A figure sat on the stoop of the house in Madison Valley where I lived, lowered head resting on knees hugged tightly together, face obscured. Gravity pulled the straight short blond hair down toward the blue-jeaned thighs so it splayed out like a dust mop. A Raggedy Andy gargoyle guarding the entrance. I didn’t believe in ghosts. What haunted me in the dead of night were memories, emotions unexpressed, thoughts left unsaid. Those bitter siblings, regret and remorse, whispering in my ear. Ice water ran down my spine and filled the hollow space in my chest, making me wonder if I should rethink my beliefs. “Cole?” I wasn’t sure I actually spoke the word aloud. The shaggy head rose. A delicate hand brushed aside the fringe, revealing the face of an attractive doe-eyed woman with a heart-shaped mouth. Ann, not Andy. A pixie face, like Twiggy’s or Hepburn’s—Audrey, not Kate—that didn’t come close to resembling Cole’s. A burning sensation erupted from the raw, red scar that remained where he’d been ripped out of my life. Do NOT read this book if you consider the label on your morning cereal box great literature. "A great, great read! NIGHT TIDE is on my (very) short list for 2013 awards.” – Timothy Hallinan, author of The Fame Thief tinyurl/nrzlp6x
Posted on: Tue, 08 Oct 2013 23:09:04 +0000
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