As this year draws to a close and Christmas is just a little over a week away, I am reflecting back on the past year and all the exciting things I’ve done. Things that wouldn’t have been possible if I hadn’t been encouraged to sit down and write a book by one of the best friends a woman could ever ask for. But he’s an entirely different story altogether. Maybe another time.

Today, I looked back at all the photos from the trips I’ve been so fortunate to take. I spent a birthday on Bourbon Street with the best group of friends and romance authors. Attended a formal ball and got to wear a beautiful gown in my favorite color. Rode the streetcar to the Garden District. Sipped mimosas and sat at Café Dumonde and devoured the most delectable of beignets.

I flew to Denver and rented a car. Got to visit my nephew and his little family. Saw the Rocky Mountains and antelope as I wove my way through Wyoming to have lunch at The Virginian. Backtracked through the nature preserve and used the men’s restroom at a truck stop because I learned the hard way that a Wyoming mile is more like ten miles long and there are no stops along the way. Saw the Black Hills after a rainstorm with its green beauty. Stayed in a turn of the century hotel and casino and had lunch at the #10 Saloon where Wild Bill Hickock was shot in the back of the head. Met some more wonderful authors and got to see an exciting ten second ride at the PBR rodeo. Took a train ride through the Black Hills and visited some lovely wineries.

I got to go to California. Took a flight to Las Vegas and drove on the Las Vegas strip on a Friday night. Took a side road while driving through the Mojave Desert and found a busy little oasis that I am sure will be the site of a romance novel in the upcoming months. Spent some quality time with my youngest daughter eating a seafood lunch right on the Pacific Ocean. Saw the Top Gun house in Oceanside. Watched the moon set on the Pacific and felt the damp chill of the surf as it came over the rocks of the patio of the beach cottage where we stayed. Walked the street of Old Town San Diego.

I’ve lived. I’ve done things that I never thought I would do on my own. And I have memories that will be forever etched in my heart. And none of it would have been possible if it weren’t for the encouragement of those who are near and dear to me. God is good. I’m blessed. And this Christmas season, I wish all of you a wonderful time with family and friends. Cherish those moments and hold them close to you.

And for you, here is the next scene from Faith’s Hope…

*****
​
Faith tentatively approached the magnificent Greek Revival home sitting back from the sidewalk that ran along Chestnut Street in the Garden District.  Her curiosity had gotten the best of her since the stormy night she found the ghostly young woman crying in the attic. So curious that she spent her day off at the library doing research until she found the exact address of Magnolia House.  
Unlike the unkempt neighborhood where her own apartment was, the homes here were immaculately tended with beautifully landscaped lawns and gardens.  Four columns supported the double gallery of the mansion, and steps spanned the better portion of the lower gallery.  Magnolia trees in full bloom flanked the sidewalk that led from the wrought iron gate.  Massive ferns hung from both levels of the gallery between each of the columns, and she was intrigued by how in the world they may have gotten there, let alone how they were attended to.  
When she’d set off this morning and hopped on the streetcar, it was to take a walk around the Garden District and casually stroll by the house.  Faith had searched the chest for any other letters from the southern gentleman to his lady but had found none.  Only delicately embroidered linens yellowed with age and crocheted doilies and tablecloths filled the chest.  Those were carefully removed and soaked in mild detergent in her bathtub then dried in the sun on the patio out back.  The round table cloths looked very nice on the accent tables in her living room and her thrift store dresser and nightstands held the matching set of doilies.
She tried to imagine the two young lovers standing on the steps of this beautiful home with the moon and stars twinkling in the night sky above them and the fragrance of magnolia blooms filling the air.  Hope and Geoffrey.  She couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to the two of them after the war was over.  Had he returned to her or had he perished in the war?  Why was it she cried so heartbreakingly in the afterlife?  
“Good afternoon.  Beautiful house isn’t it?”  
Faith jumped at the sound of the deep voice with a very pronounced accent that she had become to recognize as being prevalent in New Orleans.  As she did, her feet tangled up and she found herself starting to fall.  However, she was rescued by a pair of strong hands gripping her upper arms to right her.  When she looked up, it was to stare into a familiar pair of dark eyes.  Her mind told her there was no way it was him, but there was no mistaking the timeless face that looked back at her.  The black hair much shorter than that in the photograph, but overall this man had to be Geoffrey Maillieux.  Or a direct descendant.
“I’m sorry miss.  I didn’t mean to startle you.”  
He held onto her arms for a moment longer, and the heat of his touch burned through the thin sleeves of the flowing summery blouse.  A heat that was very disconcerting to her, especially after the traumatic events before she came to New Orleans.  She tugged herself loose from his grip and looked down at the sidewalk where their feet were a mere few inches apart.  
“It’s fine.”  Faith managed to mumble before she started to walk away.  And only because it would be too obvious for her to run.

​​

It’s a snowy evening here tonight but I’ve got a fire going and it’s nice and cozy in my living room. I don’t mind winter days because it gives me a reason to stay inside and write. Progress was made on Namaste and I hope to have it ready to release by Christmas. Namaste is the conclusion to the Summers Sisters series as they continue to search for the way to defeat the entity that has been playing havoc on the small community of Lakeview.
We had a nice dinner of meatloaf, potatoes, macaroni and cheese and dessert was apple crisp with ice cream and caramel sauce. I’m ready to wind my evening down with a glass of wine and a Christmas movie, but wanted to take the time to give you the next scene of Faith’s Hope.
So, snuggle up with your favorite winter drink and a snack and enjoy…
*****

The storm turned out to be a slow moving one so by the time it reached the city and unleashed its fury, Faith had finished dinner and bathed and sat curled up among the cushions, reading a book in her pajamas.  The wind howled and whistled through the streets as it preceded the rain and hail that soon joined it.  Then it died down, and all she could hear was the sound of rain and the crashing of thunder while lightning flashed through the windows, causing dancing patterns of leaves to play against the wall opposite the windows. 
A chill passed over her, causing the hair on the back of her neck to stand up at attention.  She stopped reading for a moment, and then continued as she realized the chill had probably come from a blast of the air conditioning.  The television flickered a bit before the signal went dead and a loss of reception message came across the screen. She reached for the package of matches and lit the three candles on the side table, and she enjoyed the scent of the magnolia fragrance that filled the air as the candle burned.
The wind picked up again, and the loose shutter on the window banged against the side of the house in a lonely beat.  With the next clap of thunder and flash of lightning, the power went out and the house was suddenly quiet inside while the tempest continued outside.  Faith was tired from her day at work so she sat for a little bit with her head resting against the back of the sofa before finally giving up on her reading for the night.
She picked up the candle and carried it with her to the bedroom.  The light flickered against the ornate molding along the top of the wall as she set the candle down on the nightstand beside the brass bed.  Turning back the quilt that Frankie had given her out of her own collection of bedding, she slid underneath the top sheet onto the coolness of the freshly laundered linens.  Plumping the pillows first, she settled comfortably against the softness and lay looking up at the dancing light on the ceiling.  Outside the rain splattered against the window next to her bed, and the lilac bush swiped against the house like slender fingers brushing against the wood.  The sound was actually soothing, and she drifted off to sleep.
Someone was crying.  A woman.  Heart wrenching sobs.  Was she crying in her sleep or was she dreaming of someone crying?  Faith’s eyes fluttered open and took a moment to focus.  The candlelight flickered and created shadow on the walls.  The sobs were real and not her imagination or a dream.  The voice was too soft to be Frankie and it sounded like it was coming from above her.  She sat up in the bed and looked around the room. Despite the air-conditioning remaining silent with the power outage, the room was strangely cool.  Cold in fact.  Chill bumps formed on her arms, and she drew the quilt around her for comfort.
Her imagination must be playing tricks on her.  There was nothing above her but the attic and even though she’d never been up there, she knew there was access inside the closet across from her bed.  Frankie told her that she could help herself to anything she might find up there that could be useful, but Faith had never taken advantage of the offer.  A person crying?  Maybe it wasn’t a person.  Perhaps a stray cat had found refuge from the storm by slipping through the vent.  It couldn’t be a person. 
The sobs were suddenly accompanied by a haunting melody that echoed throughout the room.  A tune that scratched and hissed like an old record.  She threw the quilt aside and swung her feet over the edge of the bed.  As the music continued the crying lessened.  Something caused the music to jump and repeat.  Like an old record that had been played so much that it was worn to the point it missed a bit of the tune here and there.  She pulled open the drawer of her nightstand and took out the little penlight she kept there.  A lot of good it was going to do in a darkened attic.  But Faith had always been curious and tonight that curiosity was getting the better of her.
She crossed the wood floor, which was cool and smooth beneath her bare feet and slid open one of the closet doors.  Obviously an addition many years after the house was built, it spanned the entire wall that made the bedroom private from the rest of the house. She didn’t have a lot of clothes so it didn’t take much effort to slide them aside and point the flashlight toward the ceiling of the closet.   A worn piece of rope hung from the trap door in the ceiling of the closet and when she pulled on it, she could see the ladder above her head.  She reached with her free hand and gave the bottom rung a tug allowing the ladder to fall free directly in front of her.
Taking a deep breath and holding it, she listened.  The crying had quieted and the needle of the old turntable in the middle of the room bumped and scratched putting an end to the melody.  Frankie’s parting words echoed through her mind.  Only the living can hurt someone.  With that memory, a sweet scent filled the dark attic.  Lilies.  She would know that fragrance anywhere because at her childhood home, there was a whole bed of lily of the valley beneath her bedroom window, and she remembered the sweet fragrance wafting in through the screened windows in the springtime.
Using the flashlight, she scanned the room and didn’t immediately see anything.  Then she caught a glimpse of some movement and focused the light on an area in the farthest portion of the attic.  Faith gasped in disbelief as she saw the ghostly figure of a woman sprawled across a wooden chest that sat next to an old Victrola that continued to spin.  The ghostly woman looked up, and Faith saw the innocent face of a young woman.  Very young.  Perhaps even a teenager.  Dressed in clothing that was reminiscent of Civil War times with her hair falling freely across her shoulders.  Blinded by a flash of light as the power came back on, Faith stumbled forward and pain exploded as her head hit a low beam. 
Faith sat on the floor and put her head between her knees fighting off the dizziness from the blow to her head.  Her stomach churned for a moment but she managed to calm it with a few deep breaths.  When she felt she’d recovered enough, she stood up and looked around the cluttered attic.
The turntable had stopped and she knelt down to look at the record.  It appeared to have been played so much that there was not much left in the way of grooves in the aging material of the disc.  She ran her finger over the top of the Victrola and it came away smeared with dust.  She looked over at the trunk that the ghostly figure had been weeping against.  It was a beautifully crafted chest with a pair of lovebirds holding a heart carved in the center of the lid.  She brushed dust away and found one word inside the heart.  Or was it a name?  HOPE.  Hope’s chest?  Or a hope chest.  She gently lifted the lid and peered inside.  Atop a stack of hand-embroidered linens was a tintype photo of a young man.  He was dressed in a Confederate soldier uniform, his face solemn yet handsome.  Not much older than the ghost of the girl Faith found crying just mere moments before the lights came back on.. 
Beneath the picture was a yellowed envelope addressed to Hope Avery with a return address for a Magnolia House in New Orleans.  She turned the envelope over in her hand and found a red seal stamped with an ornate M.  Faith lifted the flap and found a letter inside.  Actually, just a brief note telling Hope that he would be leaving soon to fight for the Confederacy, but would return to her as soon as the South was successful.  It was signed by Geoffrey Maillieux and dated 15 August 1861.  The young man had enlisted at the very beginning of the Civil War.