Summer at the Cape by RaeAnne Thayne – Review & Excerpt

Summer at the Cape by RaeAnne Thayne – Review & Excerpt

 

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Description:
As the older sibling to identical twins Violet and Lily, Cami Porter was always the odd sister out. The divide grew even wider when their parents split up—while the twins stayed in Cape Sanctuary with their free-spirited mother, Rosemary, fourteen-year-old Cami moved to LA with her attorney father. Nearly twenty years later, when Cami gets the terrible news that Lily has drowned saving a child’s life, her mother begs her to return home to help untangle the complicated estate issues her sister left behind.

Navigating their own strained relationship, Cami readjusts to the family and community she hasn’t known for decades, including the neighbor who stands in the way of her late sister’s dream, while Violet grieves the loss of her twin and struggles to figure out who she is now, without her other half, as the little girl Lily saved pulls her back into the orbit of the man she once loved.

 

 

Review:

Summer at the Cape by RaeAnne Thayne is another one of her wonderful family themed romantic novels. Cami Porter, one of our heroines, goes to Cape Sanctuary, where her mother begs her to help with paperwork for the new glamping resort set up around their property.  Cami is one of three sisters (twins Violet and Lily), who was only 14 at the time, when she was separated because of their parent’s divorce, with her staying with her dad in California, and Violet/Lily going with their mom to Cape Sanctuary. Though she did see her sisters and mother on occasion, such as holidays, Cami never felt at home; and concentrated on becoming a lawyer in her father’s law firm.  Twenty years later, Cami learns that Lily died, saving two young girls from drowning.  The family was deeply affected by Lily’s death, with Violet emotionally dealing with the loss of her twin; Rosemary pushing herself to finish Lily’s dream of the glamping resort and Cami still grieving over the loss of her sister.  Cami and Violet both arrive at the same time to support their mother, though it’s only been 4 months since Lily’s death, the family is still very much in turmoil. 

Over the summer, Cami and Violet will begin to bond even more, helping each other heal from the tragedy, as well as possible romance for both. We meet Jon, a neighbor’s son, who returns home to help his father, who is in the early stages of dementia.  Cami must work with him, as he refuses to accept that his father would allow the glamping resort to be partially on their land.  Jon does find himself attracted to Cami, but is determined to fight it, as well as take control of his father’s estate.

At the same time, Violet runs into her ex-boyfriend Alex, whose daughter was one of girls who Lily saved.  Violet fights off her feelings that still remain for Alex, since she still hasn’t forgiven him for marrying someone else years before.  Slowly, both Cami and Violet will allow themselves to open their hearts to the future.  I really like both Jon and Alex, and kept rooting for them to win over the ladies, but it did take most of the story.  I loved seeing how close they became with both Cami and Violet working with their mom, Rosemary, supporting one another; as well as the success of the glamping resort (not to mention all the wonderful breakfast, lunch, dinner foods).

Summer at the Cape was a sweet, emotional and heartwarming, poignant story that was very well written by RaeAnne Thayne.  This was a wonderful read, with many heart wrenching moments, revolving around the family, tragedy, neighbor’s father dealing with dementia, and the fantastic epilogue at the end.  Cape Sanctuary continues to be a beautiful setting for this story, and makes me want to go there.  I really enjoyed this story, and suggest you read Summer at the Cape. If you have not read RaeAnne Thayne, you need to start.

Reviewed by Barb

Copy provided by Publisher

 

 

                                            2
VIOLET

WILD, FRENZIED BARKING RANG OUT WHEN Violet Porter let herself into the back door of her mother’s comfortable kitchen at Moongate Farm.
Rosemary was nowhere in sight. Instead, a cranky-faced schnauzer–toy poodle mix planted himself in front of the door, telling her in no uncertain terms that she was an intruder who wasn’t welcome here.
“Hi, Baxter,” she said, mouth stretched thin in what she knew was an insincere smile. “How are you, buddy?”
Lily’s dog only growled at her, baring his teeth with his hack-les raised as if he wanted to rip her throat out.
The dog hated her. Violet wasn’t exactly sure why.
She might have thought he would look more fondly toward her, considering she was the identical twin to his late owner. But maybe that was the problem. Maybe the fact that she looked so much like Lily but clearly wasn’t her sister confused the dog and made him view her as a threat.
He had never really warmed to her, even when he lived in her condo with Lily. Since Lily’s death, he had become down-right hostile.
“Stop that. What’s gotten into you? I could hear you clear back in my bedroom.”
Her mother’s voice trailed out from down the hall, becoming louder as she approached the kitchen, still fastening an earring.
She stopped dead when she spotted Violet.
“Oh! Violet! You scared me! What are you doing here?”
“You invited me. Remember? You’ve known for months I was coming to help you out during my summer break.”
“You were coming tomorrow. Not today!”
Okay. That wasn’t exactly the warm welcome she might have expected, Violet thought wryly. Instead, her mother was staring at her with an expression that seemed a curious mix of chagrin and dismay.
She shrugged as Baxter continued to growl. Wasn’t anybody happy to see her?
“I finished cleaning out my classroom and calculating final grades this morning. Since all my things were already packed and loaded into my car, I couldn’t see any reason to wait until the morning to drive up. Is there a problem?”
Rosemary, usually so even-tempered, looked at her, then at the giant wrought iron clock on the wall of the Moongate Farm kitchen with a hint of panic in her eyes.
“No. It’s only…this is, er, a bit of a complication. I’m expecting dinner guests any moment.”
“That must be why it smells so good in here.”
It smelled like roasting vegetables mixed with garlic and cheese. Violet’s stomach rumbled loud enough she was certain her mother had to hear, but Rosemary didn’t seem to notice, looking at the clock again.
Why was she so nervous? Who was coming? If she didn’t know better, Violet might have suspected her mother was expecting a date.
Not impossible, she supposed. Her mother was still a beautiful woman, with high cheekbones, a wide smile and the deep blue eyes she had handed down to Violet and her identical twin.
Rosemary didn’t date much, though she’d had a few relationships since her divorce from Violet’s father.
As far as Violet knew, she had broken up with the most re-cent man she had dated more than a year earlier and Rosemary hadn’t mentioned anyone else.
Then again, just as Violet didn’t tell her mother everything that went on in her life in Sacramento, Rosemary likely had secrets of her own here in Cape Sanctuary.
“No problem,” she said, trying for a cheerful tone. “You don’t have to worry about feeding me. If I get hungry later, I’ll make a sandwich or something. I’ll get out of your way.”
“You’re not in the way,” Rosemary protested. “It’s just, well…” She didn’t have time to finish before a knock sounded at the back door. Baxter, annoying little beast, gave one sharp bark, sniffed at the door, then plopped down expectantly.
Violet thought she heard a man’s deep voice say something on the other side of the door and then a child’s laughter in response.
Something about that voice rang a chord. She frowned, suddenly unsettled. “Mom. Who are you expecting?”
“Just some…some friends from town,” Rosemary said vaguely. She heard the man’s voice again and her disquiet turned into full-fledged dismay.
No. Rosemary wouldn’t have. Would she?
“Mom. Who’s here?” Her voice sounded shrill and she was quite sure Rosemary could pick up on it.
“I didn’t know you were coming tonight,” her mom said defensively. “You told me you were coming tomorrow, so I…I invited Alexandro and his daughter for dinner. He’s been such a help to me with Wild Hearts. I could never have set up all those tents or moved in the furniture without him. I’ve been meaning to have him and his daughter over for dinner but the time got away from me, until here we are. I’m sorry. You weren’t supposed to be here until tomorrow and I didn’t think it would be a problem.”
The news hit her like a hatchet to the chest. Alex was here, on the other side of the door. Alex, who had once been her best friend, the man she thought would be her forever.
Alex, who had betrayed her.
She had seen him exactly twice since they broke up a decade ago.
One previous encounter had been a few years after he married Claudia Crane, when she had bumped into him at the grocery store while home from college for a brief visit.
The second time had been four months earlier at Lily’s memorial service.
That was two times too many, really. Three encounters was asking far too much of her.
She wanted to jump back into her car and head back to Sacramento.
No. This was silly. She had known she would see him this summer. How could she avoid it? Cape Sanctuary was a small town. Not only that, but his house and boat charter business were both just down the road from Moongate Farm.
The concept had seemed fine in the abstract. Like algebra and the periodic table.
It had been nearly a decade, after all. She was a completely different person from that besotted girl she had once been.
He meant nothing to her anymore. She should be able to blithely chat with him about what he had been up to the past decade.
Yeah. Not happening.
Maybe she could turn around, climb back into her car and go hang out at The Sea Shanty until he was gone.
No. That was just kicking the can down the road. She had to face him eventually. Why not now?
She could come up with a dozen reasons, but none of them seemed compelling enough for her to flee without at least saying hello.
“I’m sorry,” Rosemary said again, her hand on the doorknob. “It’s fine, Mom. Don’t worry about it. Don’t leave them standing outside. I’ll just say hello and then head over to the bunk-house to settle in. You won’t even know I’m here. It will be fine.”
She didn’t believe that for a minute, but she forced herself to put on a pleasant smile as her mother opened the door.
And there he was.
As gorgeous as ever, with those thick dark eyelashes, strong features, full mouth that could kiss like no one else she had ever met…
Her toes curled at the unwelcome memories and she forced her attention away from Alex to the young girl standing beside him. She had dark hair that swung to her shoulders, bright brown eyes and dimples like her father.
Right now she was staring at Violet like she had just grown a second head.
“Miss Lily?” she whispered, big brown eyes wide and mouth ajar.
Of course. Ariana thought Violet was her sister. It was a natural mistake, as they were identical twins, though as an adult, Vi had mostly seen the differences between them.
She approached the girl with the same patient, reassuring mile she used in her classroom when one of her students was upset about something.
“Hi there,” she said calmly, doing her best to ignore Alex’s intense gaze for now. “You must be Ariana. I’m Violet. Lily was my twin sister.”
“You look just like her,” the girl said breathlessly. Her gaze narrowed. “Except I think maybe your hair is a little shorter than hers was. And she had a tattoo of flowers on her wrist and you don’t.”
When they were in college, Lily had insisted on getting a tiny bouquet of flowers, intertwined lilies and violets and camellias to represent the three Porter sisters.
She had begged Violet and Cami to both get one, too. Cami, older by two years and always far more mature than either Vi or Lily, had politely explained that she didn’t want any tattoos because of the serious nature of the law career she was pursuing. Violet had promised she would but then kept putting it off.
She still could go get a tattoo. After Lily’s death, she had thought more seriously about it, but the loss of her sister was always with her. She didn’t need a mark on her skin to remind her Lily wasn’t here.
She forced a smile for the girl. “Right. No tattoo. That’s one sure way of telling us apart.”
Plus, she was alive and Lily wasn’t. But she wasn’t cruel enough to say that out loud, especially not to this child.
Lily had drowned after rescuing Ariana and a visiting friend when a rogue wave from an offshore winter storm dragged the girls out to sea. Lily had somehow managed to get both girls back to safety, but the Pacific had been relentless that day, and before Lily could climb out herself, another wave had pulled her under.
Violet certainly couldn’t blame this child for a cruel act of nature.
Or for her parentage.

Excerpted from Summer at the Cape by RaeAnne Thayne. Copyright © 2022 by RaeAnne Thayne. Published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

 

 

New York Times bestselling author RaeAnne Thayne finds inspiration in the beautiful norhtern Utah mountains where she lives with her family. Her stories have been described as “poignant and sweet” with “beautiful honest storytelling that goes straight to the heart.” She loves to hear from readers and can be reached through her website at www.raeannethayne.com.
 

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Crimson Summer by Heather Graham – Review & Excerpt

Crimson Summer by Heather Graham – Review & Excerpt

 

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Description:
They’re not going down without a fight.

When FDLE special agent Amy Larson discovers a small horse figurine amid the bloody aftermath of a gang massacre in the Everglades, she recognizes it immediately. The toy is the calling card of the apocalypse cult that Amy and her partner, FBI special agent Hunter Forrest, have been investigating, and it can only mean one thing: this wasn’t an isolated skirmish—it was the beginning of a war.

As tensions between rival gangs rise, so does the body count, and Amy and Hunter’s investigation leads them to a violent, far-right extremist group who are in no hurry to quell the civil unrest. With a deadly puppet master working to silence their every lead, it’s a race against the clock to figure out who’s been pulling the strings and put a stop to the escalating cartel turf war before the Everglades run red.

 

 

Review:

Crimson Summer by Heather Graham is the 2nd book in her Amy Larsen & Hunter Forest FBI series.  I did not read the first book in this series (guess I missed it), but this reads very well as a standalone.  Amy Larson (FDLE special agent) and Hunter Forest (FBI special agent) are our heroes in this series.  The storyline revolves around an apocalypse threat (the four horsemen), which concentrated on the first book being a cult, and using the white horse.  While on vacation, Amy and Hunter discover someone left them a gift, a red horse toy; knowing the danger in that message, as well as learning that there was a bloody gang massacre in the Everglades; they cut their vacation short and return to Florida to help investigate the massacre and red horse clue.

The tension and suspense escalate, especially between rival gangs, as another mass murder happens in New York, as well as threats in Chicago.  Amy and Hunter begin to suspect that a violent, extremist group maybe behind the war, as there are many twists and turns along the way, leading them to try and figure out who the real person is behind the scenes.

What follows is a fast paced, exciting, suspenseful thriller that even puts innocent people in danger. Amy and Hunter race against the clock to protect the innocents, and find the villain. There were a number of surprises, and to say too much more would be spoilers. I really loved Amy and Hunter together, as they made a great team, not to mention romance.  Since there is more horseman to come, I look forward to reading what Graham has in store for us. Crimson Summer was so very well written by Heather Graham.  If you enjoy exciting suspense thrillers, you need to read this book; especially Graham is one of the best in writing suspenseful novels.  

Reviewed by Barb

Copy provided by Publisher

 

 

                                     Prologue

The sun was out, inching its way up in the sky, casting golden rays and creating a beautiful display of color over the shading mangroves and cypress growing richly in the area. The sunlight touched on the streams running throughout the Everglades, the great “River of Grass” stretching over two hundred acres in southern and central portions of Florida, creating a glittering glow of nature.
The sky was gold and red at the horizon, and brilliantly blue above, with only a few soft puffs of clouds littered about. Diamonds and crystals seemed to float on the water.
Such beauty. Such peace.
Then there was the crime scene.
The bodies lay strewn and drenched with blood. The rich, natural earth hues of the Everglades were caught in a surreal image, greens and browns spattered liberally with the color red as if an angry child had swung a sopping paint-brush around.
Aidan Cypress had never understood why the mocking-bird had been made Florida’s state bird—not when it seemed that vultures ruled the skies overhead. Never more so than today.
Now, as he stood overlooking the scene with his crew and special agents from the FDLE, trying to control the crime scene against the circling vultures, Aidan couldn’t help but wonder just what had happened and why it had happened this way—and grit his teeth knowing there would be speculation.
Stooping down by the body of a man Aidan believed to be in his midthirties—with dark hair, olive complexion, possibly six feet in height, medium build—he noted the shaft of an arrow protruding from the man’s gut.
All the dead had been killed with arrows, hatchets, axes and knives. Because whoever had done this had apparently tried to make it look like a historical Native American rampage.
Except the killers hadn’t begun to understand there were differences in the weaponry and customs between the nations and tribes of the indigenous peoples across the country.
In South Florida, the dead man’s coloring could mean many things; Aidan himself was a member of the Seminole tribe of Florida, though somewhere in his lineage, some-one had been white—most probably from northern Europe originally. He had a bronze complexion, thick, straight hair that was almost ebony…and green eyes.
South Florida was home to those who had come from Cuba, Central and South America and probably every island out there. The area was truly a giant melting pot. That’s how his family had begun. In a way, history had created the Seminole tribe because there had been a time when settlers had called any indigenous person in Florida a Seminole.
But while the killers had tried to make this look like a massacre of old, the dead men were not Seminole. They were, Aidan believed, Latino. He could see tattoos on the lower arms of a few of the dead who had been wearing T-shirts; a single word was visible in the artwork on the man in front of him—Hermandad.
Spanish for “Brotherhood.”
“What the hell happened here, Aidan?”
Aidan looked up to see that John Schultz—Special Agent John Schultz, Florida Department of Law Enforcement—was standing by his side.
John went on. “It’s like a scene out of an old cowboys and Indians movie!”
Aidan stared at John as he rose, bristling—and yet he knew what it looked like at first glance.
“Quaking aspen,” Aidan said.
“Quaking aspen?” John repeated blankly.
“It’s not native to this area. Look at the arrow. That wasn’t made by any Seminole, Miccosukee or other Florida Native American. That is a western wood.”
“Yeah, well, things travel these days.”
Aidan shook his head. He liked John and respected him. The older agent was experienced, a few years shy of retirement. The tall, gray-haired man had recently suffered a heart attack, had taken the prescribed time off and come back to the field. They’d worked together dozens of times before. He could be abrasive—he had a sometimes-unhappy tendency to say what he thought, before thinking it through.
A few years back John had been partnered with a young woman named Amy Larson. It had taken John a long time to accept her age—and the fact she was female. Once he’d realized her value, though, he’d become her strongest supporter.
But Amy wasn’t here today.
And Aidan missed her. She softened John’s rough edges.
She was still on holiday somewhere with Hunter Forrest, the FBI agent she’d started dating. They were off on an island enjoying exotic breezes and one another’s company minus all the blood and mayhem.
Aidan stopped lamenting the absence of his favorite FDLE agent and waved away a giant vulture trying to hone in on a nearby body.
Half of the corpses were already missing eyes and bits and pieces of skin and soft tissue.
Aidan sighed and looked around. There were twenty bodies, all of them male, between the ages of twenty and forty, he estimated.
Because he’d noted the tattoos on a few of them, and using his own years of experience, he theorized the dead were members of a gang. Florida had many such gangs. Most were recruits from the various drug cartels, resolved to hold dominion over their territories.
He looked at John, trying to be patient, understanding and professional enough to control his temper. “You know, you may be the special agent, but I’m the forensics expert, and this was not something perpetrated by any of the Florida tribes—or any tribe anywhere. I can guarantee you no one sent out a war party to slaughter some gang members. Someone tried—ridiculously—to make this look like some Natives did this.”
“Hey, sorry, you’re right. Forgive me—just…look around!” John said quickly and sincerely. “It’s just at first sight…well, I mean—wow. You’re right. I’m sorry.”
The apology was earnest. “Okay. Let’s figure out what really happened.”
The corpses were in something of a clearing right by a natural stream making its way through hammocks thick with cypress trees and mangroves and all kinds of underbrush.
While the area was customarily filled with many birds—herons, cranes, falcons, hawks and more—it was the vultures who had staked out a claim. The bodies lay with arrows and axes protruding from their heads, guts or chests, as if they’d fought in a bloody battle. And now they succumbed to decay on the damp and redolent earth.
John followed Aidan’s gaze and winced. “It’s a mess. Okay, well…all right. I’m going to go over and interview the man who found this.”
“Jimmy Osceola,” Aidan said. “He’s been fishing this little area all his life, and he does tours. Two birds with one stone. Members of his family work with him and all of them fish and take tourists out here. He has a great little place right off I-75. It’s called Fresh Catch, and his catch is about as fresh as it gets. Catfish. He’s a good guy, John.”
“I believe you. But we’re going to need a break here—you and your team have to find something for me to go on.”
Aidan stared at him, gloved hands unclenching at his sides. John was rough around the edges and said whatever came to mind, but he was a good cop.
He’d be hell-bent on finding out just what had gone on here.
Aidan told him what he’d heard. “Jimmy was out with a boatload of tourists—they’re right over there. See—two couples, a kid who just started at FIU and two middle-aged women. The first officers on the scene made sure they all stayed. Go talk to them. They look like they came upon a bloodbath—oh, wait, they did.”
John arched a brow to him and said, “Yeah. I got it.”
He headed off to talk to Jimmy Osceola and the group with him.
Aidan studied the crime scene again, as a whole.
First, what the hell had all these men been doing out here? A few of them looked to have been wearing suits; most were in T-shirts and jeans.
The few bodies he had noted—not touching any of them, that was the medical examiner’s purview—seemed to bear that same tattoo. Hermandad.
That meant a gang of enforcers in his mind, and he was sure it was a good guess.
Had a big drug deal been planned?
They were on state land, but it was state land traveled only by the local tribes who knew it. The park service rangers also came through, and the occasional tourist who arranged for a special excursion into the wilds.
Bird-watchers, often enough.
All they’d see today, however, would be the vultures.
“Aidan.”
He heard his name spoken by a quiet female voice and he swung around.
Amy Larson was not enjoying an exotic island vacation.
She was standing just feet from him, having carefully avoided stepping on any of the bodies, pools of blood or possible evidence. She was in a navy pantsuit, white cotton shirt and serviceable black sneakers—obviously back to work.
No matter how all-business her wardrobe, Amy had blue-crystal eyes that displayed empathy and caring. She was great at both assuring witnesses and staring down suspects.
“What are you doing here, Amy?” Aidan asked her. “You’re supposed to be sunbathing somewhere, playing in the surf with Hunter.”
“I was.”
“So what happened?”
“It was great. Champagne, chocolates, sun, surf, sand…” She sighed.
“And?”
“And a little red horse—like the one from last month’s crime scene—delivered right to the room,” she said.

Excerpted from Crimson Summer by Heather Graham, Copyright © 2022 by Heather Graham Pozzessere. Published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

 


 

New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author Heather Graham has written more than a hundred novels. She’s a winner of the RWA’s Lifetime Achievement Award, and the Thriller Writers’ Silver Bullet. She is an active member of International Thriller Writers and Mystery Writers of America. For more information, check out her website, TheOriginalHeatherGraham.com, or find Heather on Facebook.

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A Forgery of Roses by Jessica S. Olson – Review & Excerpt

A Forgery of Roses by Jessica S. Olson – Review & Excerpt

 

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Description:
Myra Whitlock has a gift. One many would kill for.

She’s an artist whose portraits alter people’s real-life bodies, a talent she must hide from those who would kidnap, blackmail, and worse in order to control it. Guarding that secret is the only way to keep her younger sister safe now that their parents are gone.

But one frigid night, the governor’s wife discovers the truth and threatens to expose Myra if she does not complete a special portrait that would resurrect the governor’s dead son. Desperate, Myra ventures to his legendary stone mansion.

Once she arrives, however, it becomes clear the boy’s death was no accident. Someone dangerous lurks within these glittering halls. Someone harboring a disturbing obsession with portrait magic.

Myra cannot do the painting until she knows what really happened, so she turns to the governor’s older son, a captivating redheaded poet. Together, they delve into the family’s most shadowed affairs, racing to uncover the truth before the secret Myra spent her life concealing makes her the killer’s next victim.

 

 

 

Review:

A Forgery of Roses by Jessica S. Olson is a different kind of fantasy novel, with a little similarity to The Picture of Dorian Gray. We meet our heroine, Myra Whitlock, at the start, as she helps do portraits for her boss and friend, Elsie.  Myra hides her gift as a prodigy, who can alter a person’s body by painting, she is young and has no experience to use this feature, though she knows she has the ability, but it is considered very dangerous.  Her sister, Lucy, is very ill, and Myra does not have enough money to get her to a proper doctor; especially since her mother and father have been missing for a long time.

The Governor’s wife enters Elsie’s place, and asks for a portrait of her dog to be done; since Elsie is busy, she asks Myra to do the painting.  The governor’s wife notices that Myra has more ability than she lets on and offers her a lot of money, to paint her dead son and bring him back to life. Myra hesitates, since she has never really allowed herself to use her full ability; but she is desperate for the money to save Lucy; she accepts the job and is brought to the governor’s mansion. Myra knows she has to be careful, as the Governor himself is the one who disapproves Prodigies. The wife gives her another identification, as a cousin visiting, and she must work on the painting in the basement, so no one sees her. When Myra starts working on the painting, she has difficulty, as she needs to know more about how the son died.  She befriends August, who is the younger son, whom his mother tells him to keep an eye on her and be helpful.  When the painting doesn’t work, both Myra and August try to investigate the truth how the son died, and discover a dangerous adversary. 

What follows is an intriguing, unique story that is filled with magic, danger and mystery; as well as a family bond between two sisters. Myra was a great heroine, and I really liked August, who by the end learns to stand up for himself. To say too much more would be spoilers.  A Forgery of Roses was very well written by Jessica S. Olson, and a very different kind of story line.  I suggest if you like fantasy, you should give this a try.

Reviewed by Barb

Copy provided by Publisher

 

 

 

When ladyroses burn, they bleed.

“A symbol of life,” Mother used to say when we would bend over the smoke together.
But now, as I hold f lame to stem, as I watch hungry, glowing embers devour leaves and thorns, as f loral perfume curdles to ribbons of soot in my nose, I know she was wrong. For when the fire reaches the petals, they shrivel, curling as though in pain. And then they melt. Great fat rubies dribbling over my fingers and smattering into my bowl like gore.
Mother called it beautiful. But now that she and Father have gone, all I see is death.
Gritting my teeth, I tear my gaze from the slow trickle of red and try to steady the quake of my movements as I drop the scorched ladyrose stems into the trash bin and blow out my can¬dle. Crossing to a pot of water I’ve got heating over the fire in the corner, I tip the bowl of ladyrose drippings in.
As soon as it hits the water, the rose blood fans out, a spider¬web of shimmering scarlet veins crawling through the pot until the whole thing clouds like it’s full of sparkling garnet dust. I dip a spoon into the mixture and stir. It bubbles, smokes, and blackens.
Closing my eyes, I breathe in the sharp, cloying scent. Mother used to come home every day smelling like this—her clothes, her hair, her skin. With my head thick in a fog of exhaustion, it’s easy to allow myself to imagine she’s here next to me, chatting happily about how mixing burnt umber with ultramarine blue makes a far superior black than the tube of flat paint many art¬ists purchase at the store. “It creates a more eye-catching hue,” I can almost hear her say. “Make the shadows breathe, Myra.”
From across the studio, the piercing laugh of my employer, portrait artist Elsie Moore, breaks through my thoughts, and I sigh as the echo of Mother’s voice fades from my mind.
How long will it be before I forget what that sounded like?
Forcing away thoughts of Mother, I continue stirring the con¬tents of my pot. Another few minutes, and it should be ready to remove from the heat, cover, and set in a cool place to coagu¬late. Three days hence, the bubbling charcoal syrup will thicken into a clear jellylike substance that I’ll then transfer into tubes to stock alongside Elsie’s paints, solvents, and brushes. Ladyrose gel. A painting medium I both revere and fear.
I toss the spoon into the sink and wrap a towel around the pot. Then I hoist it to the counter beneath the window to cool and drape a cloth over its top. Satisfied, I turn to my next task of the morning: a bouquet of dirty brushes waiting to be cleaned. As I unscrew the cap from a bottle of turpentine, I let my gaze wander to where Elsie’s putting the finishing touches on a por¬trait of Mrs. Ramos across the room. Cadmium bright paints, eye-catching phthalo hues, and quinacridone details swirl to¬gether like smoke on Elsie’s canvas. She holds her brushes with a steady hand, chattering animatedly to Mrs. Ramos without a care in the world.
What would it be like to paint so freely? To wield a brush without the threat of magic commandeering the portrait? To give in to the high of pure creation?
Painting used to be like that for me, back before my pow¬ers sparked to life a few years ago. In those days, there was no greater ecstasy than the promise of a blank canvas and a palette full of colors. Before magic, painting was magic.
The memory of it is enough to make me weep.
I press the bristles of a filbert brush against the coil at the bot¬tom of the jar of turpentine to loosen the oils, but when Elsie gasps, I glance back up.
“No!” She presses a dramatic hand to her heart. “Wilburt Jr.? What does he have?”
Mrs. Ramos, sitting daintily on a settee in a pale pink dress, nods, her mouth twisted in a frown. “The papers don’t say. I think it could be pneumonia, though. It’s been going around this year. Mrs. Potsworth down the street passed away from a nasty case of it not last week!”
I frown. The only Wilburt Jr. they can possibly be talking about is the governor’s son. A tall, strikingly handsome boy around my age whom I’ve only ever glimpsed at Lalverton city events.
Pursing my lips, I set aside the turpentine and dunk the brushes into the sink. Soap bubbles in my palm as I work it through the bristles, and I stare absently out the window at the snow swirling in the street and the passersby kicking through muddy slush on the sidewalk. I fall into a rhythm, imagining I’m back at the flat my family used to live in downtown. Mother is at my side in front of the kitchen sink, scrubbing burnt sienna out from underneath her fingernails. Father bustles in through the door, arms laden with bowls of leftover soups from his res¬taurant. My little sister, Lucy, rushes at him, asking if her pet frog can have the lobster bisque. You know it’s his favorite, Pa!
“Myra?” Elsie says behind me, and I jump, dropping the brushes, which hit the bottom of the basin with a faint series of plinks.
“Ms. Moore!” I say, looking back to where she was chat¬ting with Mrs. Ramos earlier. I catch sight of the curly haired woman tugging a coat over her dress as she heads out the door. “You scared me.”
Elsie chuckles, thunking down another cupful of dirty brushes. “An ox could sneak up on you, dear. You spend too much time in your head.” She turns her back to me and gestures at the buttons down her spine. “Help me off with my smock, please.”
I obey. Sweat glistens on the back of her neck, dampening the gray curls that have escaped her tight bun.
“I know it’s not my place to ask questions,” the old woman continues, patting at her hair, “but…are you sleeping? How’s Lucy?”
I paste on a neutral expression and slide the smock from El¬sie’s shoulders. “The same.”
She sighs. “I do wish I could help.”
The words are like a backhanded blow. I wonder what Mother would think if she heard them. Whether Father would scoff in that indignant way of his at the blatant lie.
I stare at my feet to keep from glancing at the fat amethysts drooping from Elsie’s soft white earlobes, the glitter of half a dozen gold chains around her neck, or the bulbous gems on her gnarled fingers. Any one of those sold to a jeweler would fetch the money Lucy and I need, but three months ago when I came begging Elsie for the help she claims she wishes she could give me, she balked at the idea. Said it would do me no favors to hand me a reward I didn’t earn.
I knew before I even asked her that she would say no. If there’s anything life has taught me, it’s that I can’t count on anyone but my sister. We’re all each other has. And, in the past, that would have been enough. But with Lucy’s illness having taken a turn for the worse and our funds being too meager to afford the medi¬cal care she needs, Elsie’s patronizing words about “wishing she could help” make me want to scream.
“How was Mrs. Ramos?” I ask a bit too brightly as I fold the smock into a tidy little square and set it on a pile of linens I plan to wash tomorrow.
Elsie draws the back of her hand across her brow. “She’s doing well, I think. Her son is visiting this week.”
“The senator?”
“Yes. He took her to see Governor Harris’s public address yesterday.” Her expression sours.
“And?” I ask, not sure if I want to hear any more.
“She said the governor went on for at least five minutes be¬rating Lalverton citizens for buying paintings and thus mak¬ing light of the Holy Artist’s divinity.” She huffs. “That man is never going to let it go, is he?”
I groan. “When is he going to remember he’s not a priest and that people’s worship is not actually his concern?”
“He also said allowing secular art to become such a thriving business is the reason so many painters have gone missing. He apparently thinks it’s a sign that the Artist is displeased.”
I hiss through my teeth.
Painters have been disappearing one by one over the past year, starting with my mother, and yet the governor—the man whose duty it is to protect Lalverton—has done nothing. No major investigations, no questions asked.
Because we are the scum of the earth to him. Worse, even.
It’s nothing I haven’t heard before. I used to be forced to stand by as pompous worshippers spit on my mother, accusing her of desecrating the Artist by painting for profit. I watched others cross the street when they passed Elsie’s studio, as though merely being in the presence of such heresy could taint their souls.
As the years have trickled by, though, the disdain seems to have eased up a bit. Only the most devout hold painters like Elsie and Mother in such contempt. The majority of people don’t seem to mind what we do, and in recent months, portraiture has become quite popular in Lalverton.
But anytime Governor Harris goes on one of his burn-all-the-studios-to-the-ground rampages, my heart sinks.
I want to be a painter, just like Mother was—is—but it seems that particular life will always come with a healthy measure of judgment and disgust.
Elsie drops her voice to a whisper. “My bet—and don’t you dare repeat this to a soul, dear—is that the governor is exter¬minating us one by one himself. Wiping us out like stink bugs under his boot.”
A jolt zaps through my body.
Elsie registers my expression. “I’m sorry,” she says quickly. “I should not have—”
“It’s fine,” I say, my voice a pitch too high as the image of my parents under Governor Harris’s boot, twitching like a pair of dead insects, makes my stomach churn.
“Besides—” Elsie flounders for words “—the fact that your father is among the missing is a testament to the fact that it’s not only painters, right?” She gives a nervous chuckle, as if such a statement should comfort me.
I stare at her.
The bell on the front door tinkles.
“Mr. Markleton!” Elsie almost shouts, diving across the room toward the short, balding merchant in the doorway in her hurry to get away from me. “Right on time, as usual!” Her voice fills the air with exaggerated cheeriness. “Come, come!” She weaves among easels stacked with paintings in varying stages of com¬pletion and directs Mr. Markleton to a cushy settee in front of one of the backdrops that line the far wall.
“Brought along this—I know how you love to keep up on the Lalverton gossip,” he says with a smile, offering Elsie a rolled-up newspaper.
“Oh, yes! I heard about Governor Harris’s son.” She nods at me to take the paper. “But I did want to read the story myself. Thank you for bringing it along.”
Mr. Markleton gives me a friendly wink as I carry the news¬paper to the back table. Elsie’s careless words about the miss¬ing people, about my parents, echo ceaselessly in my head, and I try to catch my breath as a wave of nausea rolls through me.
Elsie means well, I know that. She’s always had a knack for speaking before she thinks.
And it’s not like I could ever forget my parents are missing anyway. My whole world unraveled when they vanished, and it’s only gotten harder the past few months as our bank accounts have emptied. We can scarcely afford food and rent, let alone the medical care Lucy needs now that her illness has worsened.
We had our whole lives planned out. I was to attend the Lal¬verton Conservatory for Music and the Arts when I turned eighteen next spring, just like Mother. I would graduate with highest marks, just like Mother. Then I would open my own studio, just like Mother did here with Elsie.
Lucy, who was only twelve when our parents disappeared, was already on track to be accepted into some of the most pres¬tigious biology programs in the country. She planned to change the world with her discoveries. Improve the environment and save endangered animals.
But now, those plans are nothing more than dreams from an¬other life. A memory of wishes that will never come true. I’ve spent the past several months painting portraits until dawn to build up a portfolio in hopes of securing one of the full-ride scholarships the conservatory offers, but…well. Thanks to my magic’s interference, my portfolio is meager at best. I have a bet¬ter chance at winning a scholarship to the moon.
Maybe my dreams were foolish anyway. Keeping my power from being discovered in a place like the conservatory would have been difficult. I don’t know how Mother managed it.
Rubbing a fist over my aching eyes, I glance down at the newspaper in my hands. A black-and-white photograph of a square-jawed man smiles kindly back at me from the front page. Why do I recognize him?
I unfurl the paper and read the article.
The body of Frederick Bennett, who was reported missing eight years ago, was discovered in the cellar of Roderick Lowell’s home last week.
My fists tighten on the paper, crinkling it. Of course I know his face. Frederick Bennett’s somber eyes have stared out from missing-person posters all over the city since I was nine years old. Mother told me she knew him from the conservatory and always wondered if he was a Prodigy like her. When he disap¬peared, she said she hoped he hadn’t been kidnapped and coerced into using his magic for someone cruel and desperate.
With unease stinging in my gut, I read on.
Autopsy reports reveal that the cause of death was starvation, though many lacerations, bruises, and broken bones were observed. Extensive scarring on his back and arms was noted, as well.
Lowell, a prominent stockholder in Lalverton, has declined to re¬spond to inquiries and is being held for questioning at the Lalverton Police Station.
A roaring fills my ears, and I stumble back several steps be¬fore sinking into Elsie’s chair.
The report doesn’t say the word “Prodigy,” but it doesn’t have to.
Prodigy magic, which flows through my body just as it did through Mother’s, gives an artist the ability to alter human and animal bodies with their paintings, and it is considered by the Church to be even more of an abomination than normal por¬trait work. According to scripture, my very existence is a de-filement of the power of our god, the Great Artist. Prodigies like us have been persecuted by the pious and captured by the greedy since the dawn of time. My head is full of the stories Mother told from her history books, the ones in which entire nations banded together to force a Prodigy to do their bidding. Where the holy priests burned them at the stake to cleanse the world of what they believed to be sinful imitation of the Artist.
As centuries have passed, the number of Prodigies in the world has dwindled—though whether it’s because their genetic lines have been killed off or because the ones who have sur¬vived have kept their powers hidden like Mother, it’s hard to say. With men like Governor Harris in charge of regions across the world, men willing to falsify charges in order to get Prodi¬gies locked up in the name of “purifying” their streets, there’s no telling how many of us are out there, hiding.
All I know is that someone found out what Mother was, and then she and Father vanished.
Just like Frederick Bennett.
A flicker of orange flashes in the corner of my eye from the front window, and I glance up from the paper. A small red-haired woman stands outside the studio entrance with a tiny white dog in a sparkling collar tucked under one arm. She nudges the door open, sending the bell above it tinkling once again. A swirl of snow twists into the room as she slips inside, and I stifle a gasp when I catch sight of her face.
Mrs. Adelia Harris, wife to the merciless governor set on de¬stroying every art studio in town, meets my gaze with a cold, hard stare. I tighten my grip on the newspaper.
With her husband’s reelection campaign in full swing, her son in a sickbed, and her belief that portrait art is a sin of the vilest degree, what could she possibly want with us?
Elsie catches sight of her and leaps to her feet with a gasp, knocking over her stool, which clangs against the tile.
“Hello.” Mrs. Harris’s voice is quiet. Lethal. “I’d like to get a portrait done.”Excerpted from A Forgery of Roses by Jessica S. Olson © 2022 by Jessica S. Olson, used with permission by Inkyard Press/HarperCollins. 

 


Jessica S. Olson claims New Hampshire as her home but has somehow found herself in Texas, where she spends most of her time singing praises to the inventor of the air conditioner. When she’s not hiding from the heat, she’s corralling her four wild—but adorable—children, dreaming up stories about kissing and murder and magic, and eating peanut butter by the spoonful straight from the jar. She earned a bachelor’s in English with minors in editing and French, which essentially means she spent all of her university time reading and eating French pastries. She is the author of Sing Me Forgotten (2021) and A Forgery of Roses (2022).

Social Links:

Author website: https://www.jessicasolson.com/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/jessicaolson123
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/jessicaolson123/?hl=en
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/19475731.Jessica_S_Olson

 

 

 

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9th Anniversary Giveaway Celebration with Taryn Quinn

9th Anniversary Giveaway Celebration with Taryn Quinn-Today’s Prize Package

NOTE: All giveaways require a comment to qualify

Please be aware some of the books offered may be ARC copies from the publisher  / author which may or may not have gone through final edits or final cover copy

Taryn Elliott and Cari Quinn aka  Taryn Quinn are gracious offering a $20 Amazon Gift Card and winner’s choice of a digital copy of one of their books to ONE (1) commenter.

There will be ONE (1) winner.

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9th Anniversary Giveaway Prize Package from Jen Katemi

9th Anniversary Giveaway Prize Package from Jen Katemi 

NOTE: All giveaways require a comment to qualify.

Author Jen Katemi is graciously offering an Amazon Gift Card (US only) valued at $25 USD, or an Eden Books Gift Card (international) valued at $25 USD – winner’s choice of which one they prefer.

There will be ONE (1) winner

1. If you have not previously registered at The Reading Cafe, please register by using the log-in at the top of the page (side bar) or by using one of the social log-ins.

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3. Please tell us to enter you into the giveaway.

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The Reading Cafe 9th Anniversary -Christine Feehan package

The Reading Cafe 9th Anniversary Celebration -Christine Feehan – Today’s Prize Package

 

 

NOTE: All giveaways require a comment to qualify

Please be aware some of the books offered may be ARC copies from the publisher which may or may not have gone through final edits or final cover copy

The Reading Cafe is offering a  6 (six) paper book prize package of Christine Feehan books

ONE (1) commenter will receive a 6 book set of Christine Feehan ARC copies from The Reading Cafe.

 

1. If you have not previously registered at The Reading Cafe, please register by using the log-in at the top of the page (side bar) or by using one of the social log-ins.

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4. Like  BERKLEY ROMANCE on FACEBOOK and then click on NOTIFICATION under ‘liked’ for an additional entry.

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9th Anniversary Giveaway Celebration with John A Heldt

The Reading Cafe 9th Anniversary Giveaway Celebration with John A Heldt

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John A Heldt is graciously offering ebook copies of the first 3 books in his Time Box series to ONE (1) commenter.

One (1) winner will receive the first 3 ebooks in his Time Box series 

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9. Giveaway open INTERNATIONALLY

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