Advent Calendar Day 3 Seance on a Summer's Night

Good morning! Happy Tuesday! We still have a bit of snow on the ground, if you can believe it!

Today's offering is a lovely holiday coda for Seance on a Summer's Night in a return appearance by the wonderfully talented Natasha Chesterbrook.  So grab a cup of coffee, tea, or cocoa and take a few minutes to start your morning off right. :-)

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Artemus lunged for the open cab door practically hurling himself in front of two twenty-somethings loaded down with bags, no doubt Christmas shopping as ultimate sport. Their outraged faces receded in the rear window of the taxi as it pulled from the curb, pedestrians scattering away like litter in a windstorm.

He wasn’t going to miss Seamus if it killed him.

The last time they’d been out together, Artemus took the train to New Jersey halfway to Philadelphia where Seamus had been in conference. The quaint borough of Somerville had an expansive, new train station but the feel of an old-time small town. The wrought-iron fenced trees, interlocking paver sidewalks and retro streetlights made it seem charming. It also offered enough restaurant choices to rival 6^th Avenue in the Theater District.

They’d dined al fresco enjoying the last vestiges of summer. Seamus seemed just as smitten as he was in the final days they’d had at Green Lanterns. Betty’s funeral has been a somber affair; Seamus stood with him lending his strong shoulders and quiet support. Afterward, in between working with Chief Kingsland and dismantling the remains of RCU, they’d managed a couple of quiet evenings before Artemus’ return to New York.

Since that time, it had been a series of discordant scheduling, missed opportunities and sheer bad luck. A three act comedy of tragic proportions or so it seemed to Artemus. Most recently a tri-state area taskforce had taken Seamus to Albany for most of November and early December. His brief Thanksgiving break was disrupted by Artemus’ bout with the flu.

With Christmas almost upon them, Artemus was determined their reunion would not be ruined by a freak snowstorm, sudden outbreak in rampant larceny or Santa Claus preaching the end days in Times Square. Artemus was ready for anything.

“Rockefeller Center.”

The cabbie nodded and Artemus relaxed against the seat while a disembodied voice lectured him on the value of wearing a seatbelt. For the moment he imagined seeing Seamus’ bright blue eyes, feeling those strong shoulders beneath his hand and pressing his mouth to those lush lips.

The traffic going uptown on Sixth Avenue was heavy and slow-going. By the time they got to 50^th Street, Seamus jumped out by the north entrance to the plaza. Crowds of tourists wandered the streets in wide-eyed wonder at the spectacle that is New York during the holidays.

Why had he chosen to meet Seamus here of all places? So dramatic, so clichéd. Seamus scurried past the crowded entrance moving on toward 5^th Avenue. Circling around to the dramatic entryway of Lower Plaza he felt hot despite the cold evening air and pushed his way down the steps toward the garden. Surrounded by the Clarebout Angels, golden Prometheus glowed with festive aplomb beneath the giant tree which dominated the plaza. Artemus’ breath still caught on first sight.

The dulcet notes of God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen drifted from a crooner dressed in a festive red with white fur trimmed jacket, the requisite stocking hat perched jauntily on his head. The only discordant notes struck were the Hawaiian board shorts and flip-flops he sported, white knobby knees poking out from below. Only in New York.

Worrying he was late, Artemus pulled off a leather glove with his teeth to retrieve his phone.

“Artie?”

It wasn’t his name that cause Artemus to start but the voice. He fumbled the phone catching it against his chest and almost losing his balance in the process, the single glove swinging perilously from his lips. He bumped into an onlooker who glared at him murderously and grabbed her purse in alarm.

Greg stood off to the side gazing at him with surprised delight. “I wouldn’t have figured you for the tourist type.” He laughed a little nervously and shifted to his back foot.

Artemus froze more from shock than the dipping temperatures and, in that moment, thought Did I just wander into a Neil Simon play?

Snatching the glove from his mouth, Artemus wrapped himself in his best Noel Coward. 

“Assumptions makes fools of both of us, darling.”

Greg huffed, “I imagine you’ve been waiting a long time to say that to me.”

 “Amazing how shocked people are by honesty so few by deceit.”* Artemus’ blithe hand wave was completely undermined by the loose glove flapping from it.

“Tennessee Williams?”

“No, I’m paraphrasing … Actually, let’s not do this.”

Surprised by the resentment he still bore against Greg and, if he was honest, disappointment in himself for all the wasted time, Artemus shook off the weight of the past and reclaimed his humanity.

“I wish you a joyful holiday and that the New Year brings you the clarity you seek.”

Greg brightened, “Thank you, Artie. Maybe we can get a drink and –"

Artemus cut him off, “Never going to happen. Goodbye, Greg.”

Moving off through the crowds he felt the past year’s self-recrimination slip off his shoulders and happiness bubbled up as he moved toward the future. Seamus. If only he could find his man!

Just then, the phone he was clutching vibrated against his chest. Looking down, Artemus read the text from Seamus.

Look to your right.

He whirled around but couldn’t find Seamus in the crowd. His phone vibrated again.

Okay, now to your left.

And there not ten yards away stood Seamus looking handsome and just a bit scary. Joy overwhelmed Artemus at the sight. He strode the distance as Seamus moved at the same time. The moment was magical when they embraced, their lips meeting in a brief but warm kiss while Christmas bells jingled nearby.

Artemus looked into Seamus’ blue eyes, the festive lights reflected in their glow, and smiled broadly. Seamus’ arms slipped around his shoulders and it felt like home. The crowd buffeted around them but Artemus could not stop looking at this man.

Equally, Seamus’ gaze never wavered, “You look fantastic.”

“I –" Artemus stopped not sure what he was going to say. Patiently, Seamus waited.

Then, with a soft smile and laughter in his voice, Artemus whispered, “I think I’ve lost my glove.”

Seamus’ laugh melded with his, “No worries. I’ll keep you warm.”

* Paraphrased from Noel Coward’s 1941 play Blithe Spirit

Let Me Count the Ways

Today is Patreon's official Celebrate Your Patrons Day.


Creators were encouraged to find special ways to say thank you to their patrons. I made a bunch of little goofy videos to share on various social media platforms



AND I made sure to complete Seance on a Summer's Night on Saturday, so my patrons could enjoy it this weekend.

I've had my Patreon account for just about 11 months now. There are things I love about Patreon and things I don't love, but on the whole I would have to say it's been a great success.

We've never quite hit goal, but we've come within spitting distance several times. That's not really even the point though. Well, maybe I shouldn't say that because the money does absolutely matter. Most months I've folded it right back into my writing business so that I could invest in more product or better product, but once or twice it's been a lifesaver. Frankly, it will be a lifesaver this month because Amazon has been fooling around with the algorithms again and I've been hearing authors across the board talking about seeing anywhere from 30-40% decline in sales. Yikes! (I'm afraid to look at my numbers, to be honest.)

So thank you, Patrons, for the cold hard cash. It is much appreciated.

But what has proved even more valuable is something harder to define. My productivity is back (THANK GOD) but even more of a relief: my creativity is back. Tenfold. My confidence is back. Yes, part of that is getting healthy again. But part of it is simply the validation that comes from having readers willing to...invest in me.

That sounds wrong because all my readers are willing to invest in me, given that they buy all or most of my books. And I'm beyond appreciative of that. It's kind of the point of everything--not to mention how I pay my bills. The bills like my mortgage(s) and our health insurance (currently $1800. a month and going up to $2100 in January) and Marlowe the Mutt's bullystrips. The essentials. ;-)

But there is something inspiring--literally inspiring--having readers willing to chip in a little (sometimes a lot) extra simply out of a love of the stories and their own generosity. In fact, that's even something I struggle with a bit. I keep feeling that it needs to be quid pro quo, but Patreon is not designed for that. It is not intended to be a marketplace where goods and services are purchased.

Every single dollar I receive is a gift--and I receive and appreciate it in that spirit. No one has to donate a single extra cent to me EVER. So how can I be anything but grateful for having already received so much?

(I mean, I do certainly try to make the rewards worthwhile--I want people to be enticed by my wares--;-D, but my patrons are actually the ones who frequently remind me that I am not running a grocery store.)

Anyway, we're all figuring Patreon out in the age of subscription services, and it may be that Patreon will eventually evolve into a high end kind of subscription service. I'm just encouraged and energized by the process--and very grateful to everyone who has been part of it.

So this is me saying thank you to all my patrons, past and present--and even future. Even with all the uncertainty in publishing these days, I feel surprisingly calm. I'm excited, engaged, energized for what is to come in 2019--and each and every one of you is a big part of that.

Exclusive to Patreon - Seance on a Summer's Night

I posted a few weeks back about my decision to start a Patreon account.

One of the things I'd really hoped for from building what has turned out to be part community and part super-fan club, is simply the energizing effect of interacting with truly engaged readers. This has turned out to be the case. It is energizing--and it's also inspirational in a way I didn't expect.

Anyway, one of the "rewards" I'm giving at the three dollar contribution level is access to an exclusive serialized novel called Seance on a Summer's Night.

It is a wacky tale of possession and murder and, well, male/male romance.

Here's the Blurb:

Theater critic Artemus Bancroft isn’t sure what to expect when his aunt summons him home to California with vague but urgent pleas about being unable to cope with “the situation.”

What the situation turns out to be is the apparent haunting of Green Lanterns Inn--and rumors that Auntie Halcyone may have murdered her philandering husband.

In fact, the rumors seem to have been started by the late Mr. Hyde himself—from beyond the grave. 

And here's a wee snippet of an excerpt:

I started down the brick walk leading to the lower garden but found the path ended in a tangle of weeds. Looking beyond, I saw that the maze, an intricate pattern of hedges covering an acre of ground, was as neglected as the rose garden. Good luck finding your way out of there now. The shrubs, which had always been clipped to geometrically precise forms and whimsical topiaries of deer and lions, were now unkempt blobs, the new leaves a pale, eerie green. The smooth velvet lawns that had rolled like a carpet down to the swimming pool were dotted with yellow dandelions.

What the hell was the excuse for this? Okay, Aunt H. and Liana were currently living like nuns, but what did their lack of social life have to do with the upkeep of the grounds?

I turned back toward the house, cutting through a break in the vegetation. Turning the corner, I spotted a man leaning on a hoe and staring intently at the house. He wore one of those brown felt Aussie hats, and though it was still early and cool in the shade, he was shirtless. Though his back was turned to me, I knew he was a stranger. Presumably the new gardener, who wasn’t afraid of ghosts. He had an exceptionally nice back—lean and lithe. Wide shoulders and narrow hips. What was he looking at so intently?

The gardener must have heard something because he turned suddenly, studying me with a hard, blue appraisal. Or maybe I imagined the hardness because the next instant he was smiling cheerfully.

“Hey there. Lose your way through the woods?” He was about my age, his voice friendly.

That broad white grin was hard to resist, like stepping into sunlight after miles of deep shade. My spirits rose for the first time since my return to Green Lanterns.

“Nope. I’m Artemus Bancroft, Mrs. Hyde’s nephew.”

“Ah.” He cocked his head, his gaze quizzical. Really, his front was just as appealing as his back. In fact, he was unexpectedly good-looking in a rugged, dirt-under-the-fingernails way. His eyes gleamed in his sunburned face. His dark stubble looked almost fashionable. “Right. Ulyanna said something about you visiting. Well, I’m Cassidy, the head—and so far only—gardener.”

“Nice to meet you, Cassidy.”

To be honest, he was not like any gardener I’d ever met before. A feeling reinforced as he reached automatically to shake hands but then realized his were stained with mud. Not that I’m a big believer in the Upstairs Downstairs paradigm, but I’d never known one of the gardeners to try and shake hands before. I stared at his hand. His fingers were long and slender, his palm newly blistered.

“I was weeding the dahlias,” he said. 

I glanced down at his feet. He wore boots, which were firmly planted in the midst of a clump of the flowers he had been weeding. “Those aren’t dahlias,” I said. “They’re begonias.”

His brows knitted. He gazed down at the flowers, then offered that grin again. He probably got a lot of mileage from that expression. “You say potato, I say potahto.”

“Oh? Because it seemed like you were saying tomato,” I retorted.

He laughed. “They should have told me you were a horticulturist.”

“Nope, just a regular subscriber to House and Garden.”

“Gotcha.” He continued to smile at me. “What is it you do, then?”

Again, I couldn’t ever recall a gardener—or any employee at Green Lanterns—asking me what I did for a living. It wasn’t that I minded him talking to me like a peer—he was a peer, if we were going to get philosophical about it—but it also wasn’t typical behavior.

“Theater critic.”

His brows rose. “You don’t say.”

“Sure I do.” I had the funniest feeling he’d already known what I did for a living before I answered.

He continued to give me that direct blue stare. Not just direct. Admiring. It had been a while since anyone looked at me like that. And while I can’t say I minded, this too was kind of odd coming from the new gardener.

“So you’re out here taking your morning constitutional?” he inquired. There was a little edge of mockery in his tone.

I responded in the same tone, “Surveying my domain.”

“It’s Mrs. Hyde’s domain, isn’t it?”

“True.”

“Your aunt’s a late sleeper, is she?”

“Not really. She didn’t use to be.”

“And the other lady. Mrs. Hyde-Kent? On the eccentric side, I’ve heard.”

Yeah, not like any gardener I’d ever met.

“Where did you hear that?” I inquired.

He shrugged. “Holds séances, doesn’t she?”

I stared back at him. Said nothing.

His eyes flickered. “Well, duty calls.” He lifted his hat in a parody of servility. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d tugged on his forelock. Assuming he had one under that wide brim.

“Uh-huh,” I said.

His eyes continued to search mine, and disconcertingly, I saw a smile lurking in those blue depths.

“I’ll see you around.”

My momentary irritation vanished. Rude, impertinent, odd, whatever, there was something inexplicably likable about Cassidy.

“Like it or not,” I said.

The smile was back. “I do like it,” he said.

I decided to get the last word by saying nothing.

As I went up the stairs to the front portico, I couldn’t help considering Cassidy. He was attractive, no question, but there was something…off about him. Kind of like his clothes. It wasn’t that they were wrong—although I’d never seen a gardener in one of those Akubras before—but they reminded me of a costume rather than work clothes. That was it. Something about Cassidy reminded me of an actor playing a part—and a slightly miscast actor at that.

Never mind not knowing the difference between a dahlia and a begonia. Shouldn’t a gardener, someone who worked day in and day out in the open, be a lot more weathered-looking? He was as sunburned as any frat boy on the first day of spring break. And surely, if he used garden tools over any length of time, his hands would have become hardened, calloused, stained. They weren’t. He had blisters.

The way he spoke too. Not just the choice of words. His very voice. He sounded, well, more educated than was usual in the gardeners I’d known through the years. And a hell of a lot nosier. Not just nosy—there had been a certain assumption of authority. Like he thought he had the right to ask questions. No, not even that he thought he had the right, because no thought was involved; he simply took it for granted he had the right.

Interesting.

And strange.

You can start reading the first two chapters when you subscribe through my Patreon page here.