MIDNIGHT SUPPER AT THE RISE AND SHINE
by Tara Woolpy
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BLURB:
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She’d be the first one to admit she has faults, but she’s not a bigot. The genetic pool in her nuclear family spans the globe. And it’s not that she’s prejudiced against people with disabilities but that doctors and wheelchairs give her the heebie-jeebies. So when a cute guy in a chair keeps showing up in the restaurant, she’s clumsy, awkward and strangely drawn. Can Irene let go of the past or is she too emotionally broken to find a future worth the risk?
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EXCERPT:
I pedaled hard against the feeling of the day. After all these years. The morning air pulled up goose bumps on my arms. I pushed harder. A patrol car passed me. A station wagon pulling a fishing boat went the other way, a sleepy father at the wheel. Two sons stared at me from the back seat. As a boy, Adam had loved to fish with his uncle Paul. He would have adored fishing with his father. I squeezed my eyes shut at the memory of Greg in the back of that damned ancient rowboat. He’d found it wrecked and abandoned and had spent the spring of our junior year in high school patching it. Crusty glue had built up on his fingers, and I still remembered the scrape across my skin.
I turned onto the cliff road. As a truck rushed by, a spray of gravel bit my leg. The hill grew steeper. My legs began to ache. My breath came in gasps. Old and out of shape. When we were young, we flew up the hill, arriving at the park sweaty and laughing. Now I was inching along. Alone. I gave up, got off the bike, and walked it to the turnoff, ignoring the rush of wind and dust that whirled around me with each passing car.
This early in the morning the picnic tables were all empty. Beyond the cliff, sunlight colored the lake slate blue. I walked to the cliff edge, dropped my bike, and sat on the dew-wet grass. July 29th. I pulled up a handful of dirt and tossed it, watching the clod break up as it fell. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Twenty-four years ago. Soon I would officially have been a widow for half my life. Ten thirty-seven New York time was still a few hours away. I lay back on the grass. A single puffy cloud drifted from the west. For a moment I imagined I could see Greg’s face in the cloud. Except I couldn’t quite remember what he looked like.
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AUTHOR Bio and Links:
Contact information:
Email – tlwoolpy@gmail.com
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For more about the Lacland books—www.batsintheboathouse.com
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Thanks for hosting!
ReplyDeleteThanks for having me on the blog today!
ReplyDeleteSounds like a great book, thanks for sharing!
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