Family and medical crises, and big life changes, have a way of taking a person’s schedule and tossing it out the window. Thankfully, once the dust settles and new routines are established, a manageable rhythm emerges. Sort of.
My mom has healed physically from her mastectomy, and seems to be coping well emotionally. She’s cheery, and chatty, and I’m grateful, as here on the farm we’re all still feeling our way as we balance personal, work, and social lives with my MIL’s needs, just as she’s learning to adjust to us, and her new life and routine here. Challenging as it’s been, it’s also been wonderful.
Seeing my husband and his mom at the kitchen island chopping vegetables for dinner, or as they were on Christmas Eve, sipping beer and singing as they mix homemade nuts & bolts, fills me with joy. And we all take pleasure from our Friday night strolls to the pub for dinner, and Saturday night snuggles on the sofa with popcorn to watch a movie. There’s much to embrace in our new lifestyle, and embrace it we will for as long as we’re able.
In honor of the strength found in learning to adapt, and to celebrate the calm gradually diluting the emotional and physical upheaval of 2019, here’s a wee snippet from each of the WIPs I’m working on…
From, My One True Love, copyright 2019 Deborah Small, all rights reserved…
Miss Alma collected up the dishes once more, before casting a scowl at the envelope she’d placed on the table. She looked at Margaret, her expression softening to one of apology, if not despair. “I am so sorry you’re having to deal with that snake, Mrs. Sweeney. Sorry young Mr. Sweeney left you with all this.”
“If by all this, you mean yourself, and Coral, Rufus, and Magnus, Mr. Banner, Maisie, and everyone else at Sugar Hill, then there’s no reason for regret. You’ve all made me feel so at home. As to young Mr. Griffiths…” She offered Miss Alma a brave smile. “Into every beautiful garden, a little rain must fall.”
And from the second book in my Honorable Hearts series featuring Bradshaw’s brother, Conor… Excerpt, A Lady for the Laird, copyright 2019, Deborah Small, All rights reserved.
Conor leaned forward. “I think I know how we might draw her out.”
“Draw who—oh, right. The girl.” Tru flicked a glance at the study door, before leaning in as well. “How?”
“A reward.”
“Reward?” Tru’s gaze darted to the door again. “For confessing?”
“No.” Conor sat back, and took another sip of the drink—Frowning, he rolled the liquid around in his mouth. “This is David’s blend,” he said.
“What? Oh. Yes.” Tru smiled, and for the first time since Conor had found him in his surgery, seemed to relax. “Bradshaw sent me home with a dozen bottles following Lady Helene’s birth.”
It was Conor’s turn to tense as his throat closed, stalling the whisky mid-swallow. He force it down, and coughing, set his glass aside. “It’s too harsh,” he said. “Needs another year or two.”
Tru’s eyebrows lifted, and he frowned at his glass like he was confused by its presence in his hand. “You think so?” He took another sip, and lips pursed gazed at the liquid remaining in his glass as he worked the mouthful over his tongue.
Conor used Tru’s temporary distraction to gather himself, and shake off the melancholia that had assaulted him hearing his niece’s name.
Eventually he’d grow accustomed to his niece bearing his mother’s name and hearing it spoken aloud would no longer send painful needles of shock through his chest. That hadn’t happened yet, and he expected he’d need to spend more time in the tot’s company hearing Lady Helene used in reference to her, to develop an immunity, much the way he needed to see the mystery woman minus her mask, and thus dull his curiosity regarding her.
Everyone’s future is, in reality, uncertain and full of unknown treasures from which all may draw unguessed prizes.
~Lord Dunsany
