So You Think You Can Write Challenge 2

Time to join in HWG's So You Think You Can Write ...write ...write challenge. The month's guest choreographer Mama Say Mama Saw has designed what could be a tough challenge. Take some time and practice before you bring your A game to this task! Then by October 7th  send your scene to *lizzie privately for posting here on the blog.

THE CHALLENGE:

What We Talk About When We Talk About Something Else

So many times when we speak, we use one topic, subject matter, or issue to stand for and illuminate what we feel about something else. Just like:

• When Jules tells Kim in “My Best Friend’s Wedding” that she’s crème brulee and she’s “never gonna be Jello.”


• When Carrie thinks of her own indiscretion in “Sex in the City” as her boyfriend Aiden talks about a piece of furniture he’s made. He points out the flaw in the wood and says the flaw is what makes the piece interesting.


• When, at the end of my all-time-favorite romance movie: “Love & Basketball,” Monica thinks she’s lost the man she loves, and he says [spoiler alert] “Hey . . . double or nothin.’”


• Or, how about the entire movie (or book)” Like Water for Chocolate.” The exquisite and painstaking preparation of food stands as a metaphor for love, especially making it? Simply delicious.


All right . . . your assignment is to write a scene between two people. Give these two people something physical to do: wash dishes by hand, paint a house, build a house, fix a car, take dragon-riding lessons, build a campfire, get corseted into dresses, etc. Have them discuss what’s going on, what they’re doing, their surroundings, but make what they’re discussing stand for something much more powerful and crucial in one or both of their lives.

Here’s an example of a scene I wrote in a workshop. It’s a short dialogue between two women, one of whom is sleeping with the other woman’s husband. They are in a kitchen making a salad together for a gathering of friends.

Melissa: You look like you really know what you’re doing.


Krista: Nah. It’s just a salad.


Melissa: No. I mean you’re really going at it. Those poor carrots.


Krista: It’s not really about the carrots.


Melissa: It’s not, huh?


Krista: No. It’s about the knife.


(Krista smiles, bounces a little. Rocks the knife through the next carrot.)


Melissa: So, who do you think you are over there, the Happy Chef?


Krista: Maybe.


Melissa: What’s so joyful about severing things?


Krista: Some things are just better in pieces.


Okay, we had two minutes and the emphasis was on dialogue, but I’m sure you get the gist. You have a lot more time for your exercise, so no shortcuts . . . only a fully written scene. Remember to keep your characters active, painting a picture of what they’re doing. Your characters don’t have to be adversarial, but it would be oh so fun if they were! If you choose to tell us what they’re really talking about, please hold your reveal until the end of the scene.



Happy subtexting!

So You Think You Can Write September Winner Announced

HWG members reviewed and voted on the entries for the writing challenge of the month.
The results are in.

The Winner of September's So You Think You Can Write ::write::write::: Contest is....













wait...........




wait..........





wait.....





almost there.........






ths suspense is killing you, eh?









April Berry-Sanford! whoo hoo!

Congratulations, April!


Watch for October's challenge by the next gifted talented and extraordinary guest choreographer, and be sure to get your entry in.

SYTYCW First Challenge Second Entry

A dry spring breeze tossed the colorful bouquet of hothouse daisies Sapphire grasped in a tight fist. The browned edges of sod replaced over the fresh grave deepened her sorrow. But as much as she missed her friend, she couldn’t stay here. This visit was too soon, her sorrow too fresh.

After carefully placing the tattered flowers next to the headstone, she brushed away a few stray bits of grass. Too soon for the monument company to have carved the second date, the stone looked empty, and a bit sad. Nothing left of a life but dried grass and smooth stone.

She turned and walked aimlessly along the narrow, square-curbed roadway. Bits of gravel and a winter's gray debris collected against the curb and crunched under her feet. Ambling through the old cemetery often brought her calm, and now the first signs of spring brightened the grass. If she stopped to rest on one of the memorial benches or scrape away some of the thick, dead leaves from the base of a headstone, she might discover the first brave shoots of spring flowers. At some of the oldest graves, the peonies had spread, and when in bloom, obscured the barely readable markers.

She inhaled the end of winter dank air. Cemeteries no longer allowed planting lilac bushes or peonies in their family plots. Even the tiny, tight leaf buds of wide spreading shade trees were uncommon in newer 'places of rest'.

The curb ended and the road narrowed. The new cemetery. Unimpeded by trees, visitors could pull off the asphalt and park on the grass to leave their silk flowers or commercial 'mom' or 'dad' wreaths. Rather than the lush natural comfort of the old cemetery, this newer section had been designed as a caretaker's dream. Little existed there but modern remembrances, leaving a clear path for wide lawn mowers.

With slow steps, she crossed an empty plot and stood before a low, plain stone. No flowers would ever adorn this memorial, not from her anyway. She grinned at the bird blessings scattered over the mat-black stone. Blessings? No, more like just a taste of what the six-foot down occupant deserved...

“Our secret, right Faithie?”

When he was done, he held her head, and she wished he'd squeeze until her skull burst. Then she'd never have to do this again.

“Faithie? Our little secret?”

He wouldn't let her go until she said yes. Wouldn't let her brush her teeth and scrape the hard bristles over her tongue. “Yes.”

He shook her head then pressed her cheek against his thigh. “Yes what?”

“Yes, it's our secret...”

His fingers tightened and for a second she considered not answering.

“...Daddy.”

Anger held her as tightly as he had and she glared at the headstone. A gust of wind battered her back, angling her shoulders so her shadow darkened the deeply carved name. A tremor of dread coursed her spine.

A windchime's mellow tones flowed on the cool breeze. Sapphire relaxed and managed a weak smile. The chimes hanging from a shepherd's hook reminded her of music, music of the loss of her friend, Paul.

And Paul of his son, Jeffrey.

A crow added a harsh cry to the quiet day. Sapphire shaded her eyes and looked into the clear spring sky. The dark bird soared, dipped then landed a few feet away. Unconcerned, it returned her stare.

A crow in a graveyard. How appropriate. “Hey, was it you who decorated this grave?”

The bird preened one wing.

“Good job. Keep it up and before long no one will know who's here.” She hugged herself and grimaced, then spoke to the stone. “I buried the memories of what you did when Mom buried you. But now, I remember. I won't hide it any more. No more lies. No more secrets.”

At the dry crunch of footsteps behind her she backed away, turned and froze. Jeffery. What was he doing here?

He smiled and tiny cracks splintered the ice around her heart.

“I thought it was you. Did you leave the daisies at Dad's grave?”

She glanced toward the comfort of the older cemetery and nodded.

“Visiting someone over here? Family?”

Sapphire straighted her spine and shook her head. “Nope. Nobody here worth remembering.”

GREAT Resource for Work-At-Home Moms

I just had to spread the word to my writer friends about this new book from my friend Jill Hart! Jill knows what she is talking about because she’s run a successful business from home for almost a decade. HIGHLY recommended resource! : ) * * * * * * * * Home-based businesses are estimated to be a $427 billion-a-year industry. In recent studies it was found that as many as 105 million people in North America alone were working at home. Considering this information, it is obvious that home-based businesses can be successful and authors Jill Hart and Diana Ennen will help you succeed with your own. So You Want to Be a Work-at-Home Mom details all the basics of starting a business in a spiritual, motivational, and comprehensive manner. From deciding what type of business to start to keeping your family and faith first, this helpful tool details every aspect of establishing a business. With proven success tips utilized by the authors and others who own work-at-home businesses, this inspiration approach will provide you with the resources you need to start your own home-based business. So You Want to Be a Work-at-Home Mom includes: * Detailed information on types of businesses to start * Ideas and assistance for setting up, operating, and marketing your business * Definitions and descriptions of work-at-home terminology and processes * Help for developing your Website * Explanations of the business nuts and bolts, including bookkeeping, taxes, and more About the Authors JILL HART is the founder of Christian Work at Home Moms, CWAHM.com. Jill is a co-author of So You Want To Be a Work-at-Home Mom. Jill has published many articles and is a contributing author in Laundry Tales, The Business Mom Guide Book, I'll Be Home for Christmas, and Faith Deployed. She holds a bachelor's degree in human development and family studies. Learn more about working from home at http://www.cwahm.com/work-at-home/ .

Remember the Magic of Your Dream

It’s September already. The stores are displaying pumpkins and next it will be Christmas trees. It seems impossible that the year 2009 is three quarters of the way over. During the year I often encourage you to check back over your goal list and see if you’re where you want to be. A lot of times when the excitement has drained from our writing or we’re bored with the tedium of work and responsibilities, it’s because we’ve forgotten our dreams.

There are mortgages to pay and kids to raise and groceries to buy and dinners to prepare. Tucking away our aspirations at the expense of our personal well-being isn’t healthy. Eventually we resent the things that are “robbing” us, instead of enjoying each facet for the richness it brings. Certainly there is joy to be found in the dream of your own home and in the treasure of children, but sometimes we pause in the midst of all that busyness to wonder, “Is this all there is?” There has to be more, and we yearn to find fulfillment within ourselves. That’s most often the time to reprioritize our busy schedules.

Look at the goals you set for this year. It’s not too late to get started on something. Take time now to make a list. Sit down and write five things that you dream of doing. Divide them into categories if you like: Family, Professionally, Writing, Spiritually, or Just for Me. Now select one that you will work on before the end of the year. Make another list of the steps you will take to see that accomplishment come to pass. Now take those steps. Recapture the joy. We need to be participants in our lives, not spectators. We need to be passionate about our dreams. Sometimes simply revisiting our dreams is the kick we need to change our thinking and get us out of a rut. So dream big and dream often.

SYTYCW First Challenge--First Entry

Avin crossed his arms as he leaned back against the black Bently, watching the wind play. At his feet the leaves scraped dryly across the pavement in little eddies, circling his boots before vanishing off into the darkness again. The wind was wild tonight. It whipped through the treetops, making the old oaks moan as it battled the thinnest branches against one another in civil war. Avin grit his teeth and his lips thinned into their familiar scowl. Even the trees were complaining. Forcing himself to relax, Avin shoved the burgeoning irritation away and finally lifted his eyes to what was across the street.

It was abysmal dark under the canopy of the lifeless branches. Not many would be able to make out what was hidden there at the edge of the road between him and the thick of the forest. The moon finally slipped from behind the cascade of clouds and light played across what was left of an aged sign. The words had long since vanished and he caught himself straining to read what was written. Disgusted Avin quickly looked away again. He had a bitter dryness in his throat as regret and anger threatened to bubble up and strangle him. Avin didn’t need to read it, he knew what the sign said.

Everdale Cemetery.

He hadn’t forgotten in one hundred and forty-five years, and it wasn’t likely he’d start now. With a little huff that couldn’t even be called a laugh Avin turned to the oncoming rush of the storm rumbling above him. Pressing himself into the wind in silent defiance, he let the storm’s sharp autumn chill consume his troubled senses.

He smelled rain. Moisture hung heavy in the air thick enough to taste. The damp clung to his skin and coated everything in its cloying embrace. The mist was the storms subtle precursor to the onslaught to come. His night’s work may prove messy if time turned against him too. Avin thought briefly of the Bently with its creamy leather seats, but it was a moot. What needed to be done, would be, and that was that. Avin chuckled lowly at himself. It was funny really, in a way.

All the other times he’d done this very same thing he’d never had a moment’s hesitation… until now. This was so unlike him. His thoughts of late had been troubling him and this was no different. Maybe he was growing melancholy in his age.
With a heavy sigh, Avin reached behind him, grabbed the shovel out of the convertibles backseat and strode across the street.

Dead leaves crunched under his passing as he waded through the tall grass and into the darkness between the massive trunks. The forest swallowed him in its primal presence just as it had the cemetery all those years ago. Walking deeper into the ancient grove his boots stirred up the deep earthy scent of the ground as he passed into Everdale. All about him the silver splashes of moonlight fell through the skeletal boughs above to find the stones, painting some into pale obelisks for their forgotten heroes where others remained simply shadows forever, their litanies faded smooth from time.

Avin’s steps slowed as he passed the marble markers. Resisting the urge to reach and touch them as he passed in a somber greeting. He knew each marker by heart and his memory was the only memorial for more than he wished to count, these men included. The small union cemetery was always this size, less than two dozen graves, but somehow over the years it always seemed to grow larger. As if each regret pushed its boundaries further every year he came here and the number of dead men multiplied. Blinking hard Avin stopped, and stood in the center of Everdale. Before him the broken flag pole had finally succumbed to time. The white oak shaft he had carved to stand for his fallen friends lay across the mausoleum door. Avin would never name the emotion that swam up into his throat and burned his eyes as he reached out lightly and grasped the pole. It disintegrated in his hand, the pieces of rotted oak falling away in splinters under his touch. Against his will his eyes blurred and his heart picked up pace as the pole crumbled.

Avin blinked away the wetness and pushed open the ornate iron door. The cold metal burned his palms. Avin gripped it tighter, relishing the pain it as the pattern scalded itself into his hands. The whorls and circles scarring his flesh as he sought his silent penance, just like he did every year. Finally Avin let go and the pain in his hands went away only to worm into his heart instead.

There it was. Joshua’s tomb.

Avin didn’t even remember pushing the center stone off carefully or digging down the several feet below the mausoleums floor, although he knew he did it. This whole night was only this moment. Avin was staring down at the lid of Joshua’s coffin.

Carefully he reached around the edge and lifted it.

Soft brown locks framed the boyish face of the man inside. A strong jaw and masculine beauty that always turned the ladies heads no matter where they traveled or how battle weary they were. Joshua Samuel Everdale looked exactly the same he had the night Avin buried him. The union uniform that never quite fit his broad six four frame had long since faded and turned to simple threads in spots.

“So my friend will you rise tonight?” Avin’s voice was a harsh plea.

Deep hazel eyes opened, and Joshua stared up at him. The pain of losing their troop still hot in his tear filed stare. Joshua’s voice was a whisper. “No.”

With a resigned nod, Avin closed the lid on his secret and wept.

Writing Challenges

There are tons of challenges when you make the decision to pursue a writing career. We all have them and face each one with varying degrees of success. Each challenge dealt with is a badge of honor for an author.

However, I'd like to talk about another kind of challenge.

Challenges of writing... not to writing.



Many author groups offer challenges for learning, fun and occasionally as contests. These challenges range from writing a high concept to a paragraph to a scene. Some will focus on one specific skill, while others may offer a scene set up or a list of words to include in your scene.



Why should I take part in these challenges? Why take time away from my current WIP and play around with a scene that won't fit anywhere? Why expose myself to more possible criticism...or ridicule?



Let me tell you why.



Short challenges such as these usually have a narrow focus. With a limited amount of words an author is asked to work on one aspect of their craft. Concentrating on a single requirement encourages an author to strive for understanding and take a step toward mastery.



And don't we all want to master our craft?

Cautious of presenting your challenge writing to others? Don't be! As authors our goal is publication. That means presenting our tales to the world. Perhaps this is a part of the challenge you need to conquor.

As for the argument of spending time on something different than your work in progress... A number of years ago I took part in a series of challenges with a group of authors. For each challenge we were given a list of words to be used. From these few scenes, a story was born. Beyond these original scenes, the worlds of Dancing the Stars came into being.

"If we listened to our intellect, we'd never have a love affair. We'd never have a friendship. We'd never go into business, because we'd be too cynical. Well, that's nonsense. You've got to jump off cliffs all the time and build your wings on the way down.
~Ray Bradbury



Accept the call of a challenge. You'll never know how your wings are built until you fly!

Food Safety Education

September is National Food Safety Education Month.

Check out the first of four food safety related myths with mz *lizzie the lunch lady.


And in a not related, but interesting story...


PERU: Police seize cocaine inside live turkeys
27.aug.09
World PoultryThe Associated Press



Peruvian police were expecting to find a shipment of cocaine hidden in a crate holding two live turkeys. However, they were surprised to discover the drug surgically implanted inside the birds.

Acting on a tip, police officers in Peru were puzzled when they found the turkeys in the crate, but didn't find the cocaine, Tarapoto's anti-drug police chief Otero Gonzalez told The Associated Press. They then noticed that the 2 turkeys were bloated.

"Lifting up the feathers of the bird, in the chest area, police detected a handmade seam," he said.

A veterinarian extracted 11 oval-shaped plastic capsules containing 1.9 kg (4.2 pounds) of cocaine from one turkey and 17 capsules with 2.9 kg (6.4 pounds) from the other, he said.

Both turkeys reportedly survived the removal.

~~~ hopefully not to be stuffed another way!~~~

Tip for Historical Writers

I always print out a calendar for the year of my story and then use blank monthly pages to cover each month. I just found two sites even better than the ones I used previously.

Here, simply enter your year and print a calendar:

http://kalender-365.de/calendar.php?yy=1863

And this one does all the work for you. You enter a starting date, like January 1, 1850 and click for it to open, (not download) and print a month at a time. It only takes a couple minutes to get a complete year's calendar (or however many months you need). I punch holes, slide them into my binder and choreograph my storyline with ease.

http://www.calendarsthatwork.com/calendar.php?calendarId=monthPSf2

Member Release: The Magnificent Seven

The Magnificent Seven
Silhouette Special Releases
Sep 2009
Miniseries: Montana Mavericks
ISBN:9780373310524 (#30)

Heather Johnson had never intended to return to Whitehorn, Montana. But restoring an inherited ranch seemed the perfect way to pass the summer with her three kids. The moment she hired carpenter Mitch Fielding, though, his motherless twin daughters in tow, those short-term plans suddenly went awry. Mitch was the first man in her life who truly seemed to notice her. And as his skillful hands restored the ranch and ignited a passion she'd never known, her fragile heart began to heal, as well. For once in Heather's life everything seemed magnificent. And that scared her. Because the future she wanted—and the past she'd run from—were forever in Whitehorn….


The Magnificent Seven

READ AN EXCERPT
Chapter One

Mitch led his twin six-year-olds, Taylor and Ashley, through the lunch crowd at the Hip Hop Café as though he were guiding them through a minefield. Taylor narrowly missed knocking over a gray-haired gent's cane that was leaning against a table edge, and Mitch clamped his hand firmly over Ashley's mouth as soon as he noticed an overweight woman shoveling chocolate-cream pie between her lips.

He got them settled into a booth and released his breath. "There." He picked up the plastic-coated menu and scanned for something nourishing the twins would eat without pitching a fit. "They have hamburgers and chicken fingers."

"Yuck. I want a chocolate malt and a pickle," Ashley pronounced.

"I want skettios," Taylor said.

"They don't have skettios," he replied to one daughter, then turned to the other. "And you can have a chocolate malt if you eat a hamburger."

"Gross. I don't want a hamburger." She folded her arms over the front of her Teletubbie T-shirt. "I want a pickle."

"You can have a pickle with your hamburger. Taylor, they have spaghetti."

"Don't like spaghetti."

"Of course you do. It's the same stuff that comes out of the cans, only real."

"Uh-uh-uh," she said in a singsongy voice with a shake of her head. "It doesn't taste the same."

He resisted the urge to argue or bargain in public, which always made him feel as if his daughters were getting the upper hand anyway. How long could a child survive on pickles, malts and canned spaghetti? It was his job as a parent to see that they were well nourished, but how did he go about it? Some nights he dropped into bed mentally exhausted, feeling lucky to have gotten several bites of anything into them.

A waitress appeared at his elbow, and Mitch glanced up to see the slim blonde in a blue T-shirt proclaiming Breakfast Served All Day give him a curious once-over. Everyone in Whitehorn, Montana, seemed to know each other, and he obviously stuck out as a newcomer. A quick scan confirmed that a dozen eyes had zeroed in on him and his daughters.

"Afternoon," she said pleasantly. "I'm Janie Austin. Which one of Garrett Kincaid's grandsons are you?"

"Mitch Fielding," he replied self-consciously. "How did you know?"

She cast him a friendly smile. "In Whitehorn everybody knows everybody else's business. Anticipating each grandson's arrival has been the hot topic for quite a while."

He didn't know how well he liked being the subject of gossip, but this young woman seemed friendly and accepting enough. Apparently everyone already knew he was one of six illegitimate grandsons the old man had summoned to his ranch. Garrett was still searching for a seventh.

She touched his shoulder in a brief gesture of greeting that put him at ease. "Nice to meet you, Mitch."

He returned her neighborly smile. "These are my daughters, Taylor and Ashley."

"Look at that pretty blond hair. What'll you have, girls?"

He gave her their orders, amid objections from his daughters. Taylor waved her arm to get his attention and knocked the ketchup bottle into the salt and pepper shakers. Pepper spilled on the laminate tabletop, and she promptly blew it into her sister's face.

Ashley sneezed and her eyes watered. She grabbed for the rolled paper napkin that held her silverware and sent the metal utensils flying across the table and onto the floor.

Mitch picked up the utensils, handed them to the astonished waitress and admonished the girls to sit on their behinds.

By the time their food arrived, everyone in the room knew Taylor had to go to the bathroom. He took them to the women's room, standing outside until their food was cold. Finally he rapped on the door.

Thank God it was a one-seater, because he had to go in to dry their hands and pull them out. So that the next person wouldn't slip and break her neck, he mentioned to the waitress that the rest room floor was flooded.

"My spaghetti's cold," Taylor complained loudly.

"So's everything else." With a sigh, Mitch picked up his cold burger and took a bite, just as Ashley knocked over her malt.

Twenty minutes later he released their hands to get his wallet and pay the cashier. He ran back to leave a generous tip at the table for the patient waitress.

A bulletin board on the wall by the cash register caught his attention and, ignoring the yanks on his hands, he scanned the notices of cars and household items for sale. He was particularly looking for someone to watch the girls for him so he could line up a few jobs. Most of the Want Ads had been placed by junior and high school students; the twins needed someone more experienced. Much more experienced. A warden, perhaps.

One notice caught his eye. Handyman Wanted. He released a small hand to tap the card with his forefinger.

"Know anything about this one?" He directed his question to the gray-haired waitress in orthopedic shoes standing near the cash register.

"That's Pete Bolton's ranch," she replied. "His daughter was in here a couple of weeks ago, looking for someone to help her fix up the place to sell."

That sounded like just the job for him. A couple of months back he'd had to sell all of his contracts, to take care of the girls. His mother had been caring for them, but one calamity after another had pulled him from work sites, until it wasn't fair to his customers or his subcontractors for him to continue. While trying to figure out what to do, he'd decided that Garrett Kincaid's invitation was just the solution.

This had been the perfect time to do some traveling, and he'd been eager to spend more time with, and get to know, this grandfather he'd never known existed until last May.

"Do you have some paper I can write the number on?" he asked.

"Sure, sugar." She fished in her pocket, came out with her order tablet and a pen, and scribbled the phone number, tearing off the sheet and handing it to him.

The bell over the door clanged and he turned to see one of his daughters dash outside.

"Thanks." He stuffed the paper into his shirt pocket and pulled the other child out the door behind him.

Lily Mae Wheeler got up out of her permanent seat in the first booth and walked over to Charlene, her gaudy jewelry clanking at her wrists and weighing down her bony chest.

"Heard he was at Garrett's ranch," she said to let Charlene know she'd been the first to hear. "Nobody knows much about him yet, 'cept his wife died when those two were just babies. Those children are holy terrors, have you ever seen the likes?"

"Must be difficult for a young father to raise two girls alone," Janie said sympathetically, coming up beside them.

"They need a good paddling, if you ask me," Lily Mae scoffed.

"Be interesting to see what happens at the Bolton ranch this afternoon, wouldn't it?" Charlene said with a devilish smile.

The three exchanged amused glances.

Engaging her ten-year-old daughter's help, Heather Johnson tackled the stack of dishes from lunch and breakfast.

"We need a dishwasher, Mom." Jessica dried a chipped plate and stood on tiptoe to place it in the cupboard.

"I didn't think we were going to be here long enough to need one," Heather replied with a regretful sigh. She turned and glanced at her sons who sat on the worn linoleum floor with coloring books. With his tongue angled out the side of his mouth, five-year-old Patrick studiously labored to keep the purple crayon inside the lines on the page. Two-year-old Andrew spent more time chasing the crayons under the table and tasting them than he did coloring, but at least her boys were temporarily occupied.

When she'd brought her children to the ranch after her father's death, she'd planned to take a two-week vacation, go through her father's personal belongings, and sell the property. A neat-and-tidy plan, something that should have gone smoothly.

Now, two and a half weeks later, she still hadn't been able to make any progress on selling. She hadn't planned on all the repairs that the real estate lady had suggested be made to get a decent price. Heather hadn't been back to Whitehorn in years, and the property had deteriorated more than she'd imagined. Her father obviously hadn't paid any more attention to the house than he ever had to her.

She shrugged off the depressing thought and gave Jessica a smile. "Thank you, angel. You are a big help to me, you know that?"

Wiping another plate, her daughter nodded in a grown-up manner. "Can we do something fun after this, Mom?"

A little pang of regret snagged Heather. She knew it hadn't been much fun for Jess to help with the boys all morning while Heather went through boxes and trunks and years' worth of accumulated junk. "What would you like to do?"

"Catch turtles in the pond?"

Heather wrinkled her nose. "Who's going to wade out there with the net?"

"You'll help, won't you?"

Heather had to admit she'd been appreciating this much-needed time with her kids. She loved her public relations job in San Francisco, and the sense of self-worth it had always brought, but she often felt guilty about the time she missed with her children. This time with them had been enjoyable, even though it had to be spent here—the last place on earth she'd choose to vacation.

She tapped Jessica on the nose with a sudsy finger. "Okay, I'll help you catch a turtle."

Jessica grinned that knockout smile, revealing dimples that would one day drive young men crazy. Heather's heart gave a sad twinge at the thought. She wasn't too concerned about her daughter's future.

She'd tried her best to ensure Jessica wouldn't make the same mistakes Heather had made.

Patrick jumped up and ran to the screen door that overlooked the long gravel drive. "Somebody's coming! It's a way cool truck!"

Andrew got up, crunching crayons beneath his red-and-blue tennis shoes in the process, and followed his brother. "Thumbody coming!" he mimicked.

Heather dried her hands and moved to the door. She'd been expecting the man who had called earlier about interviewing for the handyman job. The blue-and-silver duel cab Silverado pickup leaving a dust trail must belong to him.

"This is the appointment I was expecting." She hung up the towel. "We'll be discussing business in the other room. I want all of you to play quietly in here until we're finished."

She waited for the children's nods of understanding, then stepped back to the door.

The driver parked in the gravel area behind the house, but instead of getting out right away he turned toward the back seat. Heather noticed a couple of heads she hadn't seen at first. He'd brought children to a job interview? One big strike against him.

She stepped out onto the back porch, the age-splintered boards creaking precariously beneath her feet.

He exited the truck at last, closing the door and glancing over his shoulder.

He was tall, she noticed right away. Maybe thirty, with sandy-brown hair and a golden tan attesting to hours working in the sun.

The jeans he wore encased long legs and slim hips. A navy-blue, button-down knit shirt, work boots, and a slim black folder with a clipboard completed the classically sexy look of a handyman. Heather could picture him with a tool belt around his hips and smiled to herself. Certainly nothing wrong with his appearance.

He neared the porch. "Mrs. Johnson?"

She composed her face and nodded.

"Mitch Fielding."

She reached to shake his hand. He had calluses on his palms. Hardworking. Steadfast. Where had that come from? It had been a long time since she'd noticed a man the way she noticed this one. Perturbed, she released his hand. "We can talk inside."

He glanced uncomfortably over his shoulder.

"Your children?" she asked.

He nodded. "They're supposed to sit there until I get back."

She wondered again why he'd brought them along. It was completely unprofessional. "Would you like to let them come in and color at the kitchen table?"

"No," he said immediately with a shake of his head. "I don't think so."

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