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.
