâ€™t even try? We
love each other. Isnâ€™t that worth fighting for?â€ Lillyâ€™s voice rose
How could he explain he couldnâ€™t abide her fatherâ€™s rejection?
He refused to hear again that he wasnâ€™t good enough to court
Lillyâ€”once was enough. And he didnâ€™t want her to elope with
him without her parentsâ€™ approval. Jack groaned. As much as he
adored Lilly, he wasnâ€™t acceptable to the family. The daughter of
a prosperous banker, Lilly couldnâ€™t marry a man without a family
â€œWe can marry without their consent. Youâ€™ll find a good job.
I know you will. Donâ€™t you see, Jack, we donâ€™t need my parentsâ€™
â€œBut I want their respect.â€ And heâ€™d never gain their esteem
by stealing their daughter away. He turned from her, running a
hand through his hair. He â€™d been fooling himself. How could
he provide for Lilly, care for her in a manner in which she was
accustomed? What could he promise her? A one room apartment
in a dingy part of town while he made his way in the world,
if he ever made it at all. How long before his beautiful, young
and idealistic bride would realize she â€™d sacrificed too much for
an improbable dream? He â€™d harm her if he stole her from her
He glanced at her and could see in her face the stubborn, naÃ¯ve
hope that lingered there. But he understood reality as she never
would. He â€™d let his love blossom before he should have.
Jack slowly moved away, steeling himself for the hurt yet
to come. â€œYour parents are right. Iâ€™m in no position to marry. I
should never have proposed, because I have nothing to offer.â€
Lilly rushed to him and flung her arms around his neck, tears
spilling down her cheeks. â€œWhat about our love? Why do you
need more than that?â€
â€œLilly, we canâ€™t exist on dreams. I have to earn a living. And I
canâ€™t support you on a clerkâ€™s salary. Youâ€™d miss your old life.â€
Her lovely, soft features hardened. â€œYou must think my love
is too weak to withstand hardship. Itâ€™s strong enough to survive
anything. Why do you doubt me so?â€
Jack shook his head. â€œI doubt myself, not you.â€ What if her
confidence in his abilities werenâ€™t warranted? What if he never
rose above petty clerk, despite his fancy education? A girl from a
society family, proud and successful for generations, could never
be content washing laundry, cooking meals, and scrubbing floors
on her hands and knees. She â€™d grow bitter and resentful.
â€œI can adapt to less. I donâ€™t care about a beautiful home. I only
want you,â€ she said, her voice rising with frustration.
He wouldnâ€™t argue about the effects of poverty and how it
wore on a person. She wouldnâ€™t understand. â€œIf we came from
the same background, I wouldnâ€™t hesitate to speak to your father.
But we didnâ€™t.â€
â€œBut you will. I know it. Iâ€™ll wait until you feel ready to marry
me. Thereâ€™s no hurry. Iâ€™m patient. I can wait forever.â€ She pleaded
with beautiful eyes glistening with tears.
â€œNo, please donâ€™t wait for me.â€ Jackâ€™s voice cracked like ice.
He wanted her to wait, but he couldnâ€™t ruin her chances of
making a suitable, maybe even a happy marriage. The odds of
succeeding in the business world without connections were small.
If and when heâ€™d proven himself, heâ€™d return and hope she â€™d still
want him. And forgive him. But he couldnâ€™t ask her to wait.
He blotted her tears with his handkerchief, but they kept
streaming down her face. Her slender shoulders heaved with soft
sobs. He kissed her again gently and then retreated to his bedroom
before he was tempted to crush her in his arms and beg her to
elope. Heâ€™d planned to stay for the week as George â€™s guest, but
now he needed to leave quickly.
Within ten minutes he was gone.
Jackâ€™s heart slammed against his ribs. The past two weeks had
been a misery. He couldnâ€™t sleep. He couldnâ€™t eat. Go back, go back!
his mind and heart screamed. Youâ€™ve made a terrible mistake!
His stomach roiling, Jack fought to keep a dignified pace and
not run all the way to Washington Square. At last, he stood before
the Westbrook home and tapped the front door knocker against
the heavy wood.
Heâ€™d explain he couldnâ€™t manage without her and his infernal
pride had blocked his common sense and their tender love. Would
she accept his apology? Theyâ€™d work something out. He didnâ€™t
know how exactly, but they would. He knew their union was sanctioned,
indeed designed, by God.
Mr. Ames pulled the heavy door open. â€œMay I help you, sir?â€
â€œYes. Is Miss Westbrook at home?â€
The hunched-over butler shook his head. â€œTheyâ€™ve all gone
abroad. They sailed yesterday.â€
Jackâ€™s cautious optimism collapsed in a heap of despair. â€œAnd
when will they return?â€
Next spring. Jack groaned. â€œG-Good day,â€ he mumbled, turning
from the door.
Iâ€™m too late. Iâ€™ve lost her.
N e w p o rt , R h o d e I s l a n d â€” J u ly 1 8 9 9
Six years later
With a deep sigh of satisfaction, Lilly Westbrook
whipped the last page of her manuscript out of
the Underwood typewriter. Carefully she shredded
the carbon and threw the messy strips into the wastebasket. No
maid could possibly reconstruct her work and tattle
For a moment, a wave of sadness overshadowed the pleasure
she felt at finishing another story. How she longed to share her
secret with her mother, but as much as Lilly hated deception, she
knew Mama would never understand. Mama was proud of her for
dabbling in poetry, but this?
No. It was best to stay behind closed doors to write her dime
Lilly shuddered to think of the disgrace she â€™d bring upon herself
and, even worse, upon her family, if her secret was revealed.
The very notion of social ostracism weakened her knees and left
her legs wobbly. A twinge of guilt pinched her conscience as it
often did when she considered her concealment. Yet why look for
trouble when her work was progressing so well?
Lilly scrubbed her hands until all evidence of the carbon paper
and inky ribbon disappeared into the washbasin near her bed, then
covered the typewriter Mama had given her as a birthday gift a
few years before. Mama thought a typing machine unnecessary
for a poet, but she wasnâ€™t one to begrudge her children anything
Lilly withdrew a letter from her skirt pocket and smiled as she
re-read the last lines.
My dear Lilly,
I want to again express my thanks for all youâ€™ve contributed to
the Christian Settlement House of New York. We so value the time
and effort you have devoted to assisting our young ladies with their
sundry life skills and English fluency. Your exceptional generosity
and financial support have enabled us to continue our work in accordance
with the Lordâ€™s purposes.
Phoebe Diller, Director
Miss Dillerâ€™s kind words sent a rush of warmth to Lillyâ€™s heart
and strengthened her resolve to continue writing. For without the
profits from her novels, she couldnâ€™t afford to donate more than
a few dollars to her favorite charity. How could she possibly quit
writing when her romance novels provided so many blessings to
Lilly locked the final chapter in the rolltop desk by the bay
window and hid the key beneath the lining of her keepsake box.
Time for a well-deserved walk by the sea. She removed her reading
spectacles and placed her straw hat decorated with bright
poppies squarely on top of her upswept hair. After a last furtive
glance toward the desk, she left her bedroom to the morning sunshine
that splashed across the shiny oak floor and floral carpet.
All the way down the staircase she congratulated herself for
typing â€œThe Endâ€ of her story, though it was only a few days
before deadline. That was much too close for comfort. She sighed.
Too many social events had disrupted her normal writing routine
this summer. But she had no choice but to force a smile and
attend the functions, even though most of them bored her to
She wouldnâ€™t think of that now. At least sheâ€™d finished the manuscript
before the deadline and for that sheâ€™d treat herself to a few
minutes out of her room. With a light heart, she strolled through
the deserted foyer, past Mr. Ames, the butler, and out the front
door. A beautiful day greeted her with its sun-blessed smile.
As she crossed the veranda, her sister-in-law Irene Westbrook,
seated at the end of the porch, peered over a small, familiar book.
The lurid cover of Lillyâ€™s latest novel, Dorotheaâ€™s Dilemma,
popped out in garish color. Lilly stopped short and pressed her
palm over her gyrating heart.
â€œOh my,â€ she murmured. Sheâ€™d never expected to see one of
her novels in her own home, let alone in the hands of her brotherâ€™s
Irene smoothed her halo of silky blonde curls caught up in a
loose pompadour. She laid the slim paperback on her lap, her eyes
gleaming with curiosity. â€œWhy hello, Lilly. Where have you been
on this beautiful afternoon? Cooped up in your bedroom again?
My goodness, what do you do in there all day?â€
â€œSometimes I enjoy a few hours of solitude.â€ Lillyâ€™s nerves
seized control of her voice and it rose like the screech of a seagull.
â€œIâ€™m sorry I interrupted your reading.â€ Heat crept into her skin as
Irene watched her, face aglow with interest.
â€œDo sit down, Lilly.â€
She slipped into a wicker chair opposite Irene. A gust of
salty air, typical of Newportâ€™s summer weather, blew in from the
Atlantic and brushed its cool breath across her cheeks. She prayed
it would fade the red splotches that came so easily when embarrassment
Irene cocked her head. â€œIs something wrong? You look positively
â€œNo, Iâ€™m fine.â€ Though every fiber of her body continued to
quiver, Lilly steadied her breathing. She folded her hands in the
lap of her charcoal-gray skirt and willed them not to shake.
â€œYou arenâ€™t shocked by my novel, are you?â€ Irene smirked.
â€œOf course not.â€ Lilly squirmed around on the soft chintz
cushion and avoided Irene â€™s skeptical stare. â€œWhy should I be
Irene leaned forward. â€œSome people claim dime novels are
trash, and from your reaction I thought you might be one of those
faultfinders. Of course theyâ€™re wrong. These books are filled with
adventure and I love adventure.â€ She rolled the last word around
her tongue like a stream of honey.
Irene, the niece of Quentin Kirby, one of San Franciscoâ€™s
silver kings, fancied herself an adventuress, but Lilly inwardly
disagreed. Irene merely appreciated fun and frivolity more than
most. That hardly made her a woman like the heroines of Lillyâ€™s
books. â€œIâ€™m so sorry, Irene. I didnâ€™t mean to criticize your choice
of books. I just wondered where you obtained your copy.â€
â€œI discovered it in the kitchen while I was searching for a
blueberry tart.â€ Irene grinned as if Lilly ought to admire her
â€œOne of the scullery maids must have left it there.â€
â€œYou took it without asking permission?â€ Lilly could scarcely
believe Irene had wandered downstairs to the basement kitchen,
the domain of servants who strongly disapproved of visitors,
even the family.
â€œWhy yes. Well no, not exactly. I borrowed it. As soon as I finish
reading, Iâ€™ll give it back. Of course.â€
Irene tapped the big, red letters spelling out the authorâ€™s name
across the cover. â€œFannie Cole. Sheâ€™s a splendid writer, the very
best. Have you ever read any of her books? I devour them like
Lillyâ€™s heart lurched. â€œNaturally Iâ€™ve heard of her. I believe
her stories are rather popular.â€
At the sound of the front door squeaking open, Lilly looked
away with relief.
Mama bustled onto the veranda, a frown knitting her eyebrows.
â€œWhatâ€™s that about Fannie Cole? Sheâ€™s quite infamous, I
hear.â€ Glancing from Lilly to Irene, Mamaâ€™s eyelashes fluttered, a
sure sign of agitation. â€œOh, I see you have one of her books . . .â€
Lilly knew her mother couldnâ€™t let this breach of propriety
pass without comment. On the other hand, the kind and ever
tactful Vanessa Westbrook would hate to offend her new daughter-in-
â€œMama, Fannie Cole writes harmless fiction. You neednâ€™t
worry.â€ Lilly smiled her assurance, hoping sheâ€™d veer off to
Her mother sunk into a wicker chair beside Irene. â€œPerhaps,
my dear, but you must admit, there are so many more uplifting
novels.â€ She patted Irene â€™s arm, which was robed in a cream silk
blouse that matched the lace of her skirt. â€œLillian is a poet, you
know. Her work is delightful. You must read it. Iâ€™ll go fetch you
Lilly cringed. â€œNo, Mama. I wrote those poems years ago. She
wouldnâ€™t be interested in the meanderings of an eighteen-yearold
ninny. Itâ€™s sentimental tripe.â€
â€œNonsense, my dear. Youâ€™ve always been much too critical of
â€œNevertheless, Iâ€™m sure Irene would prefer Fannie Cole.â€
Who wouldnâ€™t? Lilly thought. Still, she appreciated her motherâ€™s
enthusiasm for her meager literary efforts.
Irene tossed her a wide, grateful smile. â€œThere, thatâ€™s settled.â€
Mamaâ€™s round, girlish face tightened with distaste. â€œI wish
you wouldnâ€™t read dime novels because . . .â€ She looked toward
Lilly for support.
â€œReally, Mama.â€ Lilly softened her voice, not meaning to
scold. â€œWhile some of the dime novels are sensational, others are
written to help working girls avoid the pitfalls of city life. Theyâ€™re
moralistic tales that encourage virtue. Nothing to be ashamed of
reading.â€ Or writing.
â€œExactly.â€ Irene beamed. â€œI couldnâ€™t have said it better myself.
Of course, I read for the story, not the moral lesson, but Iâ€™m sure
itâ€™s beneficial for those who enjoy a good sermon.â€
Lilly suppressed a sigh of resignation. â€œNo doubt Miss Cole
hopes and prays her words touch the hearts of her readers and
bring them closer to the Lord.â€ Lilly looked at Mama and Irene,
hoping theyâ€™d somehow understand her purpose and approve.
But both looked puzzled over her words.
Irene â€™s gaze narrowed. â€œAn odd way to spread the gospel,
donâ€™t you think?â€
â€œNot at all. The Lord is more creative than we are.â€ Lilly
bristled and then glanced away when she found her mother and
sister-in-law still staring at her.
Sheâ€™d spoken up much more forcefully than she intended.
With a sinking heart, Lilly realized Mama would never accept her
viewpoint; it flew in the face of beliefs and opinions ingrained
Irene picked up a sheet of paper resting on a small table between
two pots of ferns and waved it like a flag on the Fourth of July. Lilly
immediately recognized Talk of the Town, a gossip rag published
by that scandalmonger, Colonel MacIntyre, the bane of Newport
society. He shot fear into the hearts of all upstanding people and
others who werenâ€™t quite so virtuous. Lilly swallowed hard.
Mama gasped. Her pale skin whitened. â€œOh my dear, thatâ€™s
hardly appropriate for a respectable home.â€
Irene shrugged. â€œPerhaps not. But if you donâ€™t mind my saying
so, itâ€™s great fun to read. Iâ€™m learning the crÃ¨me de la crÃ¨me
of Newport are up to all kinds of mischief.â€ She laughed with
â€œListen to this.â€ Irene leaned forward. â€œOne hears that Miss
Fannie Cole, author of wildly popular dime novels, has taken up residence
at one of the ocean villas for the season. The talk about town
claims this writer of sensationalâ€”some might even say salaciousâ€”
stories, belongs to the New York and Newport aristocracy. Which of our
fine debutantes or matrons writes under the nom de plume, Fannie Cole?
Speculation runs rampant. Would the talented but mysterious author of
Dorotheaâ€™s Dilemma, Hearts in Tune, and several other delectable
novels please come forward and identify herself for her public?â€
Lillyâ€™s throat closed. She clamped her hands down on her lap,
but they shook like a hummingbirdâ€™s wings. Had a maid or a footman
stumbled across her secret and sold the information? Colonel
Rufus MacIntyre of Talk of the Town paid handsomely for gossip.
No one was safe from his long, grasping tentacles, including some
of the most prominent people in society.
â€œThe colonel has mentioned Miss Cole in his column for the
last two weeks, so I expect weâ€™ll hear more about her during the
summer.â€ Irene grinned as she studied the sheet. â€œI wonder who
she is. Iâ€™d love to meet her.â€
Mamaâ€™s mouth puckered into a small circle. â€œUndoubtedly
someone from the wrong side of the tracks. No one weâ€™d know.â€
She punctuated her words with a firm nod.
Irene persisted. â€œYou must have an idea, Lilly. You seem to
know everything thatâ€™s going on in society.â€
Lilly turned away, sure that a red stain had again spilled across
her pale skin. Her sister-in-law was right. She did listen to all the
tittle-tattle, but she prided herself on her discretion. The foibles
of her set provided grist for her novels, not for spreading rumors
â€œYou give me far too much credit, Irene.â€ She hated to dodge
questions to keep from lying, but what was her option short of
confessing? She twisted the cameo at the neck of her tailored
Mama wagged her finger. â€œMark my words. By the end of
the summer someone will discover Fannie Coleâ€™s true name and
announce it to the entire town. Oh, my. What humiliation she â€™ll
bring upon her family. Theyâ€™ll be mortified.â€
â€œHow delicious,â€ Irene murmured.
Lilly groaned inwardly. Her subterfuge gnawed at her conscience,
worsening day by day, but she couldnâ€™t turn back the
clock and reconsider her decision to write in secret.
She rose. â€œWill you excuse me? I need to take my walk now.â€
With her head held high and as much poise as she could muster,
Lilly descended the verandaâ€™s shallow steps. She strode across
the wide, sloping lawn that surrounded Summerhill, the old
twenty-two-room mansion the Westbrooks rented for the season.
Once she reached the giant rocks that separated the grounds
from the ocean, she picked her way over to a smooth boulder that
doubled for a bench. As she â€™d done every day since her arrival
three weeks ago, Lilly settled onto its cold surface. Instead of
watching the breakers pound against the coast and absorb the majesty
of nature â€™s rhythm, she rested her head in her hands and let
the breeze brush against her face.
What would happen if her beau, Harlan Santerre, discovered
that she and Fannie Cole were the same person? The wealthy railroad
heir, a guest of the family for the eight weeks of summer,
miraculously seemed ripe to propose. Her mother kept reminding
her how grateful she should be that such a solid, upstanding man
as Harlan Santerre had shown interest in a twenty-five-year-old
spinster with no grand fortune and no great beauty. Mama and the
entire family would be humiliated if her writing became public
knowledge and Harlan turned his attention elsewhere.
Yet the Holy Ghost had urged her to compose her simple stories,
and as she wrote, her melancholy gradually faded. Her enthusiasm
never waned thanks to the joy she received from doing the Lordâ€™s
Why would He allow someone to ruin her and end the good
deeds she accomplished? He should smite her enemies instead. All
her life she â€™d trusted the Lord to guide her and protect her, but
never had she needed His help more than now. But would He continue
to shield her?
Trembling, Lilly tossed a stone into the roiling surf and
watched it sink into the foamy white waves. What if the surge
of curiosity aroused by Colonel MacIntyre didnâ€™t fade away and
everything she held dear was threatened?
Click the bookcover or title for more info or to purchase a copy. Look for other FIRST Wildcard member posts and opinions also. Don’t forget to click the author’s name or photo to visit her website. My review is coming soon. Thanks to Thomas Nelson for a review copy.