And the first chapter of Summer's Song:
Summer stared at the solid silver container holding her father’s remains. Funny. She’d always pictured someone’s ashes preserved in some kind of fancy urn. Something sculpted or carved. Something meaningful. Dignified. Instead, Hope Memorial Services, following Ronald Thompson’s wishes, had sealed his remains in a six-by-eight-inch metal box, which now sat in the center of Joe Bernstein’s desk.
She pushed the rest of her father’s life into a large manila envelope and slid back her chair. “I’m finished.”
“You’re sure you don’t—”
“Joe.” She held up one hand, fingers ringless and well manicured. “No. I don’t need anything else.” Except to get out of Pine Point as soon as possible. She smoothed her suit jacket and brushed the ridge of the engraved business card holder deep in her pocket.
Summer Thompson, Chief Curator, Bay City Museum of History. Knowing the words were there, close to her skin, brought relief. She could do this. After a brief look at the house and a meeting or two with a local realtor, she could hop a plane back home to San Francisco. Within the museum walls, her world made sense.
She could catalog the lives of other people and draw conclusions about long-gone civilizations. She could organize press conferences, plan exhibit openings, and design educational seminars for the local schoolchildren.
Outside those walls? She lost her voice. She lost her grip. She couldn’t puzzle together the last decade or fit together the fragments of her own life. And she damn well couldn’t say the word father or utter the word dad. Ronald Thompson hadn’t been one to her in over ten years. She pulled out her cell phone to check her messages.
“Actually, there’s something else we have to talk about before you go.”
“Sorry?” She pulled her attention back to Joseph Bernstein, the elderly,
craggy-faced lawyer she’d known since childhood.
“I know you’re planning on selling the place—”
“Of course I am. I don’t know why he left it to me in the first place.” My
father did what? Willed me the McCready estate? She’d grown dizzy with the news, now almost a week old. Kids in town called the three-story mansion haunted and avoided it on their way to school. Teenagers broke into it, leaving empty beer cans and used condoms on its dusty floors. Adults ignored it, driving by its thick hedgerow without so much as a glance at the craggy black rooftop that speared the sky. Now it belonged to her, in a nightmare she had yet to awaken from.
“…but that isn’t going to be as easy as you might think.”
“Selling it? Why not?” She glanced through the paperwork on the desk between them. “Is there some kind of lien? A problem with the property?” Please, God, no.
“Not really.” He waited a moment before continuing. “But there’s an old
farmhouse on the back acre that your father rented out. Family’s been living there for a couple of years now.”
She put her phone away again. “You’re kidding me. So if I sell, I’m a schmuck who’s throwing someone out of their home.”
“Just wanted you to know.”
“Well, can I sell it with some kind of contingency? Let the renters stay on?”
“Sure, you could talk to the realtor about that. Might make it harder to find a buyer, though.”
Great. Summer shifted in her chair.
“Mac Herbert’s doing the repairs on the place,” Joe said after a pause. “You remember him? Went to school around the same time as you.”
She nodded.
“He’s got a young guy, new in town, helping him out. Damian Knight. He and his family are the ones renting the farmhouse.”
“Wait—they’re still working on the house? Who’s paying them?” She hadn’t
expected the place to be in the throes of renovation.
“Your father made arrangements. Left a checking account with enough money to cover materials and labor.”
“Really?” Every day revealed a new surprise, another piece of information she didn’t know about her father. One week, and she was already exhausted with the effort of trying to make sense of them.
The white-haired man leaned forward on his elbows. “You want ’em to stop? We can list the place as is.”
She shook her head. “I don’t—I guess I’ll have to go out and see before I say one way or the other.” She knew nothing about selling houses or about
renovations that might or might not make a difference to potential buyers. One more thing to think about. Terrific.
“And you’re sure you don’t want to do a memorial service, or…”
“No.” What on earth would she say to people? Who would come to such a thing? She hadn’t spoken to her father in ten years, since the accident. Everyone in town knew that. If they came, they’d only stare. “He’s the one who chose cremation,” she added. No headstone in the local cemetery, even though—
She stopped the thought before it could turn into something ugly. Don’t come back here, Ronald Thompson had grunted into the phone years ago. No reason.
Don’t want to see ya. So she hadn’t. “No service,” she repeated.
Joe reached over and squeezed her hand. He still wore the thick gold ring she remembered, encrusted with his initials and those of Yale Law School.
“Sweetheart, don’t rush. Take some time to think things through.” He paused. “I’m worried about you.”
Summer lifted her purse onto her shoulder. “Don’t be.” The manila envelope went into her briefcase. She adjusted the clip holding her midnight-black hair away from her face, then tucked the box of ashes under one arm.
He tented his fingers together. “How long’re you staying?”
“I’m not sure. A few days, I guess. I’ll go look at the house now, do what I need to tomorrow. Can’t stay any longer than a week.” She had museum exhibits coming in. A fundraising meeting the following Tuesday and an interview with the local paper the Thursday after that.
She couldn’t put the rest of her life on hold just because her father had chosen June fifteenth to die.
June fifteenth. Tears rose in her eyes before she could stop them. God, the irony of it might have just about killed her if she’d let herself think about it for longer than a few seconds.
“You’ll call me before you leave?”
Summer paused, one hand on the door. “You know I’m too old for you to worry about, right?”
The sixty-year-old rose, all knees and elbows inside a navy suit that hung the wrong way on his angular frame. “Never. Your father—”
Is dead, she wanted to say. She squared her shoulders. And I don’t feel any sadder today than I did all those years ago, when he sent me away from Pine Point. For a moment, an eighteen-year-old with flyaway hair, bright blue eyes and a stomach full of grief reared up in her memory.
“I’ll call you later,” she said instead, before Joe could say anything about finding serenity or forgiving or remembering the good times. She had gotten enough pity and prayers from the flower arrangements and sympathy cards that arrived in the mail. She thought she’d about drown in other people’s tears.
Death erased things, she wanted to tell all the well-wishers. It didn’t preserve them, and it sure didn’t peel back the edges of ten years of pain so you could examine it all over again. Death, expected or not, allowed people to move on. In fact, it forces us to. Why was she the only one who understood that?
She leaned on the heavy glass door of the Bernstein, Lowery and Samuels law office and gritted her teeth. She didn’t want to walk down Pine Point’s Main Street to the corner lot where she’d parked her rental car. She didn’t want her designer heels to catch in the cracked sidewalk by Evie’s Parlor, where the tree roots always came up, and she didn’t want to get caught at the only red light in town while Ollie at the corner station pumped gas and whistled at her.
But neither could she stay in this office one more minute. Outside, at least, the sunlight might blind her enough to keep the ghosts from taking up residence inside her head again.
Mac pulled his arm across his forehead, already damp with exertion. “She’s
coming to check out the house. I heard last night.”
“Who is?”
“Summer Thompson. Ron’s daughter.”
Ah, the new owner. Damian leaned against the porch railing and scratched his head. “Guess you owe me twenty bucks, then.”
Mac grinned. “Yeah. You called it right.”
“I knew she would. No one’d be able to sell a place without even lookin’ at it.”
He stuck his hammer into his tool belt, slung low across hiswaist. “What’s she like?”
Mac took a long pull on his soda and thought for a minute. Lunch lay scattered on the steps around them, and he eyed a second sandwich before answering.
“Christ, it’s been a long time…”
“Not that long. And this town isn’t that big. I’m betting you remember
something.”
“It’s been ten years. Long enough. Lotta people have come and gone.”
“You went to school with her, though, right?”
Mac nodded and reached for another can of soda. He cocked his head. “Actually, she was pretty cute back then.”
“Yeah?”
“Kept to herself a lot, but yeah. Hot body, pretty face… Hey, quit hogging the chips.” He grabbed the bag from beside Damian and dumped the crumbs into his mouth.
“Why’d she leave town?”
Mac busied himself with collecting cans and tossing them into a cardboard box. “Long story.”
“C’mon. Fill me in.”
The burly man shrugged. “Her little brother died in a car accident, week or so after she graduated from high school. Boyfriend was driving.” He shook his head.
“Damn awful thing. Her father sent her off to live with an aunt somewhere near Chicago. She never came back after that.”
Damian whistled. “Guess I’m surprised she bothered now.”
Mac stood with a grunt, one hand on his lower back. “Be too bad if she decides to sell the place, huh?”
“Why?”
He stared. “You know that house of yours is part of her property, right?”
Damian dug one heel into the ground. Shit. How had he forgotten? The farmhouse was a rental because they didn’t have the money to buy a place outright. They never had. And his mother had just finished decorating it the way she liked. He slammed the porch step with a fist and swore aloud.
“Maybe she’ll divide the property, sell the farmhouse to you.”
“Yeah.” And maybe pigs would get up on their hind legs and dance.
“Sorry, man.” Mac clapped a hand onto Damian’s shoulder. “Not a done deal,
though. Talk to her when she gets here.” He swiped a hand over his mouth. “If it doesn’t work out, I got a cousin with a couple of rental places over in Silver Valley. You want her number, lemme know.”
Damian nodded without answering. Despite the sun that scattered its rays over everything in sight, the afternoon had turned glum. He glanced over his shoulder at the mountains that rose just beyond the roofline of the McCready house.
About fifty miles west of the New York-Massachusetts border, Pine Point hovered at the base of the Adirondack Mountains. To most people, it was only an exit off the interstate, a stop halfway between Albany and Syracuse where you could get some gas or a burger before continuing on to more interesting destinations.
According to the locals, Pine Point got too much snow in the winter and not enough sun in the summer. Nine thousand people, give or take, made their blue-collar lives here, and about the only thing they seemed to like about the place were the ridges that surrounded it and caught the light at sundown.
Damian didn’t care about any of that. He only knew that Pine Point had given his mother and sister a place to escape, a chance for a new life, and for that he’d been grateful. Now it looked as though the ground beneath them was about to be pulled away once more.
**********
Thanks again,
Allie
Showing posts with label Allie Boniface. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Allie Boniface. Show all posts
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Friday, December 16, 2011
How She Does It -- Allie Boniface
We all know there are six elements in writing fiction and often fact. Who, What, When, Where, Why and How. I believe the first five lead to the sixth which for me is the plot. What's your take on this?
For me the Why is usually one of the driving factors in creating fiction. The other elements definitely come into play, but I try to continually ask “Why is my hero/heroine doing this? What’s his/her motivation?” Focusing on that question usually helps me through stumbling blocks, as well as helps to reveal character traits I didn’t consciously plan from the start. As my characters react to situations, the plot unfolds.
1. How do you create your characters? Do you have a specific process?
a. I usually have a general idea about my main characters when I start thinking about a new project, but I do like to spend some time getting to know them before I jump into writing the book. I used to use pretty extensive character charts, but I’ve gotten away from those. Now I just sketch out some basics: physical appearance, background/family history, past hurts, and how I want the character to change by the end of the book. That’s usually enough to get me started.
2. Do your characters come before the plot? Do you sketch out your plot or do you let the characters develop the route to the end?
a. I used to plot and plan a lot more when I first started writing. I think I have gotten more comfortable in letting my plotlines develop as I write, now. I do usually have a general idea of where I want the plot to go, from beginning to end, but my characters ALWAYS take me on twists and turns that I didn’t predict!
3. Do you know how the story will end before you begin? In a general way or a specific one?
a. I usually have a pretty specific idea of how the story will end when I begin. I think if I didn’t know where I wanted the story to go, and especially how I wanted the characters to change, I wouldn’t have enough to build a plotline upon. I read once that Stephen King has written entire books based on nothing more than a single image in his mind, when he begins. That’s definitely not me!
4. Do you choose settings you know or do you have books of settings and plans of houses sitting around?
a. All of the books I’ve written to date are based on settings I know, either places I’ve actually been or fictional settings created from familiar places in my life. I travel a lot, and I write contemporary romance set in this world and time, so I love drawing upon the variety of small towns and big cities I’ve seen.
5. Where do you do your research? On line or from books?
a. Online. I have the bad habit of writing in one screen while I have an Internet browser open in another, so anytime I need to look something up, it’s literally there at my fingertips.
For me the Why is usually one of the driving factors in creating fiction. The other elements definitely come into play, but I try to continually ask “Why is my hero/heroine doing this? What’s his/her motivation?” Focusing on that question usually helps me through stumbling blocks, as well as helps to reveal character traits I didn’t consciously plan from the start. As my characters react to situations, the plot unfolds.
1. How do you create your characters? Do you have a specific process?
a. I usually have a general idea about my main characters when I start thinking about a new project, but I do like to spend some time getting to know them before I jump into writing the book. I used to use pretty extensive character charts, but I’ve gotten away from those. Now I just sketch out some basics: physical appearance, background/family history, past hurts, and how I want the character to change by the end of the book. That’s usually enough to get me started.
2. Do your characters come before the plot? Do you sketch out your plot or do you let the characters develop the route to the end?
a. I used to plot and plan a lot more when I first started writing. I think I have gotten more comfortable in letting my plotlines develop as I write, now. I do usually have a general idea of where I want the plot to go, from beginning to end, but my characters ALWAYS take me on twists and turns that I didn’t predict!
3. Do you know how the story will end before you begin? In a general way or a specific one?
a. I usually have a pretty specific idea of how the story will end when I begin. I think if I didn’t know where I wanted the story to go, and especially how I wanted the characters to change, I wouldn’t have enough to build a plotline upon. I read once that Stephen King has written entire books based on nothing more than a single image in his mind, when he begins. That’s definitely not me!
4. Do you choose settings you know or do you have books of settings and plans of houses sitting around?
a. All of the books I’ve written to date are based on settings I know, either places I’ve actually been or fictional settings created from familiar places in my life. I travel a lot, and I write contemporary romance set in this world and time, so I love drawing upon the variety of small towns and big cities I’ve seen.
5. Where do you do your research? On line or from books?
a. Online. I have the bad habit of writing in one screen while I have an Internet browser open in another, so anytime I need to look something up, it’s literally there at my fingertips.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Interview -- Allie Boniface
I met Allie several years ago at a local chapter meeting. She has a nice voice for romance. Allie was a finalist for an EPIC Ebook Award.
1. What's your genre or do you write in more than one?
I started writing in contemporary romance and have published 5 novels in that genre. I still love that niche, but I’m currently tackling my first YA (young adult) novel, for something a little bit different!
2. Did you choose your genre or did it choose you? If more than one you can just focus on one or more than one.
I didn’t really realize I was writing romance until one of my early critique partners told me I was! I’ve always loved the complexity of interactions between people, and I love a happy ending as well, so I guess it makes sense that I’d be drawn to the romance genre. However, I’ve also recently become more interested in Young Adult, in part because I teach high school students, and I love to hear what they’re reading and enjoying.
3. Is there any genre you'd like to try or one you wouldn't?
I don’t read sci fi or fantasy, so I probably wouldn’t write in either of those. Beyond that, I like experimenting, so we’ll see what comes!
4. What fiction do you read for pleasure?
Lately I’ve been reading quite a bit of YA, both for research and pure pleasure (I’ll recommend John Green here as an author everyone should read). I also read historical romance, women’s fiction and sometimes a little horror (I’m a Stephen King fan) as well.
5. Tell me a bit about yourself and how long you've been writing.
I live in the lower Hudson Valley (New York) with my husband, who’s also a teacher, and have been writing seriously for about 10 years,
6. Which of your characters is your favorite and why?
Oh, that’s so hard to choose! I do love Eddie West, the hero in the first romance I ever wrote (Lost in Paradise). He’s strong and sexy and has a soft side and everyone who reads that book seems to fall in love with him He’s also one of the first characters who really didn’t change through all the revisions of that book.
7. Are there villains in your stories and how are they created?
One of my favorite villains is Sean McCabe, a corrupt police chief who stalks the heroine across five states in my contemporary romance One Night in Memphis. He was a lot of fun to write!
8. What are you working on now?
As I already mentioned, I’m in the middle of revising a draft of my first YA novel. I’m really enjoying this project because I get to write in a very different voice – first person, present tense. I’m also fortunate enough to hear this voice all day, every day, at my teaching job!
9. What's your latest release and how did the idea arrive?
One Night in Napa just released in print – it’s my third “One Night” novel, which unfolds over twenty-four chapters and twenty-four hours. I was actually driving on a long-distance trip when this idea came to me, about a daughter who leaves home when she finds out a huge family secret – and then has to come back home to protect that secret, years later.
10. How does the book open? Show the opening scene. -- 400 to five hundred words.
It actually begins with our hero, who you will see has his own issues to deal with…
Grant knew it was going to be a long day when he woke up and couldn’t remember the name of the woman lying beside him. His head throbbed. His stomach roiled. Late morning sun slanted across his face, and he squinted. He lifted himself onto an elbow and ran one hand over his stubbled jaw, then rolled over and stared at a digital clock he didn’t recognize.
He heard the sound again, the one that had jerked him from sleep. Somewhere across the room, his cell phone beeped. What the he—? Was it the weekend yet? Or was he supposed to be at work? Why did the room smell like vanilla? He groaned and struggled to pull sense from his sleep-muddled brain.
“Babe?” A manicured hand snaked out from the covers and caressed his bare chest. “Everything okay?”
Babe? He blinked and the room swam into focus. “Um, yeah.” He slipped from between satin sheets, planted one foot on a throw rug, and ended up on his ass next to the bed.
She giggled.
He swore under his breath and pulled himself up. The room was small, decorated mostly in pinks and lavenders. A collection of candles sat on a pink-and-white dresser across the room and, for one horrifying moment, he thought a Hello Kitty stuffed animal stared at him with black plastic eyes. He shook his head and looked again, and the cat changed into a pink dragon with wings. Still a stuffed animal, though. He kept his gaze on the ground so he wouldn’t see any others. Near the door, his keys, phone, and boxers lay in a heap beside a leopard-print bra and something made of clingy red fabric.
Grant licked his lips and silently called himself a few choice words. Again. I did it again. Maybe his father was right, after all.
He searched the bedroom until he found the golf shirt and shorts he remembered wearing the night before. Shots of tequila, he recalled. And a blonde at the end of the bar with a gorgeous rack and pouty lips who wouldn’t stop staring at him. His two vices, served up neatly at Mick’s, the local watering hole conveniently located at the end of his block.
“Shit. I’m late. Really late.”
Now he knew what day it was, because he only hit Mick’s for their Thursday night wing special, which meant it was Friday. The day of his final interview with Francesca Morelli. And his last chance to please his father or lose his job, condo, and sports car in one fell swoop. He swore again and opened two doors before he found the bathroom.
1. What's your genre or do you write in more than one?
I started writing in contemporary romance and have published 5 novels in that genre. I still love that niche, but I’m currently tackling my first YA (young adult) novel, for something a little bit different!
2. Did you choose your genre or did it choose you? If more than one you can just focus on one or more than one.
I didn’t really realize I was writing romance until one of my early critique partners told me I was! I’ve always loved the complexity of interactions between people, and I love a happy ending as well, so I guess it makes sense that I’d be drawn to the romance genre. However, I’ve also recently become more interested in Young Adult, in part because I teach high school students, and I love to hear what they’re reading and enjoying.
3. Is there any genre you'd like to try or one you wouldn't?
I don’t read sci fi or fantasy, so I probably wouldn’t write in either of those. Beyond that, I like experimenting, so we’ll see what comes!
4. What fiction do you read for pleasure?
Lately I’ve been reading quite a bit of YA, both for research and pure pleasure (I’ll recommend John Green here as an author everyone should read). I also read historical romance, women’s fiction and sometimes a little horror (I’m a Stephen King fan) as well.
5. Tell me a bit about yourself and how long you've been writing.
I live in the lower Hudson Valley (New York) with my husband, who’s also a teacher, and have been writing seriously for about 10 years,
6. Which of your characters is your favorite and why?
Oh, that’s so hard to choose! I do love Eddie West, the hero in the first romance I ever wrote (Lost in Paradise). He’s strong and sexy and has a soft side and everyone who reads that book seems to fall in love with him He’s also one of the first characters who really didn’t change through all the revisions of that book.
7. Are there villains in your stories and how are they created?
One of my favorite villains is Sean McCabe, a corrupt police chief who stalks the heroine across five states in my contemporary romance One Night in Memphis. He was a lot of fun to write!
8. What are you working on now?
As I already mentioned, I’m in the middle of revising a draft of my first YA novel. I’m really enjoying this project because I get to write in a very different voice – first person, present tense. I’m also fortunate enough to hear this voice all day, every day, at my teaching job!
9. What's your latest release and how did the idea arrive?
One Night in Napa just released in print – it’s my third “One Night” novel, which unfolds over twenty-four chapters and twenty-four hours. I was actually driving on a long-distance trip when this idea came to me, about a daughter who leaves home when she finds out a huge family secret – and then has to come back home to protect that secret, years later.
10. How does the book open? Show the opening scene. -- 400 to five hundred words.
It actually begins with our hero, who you will see has his own issues to deal with…
Grant knew it was going to be a long day when he woke up and couldn’t remember the name of the woman lying beside him. His head throbbed. His stomach roiled. Late morning sun slanted across his face, and he squinted. He lifted himself onto an elbow and ran one hand over his stubbled jaw, then rolled over and stared at a digital clock he didn’t recognize.
He heard the sound again, the one that had jerked him from sleep. Somewhere across the room, his cell phone beeped. What the he—? Was it the weekend yet? Or was he supposed to be at work? Why did the room smell like vanilla? He groaned and struggled to pull sense from his sleep-muddled brain.
“Babe?” A manicured hand snaked out from the covers and caressed his bare chest. “Everything okay?”
Babe? He blinked and the room swam into focus. “Um, yeah.” He slipped from between satin sheets, planted one foot on a throw rug, and ended up on his ass next to the bed.
She giggled.
He swore under his breath and pulled himself up. The room was small, decorated mostly in pinks and lavenders. A collection of candles sat on a pink-and-white dresser across the room and, for one horrifying moment, he thought a Hello Kitty stuffed animal stared at him with black plastic eyes. He shook his head and looked again, and the cat changed into a pink dragon with wings. Still a stuffed animal, though. He kept his gaze on the ground so he wouldn’t see any others. Near the door, his keys, phone, and boxers lay in a heap beside a leopard-print bra and something made of clingy red fabric.
Grant licked his lips and silently called himself a few choice words. Again. I did it again. Maybe his father was right, after all.
He searched the bedroom until he found the golf shirt and shorts he remembered wearing the night before. Shots of tequila, he recalled. And a blonde at the end of the bar with a gorgeous rack and pouty lips who wouldn’t stop staring at him. His two vices, served up neatly at Mick’s, the local watering hole conveniently located at the end of his block.
“Shit. I’m late. Really late.”
Now he knew what day it was, because he only hit Mick’s for their Thursday night wing special, which meant it was Friday. The day of his final interview with Francesca Morelli. And his last chance to please his father or lose his job, condo, and sports car in one fell swoop. He swore again and opened two doors before he found the bathroom.
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