I also finished the first book in a new series, the Ryan O'Clery series, entitled The Tempest Murders. I am scheduled to complete the sequel, After the Tempest, this spring.
In the meantime, I am balancing my writing with work on the Book 'Em North Carolina event, scheduled in Lumberton on Saturday, February 23, 2013. It's a huge event that is taking the bulk of my time to organize.
Here is an excerpt from Dylan's Song. I will have advance copies at Book 'Em so attendees have the opportunity to buy the book weeks before it's even in book stores:
Dylan stopped at a crossroads while he observed the sky. Of course it would rain during his mission. It was always raining in Ireland. The fact that it hadn’t thus far was an oddity. These were the skies he was accustomed to. He could feel the mist on his cheeks; could taste it on his lips.
He turned and gazed at the cottage he’d just left. His heart felt full for a moment as he thought of Vicki in his arms in a nice, warm bed. The cottage glowed from the lights within, casting radiant fingers across the lawn leading to the pond. There would be no full moon tonight, he thought. No skinny-dipping. Ah, well. He had his memories from the previous night and there would be other nights.
He turned again, facing the village. It was off in the distance, only perceptible by a faint glow on the horizon. Those would be the lights from the pubs as all the shops were closed by now. And he knew each of those pubs as well as he knew himself. He’d spent many a night there. Too many. And he regretted most of them.
He had a lot of regrets in his life, he realized. Looking back at the years behind him, it was nothing if not a long string of mistakes, bad decisions and stupid moves.
A quarter turn and he was facing Mam’s house over the next knoll. It was quiet now and dark. Tomorrow afternoon he would have no choice but to go over there once more and clear things out. The landlord had Bonnie O’Sullivan as a tenant for at least sixty years but he’d be chomping at the bit to get another paying renter in there as quickly as possible.
It wouldn’t take long; Mam didn’t own that much. He’d go in with Father Rowan and his mum; they’d box up the photographs and scrapbooks and get them ready for the post, where they’d be mailed to him in America. And when he received them, he’d most likely stash them away in the attic somewhere. Maybe someday, ten or twenty years down the road—or more—he would haul them out and look at them.
Everything else would go to the auctioneer. It would be Old Mister Kilduff, a man he suspected was older than the village itself, who would come in and determine the starting bid on each object. People would come from miles around to buy off what they could and Dylan would be long gone by then. Mister Kilduff would get his take and send the rest by cheque to him in America. It was the way things worked. The way they always worked.