Personal Reflection, The Hidden Legacy, Writing

All the Feels, As They Say

While I’m not one for trendy phrases and words, the topic at hand qualifies as one to give me “all the feels,” as the cool kids say.

I’m sitting in my car in the office parking lot, feeling the need to write. Write anything. Everything. Scratch the itch. It dawned on me that aside from social media posts, I have not written a single thing since The Hidden Legacy was released. I haven’t even written about the novel being released! Shameful, and causing me a fair amount of restless energy.

Perhaps I ought to to state that more clearly: my novel is now available! Puts a smile on my face and warm fuzzies in my heart every single time I say it. Each time someone informs me they bought the book, or sends a photo of their copy, or tells me they’ve begun reading it, it all feels a bit like make-believe. I’m uncertain how long that feeling will last, but I expect (and hope) it will be a while.

The Hidden Legacy has waited the better part of ten years to see the light of day. When someone asks, “how does it feel?” regarding the novel being finally published, it is impossible to pick a single emotion for my reply.

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I am thrilled. The joy runs deep. It rises up and courses through me each and every time I talk with someone about the book.

I am humbled. All the congratulations and kudos for accomplishing this, for following a dream through to completion, are difficult to accept graciously. I’m learning though.

I am curious. Visibility on Amazon isn’t the only reason I frequently encourage people to write a review on Amazon. I am genuinely curious to know what each reader thinks, feels, and gains from reading The Hidden Legacy.

I am intimidated. This status of Author is something I’ve been chasing for years. The notion that I belong in that category though still feels absurd. How do I find my place among the authors who are writing full time, with multiple books, hundreds of reviews, dozens of interviews and book signings, and thousands of online followers? I don’t know the answer to that one yet.

I am proud. This thing that I have done, writing and publishing my first novel, is no small feat. I won’t pretend that it is. I cried when I held my copy in my hands for the first time. This story and its characters are deeply precious to me and I am proud to present them to the world.

A Stranger's Hands, Fiction, Short Story, Writing

A Stranger’s Hands – Part One

A Stranger’s Hands

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By Carrie Sue Barnes

Part One – Unknown

She could not look away from the man’s hands. Wide palms. Long, sturdy fingers. Strong. They looked capable of holding her, all of her; something she hadn’t thought of a man in years.

Two years and twenty-six days. Cora didn’t keep track every day. That stopped shortly after a year. Every few months though, she added it back up.

Two years and twenty-six days and suddenly (anything new since Theo’s death felt sudden), she was staring at a stranger’s hands, thinking of how they would feel holding hers across a restaurant table, or on the small of her back, guiding her through a busy airport. Ordinary tasks of her husband’s hands.

This was not her husband. This was not Theo, but a stranger. At the gym, no less. What was wrong with her?

Less than yesterday.

That’s what her sister Tessa would say. Tessa thought Cora should move on, that it was time. Cora thought Tessa didn’t know what she was talking about.

She made up her mind to switch to a different treadmill in a different row, away from the stranger and his capable hands. Tessa’s next question would be, was he attractive? Cora realized she couldn’t have answered. She’d noticed nothing except his hands.

It’s a start, Cora heard her sister say in her mind.

“It’s an ending,” she whispered as she began to run.

Cora pushed herself hard. She ran until her calves burned and sweat coated her neck. She ran until her head cleared. Afterward, she showered in the locker room even though her townhouse was only a half mile away. If something could be done elsewhere, instead of at home, that was what she preferred.

From the gym, she walked to Second Street Coffee. She set up her laptop and files in her usual spot: a booth beside the large front window, three tables away from the door. It had the finest morning light.

“Happy Anniversary.”

Cora’s breath caught in her throat. Her hands went cold.

“I thought it was safe to assume your order today.” Gil, the café’s owner stood beside the table, a mug and two bowls balanced in his hands. “Black coffee, apple cinnamon oatmeal, and fresh fruit.”

She watched him place the dishes on the table, but still could not speak.

Gil’s warm smile became a frown. He cocked his head, looking down at her from his considerable height.

“Are you well, Cora?”

“How? How did you know?” she asked in a barely audible voice.

“Know what?”

“That it’s my anniversary?”

Gil only looked more perplexed. “It’s two years since we opened. You were our first customer.”

“Oh!” Her cheeks went hot. She tucked her hair behind her ears, giving herself a self-collecting moment. “Two years, wow. Happy Anniversary.”

She smiled finally and Gil’s brown eyes brightened. Two years. For two years, she’d sat at this table every weekday.

Gil sat down across from her, something he’d never done before. “It’s alright. I didn’t expect you to remember that fact. I’m sure that day was a bigger deal to me than to you.”

“I doubt it,” Cora mumbled.

“What do you mean?”

“Um, nothing, nothing at all.” She unzipped her bag to retrieve her wallet. “Thank you for bringing over my breakfast. That was thoughtful of you.”

When she held out the cash, he shook his head. “Today’s breakfast is on the house. No argument. You were our first customer.”

“Thank you, Gil. I appreciate it.”

The bell over the door dinged as another customer entered and Gil left her table. Cora sat wondering over the same question that filled her mind at the gym. What was wrong with her?

One and a half coffees later, Cora visited the restroom. She stared into the mirror over the sink. Her dark blonde hair had dried into the natural waves she used to straighten with a flat iron every morning. She wore no makeup – no blush, no mascara, no lipstick – another unpredicted change. Her body, always slim, was now toned with tight muscles from the almost daily visits to the gym. She wore bootcut jeans, a long sleeved black t-shirt, and gray canvas sneakers. A Saturday outfit, as she used to call it, instead of her former workday uniform of a pencil skirt and blouse.

No one but she knew it was all different.

“I miss being known,” she whispered at her reflection. The intensity of the feeling caught her by surprise.

Cora’s steps were slow across the hardwood floor from the restroom back to her booth. She watched Gil sweeping crumbs from under the tables. The initial rush was long over. The line of early-morning commuters had hustled out one by one with their steaming to-go cups and bagged muffins. The last of the breakfast regulars, mostly retirees lingering over their conversations and egg sandwiches, were migrating toward the door. Goodbyes were called out to Gil and his employees.

She knew all of the regulars’ faces, and several of their names from overheard conversations, but they did not know her.

On Wednesdays, a group of cyclists came in after their early morning ride, arriving around the same time as Cora at 6:45. They were jovial, young men, younger than Cora, who never failed to greet her with a “good morning” or a comment on the weather. It brightened her day each time she saw them with their smiles and their carefree conversations, but they did not know her.

Twice a month, a dozen mothers gathered in the coffee shop for Bible study sessions. There were new moms still fresh-faced and eager, and wizened, older mothers who listened quietly and offered careful advice, and middle-aged, over-scheduled moms bolstered by the ninety minutes of adult conversation and camaraderie. They discussed verses and chapters, children and husbands. They laughed and cried together. Cora savored hearing the stories they told each other, witnessing the way they united around one another’s struggles and victories.

A handful of times the women invited Cora to join them, despite her explaining the first time that she was not a mother. Twice she had splurged and paid for their beverages. She couldn’t explain why. Perhaps because she wished she belonged with them. She didn’t though, and they didn’t know her.

Not even her clients knew her. That was the nature of online financial planning. Everything was accomplished via emails and shared files. If a client needed any communication beyond that, Cora made phone calls, or a video conference call on rare occasions. No, they certainly didn’t know her.

The anonymity was not intentional. It arose from a gradual, subconscious retreat from everything that reminded her too poignantly of Theo and their six years together. Six and a half years if she included their whip-speed six months of dating and engagement.

No, the anonymity was not intentional, but it was too complete for Cora to see any cracks to climb through the walls she’d built. She initially welcomed those walls, curled up inside them and functioned only when she remained there. Lately though, she began to wonder how long she could keep them up. She began to wonder if she wanted to keep them up.

Her unhurried thoughts were interrupted by the swish of broom bristles sliding beneath her table where she was seated once again. Out of habit, she wordlessly raised her legs and Gil swept the spot beneath her feet.

“All finished?” he asked, gesturing at the empty fruit bowl on the table.

Cora had eaten the oatmeal first while it was still hot, and one of the servers collected that bowl earlier. The fresh fruit she’d saved until she grew hungry again, then savored each juicy piece. She handed the bowl to Gil.

“Thank you again for breakfast.”

“You’re very welcome, Cora. Thank you for being the only person who is here almost as frequently as I am.”

“You put extra pieces of baked apple in the oatmeal, didn’t you? There was more than usual.”

Gil looked pleased. “You always leave the bits of apple until the end when you order that one. I figured that was because they’re your favorite part.”

Surprise tingled in her nerves. “You noticed that?”

“I did.”

The insight into her habits produced a concoction of feelings in Cora. It was tiny. A simple observation. It did not feel tiny though. It felt warm and comforting and kind and strengthening. What else do you know, she wondered as Gil walked to the front counter to deposit her bowl and fork. When he returned for the broom he’d propped against her booth, Cora was suddenly desperate to speak.

Read Part Two here.

Books, Full of Days, The Hidden Legacy, Writing

Change Is a Tricky Thing

changeI have a bit of an announcement to make. It is both happy and bittersweet. For nearly ten years, my manuscript has been created, nurtured, pruned, and grown under the title Full of Days. It was not the original title. The original title was a terrible, overly dramatic phrase I will not admit to here. Before the first draft was finished though, my little story had become Full of Days, and so it has remained… until now.

When I got into the nitty gritty of collaborating with the editor assigned to me by my publisher, she asked that I consider changing the title. The first time she asked, right there on the title page as her very first comment when the edits were sent to me, I mentally refused. She stated that title’s strength did not match the story’s strength. I frowned and muttered and thought how absurd the request seemed to be. The next time she mentioned it, I wondered if I should at least think about it. The third time she mentioned it, I’d spent a number of weeks reviewing her subtle changes and astute suggestions throughout the manuscript and had to humbly admit that maybe (just maybe) the editor knew what she was talking about. I don’t remember if there was a fourth mention. There might have been. I only know that by the time I reached the final page of the manuscript, completing my review of her work on my story, I was deeply grateful for how she’d sharpened the writing and developed my perspective on giving the reader the best possible version of the tale and characters I’d created.

Thus began my deliberation over the title. Oh, how I wrestled with it. By the time I sent a handful of title ideas to the publisher to get their opinion, I’d brainstormed and eliminated at least twenty possibilities. Always, in my mind, Full of Days was still in the running. It was a contender but not the guaranteed winner.

The goal was to create a title that captured the interest of a reader who knew nothing of the story itself. Someone who might be perusing books in this genre, looking for something new to intrigue them enough to at least read the back cover’s synopsis. The title needed to create curiosity and hint at the heart of the story.

Making the choice felt like renaming a newborn child after first deciding on a name quite early in the pregnancy. It was akin to spending all that time of nurturing and development calling the child by one name, then, upon meeting him face to face, realizing it simply is not the right name for him. It happens, and I imagine it is quite a bittersweet change to make in that moment. Such a change would transition from difficult and uncertain to happy and confident as the new moniker became familiar. That is exactly how I’d describe this process.

So, yes, after all that rambling, I am here to tell you that as of Tuesday, my upcoming novel has a new title! I invite you all to be on the lookout in the coming months for news of the release of the debut christian historical novel titled The Hidden Legacy.

Intentionality, Worthy, Writing

Build: New Year, New Heights

It’s January 29th and I am now sitting down to write up my New Year’s thoughts. That should give you some notion of how the first 29 days of 2018 have been. Whoosh, and they’re gone. That’s the gist of it. This isn’t me registering a complaint so much as me slowing down enough to acknowledge reality.

My 2018 word for the year is Build. Maybe it should be Breathe instead… but I’ll stick with my first choice. Here’s why.

Last year, my word was Worthy, and I somehow managed to blog about it before the new year even began. I spent the year attempting to recognize what investments of my attention and energy were worthy of those resources, and learning to say no to (or at least shift down the priority list) those things that didn’t qualify as such. It was an exercise in both self-discipline and exploration. I found new ways to invest in myself, in becoming a better, stronger, healthier, happier version of me. I pushed myself over the edge of my previous efforts. In the course of 2017, I stretched and shifted until my comfort zone was expanded well beyond what I’d clung safely to in years past.

One key reality I noticed as 2017 came to a close was the lack of regrets I had about the year. Sure, there is always some wishful thinking about what more I could have tried or accomplished. That’s bound to happen. Compared to December 31st in most of my adult years though, this was almost nil.

That is why my word for 2018 is Build. Because I don’t want to let up. Because I want to take advantage of the gains made last year and push them to new levels this year. I will build on the foundation I’ve laid. I will nurture and grow what has taken root. Honestly, I’m pretty darn thrilled with the efforts of last year, and I desire to reach the close of 2018, God willing, having spent my twelve months building upward and outward.

When complacency creeps in, when there’s an inkling of stagnancy in my days, I have to remember why I started. I have to remember! Remembering where I used to be; remembering what I set out to do in the first place; remembering why I started is all the impetus I need to keep building.

New heights can be frightening, but not as frightening as standing still or sliding backward.

Full of Days, The Hidden Legacy, Writing

Book Update Video

A new video update is up on my Facebook author page. Details on the novel coming soon, some much deserved words of gratitude, and Christmas wishes from me to you.
As long as you’re there (wink, wink), click on the like and follow buttons to keep up with me on my author page.
Merry Christmas to you all!
Fiction, Short Story, The Summer Holiday, Writing, Writing Prompt

The Summer Holiday – Part Three

Part One

 

“Good evening,” Michael greets us. “You both look lovely. I am glad to see you.”

He addresses Aunt Rita too, but his gaze remains on me and I am surprised to see a touch of nervousness in his friendly expression.

“Good evening, Mr. Gable. I hope you are well tonight,” Aunt Rita responds.

“I am.”

I blush under his attention. He is even more handsome in this glittering, giddy atmosphere than in the midday sunlight. His black tuxedo is well tailored, with a pop of color in his emerald green pocket square.

The band begins another high spirited tune. Dancing couples cover the open space on the large, raised patio where the band is arranged, facing the ocean. The harmonizing notes fill the silence that falls between us.

Aunt Rita clears her throat. “I’m going to find some acquaintances.” She finishes her wine and places the empty glass on a passing footman’s tray. “Enjoy yourself, Mary.”

While I am wondering what I might say to encourage her in her mission for the night, she is already striding away with her chin high.

Michael looks toward the band and back at me. “Would you care to dance?”

Again, I am struck by his nervousness. It is slight, and if I did not have his self-assured demeanor of this afternoon with which to compare, I might not notice. Somehow, the alteration in him bolsters my confidence. This man, this stranger who feigned friendship in order to speak to me today, has a unique effect on me.

“Perhaps we could walk first and see the grounds,” I suggest. “I can’t say I’ve ever been to a party quite like this one. Have you?”

“Only here.”

He offers his arm and I slip my hand into the bend of his elbow. We begin to walk the circumference of the lawn and the crowd it contains.

“Do the Colemans host many of these?”

“Twice a year. This is their annual end-of-summer garden party.”

I laugh in disbelief. “Garden party?” Images of the garden parties I’ve attended flash through my mind: small gatherings of intimate friends; tea and finger sandwiches; quiet conversation.

“They like to take something average and raise the bar,” he remarks with a laugh. “Their other annual event is the Christmas party. That one is indoors, of course, and even more grand.”

The reality that I know nothing about Michael is dominant in my thoughts. “How do you know the family?”

“I am a second cousin. Mrs. Coleman’s maiden name was Gable.” He greets someone as we round a back corner of the courtyard, then returns his focus to me. “And you, Mary? If this is your first Coleman celebration, how did you happen to be here tonight?”

I admit, “We weren’t invited.”

“Do tell.” His eyes widen with curiosity.

“I don’t think I can.”

“You are more a mystery than I expected.”

“I’m not, truly, but it turns out my aunt might be.” I leave it at that, unwilling to confide Aunt Rita’s secrets.

Michael stops beside a stone fountain at the end of the courtyard. It is a circular structure with a tall statue of a heron perched on a pedestal at the center. The bird’s wings are spread as if about to take flight. Water flows from the backs of its wings and around its feet down into the tiled bowl below. We admire it in silence. The band segues into a softer, slower melody.

“You’re a bit of a mystery yourself, Michael.”

“Tell me about yourself, Mary.”

“I was about to make the same request.”

“You first. Tell me anything you’d like.”

He lets my hand slip off his arm and takes a seat on the edge of the fountain.

“My full name is Mary Eve Harper and I have lived in Boston all my life. I have an older brother and sister, both married. I teach piano to schoolchildren, which I rather enjoy. I paint, though I’m terrible at it. I have a collie named Jasmine and a nephew named Paul, and I love both of them dearly.”

I ignore the wave of embarrassment I feel over the bits of autobiography that tumbled from my mouth without forethought. “It’s your turn.”

“Fair enough.” He thinks for a moment. “I live in Manchester. I’m a civil engineer for the city, as is Tommy, whom you met this afternoon. I have four sisters, two older and two younger. I have a spaniel named Devlin. He’s my bird hunting partner even though he’s fairly useless. I’ve vacationed here in Hampton Beach with my family every summer of my entire life except when I was eight years old and sick with the measles. I almost didn’t come this summer, but I am exceedingly glad I did now.”

My cheeks blush madly and I’m thankful for the low light of the lanterns in the courtyard behind us.

“I do have to add one more thing.”

I wait.

Michael fiddles with the buttons of his jacket, diverting his eyes from mine. “I’ve been watching you all week.”

My mouth drops open and I take a step back. “Excuse me?”

“No! No, I said that all wrong.” He half groans, half laughs. “I’m sorry. I mean, I’ve seen you around the town throughout the week. I mean, I’ve noticed you several times this week.”

I bite my lip, unsure if this is an improvement.

Michael leaves his seat on the fountain and stands in front of me. His voice softens. “I first saw you on Sunday, walking with your aunt on the boardwalk and wearing a blue hat. I was drinking coffee at an outdoor table at a café. You passed right by me,” he refuses to drop his eyes from mine, “and I wanted to follow you then and there. You were conversing with your aunt, but your eyes watched everything around you. You looked like you wished for nothing less than adventure.”

I remain stunned and speechless, but also thrilled in a manner that makes me anxious.

“Then you were in the crowd at the concert in the park on Tuesday evening, and I saw you again the next day when you were eating lunch with your aunt and someone else, one of her friends, I guess, at the same café where I had coffee on Sunday. I just finished brunch with my parents and aunt and uncle when you arrived there. That’s when I promised myself I’d speak to you somehow the next time I saw you.

“I waited for my next opportunity, watched for you everywhere we went. I had Tommy on the lookout for you too,” he says with a chuckle. “You can imagine how relieved I was this afternoon when I realized it was you and your aunt walking so closely behind us on the boardwalk. I’d begun to wonder if you’d left town already.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You didn’t notice me even once before this afternoon, did you?”

“I’d be lying if I said I did.”

Nerves threaten to disband the gumption I’ve somehow possessed since meeting Michael today. Behind the fountain is a gravel footpath extending away from the house and toward a manicured maze of tall hedges. I walk to the path without a word and hear Michael follow. Our feet crunch on the stones covering the narrow lane. Rosebushes laden with late summer blossoms in an array of hues – red, pink, white, orange, yellow – line the length of the path. I stare at one perfect, pink bloom and am overcome by the beautiful unexpectedness of this night.

Before we reach the entrance to the hedge maze, I stop and Michael comes around in front of me. I want to tell him every thought in my head. I want to tell him I’m flattered, but that is an entirely inadequate word for what I feel. I want to say I wish we’d met on the first day I arrived instead of a week into my stay. I want to ask if he ever visits Boston for any reason at all, and if I might be a reason to visit if he does not. My search for words lasts longer than I’d like.

“Have I scared you off?” he asks, hands in his pockets and eyes on his feet.

I inhale the intoxicating fragrance of the flowers, then I lay my hand on his smooth cheek. The feel of his skin against my palm startles me, as if I didn’t realize I was touching him. He frowns when I drop my hand back to my side. I do not want to make him frown.

“Does your invitation to dance still stand?”

The party, the patio, and the band are all behind me. He looks over my shoulder and asks, “You want to go back?”

I shake my head.

He surveys our spot here on the white gravel path, with its rosebush walls and high-rise, starry ceiling. His smile reappears and, with a deep bow, he extends a hand. “Would you do me the honor, Miss Harper?”

Mirroring the smile while suppressing a giggle, I curtsy. “It would be my pleasure, sir.”

We sway and turn with the distant music. His hands, one wrapped around my fingers and one on my waist, are warm, like the inside of my chest where my heart beats at a doubled pace.

“If you tell me you are going home tomorrow, my summer will be utterly ruined,” he declares.

I laugh aloud, setting a sparrow flying from its hiding spot in a hedge. “We are here another week.”

He twirls me out and back in again. “May I take you to lunch tomorrow?”

I nod.

“Tomorrow, I’ll ask to see you on Monday.”

I nod again. Anticipation tingles in my fingertips.

We slow our dancing though the music’s rhythm does not change. “On Monday, I’ll ask for Tuesday, and then for each day that remains.”

“We’ll have a splendid week.” I am breathlessly aware of how near his face is to mine. I almost ask about after, about letters or telegrams or visits, then I tell myself to enjoy tonight. Tomorrow, I will enjoy tomorrow. I’ve never felt that the days ahead must be known before they arrive, and I don’t wish to start now.

As if reading my thoughts, Michael winks the way he did in the first minute of our first meeting. “Maybe I’ll take piano lessons in the fall, in Boston.”

The song comes to an end and we stand still. Statues sculpted in a dance. I try to remember what it was like to be unfamiliar with his smile. We are both holding our breath until we laugh in unison at ourselves. He releases my hand and my waist.

“Would you like to return to the party? You haven’t even tasted the food, have you?”

At the mention of food, I realize I am famished. Back at the hotel, Aunt Rita only ordered a light supper for us while we prepared for the party. Knowing all I know now, I realize she was likely too anxious to eat.

“Food does sound good, thank you.”

Before we can step from the shadows of the tall hedges though, we hear footsteps. Two people deep in conversation, and clearly assuming they are alone, approach on the gravel path. I freeze.

“It’s okay, Mary. We won’t be in any trouble for walking back here.”

I shake my head. I know immediately the identity of one of those voices, and I feel certain in my guess at the other. Grabbing Michael’s wrist, I pull him through the entrance of the maze. There are only the stars to see by now, tucked away behind the eight-foot-tall, two-foot-thick hedge.

Michael peers at my face in bewilderment. “What’s wrong?”

How can I explain? I cover my face in my hands, realizing how ridiculous I must seem. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “It’s my aunt and Miles Coleman.”

To be continued.

Read Part Four here.