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“Why do they force us to endure this?” I complained, my heavy-lidded eyes struggling to stay open as I watched the couple seated in front of me, their eight children scattered around them. Two young children had taken to climbing on the only other empty seat, the rest were crawling around at their feet playing tag, and the woman was currently nuzzling the man’s ear as if she wouldn’t mind making a ninth before the ship even left port.

 “So you don’t fall off the boat and die.” My mom laughed, rolling her eyes at me. I looked around at the diverse group of faces gathered at our shared Muster Station, D. They all looked about as anxious as I felt to get to the pool deck and wave goodbye to real life for five whole days, tequila in hand.

 “Now, if you will all just follow me to the life boats, we can conclude the safety briefing.” The squeaking voice tried desperately to maintain control as it rose from somewhere in the midst of the crowd.

 “No. I don’t wanna take a field trip, unless it’s to the bar and my packed lunch is a margarita.” I complained.

 My mom raised her eyebrows at me, smiling. “It’s only for a few more minutes. Honestly, you’re as bad as half the kids here.”

  We followed the disembodied voice, forming our very best attempts at a line, and headed out to the deck. I found my very own ten inches of space to lean up against the wall and rest my eyes. I had just gotten comfortable when I felt someone bump into me.

  “Oh, pardon me.” The woman said, as my eyes flew open.

  “Oh, it’s fine. No worries.” I smiled, readjusting myself.

  I was just about to settle back into my corner when I glanced down the breezeway, and spotted him. He was leaning toward a man with dark hair, whom I recognized as one of the guys who had been walking beside him in the café. He was laughing heartily at something the man had said. That smile.

   I stepped away from the wall and into his line of vision, just as a voice came over the loud speaker to announce the conclusion of the safety briefing. He turned away from me to follow his friends before I could catch his eye, and I felt my mom tug my arm in the opposite direction. I tried to look behind me, but the crowd was growing too boisterous over the excitement that our vacation was about to truly begin. I had lost him once again.

***

   It was truly baffling to me that someone I had barely any knowledge of above the fact that he existed, could stay with me like this. It felt crazy, and I began to question my sanity as I lifted my cover-up over my head. I prided myself on being logical, always making sure to never get lost in romantic notions, because I’ve seen one too many times just how “well” romantic fantasies can turn out.

  But still.

 My mom caught sight of my puzzled expression and asked me what was up. I explained to her about the man I had seen, twice now, and how his face had lit up the first time we laid eyes on each other. Just the way she had said they would, I admitted grudgingly.

   My mom smiled to herself. “You know, I had the same feeling when I met your dad.  He was sitting a few chairs in front of me at a country dance bar in downtown Indianapolis. He kept glancing over his shoulder at me and oh, what a smile. Of course that night, I was with my friend Janna, who caught the attention of a lot of men during that time, so I figured he was smiling at her. He wasn’t. I went to the restroom and when I came out a few minutes later, he was gone. This inexplicable panic suddenly overcame me. It made no sense. I thought to myself, ‘What if I never see him again? Why does it matter so much?’ I had no explanation for it whatsoever. All I really knew, was that I felt if he didn’t come back, I had missed out on something amazing. And, well, as you know, I would have.” She winked at me.

   She was talking about my stepdad, but the only dad to me, and the best man I knew. He had raised me since I was seven, and he and my mom shared something special, almost on an otherworldly level. Granted, they never missed a chance to purposely gross me out with their PDA that could rival any pair of teenagers going through puberty, but they are my parents, and it’s kind of in their job description to embarrass me. Even so, for the last nineteen years I had watched my mom’s face glow whenever his car pulled into the driveway, and I always thought to myself, I want a love like theirs. I swore to myself I wouldn’t settle for anything less.

    We made our way up to the tenth deck, and I reveled in the chance to finally relax by the pool. I spread out my towel and leaned back in my chair, basking in the glow of the mere prospect of nothing on the agenda but relaxation for the next week. I didn’t need to worry about love. I didn’t need to worry about wishy-washy friends. Come what may, I was as free as the tropical breeze caressing my cheek.

   “Yes, I will have a Rum Runner and my daughter will have a…what did you want, sweetie?”

   “Sex on the Beach. The drink of course,” I explained, my lips pulling into a half smile as my mom gave my arm a light slap. I raised my eyebrows over my sunglasses with an innocent, “What? I’m on vacation,” and smiled at the waiter. Just then, a flash of blue at the corner of my eye caught my attention, and I glanced down toward the pool on the deck below.

   My pulse quickened as he rounded the pool, alongside his two buddies. As I watched him make his way up the spiral staircase to the deck where I was sitting, my mind raced. How do I get him to notice me again? I couldn’t let him pass by a third time without at least trying. Wait, what? Who cares? You do, stupid. No. Yes. Go! Suddenly and without thinking, I stood up and whipped off my neon pink bathing suit cover-up, just as he and his friends approached.

   “This looks like a good spot,” I heard him say, as he nodded toward me.

   They settled their towels onto three lounge chairs just a few feet away. I settled back into my chair and listened to him order a bucket of beer from the pool boy. I tried to pay attention to the words coming out of my mom’s mouth, but all the while I couldn’t help but keep my ears trained to the boys’ conversation.

   Now, I could drum up every cliché in in my limited memory of English literature, spout off every Shakespearean sonnet that I could scrape out from the corners of my dusty memory, and still the words would feel too inadequate to describe what happened next.

    I know that the right words are inside of me somewhere. Elusively floating through my mind and allowing only brief, tantalizing flashes of recognition, like a horde of teasing fireflies on a hot summer’s eve. But something is blocking them from showing themselves at full force, and I don’t pretend to not know what that something is.

     Fear.

     I am afraid to tell you of the moment when I first met him.

     Putting the feelings into words would only make them more real, and would make it impossible to continue running from them. Admitting them would mean admitting that it wasn’t all in my imagination. Something inexplicable did happen to me. That may very well never happen again. That what my heart reminds me of every night is in fact more than true. That if happiness were a tangible thing, I have tasted it, touched it, breathed it in to the far reaches of forever, only to be banished from it, yet cursed to always remember. Admitting the truth of what happened to me would bring to painful light the fact that any sort of love that must have once held meaning in my life, was never truly real. Which would be a sad thought if I could’ve, at that moment, remembered knowing any person at all besides the man that sat so near, uttering those first beautiful words to me:

     “Would you like a beer? You look like you need a beer.”

     My heart leapt into my throat, rendering me incapable of forming sentences for a full five seconds as I realized I had been caught staring.

     “Er, uh….” I mumbled eloquently as I grasped the Bud from his outstretched hand, the bottle nearly slipping from my fingers as the condensation mingled with the clamminess of my nervous palm.

      “Take it.” My mom whispered, as she nudged my arm more forcefully than she’d intended. Subtlety was never her strong suit.

     “Ma, I got this.” I hissed over my shoulder.

     “Is this your mom?” He asked, his lips drawing upward into a knowing half-smile, his warm brown eyes sparkling as my mom leaned around me to introduce herself.

     “We decided to take this vacation together because when she was four years old, I promised her that if she stuck it out and graduated college, I’d take her on a week-long cruise and she has never let me forget it,” my mom said, smiling at me. Sure, mom, just launch right into my life story, starting with the barely-out-of-diapers years. Yayness.

     “Well, I have to hear this story.” He said, climbing over two deck chairs and settling himself inches from me.

     “Now she has two degrees and a job that drives her crazy. I get a call one day on her lunch break and she goes, ‘Mom, I just can’t take it anymore! I need a vacation. Hey, you know, about that cruise you promised me twenty-two years ago…”

     “Ha, yeah…I was having a rough day and needed some air.”

     “The Bahamas sure are a good choice for a little breathing room, lemme tell ya.” He giggled, a kind of laugh I’d never heard coming from a man before. Especially not one that possessed a six-foot five, muscular as all get-out frame such as his. I normally found myself attracted to manly men (which, honestly leaves me no excuse whatsoever for the last Nancy I dated), and giggling wasn’t the usual sort of laugh I considered to be a manly trait. But for some reason, the sound was enchanting coming from this man’s lips.

     “Oh look, there goes the guy with the island drinks. I think I’m thirsty. Be back later.” Mom said, shooting me a sly wink as she ran to chase down the unsuspecting pool boy. I glanced down the glass sitting beside the leg of her chair, filled to the brim, its tiny little umbrella swaying in the wind. I smiled to myself and turned in my chair to face the man who held his hand out for me to take.

     “Hey there. I’m Mike.”

***

     “So…”

     “What?”

     “How was it? He’s the guy, right?” My mom sat forward expectantly, taking a sip of her sparkling Moscato. I rested my chin in the palm of hand, my eyes growing heavy once again.

     “Eh, you know,” I shrugged my shoulders nonchalantly, a weary smile spreading across my face. “Ain’t no thing but a chicken wing. Amiright?”

     “Oh, I’m sure.” My mom laughed, tossing her white cloth napkin at my face.

     “We just talked for a little bit by the pool.”

     “A little bit? I was gone for two and a half hours.”

     “Was it that long? It didn’t seem like it.

     She smiled knowingly. “I finally had to come back to get you so you wouldn’t starve.”

     “Wow. It seemed like only a few minutes. He’s a country boy from Georgia. And he giggles. Did I tell you he giggles?”

     “Yes, you mentioned it a few times.” She grinned.

      “It’s the coolest sound.”

     “Yes, you mentioned that, too.”

     “And he’s a fireman…”

     “A giggling fireman?”

     “It’s the cutest thing.”

     “But this thing ain’t none but a chicken wing, right?”

     “Right.”

     “I see.”

“He wanted me to join them in some bar somewhere on the ship for the Georgia-Florida game, but I’m really tired.” I said, my head beginning to slip off my hand.

     “That’s probably best, isn’t it? You’d have been torn as to who to root for, wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t want to make your new boyfriend mad.”

     “Mom, it’s the Gators…nobody likes the Gators. Floridians don’t even like the Gators…” I felt a sudden jolt as she tapped me on the arm with her spoon. “What? What happened…what?”

     “You’re falling asleep on your steak. Do you need to go back to the room?”

     “Yeah, I think I’m going to turn in for the night.” I glanced at my watch. 8:30. “Wow, if I hurry I can catch the Golden Girls. Just slap some nylons on me and call me Dorothy.”

     “Dorothy? At the rate you’re going with these guys, I think Blanche would be more appropriate.”

     “It’s sad that I get that reference. On second thought, a tiny little romance couldn’t hurt.”

If I am truly honest with myself, my deep need to roam began after I met you, and I realized I could never scrape you from my memory. I’d wander from place to place, never staying for too long, all the while knowing, but refusing to admit that I was looking for you. I was running from you, and yet running toward you. Where I really wanted to be was right back there on that island, yet I never want to see it again. Because I know that if I ever go back there, back to the place where the sunset kisses the water, you won’t be there. I will only be left standing at the water’s edge, alone, searching the horizon for your shadow.

I knew it. I knew that once I was home, I would miss the mountains so badly that it would eat away at me, little by little, each day. Maybe not to the point of being noticeable at first. Lately, I’ve been so busy with a job that I’m in love with, seeing old friends, and running around in the Florida Sunshine to keep my mind off what I’m missing. But late at night, when I’m fast asleep, I dream of it. I dream of the cool mountain breeze, I dream of the people that I met, and the life-changing experiences that I had. The ones that took so much out of me, that that they stole a piece of my heart that I fear I may never have back. How do you consider yourself whole again, once you’ve left bits and pieces of yourself around the world?

By day, I have an amazing job that makes me feel wonderful inside; I have a beautiful office with a view of the water. I get to dress up like the business woman I’ve always dreamed of being, in my don’t-mess-with-me heels, and my let’s-make-a-deal suit. By day, I’m Arielle the Marketing Specialist, working for a company I whole-heartedly believe in, with a team that feels like home. I do what I love, I love what I do, and I get to sit at my desk and create to my heart’s content. But by night…

In my dreams, I go back. In my dreams, I’m eating a Subway sandwich on the banks of my beautiful, peaceful, crystal-clear Jenny Lake. In my dreams, I’m leaning out the window of a muddy red jeep, pushing back tree branches because the road is so narrow that one inch over, and we’re running into trees and bushes and leaving the kinds of dents and scratches that you really can’t explain to Dad. In my dreams, I’m carrying a pail out to the well to hand-crank the pump, and fill it up with water. In my dreams, I’m driving down the endless stretch of Grey’s River Road, and leaning out the window to watch the dust fly into the air, clouding so thick that it chokes you. I see myself grabbing the “Oh dear Lord Handle” and leaning out the window nervously from 8,000 feet up the edge of a mountain, exploring those hardcore trails with nothing between us and the ground because, guardrails? Them’s for sissies. I see myself shirking the seatbelt, because to hell with safety. If we’re going tumbling over the side of that mountain, what good will it do us, anyway?

I see myself climbing up Intermittent Spring, and, I won’t pretend to be a hero…I never did make it to the top, because, well, baby steps. But I made it far enough to raise eyebrows, and that’s good enough for me. I made it far enough to have a “special spot” that was a little cut out rock oasis, with a natural rock shaped like a seat, where only those brave enough (me) could go and sit and ponder life, as you watch one of only three springs in the WORLD do its intermittin’ thang.

I see myself running into the wide open spaces. Then I see myself being out of breath of course, because, well, altitude. I see myself stopping and lying back on the grass, and wincing with pain because of course I just sat right down on a thistle. Then I see myself leaning back on my tattered backpack, staring up at the early morning sky and listening to a hawk’s cry overhead.

Yes, I’m fickle, and let’s just get that bit of truth out of the way. I like what I like, I love what I love, and I won’t who I don’t. I want security, but I crave my independence. I want to be loved, but I want to be free. I want to be protected, but I want to fight for myself. In public, I will probably never say a word. But in my heart, I’m wild and untamed, and that will never change. I will always go with what my heart tells me, no matter what words may fall out of the mouths of those who try to caution me. This I know, and in my experience it’s always brought me more good than harm. So still, I go with it.

I always thought that one day, I’d tell my side of the story of what happened that summer. I sat back and watched as I was called names, and blasted publicly all over social media because I had the strength to leave a bad situation that manifested out of necessity. Truth be told, I’ve been through worse, felt more deeply, and still, I keep going. And that’s just it: that’s all there is to tell. Some say I snuck out. That may be so. I had a boyfriend, and it wasn’t right. So one day, while he was at work, I took the car, rented my own, hopped a plane, and found my way back home. Call it what you will. I call it the beginning of everything.

I fell in love with so many people, places, and things that summer. And like many other rare experiences I hold close to my heart, I will never, ever scrape the memories of that summer from my soul. Why would I want to, anyway? I’ve lived. And that, in and of itself, is a precious gift.

It was author Lisa Cron that once said, “Storytelling trumps beautiful writing, every time.” For this reason, I gave Sarah Rayne’s The Bell Tower five blazing stars. Which is not to say that Rayne’s writing wasn’t beautiful, intriguing, and utterly absorbing, because it was. However, there were a few inconsistencies throughout the novel, and let’s just say, the punishment never fit the crime. But hey, when was there ever a Gothic novel in the history of existence that didn’t involve bawdy, over-dramatized terror, and salacious horror? And as far as over-dramatized, the plot fell just below my, “I can’t take this, but I love it” line.

The Bell Tower is the sixth, and Dear Lord please not the last, book in Sarah Rayne’s Michael Flint/Nell West Haunted House Mystery series. The novel opens with a revival of the Revels, an ancient monastic tradition in a small village on the Dorset coast. After a hundred years has passed, all that remains of the original monastery is an ancient, Gothic, and all-out creepy bell tower, home to the equally ancient, massive, and of course “dead” bell. The tower is situated near the creatively-named “Cliff House,” a dilapidated mansion situated on, well, a cliff. We find our heroine and her dashing, Oxford don hero preparing to travel for a long weekend of festivities filled with music, dancing, and, of course, ancient murder mysteries and madness, that, of course, somehow has direct ties back to (where else?) Nell West’s very own home and antique shop.

The tone throughout the novel was suspenseful throughout, without being too-over-the-top, and when any terrifying situation came to its horrific conclusion it was more like, “gee, well… that escalated quickly.” But the story kept me engrossed, fascinated, and I read it in less than twenty-four hours, and for that reason, I fell in love with this novel despite its few and far-between flaws. Isn’t that what true love is all about?

1943. Amidst his life in a war-torn city, Max Carver’s father, the local watchmaker and Max’s namesake, announces that he is immediately uprooting his family to live in a dilapidated old mansion on the coast. Max, a city boy, is not at all pleased with his father’s decision, and his gloomy attitude grows ever darker as he soon discovers that his new house is steeped in tragic history. Upon Max’s discovery of an overgrown garden filled with eerily familiar stone statues, Max and his sister, Alicia, are propelled directly into the path of the mysterious, fog-shrouded being known as The Prince of Mist. Along with their new friend, Roland, the grandson of the local lighthouse keeper, the three friends set out to uncover the mystery of the creature, and his connection to the old estate, a mystery that all seems to center on the tragedy of one little boy who drowned there over a decade ago.

This book was the first published by one of my favorite authors, Carlos Ruiz Zafon, and it shows.  The book grew disappointing fairly early on, when it became apparent that the plot lacked any rhyme or reason. As the characters moved through solving the mystery at the heart of the novel, their minds continuously surmised that the clues would eventually “fall into place and make sense.” However, though I faithfully waited, holding to the promise of a satisfying conclusion, I was sorely disappointed.

Though the well-known and loved Carlos Ruiz Zafon of the Shadow of the Wind gothic archetype tries to emerge from the depths through some of the atmospheric descriptions, the book still reads more like a short story passed around in a creative writing class, rather than a novel. The complex plot seems too-simply written, even for the Young Adult genre. “Susie said ‘hello’ to Sally. Sally sat down next to Susie.” This happened, and then this. Boom, boom, boom. Check and mate. I was so annoyed with the plot by the time that the tenth chapter rolled around, that I honestly was not surprised with, nor did I care about the outcome. In fact, I felt I was given very little time to care about any of the characters at all.

As I said before, the book has an overly complex plot, creating so many questions, and leaving its readers with very few of them answered. At times it seems as if the reader is flung head-first into a scene, with very little to grab onto. One idea after another was strung together, with very little to connect each detail to the next. In short, this story could stand to be more developed.

Carlos, oh Carlos, I still love you. And I am bearing in mind that this was your first novel. For a love such as the one I have for your books doesn’t hold on to the past. So, that being said, your past is exactly that, in the past, and now that I’ve read it, I’m going to leave it there.

 

A darkened wood. The rustling of leaves behind you. Shadowy ghosts slipping from the waters. Cries in the night. These are the sounds that will chill your bones as you race through the new adrenaline-pumping, fast-paced thriller by Calvin Demmer.

Lara Adams and her college boyfriend, Ray, are in a rut. Ray’s charismatic charm that had first made him irresistible to her, has begun to dim. So the couple agree to on an adventure as a last-ditch effort to revive their deadened relationship. They travel overseas to China, in what is to be Lara’s first, and possibly last, trek abroad. It isn’t long before the pair find themselves lost in a dense wood, at the height of the Zhong Yuan Jie, or “The Hungry Ghost festival”. It isn’t long before the pair are forced to pull themselves away from their petty issues, and smacked in the face with real, life-threatening drama.

The character structure and development was well-rounded for such a short story. You get a good sense of the dynamic between Lara and Ray, and begin to feel Lara’s disgust and frustration almost from the start of the book, as you tire of their lifeless relationship right along with her. So many questions ran through my mind as I devoured Lara’s plight. I would love to see this story developed into a full-length novel, complete with answers to questions that this intriguing story stirred up in my mind: What city in China are they in exactly (so that if, I ever have the money, I know to definitely never spend it on a trip there), and a more detailed history of this mysterious festival. Where did it originate from?  Is there a legend? What about the former lives of these now-ghosts? After all, they were once human, feeling creatures themselves…

I have very few negative things to say about this book. Despite the few spelling and grammatical errors, the story quickly picks up the pace, and keeps the reader hooked to the finish.

I was nominated by the lovely Medha of @coffeeandmusings (www.coffeeandmusings.com) to do this survey for the #bookqanda tag. It’s harder than it looks to pick a favorite!

Favorite genre: Easy! Gothic Horror! I’ve recently been reading more of the classics, but I love any gothic mystery whose plot moves between the past and the present.

Jenny Han or Stephanie Perkins: I honestly haven’t read either. BUT that just means that I have 2 new authors to check out! New books to discover = yayness!

Favorite Summer read: the Michael Flint/Nell West series by Sarah Rayne

Favorite setting: the cliffs of Cornwall!

Most relatable character: Nuria Montfort’s love life in The Shadow of the Wind

Bad Boy v. Funny Boy: Funny boy. Definitely. There’s always a draw to the sexiness of a bad boy, but if he doesn’t have a sense of humor, I’ll get bored with him.

Must read: The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon

Marry, Kiss, Kill: Marry: Michael Flint, from the Michael Flint/Nell West gothic mystery series by Sarah Rayne. Kiss: Julian Carax, from The Shadow of the Wind. Kill: Every character in The Eaton by John K. Addis and then set the book on fire.

A hunched, shadowy figure who watches from the cobwebbed stairs of a house that kills…this is the mystery at the heart of Sarah Rayne’s Property of a Lady, the first book in the captivating Michael Flint/Nell West gothic mystery series.

We first meet literary professor Michael Flint, and his ornery cat Wilberforce, in his ancient, stuffy rooms at Oriel College in Oxford. Michael opens an e-mail from his one-time schoolmate and American friend, Jack, who’s wife has had the fortune of recently becoming the next heir to Charect House in Shropshire. The family, previously unaware that they even had relatives in England, ask Michael to visit the house in person and research its vast history before they decide whether to sell it or move in. What happens next is a series of unexplained happenings and gruesome discoveries that make up Sarah Rayne’s deliciously satisfying homage to the classic British ghost story.

Jack’s wife, Liz, cannot be swayed from selling a historic country manor in the English countryside without first experiencing the romance of it. Thus, Jack finds himself dependent upon Michael’s research skills. Simultaneously, Jack contacts Nell West, a young and newly-widowed antique dealer in Marston Lacy, the town on the outskirts of where the house is located. The action is sudden and intense during Michael and Nell’s inevitable first meeting. It soon becomes apparent that Nell’s daughter, Beth, is having similarly vivid nightmares that complement the visions that Jack’s young daughter, Ellie, is suffering from across the world. When Beth disappears, and Jack and Liz decide to come across the pond to Charect House in an attempt to save Ellie from the increasingly vivid nightmares, the real terror escalates.

Now, the premise of this Gothic ghost story may seem cozy at first sight, but things are not always as they appear. One of the aspects that draws me so deeply into Sarah Rayne’s writing is that she incorporates surprisingly shocking moments that make you regret reading her books late at night. She lures you in with a false security that you’ve got a cozy mystery in your hands until, bam! You just can’t wipe out that gruesome figure from your mind’s eye, and no blanket can keep you warm against the unexpected chill she just sent down your back.

Shhh…I’m Telling You a Secret (Pt. 1) 

Shhh…I’m Telling You a Secret (Pt. 2)

Shhh…I’m Telling You a Secret (Pt. 3)

Shhh…I’m Telling You a Secret (Pt.4)

Shhh…I’m Taking You Into the Land of the Sea and Sun (A Secret Pt. 5)….