Author Mary Verdick

The Darkest Day

noreply@blogger.com (M.Verdick) — Mon, 07 Nov 2011 16:24:00 +0000

He was just five days old when we brought him home from the hospital, a beautiful little boy, perfect in every way. My husband and I had been trying for nine long years to have a child and had gone through all the procedures with no luck--so finding this adorable child to adopt was for us truly a gift from God.

He instantly became part of our family and was loved and cherished by two sets of grandpaents and numerous aunts, uncles, and cousins, as every day he grew in our hearts. He had a great sense of humor and loved to tell jokes, the loonier the better, but even when he was naughty, which he was sometimes being human, there was never anything mean or crafty about him. His laugh was contagious and even at his most mischievousness no one could stay angry with him long. He was a real charmer and when he said, "Hey, Mom, did I remember to tell you that I loved you today?" of course I melted and forgave him any indiscretion. As he grew our house was filled with lots of boisterous boys and later girls, who shyly confessed they thought my son was "cool". He had loads of friends and was popular, but he never let it go to his head. He simply loved people and even as a small child had a rare gift for compassion. He loved animals, too, and was always brtinging home stray dogs and cats, and if someone was hurt or in trouble he was the first to offer a hand.

Am I making him sound like Mr. Perfect? Well, of course he wasn't, but he worked hard at whatever task was set before him. He also smoked and drank, but not to excess in any way. Actually he hadn't smoked for quite a while when he got sick and they diagnosed it as lung cancer. He had an operation and went through chemo and we prayed everything was going to be fine. But then he took a turn for the worst and died quite suddenly. I didn't know half the people who came to his funeral he touched so many lives, but I'll always remember the things they said about him. Like the woman who told me she had no place to stay until my son took her in and let her sleep on his couch until she got on her feet. Or the young man who said he was headed for prison until my son got him off drugs, loaned him money, and helped him find a job.

One of the last things my son said to me, when I think he suspected he was dying, was, "I always wanted to leave my mark on the world, Mom, but I guess I missed." And I replied, "Oh, no, my darling. You left your mark in untold hearts, and that's a legacy anyone can be proud of." So my darkest day wasn't quite as dark as it could have been.

Just One of Those Things

noreply@blogger.com (M.Verdick) — Sun, 04 Sep 2011 14:48:00 +0000

I told my friend I'd call her and we'd decide on a date for lunch. I then got the flu and was sick as a dog. Lyig in bed, flat on my back, the phone rang and my friend said, from the restaurant, "For goodness sake, where are you? I thought we were meeting for lunch." Well, I still don't remember that we had set a definite date, but she insists we did. Of course I couldn't help wondering if that was a sign of early dementia on my part.

Then right in the middle of my novel writing one day, and in quite an exciting chapter (I thought), suddenly my printer stopped working. I tried everything to get it going again, but no luck, so finally I called the printer company. Their technician couldn't solve the problem either, so he said they'd send me a new printer. I thanked him and a few days later, just out of curiosity, tried the printer again and you guessed it--suddenly the darn thing worked just fine. I immediately called the printer company back to cancel the order, but too late; a new printer was already on the way. The nice young man on the other end of the line said when the printer arrived I must find the return slip, fill it out, and arrange for a pickup, easier said than done. To find the return slip, which naturally was at the very bottom of this huge box, I had to unpack everything first which was quite a job in itself. I thought of keeping the new printer, just in case something went wrong again, but was told that unless I wanted to be charged for another printer I had to repack and send the first one back. By then I was quite frustrated, as you can imagine. But finally I managed to get everything squared away and thought I could relax, only to learn that was wishful thinking.

To my dismay Hurricane Irene was on its way! I was without lights and power for several days, and some in my state, Connecticut, are still in the dark, so I know I'm lucky. But flipping a light switch and nothing happens in a sobering experience. Makes you appreciate what those people who lived in the days of "Little House on the Prairie" went through daily and survived. At least I didn't lose my home or my livelihood as many did during the storm and I'm very thankful for that. I think the biggest challenge was keeping my sense of humor. Kept telling myself as I munched on peanut butter sandwiches for dinner and tried to read by flashlight that this, too, would pass--and it did. After all, it was just one of those things.

Ladies Who Lunch

noreply@blogger.com (M.Verdick) — Sat, 16 Jul 2011 19:31:00 +0000

Many years ago I remember reading an article about a group of Society women in New York who daily met for lunch at classy upscale restaurants like the Stork Club, and one of them (already reed slim, according to the article) never ordered anything but Perrier and a sliced tomato, because she wanted to stay that way I guess. Anyway being younger and more critical I remember thinking at the time, "How silly! Can't they think of anything better to do?"

Now fast forward a few years and it suddenly occurred to me that I spend a lot of time lately going to lunch with my "lady" friends, too--three times last week to be exact. And what do we talk about?--only everything under the sun: our kids and grandkids, the price of gas, why in the world Congress can't get on the ball and do something, ANYTHING, God help us! Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

We don't solve anything, of course, but if you have a problem there's always a sympathetic ear to listen, and if something's really bothering you it's a good place to get it off your chest. My friends and I are not Society, with a capital S, and the restaurants we go to are varied and not particularly upscale, but it's lot of fun and we share a warm ambiance in just being together. Best of all there's no work involved like having people to dinner. That's lovely, too, but for gals of a certain age all that cooking and cleaning up afterwards has more or less lost its charm. We've done it, lo these many years, and now most of my friends and I agree that now it's somebody else's turn, mostly the kids', to do the honors. So we go out to lunch a couple of times a week, and heaven forbid, we'd ever dream of ordering just a Perrier and a tomato. We have a right jolly old time and therefore I guess (almost before I knew it), I've become one of the "ladies who lunch" and I love it. Does that make me terribly provincial? I wonder.

My 101-year-old bundle of sunshine

noreply@blogger.com (M.Verdick) — Mon, 27 Jun 2011 17:16:00 +0000

Today I was feeling kind of grumpy, or as my mom used to say, maybe I got up on the wrong side of the bed. It's been raining on and off for a week (wasn't summer supposed to start on the 21st?) and it's been so chilly I've had to turn on the heat a few times. Then a company I don't want to do business with is trying to charge me almost a hundred dollars for a package I returned that they say they didn't get (fortunately I have the return slip) and my granddaughter's birthday present didn't arrive on time. So I was just about ready to throw in the towel when I went out to lunch with Betty, my 101-year-old friend.

Barely five feet tall and weighing less than a hundred pounds, Betty is a real dish, as my son would say. She has a headful of curly white hair and big, twinkling blue eyes that sparkle, and a smile that's irrisistible. "Hello, doll," she always says when she sees me. "You look absolutely smashing today. New dress? Red (or blue or green or whatever the case may be) is definitely your color. Now where should we go for lunch on this really splendid day?"

So we get in the car and as we drive along she compliments me on what a nice car I have and how pleasant it is to travel with a good driver. We arrive at the restaurant, any one of a dozen downtown, but chosen mainly because, praise be, I can find a parking spot, but Betty, of course, isn't surprised. We go inside and are seated and start perusing the menu. "Hard to decide. Doesn't everything sound delicious?" Betty says. The waiter tells us the specials of the day and we order, and it isn't long before pilgrims begin coming to our table. Not just the waiter or the young man filling the water goblets or the owner of the place, but often perfect strangers who just happen to be passing by. They stop and chat a moment, drawn by the infectious smile and lilting laughter of this little old lady of 101 years.

What accounts for this sunny outlook on things? Was she a child of privilege? Not exactly. She grew up during the great depression and her family had very little money. "A lot of people were out of work," she told me once. "Some even went hungry, poor souls. But we knew it couldn't last. This was America, after all." As a young wife during World War Two she was left alone with two little boys while her husband was overseas. "I missed him terribly," she said, "but I felt God would bring him back to me and I knew our reunion would be just wonderful--and it was!"

So what's the secret of this undying optimism? I really don't know, but my friend Betty always looks on the bright side of things. Maybe that's naive, some might say it's downright corny, but it's worked for her for 101 years, and I know it's contagious and rubs off on other people. By the time Betty and I finished lunch, which really was delicious, I could see the sun shining through the restaurant windows and I realized my little problems were just that, little, and I could handle them, no sweat. A wise man once said that age is but a number, and I firmly believe my 101-year-old friend is living proof of that.

What Are Friends For?

noreply@blogger.com (M.Verdick) — Sat, 21 May 2011 16:45:00 +0000

The other day, Sally, a friend I hadn't seen in quite some time, she lives in another town, called to say she'd bought my book and asked if she could come by to have me autograph it. Of course I was delighted and invited her to lunch. She said she'd arrive about twelve-thirty. So I made a shrimp salad, which I knew she liked, set the table, heated the rolls, cut the cheesecake--and waited. And waited! Twelve-thirty came and went. One, one-thirty slipped by, and still no Sally. Could I have gotten the time wrong? Had she had an accident?

Really worried I went to the door and looked outside, and that's when I saw it: a note tucked under the mat. I hastily picked it up and read it, recognizing Sally's handwriting. She said she'd rung the doorbell three times, but there was no answer so she assumed I'd been called away. She said she was awfully sorry to have missed me, and I was disappointed, too, to put it mildly. And bewildered. I immediately tried the doorbell myself and it rang just fine for me. But wait--it was one of those rectangular shaped bells with a little light in the center and an upper and lower section you could push to make it ring. Push the bottom part and it rang loud and clear, but push the top part, as Sally obviously did, and nothing happened. She said she'd also knocked on the door, but I was in my study at the back of the house (and I don't think she knocked very hard) so I didn't hear her. Fortunately she wrote her cell phone number and I called that immediately and was lucky to find her shopping not too far away. So she came back and we had a lovely afternoon.

But I was worried, knowing something had to be done about that darn doorbell. It was obviously defective and should be replaced, and I wondered if I could unscrew it and put in a new one. I live alone now that my husband's gone, and I've never been what you'd call mechanically inclined, so this was a real challenge. Then the next day, as I was still stewing about it, the doorbell rang. I ran to answer it and there stood the husband of another good friend. An engineer, he had taken out the old doorbell and replaced it with a new one he'd bought at the hardware store, and when I asked him how he knew I needed a new one he said when he and his wife had arrived a few nights before to take me to a concert with them, he'd noticed the doorbell didn't work right. So he simply got a new one and put it in. "No big deal," he said, when I tried to thank him. "After all, what are friends for?"

Hope

noreply@blogger.com (M.Verdick) — Mon, 09 May 2011 15:54:00 +0000

I don't know about you but did you ever get the feeling this year that winter would never end? Maybe it's just due to the fact that I'm getting older, but here in the northeast it sure seemed like a long, long winter. I got mighty sick of having to watch my step for fear of slipping on the ice every time I ventured outdoors. And driving was particularly hazadous not only because the roads were treacherous, but the snow banks were so high in many places you couldn't see around them. Everywhere you went people complained about the weather and more folks than I can count, including my own son, said they were seriously thinking of selling everything and moving to Florida. Maybe it was just my imagination, but the general tempo of the country was pretty depressing, too, considering our national debt, high unemployment, and the really horrendous rise in gasoline prices.

So many really dire problems face our nation today and can they be solved? Who knows? I don't think anyone is too optimistic that things are going to turn around anytime soon. But I personally experienced a small miracle when finally the show melted and the first brave little buds poked their heads out of the soil. I don't think I'm a Pollyanna (well, not exactly), but suddenly my own little world took on a kind of sheen, and I felt light and happy and ready for fun. Sure, we've still got problems, but I firmly believe our elected officials, of both parties, are trying their best to solve them. And certainly the capture and death of Osama bin Laden was a shot in the arm for all those who lost loved one in the World Trade Center catastrophe almost ten years ago; we can all feel proud that justice was finally done. So I'm filled with hope and resolution to try, in my own little way, to make this world a better place now that spring is here. Can a few daffodils and tulips work that kind of magic? In my case the answer seems to be a resounding--YES!

To Get the Ball Rolling

noreply@blogger.com (M.Verdick) — Fri, 25 Mar 2011 20:48:00 +0000

As everyone knows, for fiction writers, the best way to get the ball rolling (or so I've been told) is to start with a book signing. So you contact your local bookstore and ask them, nicely, if they're interested and usually they are, so you set up a date that's convenient for both of you. Then they order the books and a few weeks later they tell you everything is ready for the show. "Great!" you say, with varying degrees of enthusiasm. But are you ready? That's the big question. Although I've written six adult novels and numerous short stories and books for children, and have participated in all kinds of book signings at book stores, large and small, through the years, for a normally shy person like me just the thought of going through another one causes the butterflies to start jumping in my stomach.

The first big decision, of course, is always, what should I wear? Do I dress up or go casual? I usually try on five or six outfits, then go back to the one I picked out originally, a somewhat dressy top and tailored pants. Then pushing myself out the door it's off to the races. Fortunately my local bookseller knows I'm nervous and is up to the challenge. They always provide a nice place for me to sit with cozy chairs clustered around it for anyone who wants to visit, and coffee, soft drinks and snacks available for the hungry. Not all bookstores do this, of course. It's been my experience that the big chains, while friendly, don't knock themselves out for a writer unless you're a big-time, preferably a New York Times best-selling author. But most local booksellers do their best to take care of their own.

So you're there and now it's up to you to keep smiling, even when someone picks up your baby, reads the flaps (they certainly look interested)-- but alas, they sigh, put down the book and walk away. You take it in stride, telling yourself it's all part of the game, but being normal you can't help feeling a bit dejected. However, the next person in line, a pretty, white-haired lady, buys three books, yes, three, all at once. "For my granddaughters," she says, with a twinkle. "They love romantic-suspense novels and think you're one of the best." Of course you glow!

And it's moments like that that help you through the bore who informs you, in a loud, strident voice, that the publishing business is going to the dogs and he never buys books--although naturally he helps himself to the snacks; they're there, after all. Or how about the chatty little woman who talks your ear off and instead of the standard "Best wishes" dedication, wants you to write something long and flowery that she's composed herself on the dedication page.

So it goes and before you know it four hours have elapsed and your first book signing for the new book is over. But did you get the ball rolling? Well, you sold quite a few books and suddenly realize that you've enjoyed yourself and had quite a bit of fun--which is good, because in the next few weeks, or months, you'll do it over and over again.

Putting Things in Perspective

noreply@blogger.com (M.Verdick) — Mon, 07 Mar 2011 17:20:00 +0000

I was driving home from the hospital with my son, merrily singing along with the radio, when I hit a pothole and chaos developed. Getting out of the car to see what had happened I saw we had suffered two flat tires and damaged beyond repair hubcaps. Somehow we managed to limp to a garage (and what horrific noise driving on those flats made), called AAA, and waited. Fortunately the tow truck arrived in a relatively short space of time, towed us to another garage that sold tires and rims, but were told we'd have to order new hubcaps from a dealer.

I had been looking forward to taking my son out for a celebratory luncheon and now this--not only the time spent buying new tires and getting them installed, but being told replacing the hubcaps would cost hundreds of dollars more. Well, I was fit to be tied, to put it mildly. After the horrendous winter we've had I realize the roads are in terrible shape, but why don't the towns get on the ball and repair them? What do we pay taxes for? I was fuming!

Then my son calmly said, "Well, look at it this way, Mom--at least we were going home from the hospital, not driving to it," and that stopped me dead in my tracks. For only three weeks before I had taken my son in for major cancer surgery. Filled with dread that day, I didn't know what to expect, but the operation was successful and the surgeons said they were sure they got it all. I remembered how my eyes filled with tears of gratitude at those words and how I humbly thanked God. So what was this mishap with the pothole but a minor distraction really? Annoying sure, expensive unfortunately, but also my moment of truth. It helped me put things in perspective as I realized nothing was more important that my son's health and well-being.

Birth of the Book

noreply@blogger.com (M.Verdick) — Mon, 14 Feb 2011 21:43:00 +0000

After months of writing and editing, and writing and revising, I can finally announce that my new novel, "That Certain Summer", will be published by Author House in the next few weeks. Although this is the fifth adult novel I've written I can't say that the writing gets any easier. It's still a lot of work finding just the right words, but I feel I'm so fortunate to be able to do what I like best.

I can't say that any of the novels I've written have been best-sellers, but I know they've been read and enjoyed according to the many great reviews I've received, and what more can an author ask for? I plan to continue writing for as long as I'm able because I enjoy it, and not waste my time worrying about how many copies are sold, or chasing after that elusive thing called fame that sometimes follows. A wise person once said that if you've got two good friends in the world you've got something to feel good about. So as long as I can bring entertainment and enjoyment to even a few people that makes me happy, although, of course, being human, I hope "That Certain Summer" will be read by a lot of people.

I was telling my son just the other day that publishing a book is a little like giving birth--after that long gestation period you're absolutely thrilled to see it, and when the time comes you send it off into the world with high hopes and great expectations. And if it doesn't always live up to those expectations?--(everyone can't be president, after all) well, you still love it and hope for the best. So I hope you like my new baby,"That Certain Summer", and if you have time drop me a line at maryverdick@comcast.net. I'd love to hear from you, really.

Happy New Year

noreply@blogger.com (M.Verdick) — Sat, 01 Jan 2011 16:56:00 +0000

So now we're starting another year with high hopes and expectations, and for many of us lots of new year resolutions. I used to make resolutions, figuring this was the time to reflect on my past mistakes and make changes where necessary, and I was always filled with determination and purpose. So I'd jot down what I hoped to accomplish--you know the routine: diet, save money, exercise more, and so on, and I always started out with a bang. But after a while, usually in less than a week or so, I'm ashamed to say, I'd fall off the wagon and the resolutions would go by the wayside. I wondered sometimes why I didn't have the will-power to stick to them, or if the goals I set were too unrealistic. It bothered me for a while. But then I stopped worrying about it when I read in the august New York Times that nine out of ten people make the same resolutions, year after year, then fail to go through with them. Of course it's always a good idea to kick bad habits and start life anew if possible, but we're all human, after all, so we have to expect some failure.

Personally I feel we should just relax and try to do the best we can, and so far that philosophy has worked pretty well for me. I know I'm lucky to have a loving family and I'm eternally grateful for that, and I cherish the dear friends I have. So with that in mind in the new year I'll try to practice simple kindness to people I meet, and be more understanding if someone inadvertently hurts my feelings. I'll pay no mind to useless gossip and try to think only good thoughts about people, and I hope that doesn't make me sound too Pollyannish--I'm really not.

So here's wishing you all a very happy and prosperous New Year, and I must confess I'm pretty happy, too, as my new book,"That Certain Summer", will definitely be hitting the shelves next month, my publisher tells me. It's been a long haul, as it always is, what with all the editing and revising one must do, but I can't wait to hold the finished product in my hands--and I hope very much you like it.

GRATITUDE

noreply@blogger.com (M.Verdick) — Tue, 14 Dec 2010 15:10:00 +0000

The other day someone said to me,"This country is in such a mess I don't see how we're ever going to get out of it." And that set me to thinking. A mess? Well, I'm sure everyone would agree there are problems that have to be solved. The unemployment rate is pretty high, much too high if you're pounding the pavements looking for work in some parts of the country, and the terrorist threat is downright scary. It's sad to think how many people in other parts of the world seem to hate us, in spite of the fact that we haven't done anything to them, and in many cases have tried to help them as much as we can. Yet there are still those who'd do us harm and, of course, we can't forget that looming national debt which all the soothsayers say our children and grandchildren will be saddled with unless we do something about it. So there are problems, horrendous problems I agree. Out country isn't perfect, far from it.

But ask yourself: would you want to live anyplace else? I think we all know the answer to that. So as Christmas and the holiday season approaches it occurred to me that maybe we should pause a moment in our sometimes hectic lives and practice a little simple gratitude. The results might surprise you. Just think how lucky you are if your kids and grandkids are healthy, that you have food on the table, and a warm, cozy house to come home to. Pause a moment to say thanks if somebody loves you, in spite of all your faults and little quirks. Okay, it's a cliché but I firmly believe that love really does make the world go round. And what about dear friends who put up with you when you're cranky and lift you up when you're down? Will you ever forget that kind soul who took the kids and ran your errands when you were laid low with the flu? And what about that sweet person who held your hand when you lost a loved one and felt your whole world was tumbling down? Friends--we couldn't do without them.

So the country's a mess? I don't think so. We have problems sure, but instead of bemoaning out fate what do you say we count our blessings and be grateful? Gratitude doesn't cost a thing and it'll make you happy; I guarantee it! Especially at this season of the year. Merry Christmas.

Thanksgiving Beckons

noreply@blogger.com (M.Verdick) — Mon, 15 Nov 2010 20:39:00 +0000

So-o, the mid-term elections are finally over and I, for one, am really glad we won't be bombarded with anymore of those negative campaign ads. I don't know about you but they seemed worse this year than ever before, and I got a little sick of them to be honest. However, I do wish all the winners of both parties good luck, they'll need it, and pray they'll do the best for our great country.

But fall is here and there's a definite nip in the air. This morning I awoke to find snow on the ground (I live in Connecticut) but never mind. Thanksgiving, which has always been one of my favorite holidays is right around the corner. I used to spend an inordinate amount of time, it seems to me, thinking up a lovely centerpiece for the table. I'd read all the magazines for hints, hoping to find inspiration, and usually ended up with the old standby of a bowl of fruit and a few mums. Buying all that food and preparing it was challenging enough I'd decide--(now remember Chris won't eat green bean casserole and Fred dislikes anything with mushrooms), and I was pretty well exhausted getting all the loose ends together. However, when the great day finally arrived and everyone gathered around the table it was worth it, a hundred times over, seeing the smiling faces as they dug into the delicious turkey and all the trimmings. And for the last few years I haven't even had to cook, glory be, as various members of my family do the honors.

"You've done it enough times," they told me a few years back, and who am I to argue? So I bring a shrimp ring or little pigs in a blanket to nibble on beforehand, proving there are advantages to getting older.

Certainly one of the pluses of having a family of sweet, caring individuals such as mine is that they take an interest in you, and of course they all want to know about my new book, "That Certain Summer," which is just about ready to be published by Author House and will be ready for sale in a month or so. Waiting for a book to be published is a little like giving birth--the wait can be painful, but the finished product is well worth it. Anyway, as I've told you, "That Certain Summer," tells the story of Sally Grimes, a feisty girl from Iowa, who gets a dream job writing the life story of Diane Fenwick, a famous actress. She moves to a Gatsbyesque community in Connecticut (Scott Fitzgerald's "The Great Gatsby" is her favorite novel) and meets the actress's adorable twins, Meagan and Alec, and Rufus, a special dog, who is more intuitive than a lot of humans. She also falls in love with Ricardo, the handsome hunk next door, who is an honest-to-god count and a Princeton graduate, but is working as a handyman for the reclusive millionaire Morley-Watts, who suspects Diane is hiding something he desperately wants. What is Diane's connection to Ricardo, and why is Sally suddenly plunged into a dangerous situation she has no control over?

Naturally I hope this has whet your interest enough so that you'll want to read the book to find out, and I'll be on pins and needles to see how all you nice folks out there like it. Truthfully I can't wait to see the finished product myself and hold it in my hands. But in the meantime I hope you're all enjoying these beautiful fall days and that you have a wonderful Thanksgiving. Of course we'll all eat too much, but who cares? We're gathering together for the feast and that's the important part!

AUTUMN

noreply@blogger.com (M.Verdick) — Thu, 14 Oct 2010 14:43:00 +0000

As my neighbor, who's got young children, said the other day, "Oh, Autumn, I love it! The kids are in school, the weather's nice, the leaves are turning, and football season's starting--what's there not to like?"

Well, she's right, of course. Except for football, which I could never get interested in, although I tried, since my husband and son were real afficionados of the pigskin (while I spent most of the game supplying them, and their friends, with drinks and munchies it seemed), autumn is one of my favorite seasons, too. There's such a quickening in the air and in the spirit--you can almost feel it as you step outside. Although I'm not exactly the outdoors type when Fall comes I look forward to walks in the woods and the smell of bonfires floating through the air. And can anything be more beautiful, or more inspiring, than the brilliant colors of the season as Mother Nature lifts her paint brush and presents us with her fiery orange and crimson leaves? I remember growing up in Colorado, when the aspen leaves would turn whole mountainsides into sheets of gold, so magnificent you almost had to catch your breath.

Then with Halloween just around the corner, with its little Trick or Treaters, what fun to see all the costumes which seem to get more elaborate each year. I can recall when an old sheet and a homemade mask were perfectly acceptable Halloween gear, but no longer. Costumes of the famous, and the infamous, seem to be derigueur today, although I'm sure there'll still be lots of little princesses and cowboys as in years past. However I've noticed, and my friends confirm it, that there are not as many kids ringing the doorbell as before, probably due to the fact that parents are keeping their children at home, or having private parties, due to the concern about all the crazies out there. Which is sad.

But let's not dwell on such unpleasantness. Autumn is here in all its glory and that's cause for celebration. And what to do with all that leftover Halloween candy I bought? I know--I'll give it to the gals in my bridge club. Of course they'll complain about putting on extra pounds, but by the end of the game the candy will be gone, and I'll be one of the worst offenders. But so be it.

New Start

noreply@blogger.com (M.Verdick) — Thu, 16 Sep 2010 14:00:00 +0000

I don't know why exactly but somehow when September rolls around I always think of it as a new start. Maybe it's seeing the kids off to school which brings back fond memories of my mom and me shopping for school clothes--I remember how there always had to be a new dress and new shoes for the first day of school. I couldn't imagine girls wearing pants or jeans to class, which is almost derigueur today, and instead of the ubiquitous sneakers we loved our bobby socks and saddle shoes, which really dates me I know.

But so be it. September brings change and not only with the start of school, but in the very air it seems to me. Days grow shorter, nights cooler, the leaves start to turn and, almost before we know it, the lazy days of summer are gone. It's always a little sad, but at the same time there's a quickening in the air and in one's senses, as you wonder what lays ahead. I, for one, am always filled with a spurt of new ambition, not anything world-shaking mind you. But maybe I'll finally get around to cleaning out that darn kitchen drawer that I throw everything into and is now so cluttered I can't find anything in it. And there's always the little matter of putting away the summer clothes and getting out the winter things--and how in the world did I get so much stuff? I keep reading that if you haven't worn something in over a year you should discard it, and I have lots of things that fall into that category. So hopefully I'll pack them all up and make a trip to the Goodwill. At least that's the plan in mid-September.

So clean the drawers, weed out the closets, write those letters I've been putting off--and what about calling that old friend I haven't seen in ages because of a minor disagreement that I can hardly remember now what it was all about? It should be easy enough to say, "I'm sorry, and let's have lunch." So will I be kinder, sweeter, more ambitious now that fall is here? I can't guarantee it, but I'm certainly going to try. As I said I always think of September as a new start with lots of new opportunities and I intend to enjoy it. And of course I'm looking forward to the publication of my new book, "That Certain Summer," in a few months.

Cruising

noreply@blogger.com (M.Verdick) — Tue, 24 Aug 2010 18:05:00 +0000

I just got back from an 8-day small ship cruise of the New England islands and other spots where everything was done so perfectly I had a marvelous time. And the funny part was I didn't want to go at all. As I mentioned earlier I have been very busy making the final edits on my new book, "That Certain Summer," which will be published some time this fall, and taking time off for a sailing adventure was the last thing I had in mind. But a dear friend, a fellow widow, talked me into it, and you know something?--I'm very glad she did!

My husband and I had been on cruises before where the accent was on keeping you busy every minute, or so it seemed. But this small ship cruise was entirely different. From the moment we stepped aboard the vessel, that only carried 100 passengers, we were in another world of congeniality and relaxation. Were we cosseted and pampered? "You bet your bottom dollar," as the old sage says, but who doesn't like a little attention now and then? The top-notch staff was friendly and helpful, the food delicious (lobster every day if you wanted it), and the guest speakers, who filled us in on the history and culture of the places we visited, were extremely informative and lots of fun, too.

I was fascinated by the whaling museum in New Bedford (what those poor fishermen had to go through in those days in their quest for the mighty whale) and as a fellow writer I was intrigued by Seaman's Bethel chapel, which Herman Melville described in his great novel, "Moby Dick." We visited the enchanting islands of Nantucket and Martha's Vineyard, and had a glimpse of the opulence of the Gilded Age as we toured the "summer cottages" of the Vanderbilts and the Astors in Newport. Every day there was a new experience to savor and enjoy, but what did I like most about the cruise?--that's easy, I'd have to say it was the people.

Seating in the dining room was unassigned so my friend and I made a point of sitting with different folks at each meal, and I was so happy we did. Where else would I have encountered the delightful "honeymoon" couple, who had first met in junior high, married other people, then met again after 62 years and got married two months later. Or what about the lady who gave birth to a child with so many difficulties she was advised by her doctors to put him in an institution, but she kept him. And guess what?--he's now a Harvard professor. And could anything compare to the romantic story of the beautiful woman, a Holocaust survivor, who came to this country alone and friendless as a child, and met her future husband when she stepped on his raincoat by mistake in a train? Well I could go on and on, but I guess you get the idea. The cruise was a wonderful experience which recharged all my batteries, and I'm looking forward to doing it again, God willing.

New Book Coming

noreply@blogger.com (M.Verdick) — Wed, 28 Jul 2010 14:14:00 +0000

Some time ago I mentioned that I was writing a new book, but I didn't want to say too much about it until it was done. Well,now, happy day!--after much writing and editing, revising, changing scenes, and revising again, the book is finished.

It's called "That Certain Summer" (although it's coming out in the Fall) and is a romantic-suspense novel to be published by Author House. It tells the story of Sally Grimes, a feisty girl from Iowa, who gets a dream job writing the life story of a famous actress, Diane Fenwick. She moves to a Gatsbyesque community in Connecticut, (Scott Fitzgerald's "The Great Gatsby" is her favorite novel), and meets the actress's adorable twins, Meagan and Alec, and Rufus, a special dog, who is more intuitive than a lot of humans. She also falls in love with Ricardo, the handsome hunk next door, who is an honest-to-god count and a Princeton graduate, but is working as a handyman for the reclusive millionaire Morley-Watts, who suspects Diane is hiding something he desperately wants. What is Ricardo's connection to Diane, and why is Sally suddenly plunged into a dangerous situation she has no control over?

Sound intriguing? Hope you think so and that you'll enjoy reading the book. I worked very hard, as I always do, to get it "just right," but it was a labor of love so I can't complain. I was enchanted with the seven-year-old twins in the story, Meagan and Alec, who are two of the sweetest little kids I've ever invented (I was going to say "met," although they're strictly figments of my imagination). As for Rufus, that amazing dog, I did base him on an actual dog I had as a child, a beautiful border collie named Sandy. As a youngster I confided all my hopes and dreams to Sandy, who like Rufus, was extremely smart and could carry on a conversation with you even if he couldn't speak--at least I thought so. And what about Diane, the beautiful actress who has hired Sally to write her life story? What secrets is she hiding, and why is she so afraid of growing old? Some time ago, you might remember, I wrote a blog called "Age is but a Number" which dealt with this very subject. Diane is gorgeous, but so worried about each tiny line and wrinkle she can't relax and enjoy what she has, which is pretty sad when you think about it. But as I said in my blog, and firmly believe, while we can't avoid growing old, we can't stop living because of the fear of it, either.

Finally, of course, "That Certain Summer" is the love story of Sally and Ricardo, who come from vastly different backgrounds and experiences, but are kindred souls who find each other. Theirs is not an easy journey, and they must go through many twists and turns and suffer heartbreaking doubt and suspense along the way. But does the book have a happy ending? I'll let you guess and hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Now, as they say, the really hard work begins, marketing the book. So I'll have to leave you now until the next time--thanks, and wish me luck.

"THAT CERTAIN SUMMER" - New Cover

noreply@blogger.com (M.Verdick) — Sat, 24 Jul 2010 01:07:00 +0000

"That Certain Summer" - Author Mary Verdick

(Available THIS FALL)

A feisty girl from Iowa who gets a dream job writing the life story of famous actress Diane Fenwick. She moves to a Gatsbyesque community in Connecticut and meets the actress's adorable twins, Meagan and Alec, and Rufus, a special dog, who is more intuitive than a lot of humans. She also falls in love with Ricardo, the handsome hunk next door, who is an honest-to-god count and a Princeton graduate, but is working as a handyman for the reclusive millionaire Morley-Watts, who suspects Diane is hiding something he desperately wants. What is Ricardo's connection to Diane and why is Sally suddenly plunged into a dangerous situation she has no control over?

Feeling the Fourth

noreply@blogger.com (M.Verdick) — Thu, 01 Jul 2010 21:39:00 +0000

This is a special time of year. We are not only starting a new month but we are about to embrace the celebration of our independence as a nation. Yes, the 4th of July is right around the corner. Many thoughts come to mind when we think about the Fourth. Many think about cook outs with family and friends but the majority instantly think about fireworks. Those small, medium, and large bundles of gunpowder and other ingredients that make such a show in the sky. It is very easy for us to picture all the colors and the loud bangs as the fireworks go off.

There was another time when loud bangs were going off and smoke filled the air. It was during the Revolutionary War. It was at this time that Francis Scott Key stepped out in the early morning hours and was moved when he saw the torn and ragged flag of our young nation still flying in the air. He penned the words of the Star Spangled Banner that day. The words ring true and are delivered with the emotion and passion he felt. They go like this:

Oh, say can you see by the dawn's early light

What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming?

Whose broad stripes and bright stars thru the perilous fight,

O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming?

And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air,

Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.

Oh, say does that star-spangled banner yet wave

O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

On the shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep,

Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes,

What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep,

As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses?

Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam,

In full glory reflected now shines in the stream:

'Tis the star-spangled banner! Oh long may it wave

O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

And where is that band who so vauntingly swore

That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion,

A home and a country should leave us no more!

Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollution.

No refuge could save the hireling and slave

From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave:

And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave

O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

Oh! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand

Between their loved home and the war's desolation!

Blest with victory and peace, may the heav'n rescued land

Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation.

Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,

And this be our motto: "In God is our trust."

And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave

O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

We, as writers, love words; we love words that drive home a message and stir emotions and feelings long thought hidden away. On the Fourth when we hear, sing or read these words it is impossible to think that we don't feel what our forefather's felt while establishing this land.

What Have I Been Doing?

noreply@blogger.com (M.Verdick) — Sat, 19 Jun 2010 13:04:00 +0000

You may have noticed that a little time has passed since my last post. So, what have I been doing during my absence? That is a question with a simple answer and, believe you me; I like questions with a simple answer. I have been working on my latest book. Actually I have been polishing my latest book.

After the months of writing and editing, writing and revising I can finally announce that my new book will published through Author House and I expect it to be released in the next four or five months. I'm sure by now you are wondering what is the title and genre. Unfortunately I am at that place in the publishing process where the title is still a little up in the air. So what about genre? What can you tell me about the book Mary?

Both of those are great questions I can assure you but at the moment I am going to pass on answering them at this time. Why? I want to make sure everything is completely ready to go before I talk about it to much. I want the editing, cover art, title, sizing....everything to be just about wrapped up before I go into the details. I know, I can hear you now - Mary that's not fair. You're right, it's not fair and I apologize for that but I promise to make it up to you by publishing an entertaining and gripping book that is pleasant to look at and a pleasure to own.

I will also promise to share more about the book in the coming months. Sadly I must go now, it is Saturday and on top of getting a book published I must handle the everyday chores of life.

Have a great weekend.

An Interesting Review

noreply@blogger.com (M.Verdick) — Mon, 24 May 2010 12:00:00 +0000

This review was prepared by the fine people at 'Writers in the Sky Podcast and Blog.' It is very well thought out and I thought you might enjoy reading what others are saying about my book.

Title of Document: Book Review
Book Title: As Long As He Needs Me
Author: Mary Verdick
ISBN Number: 978-1-4327-2427-6
Publisher: OutskirtsPress.com
Genre and Target Market: fiction; romance; family
Publication Date: 2009
Book Length in Pages: 215

There are times when I want to dive into a completely fantastical novel that transports me to a life or a place that could never be my own. Maybe it’s a sci-fi adventure in which an alien life form threatens the existence of everyone on our planet. Or, it could be a historical piece that takes place in the royal courts of Victorian England. Sometimes books can provide that perfect escape that a reader needs from her everyday existence. However, other times I prefer to settle in with a story that is completely familiar, one that portrays the challenges and comforts that come with human relationships and exposes the emotional frailties that exist in all of us. As Long as He Needs Me, the new release by author Mary Verdick, beautifully fits into the latter category. This fictional work does not necessarily allow the reader to escape, but certainly provides an opportunity to be challenged with very real emotions.

As Long as He Needs Me tells the story of Kitty and Clem Johanssen, a couple that has just embarked upon a cruise to celebrate their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary. However, the ship does not even leave the port before events change the course of their vacation. Both husband and wife are forced to confront their own feelings of guilt, self-doubt, and loneliness. Along the way, Verdick does a beautiful job of slowly revealing details of the history of Johanssen’s lives through flashbacks and conversations. We learn about their children, their parents, and other relationships that all contributed to the current dynamic of the marital bond. I imagine every reader will be able to identify with at least one of the supporting characters in the novel, if not with the husband or wife directly, making the emotions all the more piercing and convicting. You cannot help but become invested in the success of Kitty and Clem’s marriage once their entire story is told.

One of the great strengths of Mary Verdick’s writing throughout As Long as He Needs Me is her ability to capture a genuine sense of human frailty. She does this without creating a sense of pity for her characters and without making them exaggerated in their weakness. Instead, Verdick illustrates the delicate nature of an intimate relationship that has weathered heartache, devastating losses, and old-fashioned jealousy all while being comprised of two unique individuals. No one is completely evil or saintly in As Long as He Needs Me. Just as the reader is about to condemn a character for a despicable act, a detail will be revealed to show the situation is more complex than originally assumed. When writing a story about human nature, that is about as realistic as it comes!

As Long as He Needs Me is a book that I read from cover to cover in one day. This is not because the writing was overly simple, but because Mary Verdick managed to create characters in which I took an interest. I wanted to see the story of the Johanssen’s relationship through to the end. And, along the way, I took the time to do some self-reflection on the weaknesses that exist in my own relationships and the way in which I may be contributing to the current dynamic. If you enjoy works of fiction that force you to examine some personal truths, As Long as He Needs Me is a book for you.

Chapter I - Maybe This Time

noreply@blogger.com (M.Verdick) — Thu, 20 May 2010 12:00:00 +0000

Dominelli had reserved a suite for her at the Beverly Hills Hotel and he called before she’d even unpacked, apologizing for not meeting her plane. “I asked my wife to take you around this afternoon, show you the sights, but she must have gotten tied up. Anyway I can’t find her.”

“Why, I don’t need anyone to take me around,” Cleo said, glancing at the handsomely appointed suite with its impressive view of the gardens. “This place is gorgeous, Carlo, and I’ll be perfectly happy just poking around on my own. Really.”

“Well, if I can get hold of Helene she’ll give you a ring. If not, we’ll see you tonight. Do you like Italian food? I’ve reserved a table at La Scala which, in my opinion, is the best Italian restaurant in the country.”

“Sounds great, and I love Italian food.” Any food. She glanced at her watch and was surprised to see it was after two-thirty. She heard Dominelli’s deep-throated laugh.

“A woman after my own heart. So until tonight then, Cleo. Helene and I will pick you up around seven. Arivederci.”

“Arivederci,” Cleo said. Smiling she hung up, deciding it was time for lunch.

“Are you expecting someone?” the maitre d’ inquired when she arrived at the Polo Patio a few minutes later.

“No, I’m alone.”

“Extraordinary,” the man murmured, showing her to a table beneath a giant pepper tree. She had no sooner sat down than a tall, interesting looking man in sunglasses who was a double for Jack Nicholson strolled by. It was Jack Nicholson, she realized tickled.

“Would you care for a cocktail?” the waiter asked, filling her water goblet.

She rarely drank in the middle of the day. But this was her first trip to California and one didn’t see Jack Nicholson every day in the week. “Yes, I’d like an Orange Blossom, please.”

The waiter left and, after a moment, she became aware that a man sitting a few tables over, with his back to her, had turned and was peering, really staring in her direction. She wasn’t positive that she was the object of his scrutiny but it was rather unnerving. So much so that she had just about decided to change seats when abruptly the man jumped up and in a few swift strides covered the space between them.

“Cleo?” he said. “It’s you, isn’t it? My God, it is you! Who else in the world would ever order an Orange Blossom?”

She looked up and for a second her heart stopped beating. She couldn’t speak. Her throat was paralyzed, frozen. The years since she’d last seen him had changed him somewhat. The face was thinner, harder. The thick mop of unruly black hair had been cut and styled, and there was a distinguishing touch of gray at the temples. But after the first shock had passed she would have known him anywhere.

“Cleo?” he said again.

“Max.” She found her voice finally. “My—this is a surprise. What in the world are you doing here?”

“I live here.” He pulled out a chair, sat down across from her. “May I? What are you doing in California? Visiting?”

She nodded. “In a way. Are you in practice here, Max?”

“Yep. Have my own suite of operating rooms on the Sunset Strip. Last year I made seven-hundred-and-fifty-thousand bucks, before taxes. This year I’ll pull in over a million—easy. My patients are mostly movie stars and Ay-rabs.”

“Heavens!” Cleo exclaimed, realizing her head was spinning, and not from all this talk of high finance either. “What do they come to you for?”

Max grinned. “You name it, babes. I do ’em all. Faces, eyelids, noses, chins, buttocks, breasts, thighs—I’m a plastic surgeon, in case you hadn’t guessed. And a pretty damn good one, too, if I do say so myself.”

“You must be to rake in that kind of loot. Although don’t get me wrong. I have nothing against money.”

“That makes two of us. You know what my secret ambition always was? To be as stinking rich as Clint Campbell. You have any idea what happened to Clint?”

“As a matter of fact I do. He’s living in Colorado, not far from my parents. Darlene Resnik is with him.”

“Yeah?” He lifted an eyebrow. “Now why doesn’t that surprise me? Clint always had the hots for her, although I could never understand what a nice guy like him ever saw in that bitchy broad. She as big a pain in the ass as ever?”

“Darlene was never a pain in the ass, but I know both she and Clint will be interested to hear about you. They’re coming to visit me next week, and I’ll tell them I ran into you, Mr. Wonderful.”

“Mr. Wonderful!” He grinned again and shook his head. “Jesus. Remember the night Darlene pinned that moniker on me?”

"Of course I remember. I remember everything about you, Max Altman". And that was the truth, God help her. It amazed her that she hadn’t seen this man, heard one single, solitary word about him in almost twelve years, and suddenly she saw him again and it was as though they’d never been parted. They could be back in New Haven in the apartment on Whitney Avenue, sharing a pizza and gabbing the night away. But all she said was, “I remember.”

“And I remember you,” Max said. Without warning he leaned across the table, covered her hand with his. At his touch she jumped and yanked her hand away.

“Don’t!”

“Sorry,” he quickly apologized. “I didn’t mean to startle you, Cleo. It’s just that you’re more beautiful than ever. How do you do it?”

She tried to laugh, ashamed of her outburst. “Hard work and clean living, I guess. No help from guys like you, so far. But I’ll keep you in mind, for future reference.”

“You’ll never need my services. Not my professional services.” Just then the waiter brought Cleo’s drink and the maitre d’ came back and asked if the gentleman would like his luncheon served at the lady’s table.

“Yes.”

Max nodded. “That’ll be fine. You don’t mind if I join you, do you, Cleo?”

“Of course not. Delighted to have you. What did you order, by the way?”

“Pacific bay shrimp and half a bottle of Pinot Chardonnay.”

“I’ll have the same.”

“Great. Did you get that, Niño?”

“Yes, Dr. Altman.” The maitre d’ bowed slightly. Then turning to Cleo he added, with a warm smile, “I thought it extraordinary, such a beautiful lady dining alone.”

Cleo blushed. “Dr. Altman and I are old friends. We just bumped into each other a few minutes ago. Such a surprise.”

Max started to laugh. “What the devil are you explaining to him for?” heasked, when the maitre d’ had left.

“Well, when I first came in he asked if I were meeting someone and I said no. I didn’t want him to think you’d picked me up. Or worse—that I picked you up. God forbid!”

“He wouldn’t think that. You don’t look like a hooker. Although I must say some of the gals who work this place in the evening are pretty high class.”

“Oh, Max, you’re terrible. You know that, don’t you?”

“And you’re still the minister’s daughter.” He was really laughing at her now.

“No, I’m not. Actually I’m very liberated.”

“What does that mean? Are you sleeping with someone?”

“That’s really none of your business. But, yes, there is someone, a nice lawyer fella. We have an—understanding, I suppose you’d call it.”

“Any marriages, divorces along the way?”

“No.” She shook her head. “What about you?”

“One divorce, two years ago. I married a nice Jewish girl. Bennington graduate. Her father’s a talent agent out here. My mother adored her. It was a disastrous marriage. But we produced two super kids. Want to see them?” He opened his billfold and showed her a picture of two curly-haired, blueeyed children who looked remarkably like him. “That’s Jason on the left,” he said. “He’s almost five. Jennifer, my little sweetheart, is three.”

“Cute,” Cleo murmured, sipping her Orange Blossom. The thought occurred to her—their child would have been attractive, too, most likely, and almost finishing junior high now. Should she have told Max about that child? Had she done the right thing keeping it from him? Stop it! That’s ancient history…

“Yeah, they are,” Max was saying. “Cute, I mean. Clare, my ex, and I share custody, so I see them a lot. Clare’s remarried and lives in Bel-Air.”

The shrimp arrived, they were delicious. So was the wine. “But tell me about yourself,” Max said, digging into his lunch with gusto. “I want to know everything—and I mean everything—since you left New Haven.”

“Well, you know I interned at Bellevue.”

“That must have been rough.”

“No rougher than Cook County, I imagine.”

“Oh, Cook wasn’t so bad. Did you do your residency at Bellevue, too?”

“Yes. It has an excellent program for anesthesiologists. That’s what I am.”

“A gas passer? So that’s what you specialized in.”

“Don’t knock it.”

“I’m not. Anything but. As a matter of fact I’m very impressed.” But Cleo saw a strange glint in his eyes. “Where do you practice?”

“In Charleston.”

“Which one?”

“Charleston, South Carolina naturally. But I don’t have a practice as such. I teach at the medical school there and do research at the Medical Center. South Carolina has one of the best research institutions in the country …” She stopped, confused, noticing how his eyes were sparkling, how his lips were positively twitching with amusement. “Mind telling me what’s so funny?”

For answer he threw back his head and roared. “Cleo, you’ll never believe this,” he said, when he could talk. “I’m your date for the evening.”

“What? I don’t believe you.”

“Told you you wouldn’t. But it’s true, nevertheless. Carlo Dominelli and his wife Helene are good friends of mine. Now are you beginning to get the picture? Carlo called me last week and asked if I’d go out to dinner with him and Helene tonight to meet this gorgeous blond anesthesiologist from South Carolina. He said she was coming out here to lecture at UCLA at his invitation and he wanted to show her a good time. He didn’t give me her name but could there be two gorgeous blond anesthesiologists from South Carolina in Beverly Hills at the moment? Not likely. So it’s you, it’s gotta be you. Aren’t you out here as Carlo Dominelli’s guest?”

“Yes, but—” she was confused.

“Then I’m your date for the evening. I’m meeting the Dominellis—and you—at La Scala at seven-thirty. Do you think we ought to tell them we know each other and spoil their fun?”

“Why would it spoil their fun?”

“Well, they’d probably like to take credit for bringing us together. People always do—especially if we fall in love.”

“What makes you think we’re going to fall in love?” she asked.

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I never fell out of it.”

“Oh, Max.” She feared she was blushing. “How you do go on. Why do you talk that way?”

“Because it’s true. But we can change the subject if it distresses you. So,” he spread out his hands, “how are the folks? Your dad still giving ’em hell from the pulpit?”

“Daddy never gave anyone hell, even when they deserved it. He’s fine though. Mama, too.”

“Good. And what about your little sister Laura? What a nice kid she was. Did she go to college, become a teacher, like your mom wanted?”

“No. Laura didn’t even finish high school. Instead she went to Canada, Calgary, the summer of her junior year and got a job up there, waitressing. Then she eloped with a cowboy she met and had four kids, only a year or so apart.”

“Christ! That must have gone over big with your folks.” “Like a lead balloon. For over five years Laura and Ben, that’s her husband, lived in a tarpaper shack with no electricity, not even indoor plumbing. Then Ben got gored by a bull and couldn’t work anymore. But there’s more to the story. Just when they’d almost hit rock bottom and were about ready to throw in the towel, some geologists from the States went up there and discovered oil on Ben’s land. So now they’re millionaires, many times over.”

Max whistled. “That’s some story.”

Cleo smiled. “Thought you’d like it. And the nice thing is Laura hasn’t changed at all. She’s still the same sweet, genuine person she always was.”

“Guess that runs in the family.”

“Well, I don’t know about that.” Flustered, she dropped her eyes.

The waiter removed their plates and asked if they cared for dessert. “Just coffee, please,” Cleo said, taking a sip of water. She couldn’t understand why her mouth was so dry.

“How do you like the accommodations?” Max was saying. “Your room okay?”

“More than okay. It’s fabulous. And it’s not just a room, I’ll have you know. I have a whole suite—livingroom, bedroom, my own private patio. I’m really not accustomed to so much elegance when I travel, but I must say I could get used to it pretty fast.” She took another sip of water, painfully aware that she was talking too much. But she couldn’t seem to stop. “I hate to think what it must cost. Probably an arm and a leg, but I suppose UCLA is paying for it, don’t you? Carlo Dominelli wouldn’t be stuck for it, would he? God, I hope not.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Max said. Again his hand went out and covered hers. This time she didn’t yank her hand away. “You know what I was thinking, Cleo? After we finish our coffee, why don’t we stroll over to your suite and you can give me the grand tour?”

“Oh, I don’t think so, Max. I’m sure we’ve both got lots to do this afternoon …”

“Nothing that can’t be put off a few hours. C’mon. Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“I think I lost it along the way.” With a lot of other things. But she sat there while he drank two cups of coffee, watched as he insisted on paying the bill, caught in a curious lethargy. Finally he took her arm and led her out into the garden. They started up one of the many paths. Cleo thought it was the same path she’d arrived on. She could smell jasmine mixed with hyacinth and oleander, the scents so strong they almost drugged her. But after a few minutes she had no idea where they were going. “I don’t know about you, but I’m lost,” she said finally, squinting up at him in the dazzling sunlight. “I guess we’ll have to go back to the restaurant, if we can find it, and get directions.”

He said, “I don’t think that’ll be necessary. What’s the number of your suite?”

“Let’s see.” She opened her pocketbook and found her keycard. “Onetwenty- five.”

“Hmm-mm. If I’m not mistaken one-twenty-five should be right around the next bend.”

He wasn’t mistaken. They found the bend and came upon a patio, completely surrounded by foliage. And it was her patio, Cleo was sure of that. She could see her carry-on, part of a matched set of Louis Vuitton luggage Phillip had given her for Christmas, propped up against the glass door, right where she’d left it.

“How’s that for navigation?” Max asked.

“Not bad. Wonder why they hide these places so?”

“Why that’s the beauty of this spot—its privacy. You can get to so many of the rooms and bungalows without being seen, which comes in handy at times.”

“Is that a fact?” Cleo said. With shaking fingers she shoved the keycard into its slot, when of a sudden it hit her. "What’s he doing here? Are you out of your cotton-pickin’ mind? Get rid of him—now—for God’s sake!”

“Max,” she said in a rush, “it’s been great seeing you, really fun. But as I told you I’m practically engaged to someone now, and I really don’t think you should come in my room. So I’d appreciate it if you’d go now.”

“Ah, c’mon, Cleo. Is that any way to treat an old friend?”

“You’re not an old friend. And I want you to go.”

“You don’t mean that.” He put out his hand, touched her cheek with the backs of his fingers.

“I do mean it,” she said, drawing away. “I don’t see how I can make it any plainer.”

“But what’s wrong? You’re not afraid of me, are you?”

She knew she was blushing this time, but she managed to answer in a calm, steady voice, “I see you’re still as conceited as ever. Of course I’m not afraid of you, silly, but—”

“Then you’re just being mean. I never remembered you as being mean, darling. But,” he shrugged, “it’s your call. I’ll see you tonight anyway.” He bent closer, planted a kiss on her forehead. Then raising two fingers in a jaunty little salute he took off, up one of the many garden paths. Cleo watched him go, filled with a growing sense of uneasiness. The Max Altman she had known didn’t give up that easily.

Chapter I - As Long As He Needs Me

noreply@blogger.com (M.Verdick) — Mon, 17 May 2010 12:00:00 +0000

Kate drove them to the station and now as she and Clem put the bags down on the platform, Kitty looked around for someplace for them to sit. But the only outside bench at the little station was already occupied by three men, shabby and unkempt. Definitely not commuters. Probably addicts waiting for the soup kitchen up the street to open so they can cadge a free meal, Kitty thought, and immediately chastised herself for being so uncharitable. Why do you always think everyone down on their luck has to be an addict? she asked herself. Just because Bebe, your own daughter, couldn’t stay away from the stuff—oh, stop it. STOP IT!

To make up for her lack of compassion, she smiled at the men, her warm, all-encompassing smile that said much plainer than words they were all human beings, and that these particular human beings were just fine as they were. She was rewarded with various flickers of interest. Two of the men lifted their heads and glanced shyly in her direction, while the youngest one, the one nearest to her on the end of the bench, actually smiled back.

“You and your sister going to the big city to do some shopping?” he asked, nodding in Kate’s direction. “Taking old Dad along,” he glanced at Clem, “to pay the bills?”

“Not exactly,” Kitty laughed, and putting out an arm drew Kate close. “This gal is my daughter, not my sister. And as for ‘old dad’ there—”

“He’s her husband and my father,” Kate informed him. “My folks are catching a cruise ship in New York that will take them up the Saint Lawrence to Montreal. They’re celebrating their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary. How ‘bout that?”

“Thirty-five years?” the man exclaimed. “Nah!” He shook his head emphatically. “She ain’t been married no thirty-five years. Him maybe, but not her.”

“Yes, her,” Kate insisted. “My folks met at an anti-war rally during the Vietnam War. My mom was a freshman in college and my dad was about to be sent overseas so they eloped—”

“I’m sure these fellows aren’t interested in our personal history, Kate,” Clem interrupted. A tall, gray-haired man with a slight pot protruding under his well-tailored jacket, he took his wife and daughter each firmly by an arm and lost no time maneuvering them to the other end of the platform.

“Why do you two always feel the need to strike up a conversation with total strangers?” he asked as soon as they were out of earshot.

“Oh, darling,” Kitty sighed, “they look harmless enough.”

“Sure. They always do, until they knock you over the head,” Clem said. “You haven’t forgotten what happened to Jack, have you?”

“Please, Dad!” Kate said. “Give it a rest. If I have to hear one more time about how Jack faced down those two thugs I swear to goodness—”

“Not just faced them down,” Clem corrected her. “In case you’ve forgotten, young lady, he belted one of them in the jaw and gave the other one a kick in the groin that put him out of circulation for quite a while, I imagine.”

“And got a black eye and a wrenched knee for his pains.”

“But he kept his money.”

“Big deal,” Kate sniffed. “If you ask me, what Jack did was about the stupidest thing I ever heard. Suppose those jerks had a gun—or even a knife. Jack could have ended up dead and a lot of good his precious money would have done him then. Nope, it’s better to just give them what they want. Even the cops will tell you that.”

“You mean just knuckle under?”

“Yep.” Kate nodded. “Seriously, Dad, if anyone should jump you guys—of course they won’t, but just in case—no heroics, hear? Promise me you won’t be brave.”

“But, honey, your daddy couldn’t help being brave,” Kitty said. “It’s in his genes or something. Remember what I told you, how he knocked out all those bunkers in Vietnam and saved his whole platoon—”

“For heaven’s sake, Kitty,” Clem protested. “That was a lifetime ago.”

“I don’t care.” Standing on tiptoes, she bussed him on the cheek. “You’re still my hero.”

“Mine, too, Dad,” Kate said, bussing him on the other side. “Just be careful, huh?”

You too, sweetie, Kitty thought, smiling at her youngest daughter. What a truly lovely looking girl she was. In addition to the tawny-gold hair and legs that seemed to go on forever, Kate had a fineness of bone, a certain purity of expression that never failed to touch Kitty’s heart. She was much too good for that stupid stable she was wasting her time at—Stop it! There’s nothing you can do about it, so forget it. But it was hard keeping quiet, God, was it hard!

Suddenly there was a distraction—a whistle, then the rumble of the train approaching. People began streaming out of the station, lining up to board.

“Now, Kate,” Kitty said, “you won’t forget about picking us up a week from Sunday? We’re taking the train from Montreal, which doesn’t stop here, but gets into New Haven—”

“At 5:20 a.m.,” Kate wrinkled her nose. “Some hour!”

“Ghastly, I know, but we didn’t have a choice if we wanted this particular trip. I just hope it’s not too hard on your dad.”

“Now don’t you worry about me,” Clem said. As the train came to a stop, he put both arms around his daughter and hugged her close. “Good-bye, sweetheart. Thanks for the lift.”

“Anytime, Dad. Have a good trip.”

“Intend to try,” Clem said.

The conductor put down the steps. Clem tossed their overnight bags aboard and started to heft their two large suitcases, then paused. “Christ almighty, what’s in these things? Bricks?”

“Here, let me help,” Kitty said, reaching for a handle. But a stocky young woman, also waiting to board, took both bags and easily hoisted them aboard.

“Why—why, thanks,” Clem said. “Thanks very much.”

Kitty smiled at the young woman. “That was ever so kind of you.”

“Not at all, ma-am,” the young woman said. “Glad to be of service.”

Kitty turned back to Kate. “You see, there’re still some nice people around,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper.

Kate smiled. “Never doubted it, Mom. You have fun now and don’t worry about a thing. When you come back from the cruise, maybe, well I might have a little surprise for you.”

Kitty’s heart gave a leap. “Oh, Kate, does that mean…?”

“Look, I can’t go into it now. I shouldn’t have said anything, but we’ll see. Now get on the train before Dad has a fit.”
Kitty hugged her daughter close for a moment, then dashed up the steps ahead of Clem just as the conductor shouted the “All aboard.” They found seats near the front of the car as the train gave a jerk and started off. Through the window Kitty could see Kate waving and waved back until she was out of sight.

“Well, we made it,” she said. “Finally! Now all we have to do is relax and have a good time.”

“I won’t relax until we get on the ship,” Clem said. “We still have to go through that darn station, don’t forget.”

“Oh, Clem, we’ve been to Penn Station hundreds of times in the past and you never worried about it before.”

“I never thought they’d jump someone like Jack before.”

“Sweetie, that was a one-in-a-million thing. It won’t happen to us.”

“Don’t be too sure. I’d feel a lot better if you’d turn your diamond around.”

Kitty stared at him, puzzled. “Are you serious?”

“Darn right. No use asking for trouble.”

Kitty glanced down at her hand, at the really big diamond he’d given her after “the incident,” as he called it. His guilt offering, she privately thought. This new worry of his seemed ridiculous, but there was no point arguing, so she turned the ring around, hiding the stone, and changed the subject.

“Clem, you know what Kate told me just now? She may be quitting her job at the stable and enrolling in Yale Med after all.”

“She told you that?” He looked skeptical.

Kitty flushed. “Well, not in so many words. But she’s obviously been thinking about what I said, about how foolish it was to work at some fool stable, giving riding lessons to a bunch of kids, rather than pursuing a career with a real future.”
“She’s always loved horses, Kit.”

“I know. But all girls love horses at a certain stage in their lives. It’s just a case of arrested development with her, that’s all.”

“Is it? I wouldn’t be too sure.” Clem’s voice was curiously gentle. “I don’t know what’s caused it, but Kate’s looked happier these last few months than I’ve seen her look in ages. And as much as I’d like her to become a doctor, too, we can’t turn her into another Pritchard if she doesn’t want it.”

“I guess not,” Kitty said. She glanced down at her hands which, all of a sudden, were trembling uncontrollably in her lap. Quickly, she hid them in the folds of her skirt. “But she is Pritchy’s sister,” she added. “She’s got the same blood coursing through her veins and he never caused us a lick of worry.”

Clem lifted an eyebrow. “That’s open to debate, isn’t it? Anyway she’s also Bebe’s sister and you know what we went through with her.”

“You don’t have to remind me.”

“I’m not. Anyway Bebe seems to be turning things around, now that she’s got religion.”

“I almost liked her better before,” Kitty said, then flushed. “Oh, God,” she bit her lip, “I don’t mean that, not really.”

“Don’t see why not,” Clem said. “It’s damned exhausting, being saved all the time.” Reaching out he put an arm around her and drew her close. “Say, did I tell you how spiffy you look this morning, Mrs. J?”

She glanced down at the red knit suit she was wearing, accented with a perky black and white scarf. “What, this old thing?”

“I’ve always liked you in red. Those fellows on the platform back there couldn’t take their eyes off you.”

“The poor things were probably in need of a good meal.”

“Or a drink, most likely. But they still know a beautiful girl when they see one.”

“Kate is the beautiful girl in this family.”

“Kate’s mighty nice—but she doesn’t hold a candle to her ma.”

“You’re crazy, Clem Johanssen.”

“About you.” He drew her close and put his lips against her ear. “You’re more beautiful than the day we got married and I still want you just as much. What other guy can say that about a woman he’s been married to for thirty-five years?”
“Silly,” she said. “I think you’re going through a second childhood.”

She knew what he was doing of course—trying to distract her, keep her from thinking of Pritchard. And she decided to let him. She wasn’t going to let her own unhappiness spoil the trip for Clem. She cuddled closer against him, laid her head on his shoulder—the car was only half-filled—and in this relaxed mood they continued on to the city. With half her mind she listened to the porter calling out the stops: New Haven, Bridgeport, Stamford, Greenwich…, finally a disembodied voice came over the loudspeaker announcing the approach of Penn Station.

The train screeched to a stop and they got off. There wasn’t a Red Cap in sight but fortunately the larger bags were equipped with wheels, so with each of them picking up a strap, and the overnight bags slung over their shoulders, they started down the platform. It was kind of tricky getting the bags up the escalator, but once they’d accomplished that they were okay.
“Are you hungry?” Clem said when they paused in the lobby to catch their breath. “What do you say we have lunch here in the station. How’s that place look?” He gestured at a restaurant on the other side of the lobby.

“Fine,” Kitty said. “Although actually, I’m not too hungry. I wonder if I can get a salad in there.”

“I’d guarantee it,” Clem said.

And he was right. She had a delicious spinach salad and a glass of white wine. Clem ordered a roast beef sandwich and two very dry martinis, although he rarely drank in the middle of the day.

The bill came. It was a bit more than they’d expected and they debated whether to put it on a credit card or pay cash. Clem opted for cash. “I’ve got plenty,” he said. “I went to the bank yesterday and took out a thousand.”

“Really?” Kitty said surprised. “Do we need that much? We’ve got several credit cards if we see anything we want to buy ashore, and practically everything on the ship’s paid for.”

“I know, but I always like to have some extra cash on hand for an emergency. You never know when it’s going to come in handy.”

“I guess,” Kitty said.

So Clem paid the bill and they left the restaurant. There were still no Red Caps to be found, but again they managed to roll the heavy bags across the lobby and up another escalator to the street. When they came outside to 8th Avenue they saw a long line of people under the portico waiting for cabs.

“I hope we don’t have to wait too long,” Kitty said, glancing at her watch. “It’s already after two.”

“The ship doesn’t sail til four, does it?”

“No, but embarkation starts at one-thirty, and we’ve still got to get to the terminal.”

“What terminal’s that?” a soft voice said, close to her ear.

Kitty turned and saw a slender, light-skinned black—little more than a boy really—standing right beside her. She didn’t know where he’d come from, but he was wearing freshly pressed jeans and a polo shirt with a Ralph Lauren logo, and he had the whitest teeth she’d ever seen.

“Where you nice folks heading?” he asked with a smile the angels would have envied.

“The passenger terminal at West 55th Street and 12th Avenue,” Kitty heard herself replying.

“And I bet you’d like a cab, right? Follow me.”

He picked up both their big bags in one swift motion and dashed out into the street. After a second Kitty and Clem grabbed their overnight bags, which had been resting at their feet, and followed. The young man was going so fast they almost had to run to keep up.

“How can he carry both those heavy things?” Kitty asked. “He doesn’t look very strong.”

“Oh, these street kids are tougher than they look,” Clem said. He was panting a little as they raced after the boy. “How much do you think I ought to give him? Five bucks okay?”

“Ten sounds better. You said yourself those bags weigh a ton.” As she spoke she saw another young man approaching up the street. This one was a little older and not as good looking as the boy carrying the bags, but they obviously knew each other.

“Yo Rudy,” the newcomer said, a wide grin creasing his face. He put up a hand and hailed a cab.

The cab slowed down, pulled over to the curb, and stopped. The driver, a small, wiry man with a gold tooth in front, got out when he saw the bags and opened the trunk.

The boys hoisted the bags into the trunk while the driver turned to Kitty. “Where to, Missy?” he asked.

She gave him the address of the terminal. “Do you know where that is?”

“Sure, Missy, no problem. Please to enter?” The little man opened the cab door with a flourish, then hopped back into the driver’s seat.

Kitty paused, her hand on the door frame, waiting for Clem to tip the boys. She watched as he opened his wallet.
“Here, I’ve got something for you fellows,” Clem said as he flipped through the pile of hundreds in his wallet. “I know there’s a ten in here someplace.”

“Don’t worry about it, Pops.” The good-looking one called Rudy reached out, quicker than the eye could fathom, and snatched the entire pile of bills out of Clem’s wallet. “This’ll do just fine, and my friend and I sure want to thank you.”

It took Clem a moment to comprehend what had happened. Then, “Hey!” he yelled. “What do you think you’re doing?”

At which the other young man shoved Clem roughly back against the side of the cab. “We’re relieving you of some of your bread, you stupid motherfucker. We need it worse than you.”

“But, hey,” Rudy said, “no hard feelings, huh?” He gave an exaggerated wink, then the two of them turned and scampered off up the street. In a matter of seconds they’d been swallowed up by the crowd.

The Two Sides of Summer

noreply@blogger.com (M.Verdick) — Fri, 14 May 2010 20:31:00 +0000

Well now, the spring cleaning is done but the to-do list never seems to end. I mark one thing off and add three more. What have I been doing lately? I've been reading books and working on my latest project which I don't mind because they are fun but I have always been busy with the needed things like taking care of a house.

Now typically this isn't such a big deal. I mean, if we live in a house then we should take care of it but as summer approaches we have a new enemy to deal with. Each and every one of us has fallen pray to this silent enemy. I will give you a clue as to what it is. Have you ever been busy doing something like cleaning, cooking, reading, writing or just playing with a child and looked out the window to see all the sunshine still shining through? Many of us would think - alright, I have plenty of time to finish this or that but after another ten minutes go by we look at the clock. The surprise never fails to fall upon us when we realize the day is over and dinner isn't ready nor have the kids had a bath.

Yep, the extended days of summer can be a blessing and a curse. We love the long daylight hours but on the other hand we watch it carefully so the evening hours don't creep up on us. I often get so busy doing multiple things that I lose all track of time and during the summer months it feels like seven or eight o'clock is here in the blink of the eye.

It is always a good thing to have things to do; it makes us feel productive and helps us as we move forward. It just seems so easy to get carried away during this time of year. I think it is important that we remember the other great thing about summer and that would be the times we relax. Don't let the days catch up to you and pass you by. How do you avoid that? Well, just like your job working nine to five; set a cut off time and stick to it. Whatever you don't get done will need to wait until tomorrow. If you can manage, set a day aside to relax and have fun with family and friends.

Having a cook out, playing with your children, and/or watching the sunset are just as important (if not more so) then getting every square inch of the house painted in one day. Isn't that what the long days are really for - to have time for work and play?

Social Networking - The Beginning

noreply@blogger.com (M.Verdick) — Thu, 29 Apr 2010 19:58:00 +0000

Blogs, websites, forums, Twitter and other social networks are very helpful and popular these days. There are so many people on these different avenues of communication and sharing that it is staggering; however, that number is growing every day. As interesting and exciting as it is to see all these connections made and the growth of the Internet social networking is not a new idea.

Social networking is as old as the earth. One could argue that Adam and Eve began the first social network. Back in my day things were a little more complicated and called for a little more effort then simply logging onto the Internet. Actually, the first network we were exposed to was centered around the dinner table when we ate the evening meal or meeting with family and friends on the front porch. If we wanted to connect with someone a little further away we had to do a little more. Today we can start the computer and send an e-mail which can be read within minutes but back when I was younger we had to take the time to handwrite a letter and get the postman to deliver it. That could take weeks.

Imagine my excitement the day we had a telephone installed in the house. It was simply unbelievable to think that I could talk to a friend or family member that lived ten twenty miles away. In this day and age we can talk to them and also, with a camera, we can see them too. Now we meet in chat rooms or in forums when, not to long ago, we had to meet at the local dive or at someone's home.

Technology is great and I have met some wonderful people from across the globe but I don't think I will or would trade in the old school, as some would call it, ways to connect and share with those around me.

As Long As You Need Me

noreply@blogger.com (M.Verdick) — Fri, 16 Apr 2010 19:21:00 +0000

Yes, there are times when it is nice to know we are needed. I would think authors would want to know this more then anyone else...well, maybe actors would too. Where would we be if readers did not want our books or books at all? To be needed by our peers, family, fans and readers is very important. I doubt there is a person on earth who would disagree with that statement.

I took a little break from reading, writing, and enjoying this wonderful weather we're having to peek at my book on Amazon.com. You remember the name of it but just in case; "As Long As He Needs Me" was published on June 22, 2009. Oh my, that was almost a year ago; where has the time gone? Anyway, the book has received eleven reviews. I am proud of and thankful for each one of them.

I can't say it is or has been a best seller but I can say it has been read and that is why I write to begin with. I plan to continue writing for as long as I'm able because I enjoy it; not for the numbers sold or the fame that follows but for the thrill of it. You know, they say if you have two best friends in the world you've got something to feel good about. As long as I can bring enjoyment and entertainment to one person with my books then that too is something to feel good about.