INFINITE HOUSE OF BOOKS FLASHBACK: BLOG TOUR – Dark Wine Waters

DISCLAIMER: The following has been provided to INFINITE HOUSE OF BOOKS  by Virtual Author Book Tours, including interview questions exclusive to INFINITE HOUSE OF BOOKS.  No compensation has been received for this content. This disclaimer provided by the requirements of the Federal Trade Commission.

Fran SimonePublisher: Central Recovery Press (July 15, 2014)
Category: Non-fiction, Memoir, Substance Abuse, Codependency
ISBN: 978-1-937612-64-1
Tour Date: June/July, 2015
Available in: Print & ebook, 224 Pages

The dynamics of codependency are illuminated in this heartbreaking story of a marriage comprised by a husband’s addiction to alcohol.

Through the eyes of love clouded by denial, Fran saw the danger signs but ignored them. Her husband, Terry, was accomplished, romantic, and good-natured. A newly divorced single parent, Fran was ready for love. She recounts the joys and sorrows of their relationship, including Terry’s attempts to control his drinking, her attempts to control him, his death, and her subsequent recovery.

Interview with Fran Simone:

What initially got you interested in writing?

I read a lot when I was a child and dreamed of becoming a writer but that dream seemed unattainable coming from a working class family. Not that my parents weren’t loving and supportive, but they wanted me to have a secure and good paying job. Also I went to Catholic schools back in the day when  girls were encouraged to become teachers, nurses or nuns.

 

How did you decide to make the move into becoming a published author?

As I said I was always an avid reading so I majored in English in college and then went to graduate school where I obtained a doctorate. At the university I directed a statewide writing project and also taught writing classes. About  midway through my career I decided to have a go myself. 

 

What do you want readers to take away from reading your works? 

People can overcome tragedy and move beyond it. .I want my readers to take away hope that one day they will lead happy and fulfilling lives despite what challenges they face.

 

What do you find most rewarding about writing? 

Filling a blank page with words even though you don’t know where you’re going and discovering things as you go along.  

 

What do you find most challenging about writing?  

Finding just the right words to convey my thoughts and ideas.

 

 

What advice would you give to people wanting to enter the field? 

Read widely as much as you can.

 

 

Is there anything else besides writing you think people would find interesting about you? 

Last year, my eye doctor invited a group of us to accompany him on a mission trip to the Chiapas  region of Mexico. We spent a week examining eyes, writing prescriptions, fitting patients for eyeglasses and the docs did surgery mainly for cataracts.  Hundreds of people travelled to a small village in the mountains for treatment that they otherwise would have never received. It was one of the most rewarding experiences of my life.

 

 

What are the best ways to connect with you, or find out more about your work?

Visit my website darkwinewaters@gmail.com or email darkwinewaters@gmail.com; ; I write a blog for the  loved ones of family members with substance abuse disorders for Psychology Today under the Addiction category.

Excerpt from ‘Dark Wine Waters’ by Fran Simone:

Several weeks after we returned to Charleston, I received a postcard in a familiar handwriting–Terry- from Bellagio, Italy. The inscription read: “This is paradise. Aren’t we having a good time?  Love, T.”

We almost didn’t end up at Bellagio. From Menton we drove along the coast to San Remo where terraced fields of roses, carnations, and camellias filled the hillsides. Our bliss, however, was temporarily punctured in Genoa. I don’t recall exactly what happened. Perhaps I made some remark about his drinking, but I do remember how we sat on opposite ends of an empty tour bus, pouting like three-year-olds.

Later that day, we declared a truce as we packed the Renault and headed toward Lake Como.

“Frannie, it’s been a long day. I’m tired. Why don’t we stop in the town of Como and spend the night?”

“I really want to get to Bellagio today. I read a description in the AAA guide: It’s a town on the peninsula that divides the two sides of Lake Como. Outstanding hotels and restaurants. Plenty to see. So what do you think?”

“The guidebook says about 27 kilometers. What’s that in miles? I always get confused.”

“It’s about fifteen. But no telling how long it’ll take on these roads. They’re like back home.  And you aren’t a very good navigator.”

“I’ll do the best I can. I promise. It’ll be worth it. You’ll see.” I hoped my enthusiasm for the town would rub off on Terry, and that the AAA guide wasn’t exaggerating.

As the Renault chugged up a narrow, winding road with hazardous switch backs, Terry looked straight ahead and gripped the steering wheel. We almost wrecked when an Italian driver in a red sports car blew his horn to signal a blind curve a second before the car shot through a hairpin turn.

“Basta. Italian drivers. Goddamn. Unbelievable.”

Late afternoon, our driving nerves were soothed, as we settled into an elegant room at the Hotel Florence where we were mesmerized by our view of the lakefront.  All reluctance and annoyance forgotten and swallowed up in the view from our windows.

Our guidebook recommended visits to The Basilica of San Giacomo, the gardens of the Serbelloni Villa, the chapel  at  Villa Melzi and other “must see” sites.  We wound up and down steep stone steps past iron balconies festooned with clay pots of red geraniums or laundry drying under hot sun. At the many shops tucked below apartments, we admired fine silks and Venetian glass jewelry. I purchased a tee shirt for Matt and silk scarves for Terry’s mother and aunt.

We drank wine at a café on the lake and sampled food cooked in heaven: lake trout, perch, fluffy risotto, and ripe white peaches. Our love making become another delish dish to savor, and savor we did.

Like the excursion boats slowly crisscrossing the surface of the lake, we floated in a perfect dream. In my journal I wrote:  “I’m totally happy.”

So was the composer Franz Liszt. In 1837, while cavorting with the Countess d’Agoult, he wrote, “When you write the story of two happy lovers, set them on the shores of Lake Como.   I know of no other spot more obviously blessed by heaven.”

Bellagio soared to the top of my most favorite list. Numero uno to this day.

Years later, on my fiftieth birthday, Terry surprised me with a savings passbook marked “Italy”. He recorded the sum of $400.00 in the top column.  My birthday card read: “This is a down payment for a return trip to Bellagio. Love, Terry.”

“I figure if we put away a hundred or so each month, we can swing a return trip in about a year. That’s if you can control your spending. Can you manage to limit your shopping for clothes and household doodads?” Terry asked.

“Of course. For a return trip to paradise, I’ll try, really try.”

But I continued to spend.

He continued to drink.

Praise for Dark Wine Waters’ by Fran Simone:

“Dark Wine Waters goes way beyond the plethora of recovery books. It is a beautifully written memoir, with its charming water motif throughout, and it so clearly offers everyone a way to continue, to be happy, despite whatever happens. In this,  the author has handed all of us a true gift.”-Cat Pleska, president of Mountain State Press and author,  Riding on Comets (forthcoming, April, 2015) 

“Brutally frank and fearless in its honesty, Fran Simone’s book is a gift for those who love or have loved alcoholics or addicts. She tells the story of how she jumped into a relationship with a man she never imagined would have the disease of alcoholism. She simply had no reference for such an illness and missed all the clues. Once in love and married, she struggled to keep their life together, admitting she made every mistake possible.
This book boldly explains how alcoholism seduces and corrupts the most innocent of people, both the drinker and the ones who love them. Nicely written and well crafted, Simone’s memoir will appeal to those who enjoy a human interest and love story. But more importantly, it is for those caught in the darkness of loving someone with this disease and how they can find joy and hope and a better way to live through recovery.”- L. Farwell, Amazon Reviewer

“Fran Simone has written an intimate, deeply honest, and absorbing memoir that clearly shows the four stages of alcoholism through the years of her marriage to Terry. When she begins writing their story and the narrative starts to take shape, she finds “the courage to admit my faults, face my fears, and forgive my husband and myself.” Her honesty is compelling.
I particularly like the way the author organizes her story, dividing the book into four parts, each opening with an epigraph of the disease stage. Part 1, for example, opens with “The addict has a ‘wow’ experience and begins to form a relationship with the drug. Family members may observe subtle changes in personality, and a formidable barrier to communication appears: denial.” I leave the rest for you to read.
I highly recommend this book to anyone interested in a very well told narrative that intimately shares the lives of two very human people ensnared in the full throes of the disease of alcoholism.”-Mary Jo Doig, Story Circle Book Reviews

“I was absorbed in this book from the very first page. The author takes us on her journey through life with an alcoholic from the moment she falls in love with him through the inevitable sad conclusion, yet gives those of us in this struggle hope for recovery.
This book is written with the honesty that can only come from the experience of living those highs and lows. I cannot recommend this book highly enough, whether you are just looking for an engagingly candid memoir or you are looking for clues to learn to cope when and if you’ve found yourself in a similar situation.”- Peggy E. Gunter, Amazom Reviewer

About Fran Simone:Fran Simone

Fran Simone, Ph.D. is a Professor Emeritus from Marshall University in West Virginia. She is the former director of  the WV Writing Project, a statewide affiliate of the National Writing Project, University of California at Berkeley. Her doctorate is from Duke University.

Her essays have appeared in The Voice and The Quarterly of  the National Writing Project,  the Charleston Gazette, Story Circle Network journal and anthology. Her blog posts have appeared online in Hazelden/Betty Ford.  She is a regular contributor to The Addiction Blog and to the Psychology Today blog. She is a member of Story Circle Network, the National Association of Memoir Writers and  West Virginia Writers, Inc. She conducts workshops on writing and speaks on addiction and recovery.

Honors: Featured author of the month, National Memoir Association, January, 2015.

Website: www.darkwinewaters.com
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/darkwinewaters

Listen to the Interview with Fran Simone:

Buy ‘Dark Wine Waters’ by Fran Simone:

Amazon
Barnes and Noble
Indie Bound
Central Recovery Press

Follow the ‘Dark Wine Waters’ by Fran Simone Tour:

Teddy Rose Book Reviews  June 5 Spotlight & Giveaway

Let’s Get BOOKED! June 8 Excerpt & Giveaway (postponed)

Inspire to Read  June 10 Spotlight

A place in the spotlight June 11  Interview

Pomegranate Radio June 19 Podcast Review

Indie Review Behind the Scenes June 19 Live Interview 6 PM cst

What U Talking Bout Willis? June 22 Review & Giveaway

Teddy Rose Book Reviews June 25 Review

Infinite House of Books July 8 Interview & Excerpt

Rockin’ Book Reviews July 15 Review, Excerpt, & Giveaway

Deal Sharing Aunt July  22 Review

I’d Rather Be At The Beach July 28 Review & Giveaway

Create With Joy July 31 Review

Fran Simone

INFINITE HOUSE OF BOOKS FLASHBACK: BLOG TOUR – Fevers

DISCLAIMER: The following has been provided to INFINITE HOUSE OF BOOKS  by Premiere Virtual Author Book Tours. No compensation has been received for this content. This disclaimer provided by the requirements of the Federal Trade Commission.

‘Fevers’ by Joel Homer:

Joel HomerPublisher-ebook:  Zac Homer, (April 20, 2014)
Publisher-Print: Bantam
Category: Action/Adventure, Suspense/Thriller, Some Romance
Tour Date: May/June, 2015
Available in: Print & ebook, 261 Pages

FEVERS is a novel unlike any you have ever read. Exotic adventure, white knuckled suspense, torrid romance, and a haunting portrait of three damaged individuals – one man who has turned beast, one who must confront the beast within himself, and the woman torn between them.

Rio de Janeiro. 1984.

There are rumors that somewhere deep in the steamy rainforest of the Amazon a man, once civilized, is hiding in green shadows. To the primitive Brazilian Indios, he is considered their long-awaited “pale-skinned messiah.” Others believe he is an evil god with powers to stir the native masses to a frenzied, killing pitch. And others suspect he might be Michael Fevers.

Into the lush tropics comes a troubled American, rebellious journalist, embittered Vietnam vet, desperate soldier of fortune. William Straw, who soon forms an uneasy alliance with a beautiful anthropologist, continues his tortured upriver journey-from jungle shantytown to opulent plantation, from explosive passion to brutal murder. Whether he is pursuing a story, an adventure, or a chance to finally exorcise his own inner demons, nothing will prepare William Straw for the sudden violence and bizarre cruelty of the one who is waiting ahead — Michael Fevers.

Praise for ‘Fevers’ by Joel Homer:

“Very engrossing novel. It felt a bit like reading a modern version of Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. The plot moves quickly and smoothly. The excitement never ends.”- Gerald Loev, Amazon Reviewer

Excerpt from the Book:

What manner of man was William Straw?

It was a question Maximilian Perreira asked himself often. As publisher-in-chief of the Rio Heraldo, he had good reason to be satisfied with his star reporter. In the six years since Straw first came to work for the newspaper, the circulation rate had greatly benefited from many a high-echelon scandal. Truly, William had earned his nickname. He was a gadfly, the best kind of gadfly, a gadfly with a penchant for rump of republic.

This gave Perreira pleasure. Loving his country, he hated his republic: the politicians and the military men and the bankers who had been so long the collective proprietor of an unhappy Brazil. He’d fought them all his professional life, first as a reporter himself, later as founder of the increasingly effective Heraldo, and could fully appreciate William Straw’s own battles against greed and hypocrisy and the philosophy of the fist.

Maximilian Perreira shook his head sadly. William took things so, so—personally. And responded with such indiscriminate fury. True, he’d been exposed to much excess in Vietnam, but he was a journalist now, by choice, and he lived in Brazil, also by choice, and no journalist in Brazil could afford to lose his objectivity.

This Indio business . . .

The government’s methods of dealing with the tribal peoples of the Amazon were shameful, and William had done well to reveal so many of the abuses. But the deeper he dug, the deeper he seemed to fall. It was almost as if the reporter were atoning for others’ sins. The drinking and brawling had become progressively worse. There’d been several unfortunate incidents. Nothing serious as yet. But the knives had long been out for the North American reporter. Powerful men, stung by O Tavão, were ready to retaliate in kind.

How long has it been now since he last called me? Two weeks? No. Closer to three.

He should never have allowed Straw to go off on his own. When the reporter had first come to him with the wild tale of an Indio insurrection in the upper reaches of the Amazon Basin, he should have flatly refused to authorize the investigation.

In which case, the publisher reflected ruefully, William would have investigated anyway.

Perreira pushed his chair away from the clutter of his desk and stared out the office window. On every side rose the spires of downtown Rio, opalescent in the bright morning sun. Here, atop his own hard-won tower, he was surrounded by the soaring headquarters of his old enemies. The oil cartels. The landowners’ combines. The banking houses. The bustling hives of the bureaucrats and soldiers and police.

Does he know? Does William know how truly dangerous they are?

The intercom buzzed.

“Yes, Vivi?”

“William Straw,” his secretary announced. “On line one.”

Perreira snatched up the phone and punched the appropriate button.

“William!”

“‘Lo, Max.”

“Are you all right? Where are you? It’s been weeks, you damn madman!”

“I was just waiting till I had something worth calling about. Turn on your machine, Max.”

Perreira pressed another button.

“Go ahead, William.”

“Okay. First thing, there’s lots of static on the basin about some upriver tribe called the Capo. Seems these Capo have been kicking much ass lately. It’s not a blood feud, Max, and it’s not territorial, either. Word is the beaten tribes are being absorbed into the Capo ranks. Oh, and you’re going to love this: the whole kit and caboddle’s being run by a white man. A norte-americano. Bearded like a jaguar, and impervious to darts, spears, axes, and bullets.”

“Nonsense.”

“So how come the F.S.U.’s snapping at my heels?”

“The F.S.U.?”

“In the evil flesh. I had a confab with one of them yesterday on the boat.”

“What boat? Where are you, William?”

“Xueloc, the skunk cabbage of the Amazon.”

“And what are you doing there?”

“Following tracks. I’m trying to find this old professor who knows our man in the jungle. His name’s . . . Roberto Aguzar. What’s wrong, Max?”

“One minute, William. There was a noise on the line. Are you using a safe phone?”

“Who the hell knows, Max. There are only two phones in the whole damn village. One’s in the custody of the Comandante de Polícia. I decided to pass it by, knowing how you tend to fret. This one’s at my hotel.”

“There! I heard it again.”

“So the phone’s tapped. So what? This is the F.S.U., Max. They’re not going to hear anything they don’t already know.”

“William? I want you back here.”

“You’re getting old, Max.”

“I am old, William. And it took some skill to reach my present age. If you don’t respect me, then respect at least my instincts for self-preservation. Don’t interfere with the F.S.U., William.”

“I honor every gray hair on top your old bowed head, Max. But we’re talking story. A big fat story.”

“Then report it when it’s done. This isn’t a request, William. I’m ordering you back.”

“Sorry, Max.”

“It isn’t the story, damn it! You were never that interested in stories.”

“I’m a good reporter.”

“You’re a terrible reporter. You do everything wrong. You get involved. You interfere. You get your story, yes, and the story’s always fine, but that’s just incidental to your real purpose.”

“And that is?”

“I don’t know, William. At first, I thought you were trying to kill yourself. Later, I thought you simply had a taste for the edge. Now? I don’t know. I do know I’d prefer you to remain alive, though.”

“Trust me, Max. Everything’ll be fine. I’m going to save the world and get the girl and ride off into the sunset.”

“William, enough of this, I want you to come—”

There was a click as the reporter hung up.

The publisher kept his ear pressed to the receiver. After a moment, there was a second click. Maximilian Perreira nodded his head slowly, sadly, and cradled the phone.

About Joel Homer:Joel Homer

Joel Homer was raised in Greenwich Village, attended New York University and was a medal-winning veteran from the Vietnam war. Upon returning to the states, he began his writing career as a senior editor at Saturday Review.

His books include “Marathons” and “Jargon.” His produced plays include “Scenes Dedicated to My Brother,” “What People Do When They’re All Alone,” and “The Lieutenant Snuffs the Light.” In 1984 he was the first recipient of the prestigious Glickman Award for playwriting. His last play ‘Private Scenes” was a huge hit in San Francisco. While working in Los Angeles, he co-wrote the original script for “Beauty and the Beast” for EuroDisney….to date the most popular stage play in Disney’s history.

Joel Homer passed away in 2003 at the age of 58.

Buy ‘Fevers’ by Joel Homer:

Amazon
Barnes and Noble

Follow the ‘Fevers’ by Joel Homer Tour:

Teddy Rose Book Reviews Plus May 11 Spotlight & Giveaway

Mallory Heart Reviews May 14 Review

What U Talking Bout Willis? May 15 Excerpt

Feel the Need, Need to Read May 19 Review, Excerpt,  & Giveaway

Mom Are We There Yet  May 20 Review

Readers Muse May 25 Review

fuonlyknew May 28 Review & Giveaway

Inspire to Read May 29 Review

Lisa’s Writopia June 2 Review

Celticlady’s Reviews Jun 3 Excerpt

Mary’s Cup of Tea Jun 5 Review (postponed)

Books, Books & More Books Jun 8 Review & Ecerpt

Cyn Harris Jun 15 Excerpt

Deal Sharing Aunt Jun 18 Review

Infinite House of Books June  21 Excerpt

fEVERS

 

 

 

INFINITE HOUSE OF BOOKS FLASHBACK: BLOG TOUR – The Gospel of Wolves

DISCLAIMER: The following has been provided to INFINITE HOUSE OF BOOKS  by Virtual Book Tour Cafe. No compensation has been received for this content. This disclaimer provided by the requirements of the Federal Trade Commission. 

 

ABOUT THE BOOK

gospelofwolves

Everyone is a wolf.

 

But putting the pack first can have different ramifications if you don’t really belong with the pack you’re hunting with in the first place.

 

In The Gospel of Wolves, you delve deep into the heads and hearts of four people who will take risks as they search for where they belong that will force them to make serious choices about the person they are willing to become as they cross paths with some of the cruelest sociopaths the world has to offer to ultimately find out if they are part of the pack or one of the prey.

GUEST POST WITH THE AUTHOR

The Power of Words

20 minutes. That’s all it took, before the itching and tautness of swollen
skin clued me in that I must have been the only supply of blood available to the mosquitos in that wretched forest.

Rivulets of sweat uncomfortably streamed down every crease of skin I owned and even the fragrance of flowers bore a taint. The rot of vegetation couldn’t be completely overpowered.

The lizard part of my brain took this all in and a brief fantasy
materialized where the human quarry I was chasing was hiding in the
refrigerated room of an ice cream shop tucked in a nice suburban strip
mall.

None of what I was experiencing was real, but the scenes painted by the
story I was reading had transported me to the other side of the equator
and dumped me in a place most people would never choose to go, unless
their life depended on it.

I shifted on the couch I was laying on while reading, but as I navigated
through the vines and mud, there was a part of me that couldn’t get
comfortable until the author allowed me to.

This is a big part of what made me fall in love with reading.

The ability to live different lives on a whim.

To travel to exotic places and not worry over baggage fees or stolen
passports.

Then there is that other thing.

The way well written characters can teach us about ourselves.

To make us feel not so alone in the world, because surely if the author
could write a character that we relate to on a deep level, then they must
know something of the personal way we have experienced the world thus far.

In that connection, sometimes I find moments where the world becomes still and silent as I pause in the book and reflect on something I could never quite wrap my mind around, but now with the author’s help, I gained a new understanding about.

It doesn’t matter whether I’m the one writing, or the one reading.

It’s a magic thing to be a part of.

 

EXCERPTS

Excerpt One (300-500 or so Words):

 

“Mommy. I don’t think daddy’s gonna make it.”

It wasn’t just what little Melanie said, it was how she said it that caused Lindsey to duck down to eye level with her daughter before reassuring her. “Don’t be silly, dear. Your father will be here any moment to get us and we’ll be on our way home.”

Melanie didn’t seem convinced. She appeared as if she was listening to someone who was telling her something she didn’t want to hear. Whomever that someone was, it wasn’t her mother. She stayed down at eye level with Melanie a little while longer, brushed some of Melanie’s bangs back under the hood of her coat, then stood upright and looked around the airport receiving area for her husband’s car. They had been waiting for half and hour, but the airport was busy, and with the rain, there were surely traffic. She resisted the urge to pull out her cell phone and call him. After what Melanie said, Lindsey was afraid of doing anything that might encourage her to think that something really was wrong.

It seemed like half of the people driving had bought the exact same make, model, color and year of the car her husband owned. With the sky’s reflection bouncing off of the windshields, the identities of the drivers remained concealed until they drove past her and Melanie. She held her frustration and impatience behind a veneer of calm that was becoming harder and harder to maintain each time she mistakenly thought she had spotted him.

If he doesn’t come in the next five minutes, I’m calling him, Lindsey thought to herself. Knowing that this might upset Melanie further, Lindsey looked down to see how Melanie was fairing to gauge if she needed to provide any additional consoling before the call, but Melanie wasn’t there. Lindsey glanced all around her immediate area, but her daughter was gone.

“Melanie!”

Looking to the parents of a family that had been standing next to them, she asked, “Did you see which way my daughter went? She’s wearing a pink overcoat with the hood up and black stockings?”

Both of the parents gave a quick glance around, then offered sympathetic shrugs.

Lindsey forgot about her luggage and began pushing through the crowd of people yelling her daughter’s name. The amount of people seemed to increase with Lindsey’s anxiety and somehow, they seemed to always manage to be where she was trying to get to and move into the cracks and seams right as Lindsey attempted to peer through to catch a glimpse of where her daughter might be. Irritated by the mass of bodies, she tried stooping down to knee level thinking that looking between legs rather than around torsos might provide more gaps to peer through, but it was a moving forest of limbs that again seemed to move directly into her line of sight as quickly as she could look in a direction.

 

 

 

Excerpt Two (500-800 or so Words):

 

He allowed her to wrap her arms around him and squeeze, before pushing her back to arm’s length. “It’s been what? Eight years? What are you doing now? Are you still painting?” he asked. He injected as much interest as he could into his voice to make up for his lousy greeting.

“I’m a senior account manager with Razor[Gun]. We’re an advertising and branding agency. Not much time for painting anymore, but every now and then I’ll wet a canvas. More importantly, why are you out here rather than in there?” She pointed at the gallery’s open doors.

Some of the pain and embarrassment Lucien was suffering showed on his face. “Senior Account Manager, huh? So you’ve risen to the high ranks.”

A trace of something flashed across her face, but disappeared before Lucien could interpret what it meant, then Lindsey replied while doing a little dance, “Your girl’s got skills, and so do you, so…again, why are we out here,” (Lindsey’s dance ended with both hands pointing at the gallery door) “and not in there?”

Lucien looked around and mentally measured the distance to the nearest group of conversationalists. He leaned in so only she could hear, “I’ve only sold one of my paintings.”

She gave him a look that wasn’t entirely sympathetic. “Toughen up,” she advised and planted a playful fist into his chest. “You have your own solo exhibit. Excuse my insistence that you not wear a skirt and sensible shoes in my presence. Now, enjoy your success and let’s see what you’ve got cookin’ in here.”

As she moved towards the gallery entrance, he stayed where he was. “I’ll be in. Go ahead and browse. Maksym and Oksana are in there. They’ll both be glad to see you.”

He watched her enter the gallery and was pleased that she made her way over to a painting and not to where the food was. Needing to know if she was just trying to be polite, he waited until she approached a second and then a third painting of his before accepting that she was there in genuine support of his work. It was in that moment that Lucien knew that their relationship was real and not just imagined in his head.

He turned away from the gallery and looked up and down the street. There were still a couple clusters of people on the sidewalk outside the gallery, but the Indian girl and her friends had disappeared. He was relieved. It was bad enough not selling many paintings, but it would’ve been worse if he had been beaten up in front of his own opening as well. Lindsey had inadvertently saved him.

He turned to see what painting she was looking at but she wasn’t in the front room anymore. She had gone deeper into the exhibit space. There were three rooms total, showing off the last six months of his work, he wished that he had learned how to enjoy these moments better.

Looking through the floor to ceiling windows separating the gallery from the sidewalk, he counted two people looking at his art. The other 14 he counted in the room were clustered in groups and conversation. He felt he might as well have not created anything at all.

He heard knocking on the window and turned to see a guy in his early 20’s wearing a striped collared shirt, vest and jeans with a pageboy hat waving a ‘come here’ to someone in the gallery. There was another guy standing next to him looking out at the passing traffic. A few seconds later, a couple of pretty girls of the same age came out of the gallery. One of the girls (a red head) asked Pageboy if he got in touch with Peter yet as she crossed the gallery’s threshold.

“Yeah,” Pageboy answered. “He texted me his address. It’s like five minutes from here, so come on.” Pageboy started to walk down the street, confident that they’d follow.

The red head ran awkwardly in her heels to catch up to Pageboy and put her arm around his waist. He leaned down and kissed her. The other guy reminded Pageboy that the car was in the other direction, but Pageboy complained that he wasn’t moving after already paying for parking. Realizing that Pageboy wasn’t going to wait up for them, the guy and his girl hurried from behind to catch up. When they caught up, the guy put his hand in the girl’s back pocket.

Lucien waited until they were two storefronts away before falling in behind them.

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

 

chriswesley

Chris Wesley is the award-winning author of the fiction book The Gospel of Wolves, the short fiction story Regret in Triptych and the poetry book Pack Animals. He uses his fine art photography as prompts for character sketches and settings in his fiction along with gallery shows. He has written for the music magazine Night Moves Magazine, acted in independent movies and plays; wrote, cast, directed, shot and edited an independent short movie, started bands and gone solo. He plays a few instruments and is generally considered a smart ass. He also has a thing for how we connect with each other and with ourselves.

 

Author Links – The link for any or all of the following…

Website: https://www.chriswesley.com

Blog: https://www.chriswesley.com/engage

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/chris.wesley.live

Twitter: www.twitter.com/chriswesleylive

Pinterest: http://www.pinterest.com/chriswesleylive/

Linkedin: https://www.linkedin.com/in/chriswesleycreates/

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/Chriswesley

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/author/chriswesley

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