by Tamara DeStefano

“Join me for a dance, Mrs. Willoughby?”

Rachel looked up at Frank Watson and smiled demurely though her skin crawled at the prospect of waltzing with the man. Accepting his offered hand, she turned on her newly acquired Memphis accent and answered, “I would love to, Mr. Watson, but please, call me Rachel.”

“If you promise to call me Frank.” The tall, red-haired snake led her out onto the crowded dance floor.

Leaving Jack’s side a moment earlier, she’d made a beeline for the reptile they intended to snare, sidling up beside him as he’d excused himself from a small group of men. She’d introduced herself, complimented his home and then thanked him for inviting her and her husband to the charity gala, all while concealing two emotions. Repugnance was the first. The thought of what this man had done to innocent people for the last ten years made her sick. The second was a feeling of extreme pride.

She’d been nervous about her first assignment, so much so that she’d thrown up early this morning just thinking about it. Tom had held her hair as she retched like a sorority girl over the toilet. He’d held her in bed afterwards, asking if she was sure she still wanted to be a major player in the operation. She’d answered without any hesitation —“Yes. I want to get this guy.”

And here she was, in the lion’s den being whirled across the polished floor by the guy himself. And it had been easy. The minute she’d recognized him across the room it was like her fear flew out the two-story windows. She knew what she had to do and wasted no time doing it. “Make contact as soon as possible,” Jack had said. And she’d done it…without throwing up all over her gown.

Pride was an understatement. She felt downright exhilarated.

“You mentioned you just moved to Atlanta from Memphis?” Frank’s hand slid lower down her back as he did a change step to the right in time with the chorus of violins.

Graze my ass again and you’re gonna draw back a stump, she wanted to growl, but instead answered, “Yes.” She frowned.

The expression did the trick. Frank took the bait. “You don’t look happy about the move.”

“Atlanta is lovely, really, it’s just that…,” she broke off, allowing her voice to crack.

“What?” he asked, as he side-stepped her to the left in time with the music.

Rachel studied the swish of her gown as it brushed her toes while she drummed up the requisite emotion. After a moment she let him see the beginnings of tears in her eyes. As a kid, she had realized she could cry at will. The trick came in handy now. His cinnamon-colored brows knitted together and she looked away quickly as if she didn’t want him to see her distress. He leaned in closer, ducking his head to see her tear- streaked face.

“Are you all right?”

Rachel allowed him to pull her closer, trying hard not to wrinkle her nose. He wore too much cologne. She’d never been a fan of cologne. And thankfully neither Tom nor Jack appeared to ever wear the stuff. The best way she could describe Tom’s natural scent was Thanksgiving dinner—spicy, warm and inviting. She’d breathe him in and immediately feel comforted, at peace, totally calm. She could wrap herself in that scent and loved the way her skin absorbed the fragrance when he held her in his strong arms.

Jack’s scent, on the other hand, conjured a completely opposite set of emotions. His skin smelled like the slopes of Aspen, sharp, brisk…dangerous. His scent made her feel on edge. It gave her goose bumps, reminding her of the ice and snow of the frigid Rockies. Jack’s scent wasn’t comforting. It was disconcerting.

“Rachel?”

She looked up at Frank’s face and grimaced. “I’m sorry,” she said, pulling out of his arms and hurrying to the edge of the dance floor. She made her way to an unoccupied corner of the ballroom hoping he would follow.

After a heartbeat passed, Rachel felt a hand on her shoulder. Smiling inwardly, she turned to make eye contact with her prey.

“Whatever it is, I bet I can help,” he assured her.

She shook her head in defeat. “This isn’t your problem.” She hesitated and swiped at the few tears lingering on her cheeks. With a nervous chuckle she looked up at him. “God, I can’t believe I just teared up. You must think I’m an emotional wreck.”

“Not at all.”

“I feel like an idiot.” She moved to walk away, but he took hold of her elbow, stopping her.

“What’s bugging you?” he asked softly.

The bastard actually sounds sincere. Rachel realized it was his charm that put people at ease. His handsome face and gentlemanly manner were no doubt responsible for his success as a ruthless criminal. The idea made her think of the poetic words, “Will you walk into my parlor,” said the spider to the fly.

Even more determined to bust this guy, Rachel let tears fill her eyes again. “You can’t help.”

He smirked with obvious confidence. “I’m a very wealthy man,” he said, accepting a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. “Wealth opens doors, and those doors inevitably reveal answers to problems.” He took a sip and then added, “Let me open a door or two for you.”

“Why would you be willing to help me, a virtual stranger?” She blotted her tears with a small napkin he had handed her while trying to remain inconspicuous from the other guests.

He looked around the room and then back at her. “It’s a charity ball. Let’s just say I’m in a giving mood. Plus, a little bird told me all about you. You headed up the Hispanic Children and Families Foundation, chaired Women for Latino Youth Development and Achievement and helped find homes for immigrants in Memphis. And in the few months you’ve been here in Atlanta you’ve already become a major part of our String of Pearls charity. I think you deserve a little help.”

Rachel smiled both externally and internally. The FBI sure knew how to manufacture an alias. “That bird must really do his homework,” she said, wiping her nose.

“I’m giving a tidy sum of money to your charity this evening. I feel I have a right to do a background check or two.”

“One or two?” she asked with a raised brow, still dabbing her moist cheeks. Glancing around the ballroom at the couples dancing and the ones sitting at tables, she smiled and then looked back at him. “There are more than a few people here, Mr. Watson. You must have a great memory for detail to recall my history so easily.”

He flashed a brilliant, bleached smile. “Photographic. And I like to know as much as I can about my friends.”

Rachel hid her mounting concern. Maybe the tears were too much. Was this guy playing her? Did he really have a photographic memory or was he on to them?

She couldn’t read his slate eyes and wondered if she should continue luring him into incrimination or back off. She suddenly doubted her ability to make the decision on her own. She scanned the room, looking for Jack. At first she couldn’t locate his tall, broad-shouldered form, but after a moment she found him.

He stood near the huge bank of windows. His body language was casual and laid back, his smile devastatingly sexy. He leaned in close, chatting with a woman. But not just any woman. His companion was none other than Olivia Watson, the snake’s wife and partner in crime. Rachel recognized her immediately from the intel photos they’d been issued. She was even more beautiful in real life. Blonde hair, blue eyes, bronzed skin, a body that belonged on the cover of Sports Illustrated Swimsuit edition.

Jeesh, I’m gonna be sick. Rachel’s stomach clenched painfully, but it wasn’t nerves this time. The roiling in her gut felt more like…jealousy.

Jealousy? Over Jack?

Tom had become so important to her in such a short amount of time. He was sweet and giving, courageous and brave. His kisses curled her toes. His touch set her skin on fire. How could she feel all of those things with Tom and still manage to feel jealous watching Jack flirt with another woman?

She looked away, giving herself a mental slap.

Her first assignment and already she was blowing it. Get a grip. He’s doing his job. Now do yours and stop acting like a damn rookie.

Meeting Frank’s gaze, Rachel softened her expression, lowering her lashes. Tom said when she looked at him that way there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for her. Rachel just hoped the expression worked on sociopaths, too.

“I assure you,” she hesitated for effect and then added, “Frank.” He smiled, obviously pleased she’d finally used his first name. “I am a friend. I’m just, well,” she glanced at Jack and then back again. “I’m at the end of my rope.” Grimacing, she leaned in closer and whispered, “It’s funny, I’ve only just met you but I feel like I can confide in you. I’m not sure why.”

“For some reason I put people at ease. Always have. You have my undivided attention,” he urged with a nod.

“It’s my husband.” She hesitated, worrying at the napkin she clutched in her fingers. “He’s been unfaithful to me,” she finally added.

“How do you know?”

“I caught him.” She glanced Jack’s way, but he wasn’t there. Scanning the outskirts of the room, Rachel couldn’t locate him.

With one last stroke of a violin, the waltz ended and the couples on the dance floor clapped for the six-piece orchestra. Rachel began clapping without much emotion, but Frank took hold of her elbow and maneuvered her through the throng of guests. She allowed him to lead her out into the cavernous foyer. Couples mingled on the black and white checkerboard tiles beneath the diamond-like glow of a crystal chandelier. Frank ignored them, led her past the wide, central staircase and then straight into a large room off the main entryway lined with books and smelling of leather.

He closed the door behind them, indicating a pin-striped sofa. “Sit, we’ll have more privacy in here.”

Rachel took a seat, sweeping her gown out from beneath her heels. “I don’t want to take you from your guests.”

“It’s early. I’ll have plenty of time to rub elbows later.” He opened a crystal decanter and poured two generous drinks. Walking up to her, he held out a glass. “It’s Glendronach, single malt. If angels drank,” he held the glass up to his scrutiny, “this would be their beverage of choice.”

Rachel accepted the liquor. It smelled amazing, but she didn’t take a sip. Instead she shrugged lightly. “You’ve just been so kind.” She hoped her Memphis twang wasn’t beginning to sound hokey. “I wish everyone was as kind as you are.”

He took a sip of his drink and then sat across from her. “Tell me what’s going on with your husband.”

She set the glass on the coffee table and stood. Pacing the finely-woven Oriental rug, she wove a tale. “I have two young women working in my home as maids. They’re Venezuelan, very pretty.” She stopped pacing and chewed her thumb nail. “Sisters.” She glanced at him. “My charity work puts me in contact with large numbers of immigrants here on work visas on a regular basis. I find them employment, homes, support. On occasion I hire some of them myself. I’ve never had any trouble before.”

She slumped into a wing chair opposite him and put her hand over her mouth with a distressed look on her face. “I’m so sorry,” she mumbled through her fingers. “I can’t believe I’m laying this all on you.” As tears fell from her lashes, she leaned forward and put her head in her hands.

“You think your husband is involved with one of these women?”

She looked up. “They’re girls, teenagers, eighteen and nineteen.” Worrying at the fabric of her dress she continued. “And I don’t think he’s involved with one of them. It’s both of them.”

He drained his scotch, leaned back in his chair and looked at her pointedly. “I’m so sorry.” He hesitated for a moment and then leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Does your husband know you know?”

She looked down at the floor. Trying to appear uncomfortable she began wringing her hands in her lap. She shook her head. “No. I left the room before they saw me. I’m not good at confrontation. I’m a wimp if you want to know the truth. I’m not proud of that.” She looked at the ceiling and shook her head again. “God I can’t believe I’m sitting here telling you all of this.” Wiping away tears she looked back at him.

“Did you fire the girls?”

She shook her head no. “I caught him this morning. I haven’t talked to them yet. I just keep seeing their faces. They were scared.”

“I’m surprised you’re here with him.”

She wrinkled her brows. “My husband’s marriage vows may mean nothing to me right now, but this charity means everything. I can’t turn my back on these people. They need our help.” She studied the floor and continued wringing her hands. “I know I have to confront my husband, and I will. I also know I should fire the girls as soon as I get home, but I.…”

“What?” he urged.

“They have nowhere else to go. They have no family but each other. In Venezuela they had to prostitute themselves just to eat. Here they hoped to be safe from that, but….” She shook her head ruefully. “My husband took that hope away from them. I don’t blame the girls. I blame him. He took advantage.” She stared off into space. “It’s what he does best.”

Her gaze re-focused and her hand fluttered at her throat. “I know you probably think I’m a fool, but I can’t just kick them out in the street.”

“I don’t think that at all. You’re sympathetic. I admire your integrity.”

Looking at her lap, Rachel kept comments about his compliment to herself. If she didn’t know Frank Watson’s true character inside and out, she’d think he was actually as caring and compassionate as he was wealthy. But the vast wealth he enjoyed on a daily basis flowed into his hands on a tidal wave of blood, despair and pain. His legit business associates and the law-abiding world in general seemed to look at Watson through rose-colored glasses. But in the dark underworld of white slavery there was no such illusion. His sadistic cruelty and terrifying fits of rage were well known. The man was a modern day Jekyll and Hyde.

He stood and walked to the bar. After he poured himself another drink, he turned and leaned against the burled walnut cabinet. “Let me help you out.”

Rachel looked up, shaking her head back and forth. “No. I’ve already imposed on you too much.” She stood to excuse herself. “You invite me into your home and I thank you by dumping my problems into your lap.” She kicked her gown’s train out of her way and turned to leave. “Thank you Mr. Watson.” She glanced back at him. “Frank…thank you for being so kind, but I should go now.”

“Rachel.”

She stopped after a few steps and turned to face him.

“Listen,” he said, walking forward. “I want to help you.” He came closer, standing just inches away. His grey eyes bore into hers. “Let me help you,” he whispered.

Rachel looked up at him with hope in her gaze, trying to look helpless and vulnerable. He lifted his hand and caressed her cheek with the backs of his fingers.

Holy shit. Are you kidding me? He’s gonna hit on me now?

She didn’t know why she was surprised at the turn of events and did her best to conceal the emotion along with hiding her extreme disgust. “How can you help?”

He lowered his hand and smiled. Rachel got an image of the Cheshire cat in her head. “I’m Frank Watson.”

As if those two words explained everything. And of course, they did.

“I’ve spent years cultivating friends in a wide variety of circles. Some of them just pretend to like me because of the money.” He shrugged lightly. “Their loss. But some of my acquaintances are true friends and I know they’d agree with me that you need help.”

“My marriage is already ruined. No one can help with that.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. Let me take the girls off your hands.”

Her eyes searched his and she allowed a note of hope to creep into her expression while inside she jumped for joy. Here it was. The first step. Oh sure his words weren’t enough to condemn him, but they were a step in the right direction. She was sickened by his nonchalance, but she was also glad to be a part of his downfall. “Take them off my hands?”

“You don’t want to put them out on the street and I agree with you. They’d just end up getting into more trouble. They’re just kids really. Who knows what their fate would be.”

“I suppose it wouldn’t be much different than their lives had been in the Venezuelan slums. I couldn’t do that to them.”

“I know a few people who would be happy to take them in.”

“What do you mean?”

Frank smiled. “They’re families who have the same interests that you do. One of them, a Senator and his wife, take in immigrants all the time. Like you, they find them jobs, set them up with housing, and acclimate them until they can earn citizenship. I think they’d be a perfect match for your girls.”

“So you could find them a place to live?”

“I definitely could. And this way, your husband doesn’t have access to them, and they can live in a safe, nurturing environment until they get themselves on their feet, so to speak.”

“Really?” She smiled, her hand rising to touch her heart. She inhaled deeply before letting her breath filter slowly through her lips.

The gesture wasn’t lost on him. “Really. I’ll make some calls later and get it all set up.”

“But what if they can’t take them in?”

“That’s not an issue. I know they’ll be glad to help.”

Rachel smiled up at him. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“You’re a beautiful woman. That smile is a good start. But I wouldn’t turn down a hug.”

Rachel envisioned herself kneeing him in the crotch, but he was so damn slimy she was sure the blow would glance off with little effect. She couldn’t stand being in the room with him, talking to him, smiling at him.

And now she’d have to hug him.

She wanted to vomit, but instead she smiled brightly and opened her arms. He swooped in like the predator he was and crushed her in his arms.

That second, the library door opened.

“Get your damn hands off her.”

Rachel recognized the voice immediately. She turned to see Jack standing in the doorway with Olivia Watson at his side.

*****************

Uh-oh, what now? Stay tuned for Chapter Three Thursday, September 9. And don’t forget our guest chef tomorrow, the fabulous Barbara Monajem.

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by Sally Kilpatrick

Rachel Livingston went into the FBI to avoid girdles and pantyhose. Unfortunately, her superiors didn’t seem to understand that concept. She patted her bustier endoskeleton into place making sure all of her wire taps were just as hidden as any errant cellulite. After training at Quantico she didn’t have a lot of fat to hide, but she did have a ton of wires.

She slipped a sheath of black satin over her head and stepped into a pair of stilettos—another thing she had foolishly thought she might be able to leave behind once she joined the Bureau. Wobbling just a little, she reached behind her to zip up her dress, but she couldn’t quite reach all the way.

As she strode to the door, her balance and her confidence improved. She opened the door and stepped into the middle of a hornet’s nest of activity. The chic decorating of the living room portion of the hotel suite was obscured by computers, headphones, wires, telephones, and tons of other gadgets she couldn’t even name.

“Could someone give me a hand here?” She turned around not even waiting to see who her rescuer would be.

“I will!” Two masculine voices answered in unison. She looked over her shoulder to see her partners in fighting crime: Tom and Jack. Tom reached for the zipper, and Jack took a step back—it was only fair considering how their last operation in Aspen had ended.

Tom’s steady hand pulled the zipper to the top slowly but surely.

“Thanks, Tom.”

“Don’t mention it.” His big brown eyes danced, and she had to admit he was a handsome specimen of the boy next door, complete with shirt sleeves rolled up and a tiny dot of mustard just beneath his left shirt pocket.

Jack stood back, ice blue eyes penetrating her as they always did. He divulged no secrets, though. Imagine actually being married to the enigmatic Jack, a man who really knew how to wear a tuxedo.

“Almost ready?” If she didn’t know him better she would have taken those two simple words as a command or at the very least an indictment on how slowly she was getting ready. Months of field training had proven to her that Jack didn’t realize he was brusque. Something deep within made him hold people at arm’s length emotionally. Physically, he had made it very clear she could get just as close as she wanted to get.

“Soloski,” she chided because she knew he wasn’t fond of his actual last name. “I’m getting ready just as quickly as I can. I’d love to see just how fast you could get into a girdle full of hidden wires.”

“Livingston, just finish getting ready.” He walked away but not before throwing a few virtual darts at Tom.

Rachel smiled to herself and turned to finish her make-up and jewelry in her room. It never hurt to be the belle of the ball.

“Hey, Rach?”

She turned to meet Tom’s eyes. “Yes?”

“You look gorgeous.”

“Thanks, Tom,” she said. Now, see, all a girl wanted was a little recognition of her efforts.

Jack watched the exchange between Tom and Rachel from across the room. He cursed under his breath as Tom said something and Rachel flashed one of her breath-taking smiles at him. Lucky bastard. He got to be truthful first. He got to save the girl. Jack wasn‘t normally a sore loser, but playing the hero was his gig.

Okay, so being truthful wasn’t his most enduring trait; he was an undercover agent, what could you expect? Saving the girl was definitely his area of expertise. He was the one who was supposed to save Rachel from Van Buren, not fall and break his wrist like some sort of pansy.

He looked to the mirror over the table and straightened a black bow tie that didn’t need to be straightened. He could be folksy. He could pour on the charm. He leaned back and attempted debonair.

No, he couldn’t do folksy or charming, and he certainly couldn‘t pull off debonair.

Rachel emerged from her room once again, her hair held up by pins and cascading down her back. Her diamond earrings caught the light and almost blinded him from across the room. It was amazing what a little lipstick did for her. She was beautiful without a single stitch of make-up, but a little red lipstick added enough drama for a Broadway play.

Jack couldn’t help but smile as he dodged equipment to meet her at the door. He offered his arm, and she took it, the slight weight of her arm reassuring. Screw folksy. He got to take the girl with him.

“Have her home by eleven, Jack,” Tom called. His voice was jovial, but Jack knew what he was really thinking.

“Don’t count on it,” he said with a wicked grin to remind his partner who got to take Cinderella to the ball.

Jack handed her into the limo, and Rachel gingerly arranged her dress in order to sit. Jack sat across from her, and she had to admit he still caused her heart to somersault—not that she had any intentions of admitting that to him.

“Okay, Jack. Let’s review…we’re from Memphis originally, where I worked on several charity boards. Your job has moved us here, and I am going to subtly inquire about good domestic help.”

“I hear it’s hard to find these days,” he said dryly as he looked out the window.

“Get serious, Jack. Then again, what is your role in all this?”

“I’m going to casually ask around about maids myself, but I’m supposedly looking for a few benefits on the side.” He winked at Rachel.

She rolled her eyes. “Great, I haven’t even been married for twenty-four hours, and you’re already looking for a mistress?”

“Correction—we’ve been married for seven years, and I’m looking for a cheap mistress who doesn’t speak English and who won’t run to the cops because she’s illegal and I’ll have her passport.”

Rachel exhaled sharply. A white slavery ring was a far cry from money laundering. She had read all the reports. Women—and sometimes men—being lured illegally to the country then forced to work as modern slaves. Some were domestic servants, and some were worse. She shivered and rubbed her hands up and down her bare arms at the thought of some of the files she had read. Some of the victims were little more than children forced to work in brothels.

“You can’t think too much about it, Livingston.”

Her eyes darted to his. His blue eyes held compassion for her, his twitching jaw suggested painful past experience. His firm mouth just begged to be kissed.

“Eleven-year-olds being sold into prostitution, Jack,” she said. “And we won’t be able to save them with what we’re doing here in Atlanta.”

Jack leaned forward, putting a warm hand on her knee. “Rachel, you can’t think about what you can’t do; you have to think about what you can. I can almost guarantee you that getting to the bottom of this white slavery ring will help those little children just as much as the men and women who are held as slaves in mansions. It all connects; it always does.”

He took his hand away and leaned back to look out the window. Rachel could only hope he was right. This was her first official assignment so she would just have to trust him.

The limo pulled up to a wrought-iron gate set some distance from the largest house Rachel had ever seen. She knew she was in a ritzy part of town, but she hadn’t expected to ever see a house this big—it was almost as big as the hotel where she and Jack had stayed in Aspen.

She envied Jack’s ability to be perfectly relaxed. He appeared so nonchalant. Had he grown up among the country’s elite? Had he lived in a house like this? She cocked her head to one side, studying him as he studied the landscape.

No, he hadn’t come from wealth, but he had learned to blend in early on. Had another relative been wealthy or had he pulled himself up by the proverbial bootstraps? She was inclined to believe the latter.

“Figured out the mysteries of the universe?” he asked without even looking at her. Rachel’s cheeks burned at being caught spying and speculating. “Not yet.”

His eyes locked with hers. “Well, you’ll have to unravel the mystery of Jack another time, because we’re here. Fashionably late, of course.”

She took his hand, letting him lead her out of the car and up the stairs. His hand shifted to her elbow as a short, stocky butler (Peruvian, perhaps?) opened the front door to a black and white marble tile foyer. To the right lay a doorway to a parquet-floored ballroom. Jack guided her just to the side of the doorway, and Rachel wondered if he needed a moment to catch his breath, too. The room was full of women in designer ball gowns, swishing around the floor to the light strains of mellow big band music.

She should have expected no less from the String of Pearls Charity Gala. She turned to see if Jack had stars in his eyes, but, no, his eyes were fixed firmly on her. He drew her hand to his mouth, his lips lightly brushing the skin there. The warmth tingled its way up her arm and down her spine.

“Would you like a drink?” he asked before she could decide if his elegant gesture was for her benefit or that of their audience.

“That would be great,” she said.

He arched an eyebrow to ask her what she would like.

“Surprise me,” she said with a smile as if he hadn’t already.

Jack swore at himself as he approached a waiter carrying a tray of champagne flutes. What was he thinking kissing her hand like some kind of deranged fool? Who did that anymore? He would just shrug it off if she asked, pretend he wanted everyone to think they were in love.

In truth, he hadn’t been able to stop himself. Her eyes glowed at the sight of the majestic ballroom. Her cheeks pinkened just as they had each time they had taken dance lessons in order to learn how to fit in with the upper echelon. He wasn’t ready to take her in his arms and whirl with her around the floor. He wasn’t ready to be that close, to pretend to be her husband, only to take her home to Tom.

He realized he was frowning and quickly changed his expression to reflect a slight smile, the smirk of a man who was rich and used to getting what he wanted. He weaved his way through the crowd, his eyes trained on the beauty in black standing at the outskirts of the dance floor.

That’s when he saw Frank Watson, III chatting up the supposed Rachel Willoughby. He stopped dead in his tracks. The leader of the biggest white slavery ring in Atlanta was flirting with Rachel. An invisible fist clenched Jack’s heart. The logical part of him applauded at how easily Rachel was making contact with the man they needed to put out of business. The irrational part of him wanted to rip Frank Watson limb for limb for even thinking about coming near Rachel.

Frank Watson whirled Rachel onto the dance floor, and he immediately regretted not asking her to dance first thing. He wanted to stalk out into the dancers and punch Frank Watson before cutting in, but he tamped down his irrational self and scanned the floor for a tall, leggy blonde: Mrs. Frank Watson, III.

Two could play this game.

*****************

Wasn’t that fun? Stay tuned for Chapter Two tomorrow Tuesday, September 7.

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By:  Sandra Elzie

What do you have when you mix together 40 people, 3 rubber rafts, 3 experienced guides and the Nantahala River? Did you guess white water rafting? Then give yourself a pat on the back! You just got the correct answer.

My husband and I used to take our three kids rafting on the American River near Sacramento, California, all the time when they were younger. In fact, we owned our raft, so taking them was free and when you’re raising three kids, having something that they LOVE to do that’s free, well, what can be better? We made a ton of good memories with that raft.

Years later, when our youngest was 16, we took her, her 18 year old boyfriend, our 17 year old son and us two oldies (and a guide) and went down a river in California that boasted level 5 rapids…although since it had been a rainy winter and the water was running high and fast, I submit that it was level 6 or above, if there is such a level. That was one scary trip, especially our venture through Devil’s Wall where our raft rammed into the cliff wall, riding up onto the rocks until the raft was at a 45-degree angle to the water and we knew for sure that the raft was going over. My daughter later told me she had prayed more in that couple minutes than in the prior month.

This past weekend my husband and I (now 65 and 60 years old respectfully) went on a rafting trip with 38 other church friends. The day started when we arrived at the church at 7:30 in the morning, in desperate need of a second cup of coffee, but knowing we had 3 ½ hours to drive up to the Nantahala River in North Carolina.

Despite the hour and the lack of coffee, we were excited about the trip and anxious to get on the road. When we arrived, (after one “necessary” stop) we had a picnic lunch under the trees and at 1:30 they called our group and started the orientation process. Our guide, a darling young woman with red hair, although “fire engine red” might better describe it, explained the commands.

“Row right”, “row left”, (both obvious) “halt”, (relax and let the current take the raft) “man-overboard” (describing anyone who is having an out-of-raft experience) and “ROW!!!” (meaning its time to start praying).

The trip was a lot of fun and the guides made darn sure that everyone was totally soaked. When the drowned rats arrived at the end of the trip two hours later, they were freezing, but all smiling.  No one had chosen to try the MOB (man over board) experience since the water was 48 degrees, and fortunately, the rafts all stayed upright, although the bottoms had at least 4-6 inches of ice-cold water where your feet were.  All in all, a great way to spend a summer afternoon.

Have any of you ever rafted? If so, share your experiences with us. Oh, and in the picture above, you won’t find me, (no way!) but my husband is the one up front in the yellow shirt in the top picture.   (Right side of the raft, lower right corner of the picture.)

This post isn’t about hashing out marriage issues or bashing the soon-to-be ex. It is about the shocking realization that I un-empowered myself. At some point during the last nine years, I relinquished my personal power and financially acted like a woman I swore I would never become. I entrusted my future to a man I deeply believed I would be spending the rest of my life with—until death do us part because he was the financial guru in our house. Our entire long-term financial plan was built based on our life together without any consideration of the fact a woman needs to be prepared to stand on her own regardless of any heart-felt promise of “forever” and despite the fact the vows were spoken before family, friends, officials and God. I am in no way writing this in anger or from a point of bitterness. This post is just the facts as I have learned them this summer.

In today’s society, marriage vows are treated as throwaway words, meaning stand by your partner until the relationship needs some work, things get tough or something/someone else more interesting comes along. That, my friends, is the sad fact I learned while consulting with lawyers about the legal system in the conservative, Southern county where I live. Unless children are involved, nobody gives a darn about the deteriorated union. What matters is that the separation needs to be sorted out through the legal system, and that has dollar signs written all over it.  Don’t get me wrong. Lawyers are all happy to help. Some are very empathetic and helpful beyond the scope of their required work.

Despite any sympathetic ear you may stumble across in the system, never lose sight of the bottom line. Lawyers make lots of money off your duress. The more emotional it gets, the more you fight it out, it all comes down to the attorney making more money that comes out of your pocket. It’s a business deal for the attorney. You can’t fault them for that. While you are going through this process just remember that everyone involved wants “their share”. Work out the settlement between you and your spouse before getting the attorneys to negotiate for you if it is at all possible.

Back to my main point that I cannot stress enough, whether you are male, female, in a legally recognized union, or a relationship meant to be a marriage of the heart. Individuals must ensure that they are able to stand on their own two feet should their relationship dissolve.

For the purpose of this discussion, I am following Dave Ramsey’s advice. I am not going to chat about situations where there is a strong argument for hiding assets and stashing cash—and I do believe those situations exist. I have no personal experience with this and cannot speak responsibly about the issues involved, methodology or implications of actions taken in this regard.

Right after my husband said, “I quit”, I panicked. Where would I live? How much would it cost? etc, etc. My world spun out of control. The fact I bought into forever and his financial plan hit me hard. What was left to help me secure my financial future?

If you have a job that can sustain you, fantastic! If you do not, you have to find one. For some, this means picking up a second job until you are on your feet. Not desirable, but you can get through this.

Dave Ramsey provides us with a chart based on percentages of our salary he recommends allocating to different needs. Sit down with your calculator, the amount of money you take home every month, and start playing with the numbers. I added another column to the chart called “Reality”. This column includes the actual percentage of my salary I need in a specific category at this time. At first, this helps you get your financial situation in perspective. Then it helps guide you to bring your expenditures within the guidelines. Make adjustments where you can. Some changes will take time. It may seem overwhelming at first, but you have to start at some point. The sooner you begin, the better off you will be. So check out Dave’s recommendations:

Budget Categories	% From	% To	Reality
charity	0.10	0.15	0.0175
savings	0.10	0.15	0.1415
housing	0.25	0.35	0.4000
utilities	0.05	0.10	0.1300
Food	0.05	0.15	0.0740
Transportation (to savings)	0.02	0.07	0.0470
Clothing	0.10	0.15	0.0100
Medical	0.05	0.10	0.0500
Personal	0.05	0.10	0.0200
Recreation/Blow	0.05	0.10	0.0400
Puppy Expenses	0.02	0.05	0.0313
gas	0.05	0.10	0.0390

I added some percentages to the reality column just so you can get a realistic picture of how numbers can be juggled. You will note that I broke it down into smaller percentages that maybe you can afford at the time based on your take home pay each month. The goal is to bring these percentages within the recommended range and to increase savings.

Build up your emergency fund. Make the initial goal $1,000 to cover the unexpected. This gives you a little cushion. After that, contribute what you can each month. Make savings a habit. Pay yourself first. Think of it as one of the important monthly bills that must be met.

If you find you cannot cover all of the categories you are obligated to include, Dave has a plan to put the items in order of priority. The best source of information for you is his book:  The Financial Peace Planner: A Step-by-Step Guide to Restoring Your Family’s Financial Health.  While you are working towards building a new life, I highly recommend checking out Suze Orman’s web site. Get her book:  Women & Money: Owning the Power to Control Your Destiny. I view these books as an investment in the future. They are the types of books with solid, fundamental information a normal person can put to use. You don’t need a college degree in finance or accounting to understand anything they teach. I readily admit to being severely handicapped when it comes to math. Just the numbers make me hyperventilate, and my brain goes on alert and gets confused easily. Despite this, I have been able to understand and implement their teachings. If I can do it, I know you can do it.

This list gets you started. Naturally, some of your budget categories will be different. That is fine. The recommendations are flexible. This is just a place to get started.

Now, while you spend a few days playing with numbers, get a copy of your credit report. Find out where you really stand in the eyes of the financial world. Clean it up as best you can. Make a list of creditors that need to be addressed in the split.

Open your own saving and checking accounts if you don’t have them already. The only person on that account is you. No joint access. You are splitting, so get this handled now.

Start saving money for the move and new residence. If you are purchasing a home, there are expenses that come up you might not expect. For instance, an initial deposit has to be made. There is escrow you have to cover, closing costs, surveyor and inspection costs. If you are using the VA loan, you have to pay a funding fee, which is a certain percentage of the loan value. At the time of my closing, that was 2.1%. Yes, it can be rolled into the mortgage, but it is something you have to build into your plan. (Note:  There are special exceptions made for qualified veterans so this fee can be waived. If you served in a war zone and incurred an injury, definitely spend some time researching this.) If you are not using the VA loan, you have to pay PMI, which is mortgage insurance. This also rolls into the mortgage. Be mindful of these things as you begin your research. It will all come together for you. Knowing what to expect in advance is so much better than have it hit you in the middle of the process.

You will also have to start thinking about the future for yourself and your kids and any other dependants in your home. Do not forget a will. Dave can point you in the right direction. Think about college tuition that will need to be paid, your retirement, elderly care if your parents are depending on you.

All of this is overwhelming. Cramming it all into one post does not help decrease the anxiety I’m sure you are feeling. The best advice I can give you is to break it down into small pieces, deal with one or two things at a time, take baby steps and move forward slowly.

If you need support in all of this, tune into Dave Ramsey’s radio show. Listen to the advice he gives his callers, pay special attention to the calls from people reporting huge successes based off his no nonsense approach to financial freedom. You can find more information on his web site:   www.daveramsey.com

While you are at it, check out Suze Orman:  http://www.suzeorman.com/

There are so many little things to consider along the way, and then there is the future that needs to be planned. I cannot possibly touch on each of these issues in this post. Dave and Suze have the knowledge and resources to help you. To date, the only things I have purchased from them are the two books that I referenced above. Maybe you will need their other tools eventually, but you do not need them to get started pulling your financial life together.

I hope all of you take what I said to heart about ensuring your individual financial situation. This is something that benefits you and your family. Yes, keep your healthy marriage going. I’m not suggesting messing with that. All I am suggesting is working towards the ability to stand on your own two feet if something awful happens.

1. How long have you been writing for Steeple Hill?

Steeple Hill published my very first book, Hearts In Bloom, in May 2004.  In addition to my writing I was working a full time job that required quite a bit of travel.  So my publishing goal was to release one book a year.  I was able to achieve that goal and now that I’m retired from corporate life I hope to write at least two Love Inspired books per year.
 
2. What’s something you wish you’d known when you started your writing
journey?

I wish I’d known from the outset that there is no “right” way to write.  Each writer has their own work style and method of putting together a story.  I felt like I was somehow deficient because I not only disliked detailed plotting, I didn’t even understand it!  When I went to plotting workshops with diagrams and post-it notes and templates I came away feeling like I’d just taken a math test, and failed!  It took a half dozen books before I accepted that my style was more organic and that it was okay for me to get to know my characters as the book developed on the page. 
 
3. What’s the most common writing question you get and what is your answer?

I’m constantly asked how I got started.  I tell aspiring writers that they need to find local and online organizations where they can learn, critique, network, enter contests and attend conferences.  Sitting at the computer and writing isn’t enough to get published in such a competitive field.  You’ve got to make contact with other writers who can encourage, guide and promote your work to the next level.  Making the time for networking is more effort than a lot of people are willing to invest, but it’s critical if you want to be a selling writer. 
 
4. How have you dealt with the rejection of your writing?

I have been blessed with very little rejection in my writing career.  But then I’ve also been blessed with published author friends who guided me and didn’t let me submit my work until it was ready to be seen at the professional level.  One of the biggest mistakes new writers make is submitting to editors and agents before their work is polished, clean and compelling.
 
5. Do you have a Bible verse that guides your writing?

I have put my words in your mouth and covered you with the shadow of My hand.  Isaiah 51:16a
 
6. What is your favorite writing book?

Goal, Motivation and Conflict by Deb Dixon
 
7. What is the most recent Steeple Hill book you’ve read?

Her Forever Cowboy by Debra Clopton.  Deb’s Mule Hollow stories are always heart-warming winners.
 
8. What does your writing life look like?

Now that I’m a full time writer I have a daily goal of producing five new pages. That generally takes me about six hours and I prefer to write straight through without interruptions that last longer than starting a load of laundry or pouring a fresh cup of coffee.  I try to avoid the phone but like to check in with my friends online occasionally. I’m a morning person so the first half of the day is the most productive for me.  I admire my author friends who can do all night writing marathons, but that’s not an option in my world.  When the sun says good night I usually do too! 
 
9. What advice would you give to an aspiring Steeple Hill author?

Don’t buy into the crazy things you sometimes hear about Steeple Hill’s writing restrictions.  It’s really pretty easy to stay away from subjects and language that our readers might find offensive if you just ask yourself whether or not Jesus would find your words acceptable. Our readers are looking for wholesome entertainment with a spiritual message.  When you keep that thought uppermost in your mind it really doesn’t make it difficult to work within the guidelines our publisher has established.
 
10. What is your favorite part about writing for Steeple Hill?
I am so proud and honored to write for a Christian publisher.  I don’t have to caution anybody about Steeple Hill books because I know each and every one meets quality and Christian morality standards.  The authors and editors at Steeple Hill are my extended family and I’m forever grateful that God has blessed me with this incredible career.

by Elaine Burroughs

I had the pleasure of attending RWA’s national conference in Orlando about a month ago. Having been to 2 of these national (aka bigger) conferences in recent years, I knew what to expect: plenty of books, 2100+ people, great speakers and panels, and a wonderful time. And yes, all of those happened yet again.

One of the best panels I attended was “Buy This Book!” given by Jenny Gardiner (www.jennygardiner.net), along with her agent Holly Root, agent Barbara Poelle, and Pocket Books senior editor Abby Zidle. It was here that I discovered an often repeated secret but it became astoundingly clear: It’s Not Personal. I’m talking about the big “R” word here: Rejection. At whichever level it happens to be (rejection from an agent, editor, whether the book becomes mass market paperback instead of hard cover, rejection of what you want in general).

It’s not personal.

Jenny’s presentation essentially was a “mock” meeting as would be done at a publishing house. The editor, a publicity person, a media person, foreign rights person, etc. are all in attendance. This is the meeting where the editor tries to convince others at the publishing house to “buy this book” that he/she wants to edit.

This was incredibly eye-opening. We as writers think of our manuscripts as our precious babies, something near and dear to our hearts. As we should, for without passion and personal investment, the book wouldn’t be worth the paper it’s printed on. But when it goes out into the world, it’s a PRODUCT. At this stage, anything can happen. Four out of five people in the meeting could love the book, and the main head honcho could not like it. Guess what that means? Rejection. But it’s not personal; it was a business decision made for whatever reason.

It became clear that the marketability, the dollars and cents, the ability to spread the word or promote the book near a holiday occasion became big concerns…not much was mentioned about the writing or the writer.

What should we writers glean from this? Remember to put that passion into your work, but once you’re submitting it, it becomes a product, not something you should take personally if it gets rejected.

Carry on, and keep on going!

by Carol Burnside

I’ve had times in my life when I’ve been positively euphoric with bliss. Times when it seems like I’m overwhelmed with good fortune. I remember falling in love and feeling as if my heart would burst from my chest with happiness. There were many days after my children were born when my life was so full of love I wasn’t sure my heart could hold all the joy.

I have known deep sorrow and grief the likes of which I didn’t think I could survive. Yet I’m still here.

There is a lot going on with my extended family these days. I won’t depress you with all the details. Let’s just say I’ve been bombarded with devastating news and keep the tissues handy. Unfortunately there will be worse news before this hard-to-breathe period is over. There’s no getting ’round it, I’m afraid.

Some days my heart is so heavy with sorrow, I struggle to find the happiness in each day, struggle to draw air in and out of my lungs because of the suffocating weight.

Yet the joy of life is there, in my marriage, in the voices of my children, in the friendships that keep me sane, in the process of writing. I pray. I give thanks for them and cling to those tidbits of good, reminding myself of all I have. Those things help me to just breathe.

In. Out.

In. Out.

Just breathe.