Please enjoy the excerpt from

Sweet Like Honey

4 1/2 Stars--Hot! Top Pick! Romantic Times BOOKreviews

• Kimani Press 

• ISBN-10: 037383070X ,ISBN-13: 978-0373830701

Chapter One

There comes a time in every woman’s life when she looks into the eyes of the man with whom she’s shared the most intimate parts of herself and realizes she was meant to spend the rest of her life with him. Fortunately for Honey Ambrose, Cliff Watson was not that man.

He stood in her living room, not unlike he’d done for the past five years, all six-feet three of him, arms folded across his chest in exasperation, eyes soft and intense at the same time. She could barely believe it was true. She wasn’t in love with him anymore.

“It’s because I’m white, isn’t it?”

Honey’s patience was running thin. It was time for this back and forth between them to stop. For the first time in their hot and cold relationship, she was the one who would call it quits.

She folded her legs beneath her on her brown Broyhill couch, finally comfortable with the thought of being without him.

“You know that’s not the reason. And you’re just saying that because it’s me doing the breaking up this time.”

Cliff opened his mouth to speak, then clamped his lips shut. Her eyes followed the movement. Damn, she would miss kissing that mouth, tonguing his goatee.

“Okay, you’re right,” he admitted.

He looked like he wanted to sit down beside her then thought better of it.

“Look, Cliff, I’m just giving you what you’ve wanted for a long time . . . your freedom.”

“Yeah, but I only wanted it, when I knew I couldn’t get it.”

He rocked a bit, with his long arms still crossed in front of himself. His glasses caught the soft glare of her floor lamp reflecting a vulnerability Honey didn’t know the man had.

“Thank God, I’ve come to my senses,” Honey, said and meant it. The man in front of her had tied her life into emotional knots for so long, she didn’t know to live any differently.

Cliff stopped fighting himself and took a seat next to her. He placed a hand on her exposed leg, drew circles around her ankle with his finger. “You know what will change up this whole situation?”

Instead of sending thrills to all parts of her body, the sensation tickled. Honey laughed and pushed his hand away.

“Not gonna happen, Watson.”

“I knew that. I knew that.”

His head dropped to his chest. “Damn. This really is the end.”

“Yeah,” Honey said, a twinge of sadness weakening her voice.

He signed and stretched his long, denim-clad legs out in front of him. “I’m going to miss you.”

“How? You live next door.”

“I used to live in you.”

“Cliff, we’ll always be—”

“Nope, not going there,” he said, standing quickly. He headed for the door, his skin starting to flush.

“Don’t give me that ‘we’ll always be friends, I love you like a brother’ crap.”

“But it’s true.”

He opened the door. He was a slim man, but at that moment he looked like he was carrying one thousand pounds. “No it’s not. That’s why we couldn’t make it. With us, it’s all or nothing.”

A stab of doubt bolted Honey off the couch. “Cliff . . . ” she began but with no idea of how to finish.

“Don’t, baby,” he said. “You’re doing so well. I’m proud of you. Hold your ground . . . even if it means letting go of me.”

Honey met him at the door wondering where the strength of her heart was going. The power of her convictions.

Out the door?

She stood at the doorway of her two-story, custom-built home. Her lawn so well manicured, there was not a blade of grass out of place. No, the only thing out of place was the man walking across her yard into his and the piece of her heart he took with him.

West Cheyenne was unusually busy for a Monday morning. Cars rode past as though they were on an expressway rather than a residential neighborhood. But it wasn’t like there were a bunch of kids around. Most of the two-income affluent families in the six-block square of her subdivision were too in love with the freedom of independence to be harnessed to children. Honey had chosen the neighborhood specifically because of that.

Independence.

Hearing the whoosh, and bang of Cliff’s door made her question her decision and realize that even though she no longer wanted a life with him, she didn’t want a life alone.

Two more cars whooshed by. In a hurry for what, Honey wondered. She didn’t think she would be in a hurry for anything ever again.

She ran a hand through her crinkly hair and glanced around as a single woman for the first real time in five years.

It was a strange feeling, but not as debilitating as she’d envisioned.

A bright sun pushed away a grouping of thick white clouds. Honey let herself smile. If she’d known that the end of life as she’d lived it would not kill her, she would have ended her relationship with Cliff a long time ago.

Although she was eager to begin her new life, her feet wouldn’t move. Her legs had turned to lead and Cliff’s leaving had welded her to the spot. She was still standing stiffly in place when the big truck rolled down the street and backed up into her driveway. It wouldn’t have been so bad except for the dumpster attached to the back end and the fact that the driver of the truck had parked and was getting out of the cab.

He was a short guy, built like a rectangle. The name stitched on his blue company jumpsuit said, Charlton.

“Can I help you?” Honey asked, gaining some of the feeling back in her legs.

“I just need a signature,” he said, his voice as rote and regular as the sun coming up. Must have said those words ten times a day for years.

“You’ve got the wrong address,” she said.

“Ambrose? Honey Ambrose?”

The expression on his face hadn’t changed. It was deadpan. Emotionless. There was no indication at all that he might be at the wrong location.

But Honey had no idea where or how he could have gotten her information. Although her brother, Brax, often accused her of harboring a landfill in her home, she didn’t think of her piles and accumulations in that way.

“I’m Honey, but I never ordered a dumpster.”

That put a chink in old Charlton’s chain. He stared down at his clipboard, lifted the top sheet and scanned the paper beneath it. When he looked up, his placid expression had been replaced by mild confusion.

“The name on the order is Houston Pace. He live here?”

“Never heard of him.”

“Well he’s heard of you. This dumpster’s been rented for a week. Paid in full.”

A flicker of unease moved through her. Honey shifted her weight. “I don’t know what to tell you except there’s been a mistake.”

Charlton tucked the clipboard under his arm, pulled his keys from the snap back clipped to his belt. “You sure you don’t want the bin? This Pace guy put it on a credit card.”

Honey glanced back inside her house. Hills of inventory and mountains of merchandise choked damn-near every room in her home.

“No, thanks,” she said, turning back to Charlton.

“Okay,” he said and went right back to his truck. He pulled out the same way he pulled in, nice and easy.

Honey went back into her house nice and easy and concerned, wondering why someone was trying to use her name and hoping that there wasn’t some identity theft in progress. She made a note to get, Roger Kohler, her credit advisor, to look into it for her.

As a matter of fact, she thought maneuvering from her living room to the dining room amidst boxes, papers, and catalogues, I’ll call him right now.

Honey picked up the third stack of papers on her dining room table, took out the phone book underneath, then replaced the papers. She flipped to the S section, found the number and dialed.

Roger Sprague picked up after the first ring.

“Hey, Gorgeous,” he said.

“Hey, sweetheart. How’ve you been?”

“All right, but better now. What’s up?”

“What do you know about identity theft?”

He paused. “Everything. Why?”

“I need to know if someone is using my name.”

“I’d like to use your name,” he said.

“What for?” she asked, but Honey had an idea.

“Honey, sss, ah. Honey!”

“Fresh!” she retorted, but laughed just the same.

“That’s me. Okay, on the real. I’ll check into it and call you back when—”

“Hold on, Roger,” she said, when her doorbell rang.

That better not be Cliff, she thought. It couldn’t be. She didn’t think her heart could be strong if it was.

Honey opened the door and was absolutely right about her heart. It wasn’t strong. It was a weak as a wet paper towel—the off brand kind popular in the .99 cent stores. The man standing in front of her was the cause and the effect.

Six-five. Head to be. A wonderfully delicious bald head. His onyx eyes sparkled almost as brightly as the diamond studded earrings in both his ears. In a crisp, copper-colored long sleeved shirt and deep, bronze-colored linen pants, he had a body a wrestler would do a flying drop kick for and a mouth so luscious and sexy it could stop a convoy.

Honey had her own private heat wave goin’ on inside her body.

“Uh, Roger . . . let me call you back.”

“Okay, Gorgeous,” he said.

Honey pressed the OFF button on her phone. The man in front of her had pressed her ON button just by standing on her porch.

“May I . . . help you?” she asked, grateful she’d decided to put on a tank top, sans bra, and her favorite hip hugging jeans. Her breasts lifted and jutted all on their own and her hips swerved on auto pilot.

“Yeah,” he said, his robust voice making Honey tingle in all the sweet places. “You can tell me what happened to the dumpster I ordered.”

 

In the coming months, I hope to bring you extra features with regard to my stories including: excerpts from upcoming novels, deleted scenes, alternate beginnings, alternate endings, and inside information on some of my characters and their development. If you have suggestions for things you would like to see in the SPECIAL FEATURES section of my web site, please e-mail me.

1. Honey reveled in her sensuality but was afraid of her sexuality. Did she bridge the two elements in her life the right way?
2. How would you handle a brand new grown sibling?
3. Did Honey do the right thing in taking her sister in?
4. Did Houston overreact to Honey’s family drama or was he more than fair?
5. What do you think of Houston’s original belief that people use sex toys because they’re not using your natural equipment in the right way?
6. Was Honey’s clutter a sign of a deeper concern? If so, what? Are you a clutter bug? Do you know one?
7. Should Honey forgive her mother and begin to trust her or always be weary?
8. Do you think Honey has reformed her clutter bug ways?
9. Is Honey abandoning her family or moving on with her life?
10. What was your favorite part of the book?
11. Who would you pick to play Honey (or any of the other characters) in a movie?
12. What will happen to Cliff?

 Watch the Book Trailer for Ever Wonderful!

Please enjoy this excerpt from

Ever Wonderful

     Ariana MacLeod sprinted across the grass to where Tony Jara struggled against gale-force winds to seal the shutters of her ranch home.
     “Got ‘em!” he said. The wind turned down the volume of his voice and although he stood right beside her and shouted, he sounded half a mile away.
     “It’s not the house I’m worried about, it’s them!” Ariana shouted pointing to her cattle. From her home’s vantage point at the rise of a Nebraska bluff, she could see nearly all four corners of her three thousand acre ranch. The sight was typically peaceful, serene, pride inducing. But the sudden violent wind storm had her 100 head of cattle huddling, looking for shelter, and trying the barbed wire fence.
      “Are you sure you locked all the gates?” she asked Tony.
      He slid a nail sideways and hammered it down against the shutter. “Yeah! They’re locked up good.”
      “What about the s-south point?” she shouted over a gust that stole her breath and made her gasp.
     “It’ll be fine!”
     “So, you fixed it?”
     Tony jogged over to where one shutter had come loose and swung wildly. He slid the nail down. Hammered it into place.
     Ariana stepped up beside him. “Tony!”
    “I didn’t get to it, but—”
     Before he had a chance to tell her, ‘It’s not that bad,’ Ariana was off.
     Furious, at the way life often dealt her a fit whenever she thought her world had calmed down.
     Just when she believed her ranch was ready to sell—lock, block, and livestock, fate turns Tony into a half-handed hand, and Mother Nature sends her a windstorm.
     Ariana sucked air, but it barely did her any good. No sooner did she pull air into her lungs the wind snatched it out, or blew so fast and so strong she couldn’t pull enough air in. Still she ran. Toward the range, past the silo, past the feed troughs.
     Her cattle grew from rusty red dots on the horizon to Red Angus, several thousand pounds each with individual markings she knew by heart.
     Barely able to breathe, she ran around to the most vulnerable part of the fence—the part where her prized Angus loved to crash through. The darn thing hadn’t injured itself badly, but Ariana’s fence had been in bad shape ever since. Tony had promised to fix it every day since it first happened.
     That had been two weeks ago.
     “Get back!” Ariana shouted to the frightened and disoriented cattle, but the wind caught her order and flung it aside like a thin leaf.
      Tony ran up beside her. He brought a hammer and his bag of nails. Ariana snatched the hammer and they went to work.
     “I’m sorry!” he said. “I should have taken care of this last week!”
     “Yes, you should!” Ariana said, but she didn’t think he heard. The wind had invited its cousins: thunder and lightning to the party.
     “It’s a dry storm!” she shouted anyway, hoping he heard.
     Dry storms were the worst. The animals understood rain storms. Rain made sense. Rain was normal. Natural. But dry storms typically meant that something somewhere was way out of whack. And typically, sooner rather than later, Ariana would find out what.
      “But the rain is coming!” Tony said, pulling a long white slat into place and holding it.
      Ariana took a nail, bent over and hammered it down. “I know!” she said and tested her handiwork. It wasn’t the best, but under the circumstances, it would have to do.
      She and Tony worked quickly. He positioned the broken and displaced slats; Ariana hammered them together.
      By the time they heard the great crash, she’d thought her herd would be safe.
     The sound came from the southern edge of the pen.
     Even over the gusts as strong as Samson, the crash was tremendous. Tony started and frowned. “What the hell?”
     Neither of them waited for an answer. They rushed over to south end. No sooner did that get there, they both stopped short.
     The great willow, the largest tree on The Sugar Trail Ranch had fallen over. The upper branches had crashed into the south corner of the fence. Ariana’s breath snagged in her throat when she saw the dark figure struggling in the undergrowth.
     “Uncle Jesse!” she screamed and took off toward the calamity.

      The wind whipped around her waist, grabbed it like a strong arm. Nearly lifted her off the ground. She fought, flung herself free, and ran on.
Wet air pummeled her face and arms. Dirt and debris struck her skin and stung her eyes. She squinted and ran on.
     Ariana’s voice echoed in the storm around her. She made the words slow down and watch out barely audible in the torrent.
     Her herd, all 100 head, had huddled together against the back fence. Her heart pounded against her chest like an anvil. She knew their thousands of pounds could easily push out the wood or crush it. Frantic, arms flailing, she willed her sprinting feet to slow to where the old willow had fought the wind and lost and crashed down upon the south end of the fence.
     “Uncle Jesse!” she shouted as if the Angus could hear her, understand her, come to her when she called.
     Her vision swept the pen quickly, methodically. Even in the gale, her eyes were sharp, cataloging tag numbers, markings, and body shape. One glance and she knew.
     “Uncle Jesse’s gone,” she said, to Tony finally cathing up to her.
     The ranch hand stood at her side, gasping. Finally, he bent, grabbed his knees and sucked air.
     “I’ll go!” he said.
     Ariana was already pulling branches from the debris of her fence. She stopped to steady herself, exertion finally catching up with her.
     “No. See if you can clean this up. I’ll go get Uncle Jesse!”
     Tony shook his head. “The storm’s too bad!”
     “That’s why I need you here. Try to keep them from runnin’.”
     “Besides,” she said, starting to run toward the road, “Uncle Jesse don’t like you!”
     Before she realized it, Ariana was running faster than she knew she could. She wondered if the fates could be so cruel. To let her get so close and then take away everything that she’d hung her entire future on. Her mother had told her time and again, ‘Never put all your eggs in one basket.’ Well, Ariana hadn’t been one to listen too closely to anyone, including her mother. Uncle Jesse was the key to her future. And Selena’s future. She was so close to that future, her mind had seen it in perfect and minute detail. A normal life. Not one that smelled like manure or buzzed with the flies and gnats so constant in her world.
     Wanting to be prepared for anything, Ariana grabbed a rope from the barn and her shot gun. She jumped on her horse Sirroco and rode out toward the edge of her ranch.
Her soul had touched her new future. Her spirit had felt it—heard it like a song. Her being had smelled the new air of it. But if something had happened to Uncle Jesse, well, she wouldn’t allow herself to think about that.
     “Jesse’s just wandering . . . again. That’s all. Spooked by the gusts,” she bragged to the wind. Not somewhere hurt, injured, or just plain confused by the storm, Ariana was determined to find the Angus, bring it back, and secure her future.
 

Please enjoy Chapter One from

CHEMISTRY

Listen to an excerpt

     “Well, what does it say?”
     “It says the same thing the others said. ‘No.’”
     “Ky, I’m sorry. Come here. Let me hug you.”
      Kyra Douglas could use a hug. She’d been trying for two years to get her poetry published. She’d been rejected so many times, she was considering the idea of never writing another poem, ever. She got up from her writing table and headed straight into the handsome man’s arms.
No matter how many times, Turk Mosley held her, it felt as good as the first time. In his solid and unwavering embrace, Kyra found assurance, understanding, compassion, and . . . and . . .
        “Hey,” she said pushing back slightly. “What’s going on down there?”
        Turk flashed that devastating smile of his. “I was thinking that if you really want some consoling, I could definitely help you out.”
        Kyra punched him lightly on the shoulder and sat back down at her desk.
      “Why do you keep saying things like that? We don’t even swing that way anymore.”
      Turk straddled the chair across from her. “I know. But in addition to being a computer geek-brainiac with an IQ of 135, I’m also a dog. So, my mind never strays far from—”
     “Okay! I get it.”
      Kyra picked up the letter from Callalou and read it again. She couldn’t understand how something that weighed less than an ounce could make her feel so heavy with sadness.
      “Don’t worry. Somebody out there will realize how good you are. Just keep submitting.”
     “I’m tired, T. I mean, I know I got this computer gig and all—and don’t get me wrong the money is way better than good—but I thought—”
     “You thought you’d be the next Maya Angelou, by now.”
     “Something like that,” she said.
      She’d let her hopes run rampant. Surely, she thought, after attending the month-long writer’s retreat, she would come home to at least one accepted poem. But all the letters that had come read the same way.    ‘Thanks, but no thanks.’ She thought she’d be so energized by the retreat that she’d be reluctant to go back to work after her sabbatical.
      She was wrong.
      They were in her apartment, again. It was a place she’d designed for the two sides of her that she loved: technology and creativity. Her living room, kitchen, and dining area were full of bold colors and straight lines.  She was aiming for B. Smith meets Mr. Wizard. When she invited her friends over, all of whom had some aspect of themselves in the computer world, she wanted a space that they would feel comfortable in. And she’d achieved that.
      In her two bedrooms, she’d gone another direction entirely. Nina Simone meets Sonja Sanchez meets Eryka Badu meets Jill Scott kinda groove. Her second bedroom, where she was now with Turk is the space she went to be creative and conjure all those poems she didn’t seem to be able to sell. And her bedroom, that vibe was warm and brown and desired to set a different mood altogether.
And it worked. Until today. Today, she just wanted to pack up her life and start over. Callaloo was the last major literary magazine she could think of to send her work. She’d submitted to all the other big names and nada.
      Heck, maybe I should become a rap artist.
     “Are you sure you don’t want me to tighten you up?” He gave her his best, ‘I’m a damn good lover’ face.    “C++ isn’t the only thing I’m good at.”
      “Turk, it takes more than a look and a line to get me into bed. You should remember that.”
      “I just thought, since we have a history—”
      “Turk!”
      “All right. I’ll drop it, as long as you drop all this sadness and get to writing. I’m not going to leave here until you write another poem.”
     “I don’t feel inspired.”
     “I don’t care. Write about how this rejection makes you feel. Write about a man who won’t stop hounding you for sex. Just write. You have to get back on the horse, or in this case the table. However, both of those analogies get me hot.”
     Kyra let a laugh fly. It was a little over the top, but her disappointment had pushed her there. If Turk wanted a poem, then he would get one. Maybe she would write about a horse who ran away every time the rider tried to get on.
     That’s how she felt.
     She reached over, grabbed a sheet of rose paper from the stack, her favorite pen and ink well, and set her emotions free.
* * *
      Corporate America. The daily grind. If she didn’t enjoy living the way she did, Kyra would quit in the flap of a hummingbird wing and live the life of a starving artist. She drove her Camry into a parking space in the company garage and got out.
      Five dollars a day for this space, she thought and locked with the remote.
      It always amazed her how many people came in at six like she did. The flexible schedules at ComTel America meant that people pretty much came and went as they pleased. Just as long as they got their work done.
      It was obvious that most folks wanted to get in an out so they could get on with their lives.
     “Mornin’ Kyra.”
      “Mornin’ Becky.”
       Kyra and the administrative assistant to the VP of her department had had the same greeting for the ten years she’d worked in the area.
        Kyra entered her cubicle thinking that it had been a long road—from help desk specialist to senior systems engineer. She’d learned well and the company had rewarded her well. Now she knew ComTel’s computers as though she’d built them from junk metal up. Heck, in some ways, maybe she had. But she loved computers—they came way too easy for her. The things they could do. And she loved her job—after some “training,” the people she worked with left her alone and let her do what she was hired to do. Now, if she could just do something with her poetry, her life would be in perfect order.
      “How was the retreat?”
     “Jesus!” Kyra said, spinning around in her seat. “You scared the HTML out of me.”
     “She’s back!” Orlando said. Orlando Bloom. Not the actor, the ComTel computer tech who would be CEO.
    “Yep. I’m back. The retreat was wonderful. I wrote so much and so fast, my hand cramped up. I think I’m getting carpel tunnel or something.” She switched on her computer and watched the screen flicker as it booted up.
     “I wish I had a hobby like that,” he said. “All I have is computers. Oh, well. I’m on my way to a meeting. I just wanted to say, ‘Welcome back!’”
     “Thanks,” Orlando.
Kyra logged into her e-mail. It had been on suspension for the last thirty days. A system-generated ‘Welcome Back’ e-mail sat in her inbox. She dreaded seeing what a month of unanswered e-mail looked like.   Instead of turning the suspension off to see, she opened her assignment log. The level one and two technicians did most of the work. That freed Kyra up for company-wide IT project planning and special technical issues. Her assignment log only had one item in cue.
       Race Jennings – New Computer Install – ASAP
       She read the item again, but it said the same thing. Installs were level one jobs. Orlando would be perfect. She rushed out of her cube to see if she could catch up to him.
      “Orlando!” she said.
      “Yes?” he turned from where he was standing in front of an elevator.
     “I guess there’s a new guy—Race Jennings—can you do the install?”
     “No. Adam and Lisa won’t do it either. And Rod is on vacation.”
     “Have I been gone too long? What’s up?”
     “That guy has had four computers in four weeks. He thinks we’re all idiots. It’s like the Bermuda triangle in his office. Operating systems just disappear.”
      The elevator doors opened and Orlando stepped in. His tall thin frame taking up nearly no space at all in the large square compartment. “Maybe you can get him a computer that works.”
     Kyra let the doors close then checked her watch. Not quite six-thirty. She’d have enough time to print the comment file on the new installation, visit the ladies room and get to her best friend’s office for the scoop just as she came in to work.
* * *
      Thirty days gone and the whole company had gone crazy. First an installation that wouldn’t take and now this, she thought. The twenty-eighth floor where her best friend Chantel Mosley worked had been completely remodeled. In fact, some of it was still under construction. Kyra stepped around boxes, parts of unassembled cubicles, and carpet fragments with amazing dexterity.
      She traipsed through the obstacle course and made it to the ladies room. At least she thought it was the ladies room. When she stepped inside there were urinals and more construction.
     “What the . . . ?” she began.
     “I was just about to say the same thing,” a man’s voice said.
      At the closest end of the row of urinals, a man stood finishing his . . . business . . . and zipped up his pants.
      “Oh my gosh! Isn’t this the ladies restroom?” she asked, stupefied, embarrassed, and nearly overcome with attraction. The man, who was now washing his hands, looked like something created for sex and sex only.
      “I certainly hope not,” he said. He dried his hands and walked to the door while Kyra stood there waiting for her feet to work.
      He pushed past her and held the door open. “Are you coming?” he asked.
     “I think so,” she said, walking through and inhaling deeply of something she imagined was not cologne but love potion. The fragrance practically floated her off of her feet.
      Kyra didn’t remember she had to go to the bathroom until three hours later.
     “Hey!” Came a familiar call. Chantel came strutting around the corner looking fun and fabulous.
      The two friends embraced and Kyra gave her friend a quick appraisal. Chantel was hands down the best-dressed woman at ComTel. She was tall, attractive, and had a body that men swallowed their tongues over.   Just enough of everything. Although Kyra didn’t dress nearly as funky as Chantel and was clearly a head shorter, when the two of them were together, the men all paused and didn’t move until she and Chantel said   it was okay.
      “Girl, you’ve been shopping!” Kyra said.
     Chantel’s pink on pink suit met the fashion style of the day.
     “You know American Express loves me! Now, come on in here and tell me about your retreat.”
     Kyra looked around to see which direction the handsome man went, but he’d disappear around the corner.  Kyra fanned herself and followed Chantel to her office.
     Chantel had managed to score one of the largest offices in the company. Just as large as the VPs. The thing was, Chantel didn’t really do much of anything. She just looked good, talked a good game, and had all the men with influence in her hip pocket. In exchange, she got a massive office and an administrative assistant and a microscopic To Do list.
      The beautiful people, Kyra thought.
     Chantel placed her briefcase on top of her immaculately clean desk.
      Kyra sat down in the small leather chair just across and tried not to laugh.
     “What?” Chantel asked.
      “Girl, you and that briefcase. I mean, it ain’t like you work. What are you carrying around today?”
      Chantel turned on her computer. When it booted up, her internet explorer automatically connected to EBAY.
     “Fashion magazines. Gotta plan my next outfit.”
      The two of them burst into laughter and Kyra almost forgot why she came.
     “Okay, what can you tell me about Race Jennings. He’s the—”
     “New guy. CFO. Word is the new subsidiary isn’t doing as well as the big wigs thought it would. It’s pulling everything else in the toilet with it. So, they brought somebody in to save the Titanic before the iceberg takes it out.”
      “My girl!” Kyra said. When it came to corporate scoop and the office grapevine, Chantel knew it all.   Everybody liked her and they knew she was the go-to person for information. In order to get information, you had to give some. And that’s what kept her information network so strong and accurate.
       “But you still haven’t answered my question. How was the retreat? Or do I have to call Turk. I know he knows.”
       “You know what? Your brother is all the way off the hook. I mean his service is completely disconnected.”
       “Tell me something I don’t know. He said he was at your place all afternoon yesterday. You didn’t even bother to call me and tell me you got back.”
       “I know. I’m sorry. Every time I get another rejection letter, it brings me further and further down. I’m about to leave this poetry thing alone for good.”
       “What? Are you crazy? You’re the best poet I know.”
       “I’m the only poet you know.”
       “That doesn’t matter. Look . . . if it ain’t about fashion or flaunting, I don’t know much about it. But what I do know is every time I read one of your poems, something inside me connects with the universe. It’s spiritual . . . that stuff you write. You can’t keep that to yourself. It would be unfair.”
       “No it wouldn’t. After all these years, I think it’s the right thing to do.” Chantel was about so say something more, but Kyra cut her off.
       “But before I put down my pen for good, I have a farewell poem I want you to read.”
      Kyra handed over the poem she’d grabbed instead of the comment file.
      Chantel took it and read it. When she saw the tears form in her friend’s eyes, she knew she’d written it well. Chantel didn’t have a literature or a creative writing background. Heck, the woman didn’t even read for pleasure. But she had been Kyra’s audience for the eighteen years of their friendship. Her feedback had been invaluable and right on the money every time. With Chantel’s subtle suggestions, Kyra had crafted what she believed was some of her best work.
        But maybe she and Chantel were they only ones who thought the work was good. Attendees at the retreat seemed impressed. But what did that matter if she couldn’t get published?
        Chantel looked up. A single tear slid down her cheek. “You can’t give this up, Ky.” Not even for a minute.
        But her friend’s comment came too late. Kyra had already made up her mind. No more poetry.

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