Posts Tagged ‘The Whispering Winds of Spring’




#WreadingWednedsay is now dedicated to ‘wreading’ bits and excerpts from my books! Today I give you a bit to introduce you to Scarlett.

* note: not the final cover.



“You’ve changed.” Simone leveled her accusation as a statement of fact.

Still I burred up, even though I had thought the exact same thing about Mercedes just days ago. She was right, though, I had changed.

“Simone, I’m only going along with Mercedes.” She and I walked along the boardwalk toward Versailles. I snugged my wool coat tighter, already the buttons not meeting over my middle. “I’ve not forgotten who I am—or my place.”

She nodded and I thought I detected a muted harrumph.

“Truly, Simone. This won’t last, it can’t.”

We walked in silence.

“What of you? Have you recovered more of your memory?”

“Some, yes.” Simone peered into the dense trees and I wondered what memories the Chicora village held.

“Did you ever go there?” I tried to contain my anxiety over the thought. I had always been frightened by the thought of Indians although I couldn’t say why.

“I had a friend there, Elizabeth.”


She explained that missionaries had come and many natives had taken Christian names.

Silence shrugged about us like the damp from the marsh.

“Shall we go there now?”

Simone looked at me as if my senses had taken their leave of me. “To the village?” She said the word almost reverently.

“Is there some reason we shouldn’t?” We were at the place where the boardwalk branched off toward the village. I wondered now that there would be such a clear path if the very existence was supposed to be secret.

And still Simone hesitated, but joined me after some moments.

“Are you afraid?”

“Afraid?” She let out a hoot of laughter. “Why should I be afraid?”

“If you don’t want to go…”

“Don’t be silly.” And she skipped on ahead just as she had done when we were girls.

We entered what seemed to me to be a large hut. But it was long and seemed to serve more than one purpose. Simone approached an elderly gentleman, dressed in native regalia and seated on a low cushioned bench, and I presumed him to be the chief. There were mats on the dirt floor in front of him and Simone lowered herself to one; I followed her lead.

She spoke with the man, surprising me with her knowledge of their language. I leaned to her to ask what she had said but thought better of it.

The man spoke and nodded at me, and Simone spoke my name. He nodded again and reached his hand to me. I looked to Simone, and she nodded as well.

“He is Chief Winyah.” The chief’s eyes smiled as she spoke to me. “It is an ancestral name. All chiefs of their clan have had this name.”

His hands were ruddy colored, leathery and wrinkled, and I wondered how old he was. He smiled at me, his dark eyes alight with joy and warmth.

He spoke again to Simone, and she answered, then asked me, “Why have you come?”

My furrowed brow must have entertained him because he laughed then. I cut my eyes to Simone.

“We came…” Then I realized Simone had not drawn me here but it had been my insistence that drew her here. “I wanted to see…” But I knew it was more than that. More even, than recovering Simone’s memories.

“I don’t know,” I finally said. “I’m not sure.”

Simone translated, and Chief Winyah took a long draw on his pipe, his eyes never leaving mine. He spoke again.

“He says you seek answers.”

I wanted to feel relief because of course I was seeking answers. Answers for Simone. But he didn’t mean for Simone. He meant for me and I knew it.

And he was right.



#Blogwords, Wreading Wednesday, Featured Book Except, The Long Shadows of Summer, Seasons, Chapter One, Seasons, The Tilting Leaves of Autumn, The Silent Song of Winter, The Whispering Winds of Spring


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#WreadingWednedsay is now dedicated to ‘wreading’ bits and excerpts from my books! Today I give you a short little scene with a silly little bit.


With Christmas in December, and Violet’s debutante ball in June, it was determined—Madame Eléanore determined—that Mademoiselle Suzette’s wedding should be in March.

“But, Vivi,” she wailed. “March is so far away.”

“And so dreary,” Violet signed.

The pursed expression on Eléanore’s face was most entertaining. Clearly she viewed Violet’s mute tongue as a deficiency, and her ability to communicate using her hands as some sort of sacrilege.

Violet looked to Vivienne, who signed back to her that all was well, and to dismiss the vieille vache. The old cow.

Vivienne smiled quite demurely, laughing most gaily with her amber eyes. Violet smiled large and satisfied.

I, however, let out a loud hiccough-snicker.

“Are you ill?” The look on Madame’s face would have melted another of lesser mettle.

I quickly clutched my belly and claimed indigestion.

With a wave of her wrinkled hand, I was dismissed. And quite succinctly so.

Vivi again, shrugged and silently apologized. I winked at her and she suppressed a snicker of her own.

“Is it contagious? Zis American indigestion?” Madame harrumphed and stormed from the room, her boots clattering on the polished floors and thudding none too softly on the stair runner as she headed to her suite.



#Blogwords, Wreading Wednesday, Featured Book Except, The Long Shadows of Summer, Seasons, Chapter One, Seasons, The Tilting Leaves of Autumn, The Silent Song of Winter, The Whispering Winds of Spring

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“I’ve always had voices—er, stories in my head. I once said I should write them all down so someone could write them someday. I had no idea at the time that someone was me!”




“Break the rules. That’s my number one rule. I know the rules [of grammar] and I know how to break them.”


I did it to myself, really. Set a high bar with this series, then failed to jump high enough! Being sick threw me off, sure, but that was months ago and now I’m a full manuscript behind schedule!


I’ve seen it more than once, and it bears repeating—the blog must suffer for the greater good—my writing. And so it comes to this, no interviews through the rest of this year, and into 2018. Probably til May when The Whispering Winds of Spring (book #4) releases.


Not my first choice, but a necessary one. For the sake of the series. #ForSeasons


I have been writing since 1995, and began working in earnest on my debut novel, Tessa in 2013.  Meanwhile, I cranked out a few dozen poems, made countless notes for story ideas, and earned my BFA in Interior Design.  I lived with depression for many years, and the inherent feelings of worthlessness and invisibility; I didn’t want to be who I was and struggled with my own identity for many years.  My characters face many of these same demons.


I write stories of identity conflict. My characters encounter situations that force the question, “Who am I really?” For all who have ever wondered who you are or why you’re here, my stories will touch you in a very real—maybe too real—and a very deep way. I know, I write from experience.


I have four novels previously published. I am currently working on The Silent Song of Winter, Book Three in my new series, Seasons. It releases in February of 2018, following The Long Shadows of Summer which released in August and The Tilting Leaves of Autumn, which releases in November. The fourth and final book in the series, The Whispering Winds of Spring, will be out in May of 2018. Tessa, Clara Bess, and Cissy, in the unsavory heritage series. All of my books are available on Amazon, both for Kindle and in print. I also have several poems included in an anthology, Where Dreams and Visions Live (Anthologies of the Heart Book 1) by Mary Blowers, as well as a short story, Sarafina’s Light, also in an anthology, Blood Moon, compiled by Mary Blowers.










 “There is freedom waiting for you, On the breezes of the sky, And you ask “What if I fall?” Oh but my darling, What if you fly?” – Erin Hanson



#Blogwords, Chat Thursday, On Break, Writing Mode, Seasons, The Tilting Leaves of Autumn, The Tilting Leaves of Autumn, The Silent Song of Winter, The Whispering Winds of Spring, Happy Reading, Happy Writing, #ForSeasons

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#WreadingWednedsay is now dedicated to ‘wreading’ bits and excerpts from my books! Today I give you a list of clues Mercedes had come upon in her quest to discover why Simone had disappeared.


Mademoiselle Fontaine,

My dear girl, you must marry my nephew, and make our alliance. If you do not, I shall bring you back and return you back to service. After, of course, a long term in [prison] for thievery and con artistry.

I shall expect news of your engagement and marriage.

Madame Adélaide Marchand


Monsieur Fontaine’s pocket watch

Cold chills, feeling that someone is watching


  1. Simone had not died as we had thought.
  2. She had been kidnapped, and suffered amnesia.
  3. Lissette had posed as her mother, and was now dead.
  4. Lissette was a criminal.
  5. Lissette was a
  6. Sympathy from the Chicora Indian
  7. Simone knows the Indian.
  8. He has watched us always
  9. Simone is not telling me something.
  10. Pearl saw Simone. (She is not telling me something, too.)
  11. Simone knows of the village.
  12. I was forbidden to go there.
  13. There is a portrait and bust of Pearl as a young woman in the gallery.
  14. Marchand’s mistress (Pearl’s mother) was a lady not a servant.
  15. Was the adjoining room hers? If not, then whose?
  16. Where had the mistress gone? Was she dismissed?
  17. Who is Madame Adélaide? And why did she seek alliance with Fontaine?
  18. Did she send for Lissette? Why? When?
  19. How did she know Lissette?
  20. Why did Lissette marry Monsieur Rowan and not Pearl’s Oncle Phillipe?
  21. What consequence for going against Madame Adélaide?
  22. Simone has Monsieur Fontaine’s pocket watch.


I now wondered what scheme Lissette had been concocting. Why had she not aligned herself—and the House of Fontaine—with the Marchand family as expected? Why would she risk being sent back to Nimes and the fate that awaited her? What intrigue had run through her mind?

What crime had she committed? And most importantly, why was Madame Adélaide Marchand demanding an alliance with the Fontaine family?




#Blogwords, Wreading Wednesday, Featured Book Except, The Long Shadows of Summer, Seasons, Chapter One, Seasons, The Tilting Leaves of Autumn, The Silent Song of Winter, The Whispering Winds of Spring

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#WreadingWednesday is back! But with a change to the format—because I post reviews almost every week and participate in First Line Fridays, #FLF, #WreadingWednedsay is now dedicated to ‘wreading’ bits and excerpts from my books!

Mon cher.” I hadn’t heard Elle come in the room. “You had us all so worried.”

I laid le bebe in her cradle—Elle did not reach for her—and sat again in the Queen Anne chair.

“I rang for tea.” She seemed… reticent, which was highly out of character.

I tilted my head and puckered my brows. She had something to say, I knew she did. And I waited.

“Violet and her friends came to visit with you yesterday.”

I hung my head. My absence had alarmed everyone—it alarmed me. “Tante…”

She stopped me with her hand, upraised, then patted my knee before tucking her delicate wrinkled fingers under my chin. She lifted my head.

Je connais.” She caught my gaze with her own sparkling eyes. “I know.”

Did she mean…

“Violet, the dear, didn’t notice your letters.” Her gaze shifted to the other side of the room. There on the table sat the trunk.

I heaved a great sigh of relief as tears of squeezed from my eyes. “Mon Dieu.”

“She bolted from the room, crying out, ‘She’s gone! She’s missing!’” Elle rose and retrieved the chest, set it on the small table between the chairs.  “I knew, of course, this was your cherished possession. And while the rest of them were all in arms—near hysteria I might add—I came quietly to your room to hide the chest.”

“You knew what was in it?”

Madame shook her head. “Non, mon chèrie. I did not. But I knew what Monsieur Gouin said to me.”

I leaned forward, spilling my tea, my eyes pleading with her to tell me.

“He told me the Marquis was a sad old man. He had come to his repentance and gave his life to serve the church. But the most sad thing was his children had all abandoned him and his dying wish was to see them again.”

“But he…”

“Oui. He died without ever hearing from them again.” Elle was shaken by the story. “The Marquis, Monsieur Jacques, his last wish was to restore his son—ton pére—to his title.”

Words scattered about my brain like leaves in a storm. The poor man. The wealthy dying poor man.

Except that now he was gone and his wealth belonged to… me.

“You understand what this means?”

I met the question in her eyes. I grasped the concept, oui, but what it meant to my life, to my family—that I could not comprehend.

“You are no longer a servant, Madame.” Tante’s blue eyes sparkled like sapphires. “You are a lady, a Marquise.”

Except that such titles held no meaning in this country—would I have to go to Alés? Leave all I knew and loved here, in Saisons?

“But this is my home…”

“Oh, mon chèrie.” She patted my knee again and took a sip of her tea. “You would not have to leave. It is your money to do as you wish, n’est-ce pas?”

“Oh, Tante, I don’t know… I don’t know how to be a lady. All I’ve ever been is a servant. I run the household, I take care of… of… others. I… I…”

Absurdité.” She set her tea cup firmly on the table and took my hands in hers. “You are the lady you believe yourself to be. You have seen Vivienne, n’est-ce pas? You have observed her and you know how she carries herself.”

I took in the room, seeing the elegance of it with different eyes. Not as surfaces to be dusted, or linens to be stripped and cleaned, carpets to be beaten—or vacuumed with the new machine.

Now I saw the beauty of it, the carvings of the bedposts, the simple pattern of the wallpaper, the luxury of the green and ivory carpet beneath our feet. I wiggled my toes against the plush fibers and felt the softness, and smiled at the tickle I felt.

“You see, don’t you?” Tante waved her hand across the room. “You see it? The beauty of the room.”

How did she know?

“The design, the care in creating the place for rest, for sleep.” She winked at me. “For intimité.”

My cheeks bloomed with color that Eléanore François Bouvier would say such a thing. That she should think such a thing.

“I am old, mon jeune femme, but I am not so innocent as you might think.” She poured tea, for herself and me, took two biscuits and bit into one. “I have had the lovers, oh oui, Jean Albert when I was a young woman. He was killed and his brother took me as his wife. I loved him, truly, and he was good to me. We had our children together. I was a good wife to him, and a good lover.”

Elle paused to eat her biscuits, delighted at my stunned reaction.

I didn’t like to think of others—anyone, being a lover. I thought of Simone, naturally, and I knew she and Enyeto were… happy lovers. I thought of poor Scarlett, I knew she and Donal were happy, and surely they must be—

I could not think this way. I did not like to think of Tante—Madame—as anyone’s lover. It was too personal, too private.

“Do not be ashamed, jeune femme.” The teacup made a soft clink as she set it on the saucer. “Does not even the Holy Scripture speak of love of a man and wife?”

I had never thought about it. Certainly I had read passages, and heard sermons on fidelity. But never had I thought of Holy Scripture speaking to physical love.

“And do you not think this is a dear room, a place that beckons the intimité?”

Images of Vivi and Henry, exchanging glances, whispering as they passed in the hallway, laughs at the breakfast table. More than once I had witnessed their affection as surely as I had my own parents—and as surely as Mikal and I shared a passing gesture of love.

“You do see it, n’es pas. You see the importance of the beauty, of the cleaning.” She set the cup and saucer on the table. “And you know.” She tapped a bony finger to my head. “You know how to make it so.”

“But to act as a lady?” Surely I had been pampered these past weeks. But in every moment I had known I would return to my station. Even now, I felt the time was near to go back to the cottage. Except that now…. “I’m no lady, Tante. A piece of paper does not make it so.”

Non, the paper, non. But notre Dieu, He does. He sees you as a lady, indeed as royalty. Did not He make the way for you to belong to Him? If notre Dieu believes you are royalty, who can say otherwise?”





#Blogwords, Wreading Wednesday, Featured Book Except, The Long Shadows of Summer, Seasons, Chapter One, Seasons, The Tilting Leaves of Autumn, The Silent Song of Winter, The Whispering Winds of Spring

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#WreadingWednesday is back! But with a change to the format—because I post reviews almost every week #TuesdayReviewsday and participate in First Line Fridays, #FLF, #WreadingWednedsay is now dedicated to ‘wreading’ bits and excepts from my books!


Without further ado, I give you Mercedes and The Long Shadows of Summer.

She looked so familiar to me, but I couldn’t place her. Sitting on the bench as she was outside Hooper’s Market. Her hat was at a rakish angle, her cocoa colored hair perfectly coiffed. Seemed there were tears in her green eyes. I was certain I had never seen her before. But she reminded me of someone…

It couldn’t be her, though. She was dead, we had all watched her die. Floating away like that in the swamp. Her lavender dress billowed up like a balloon, her dark hair fanning out on the black water. We had made a pact, Pearl and Scarlett and me, never to tell anyone what happened.


>>> <<<


I was the oldest of us girls and we did everything together. As often as our elders would allow, at least. Ma mère worked for Simone’s grand-mère, Madame Antoinette Dubois. I helped Mamá most times, but sometimes I was allowed to play with Simone and her friend Pearl.

It happened in 1897, the summer I was eleven. Mamá didn’t make me help her as much in the summers and I was allowed to go outdoors with Simone and Pearl.  Our friend, Scarlett’s Mamá, though, made her help with dusting the abovestairs rooms, but she was permitted to come outdoors after luncheon was served.

Simone always was most daring, walking atop fences and climbing trees and such. That summer, though, it seemed she didn’t have a care. She wasn’t just daring, she was indifferent. She climbed higher than we had ever seen her climb. She would swing from the branches, like the monkeys we read about in our lessons, and then drop to the ground. She jumped right in the black water of the Edisto River that day.

And floated away, pale as death.




I now worked for the Dubois family as housekeeper, which is where my mother had served. My mother died four years ago of consumption. I was young for housekeeper, but Madame Antoinette appointed me to the position. She had seen to it that Mamá had the best of care.

Lady Antoinette was a kind woman, and treated her staff most generously. There were always sweets for us children, and she would give us a penny if we sang her a song. She was wheelchair bound, though, and unable to get out without the help of her son, Gérard. Gérard did not share his mother’s benevolence. But neither was he cruel, as was Monsieur Fontaine. Poor Scarlett worked for the Fontaines.

Monsieur Dubois seemed not to have grieved the loss of Simone—his niece. Indeed, he had seemed to rejoice that his brother in law’s new wife had fled the same day.


My packages were delivered, and I had a bolt of blue linen for a new dress. I had it in mind to go straight away to Bastille House—the Fontaine home—but I knew Scarlett was not permitted to receive guests. I would have to bide my time until Sunday next to speak to her. If she was permitted to attend church.

Pearl, however, comes and goes as she pleases, and I made my way briskly to the Marchand townhome on Congaree Road, the pram jostling along the cobbled stones and Ferdie chewing on his wooden teether.

“I’m sorry, Madame Renaldi.” Pearl’s butler nodded to me at the door. “But Mademoiselle Marchand is not available at present. Would you care to leave a message?”

A message? No, I could not. I could not risk prying eyes snooping about my confidential thoughts, my fears. No, what I had to say was for Pearl and Scarlett’s ears only.

“Thank you, Mr. Abbott.” I turned to go then paused. “When do you expect her?”

“She has gone pheasant hunting with Monsieur Marchand. They are not expected back until late this afternoon.” He paused. “Shall I tell her you called?”

“Yes, if you would be so kind.”


My daily routine was on its head. I could not put the image of the woman from my mind. She looked so like Simone. Well, what Simone would look like as a young woman. Her jade green eyes. Her fine bone structure. Her poise. If I could but hear her voice.

I sat at my desk staring at the calendar and the menu for the upcoming dinner. I was never more thankful than at this moment that my task was such a mindless one. If I were out in the kitchen, cooking a meal, I cannot imagine what would end up in the soup pot.

Over and again my mind played out that horrific day. Over and again, I watched her jump. Over and again I saw her float away.

And then I saw little Violet’s horrified face, and watched as she fled back to the house.

Violet was Simone’s small sister, not more than two years old at the time. She and Suzette were not supposed to follow after us even though Suzette had just celebrated her seventh birthday. She, too, had witnessed their sister’s daring-do, her final act of bravery.

Suzette, though, just stood there, staring at the spot where Simone had just been. I couldn’t tell if she didn’t believe her eyes, or if perhaps she, too, might wish to jump and float away. I turned to my friends and when I turned back again, Suzette was gone. She was frightful that way, suddenly she would be there and the next moment, indeed the next breath, she would vanish.

I prayed the girls would not speak of what had happened. Of what we all had witnessed. But of course they would. They must.

I did wonder though, what exactly little Vi would tell. How much could she truly convey at such a tender age? Suzette, well-spoken as she was, might be able to relate the event to the minutest detail.

But she would not. For her eloquence, Suzette was selective in her telling. And this she chose to keep silent.

Violet never spoke again after that day.




My mamá’s family had worked for the Dubois family for generations, as had my papá. Madame Dubois maintained a formal household. She and Monsieur Dubois had been kind masters, even when the tea and sugar cane fields were still worked by slaves. The Negroes of Saisons House had always been treated well, and afforded every generosity. They were educated, and allowed medical attention, and Sundays off. Not all masters were so charitable.

Slavery, of course, had ended, although some still treated their servants as property rather than free men. Monsieur Fontaine was one such man. He was harsh and cruel to his servants, black as well as white. None earned a decent wage—if they earned a wage at all.

My mother’s family had been house servants, and therefore lived in the big house. As children, we were permitted to play with not only other servants’ children, but the former Negro slave children too, as well as the Dubois children.

It was in this manner that Simone Dubois and I became such dear friends.

When we were quite young, four or five years of age, we paired off, seeking each other out to play scotch-hopper and escargot, and skipping rope. I had but one rag doll, whom I had named Beatrix, but Simone had seeming countless dollies, and she invited me to the nursery often to play. No other servant did she ever invite abovestairs.

Madame Dubois was Simone’s grand-mère, and she spoiled Simone with anything she asked for. Simone fancied tea sets, and whenever Madame Dubois travelled to Atlanta or Charleston, or to Paris, she brought back a new tea set for us to play with.

There were a table and chairs, too, in the nursery, and shelves filled with the tea sets. Outdoors, on the front lawn was a gazebo with another table and chairs, and when the weather was pleasant, we had tea parties there.

There were steps on two of the eight sides of the gazebo, with benches lining the other six. Fancy fretwork hung like lacy curtains above matching railings behind the seats. A cupola with brass roof and tiny windows always made me think of a tiny doll house, and I sometimes wondered what it might be like to live to high up in the sky. Although it was but perhaps fifteen feet it seemed like a castle turret to me as a child.

Hemming the gazebo in were viburnum, which with its fat puffy flowers, looked like snowballs—the only time we’d see “snow” in Saisons. Petunias flirted with the shrubs, balancing the snowy white blossoms with vibrant color. Just a few yards away, between the magical world of the gazebo and the austere formality of the house stood a covey of magnolia and dogwood trees, with skirts of azaleas and slippers of lilies and snapdragons and marigolds.

My favorite garden, though, was the daisies. Apparently, Madame Dubois had agreed, because there was ample space devoted to the friendly sunshiney flower. Tall and proud, the white blossoms waved with every breeze, and stood strong against stormy winds. Surrounded by greenery, the flowers were their own showcase.

Simone had baby buggies and prams, and she would let me swaddle Beatrix in one of her downy dolly blankets, and lay her in one of the buggies as we strolled through the gardens together. I owned no ladies’ hats, but borrowed one of Simone’s for play; her mother bought new hats each season, then gave her old ones to Simone, and Suzette and Violet, to play with.


Of course, once I was old enough, I went to work alongside Mamá. She was upstairs maid when I was a girl, and when I was older and Mrs. Beck retired, Mamá was made Housekeeper. Once I was old enough to understand, I was grateful that we worked for the Dubois’ and not Monsieur Fontaine. Scarlett was working by the time she was five, and only permitted away from the kitchen and the scullery for school, and then only because the law required it. Sometimes even that did not deter Monsieur Fontaine.

I was a good worker, Mamá always said she was proud of me. My brothers both had worked with Papa in the stables, and later in the garage. Édouard now was their chauffeur, and drove Monsieur Dubois to Charleston of a morning sometimes, on Fridays. It was not for business, he told us.


Excusez-moi, Madame Renaldi.” Brooks’s baritone voice ruptured my reverie. “This was left for you.” And he handed me a small crumpled envelope.

I thanked him, and mused at the curious communique. I was housekeeper, but did not typically receive mail abovestairs. Personal letters, and household accounting and the like all were brought to the kitchen entry.

The ivory blade of the letter opener slipped easily through the fragile parchment, and I retrieved a small scrap of paper, folder over once.

Meet me at Versailles.





#Blogwords, Wreading Wednesday, Featured Book Except, The Long Shadows of Summer, Seasons, Chapter One, Seasons, The Tilting Leaves of Autumn, The Silent Song of Winter, The Whispering Winds of Spring

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Reading is My SuperPower

Bookworm Mama

Singing Librarian

Faithfully Bookish

Radiant Light

Encouraging Words from the Tea Queen

All the Book Blog Names Are Taken

Fiction Aficionado

Bibliophile Reviews

Kathleen Denly

Lauraine’s Notes

With a Joyful Noise



  If you’d like to join us on your blog for First Line Fridays, shoot Carrie @ Reading is My Superpower an email and let her know!


*change of date

* not the final cover…


* in progress but will be on the back of each book in series

The southern town of Saisons lies at the crossroads between North and South, progressive and genteel antebellum life. Between East and West, between history and heritage, and new frontiers. Downton Abbey meets Gone With the Wind.


It’s 1912, in a world where slavery is dying and women’s rights are rising, and four young girls share a bond—and experience a tragedy.



We never did play tea parties like other girls. We played detective. Because that’s what Mercedes read, detective stories. And she was our Sherlock Holmes.

As children, our ventures were harmless enough. Until the day Simone fell in the river and disappeared.



Maintaining consistency throughout the series (and perhaps anything else I write) Tilting Leaves is also written in first person. At the time of this posting, I will be approximately half way through writing Scarlett’s story—well, nope, didn’t make it half way. (I did, however, push the release date from October to November (it’s good to be Indie) to give myself time to do it right and do it well.) As a pantser, I enjoy learning new bits about each story and the characters—and Scarlett’s is a doozy!



Women’s Fiction, Historical Fiction



I can’t rate it – I wrote it! but FIVE STARS, right???


#Blogwords, First Line Friday, #FLF, The Tilting Leaves of Autumn, Robin E. Mason, Seasons Series, The Long Shadows of Summer, The Silent Song of Winter, The Whispering Winds of Spring



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