OOOPS…. It’s amazing what some characters will do the moment you take your eyes off them. One of the characters at Merivale Retirement Village died. Perhaps there is nothing surprising in that. Retirement village residents usually are elderly, often seriously ill, and sometimes infirm. But it is inconsiderate and inconvenient when, three chapters later, the same character up and dies AGAIN, this time wreaking havoc with planned Christmas festivities. Oh well, that’s what editing is all about, and what’s another bit to rewrite anyway? Now, let’s see, which death shall we run with? WHAT'S NEW Neive Denis’ new book Growing Pains, book 2 in the Merivale Retirement Village series, was released late in November in both paperback and digital formats. See the cover below. In this book, the mahjong team have had a busy year and look forward to winding down and taking a break over Christmas. The expansion project to double the size of the retirement village has provided the team with several opportunities to enhance facilities available to residents. There is intrigue, crime and even a hint of romance in this one. Now both sets of Neive’s characters from the Merivale and the Sonoma Whittington series are begging for her next book to be about them. She will have to decide on which group soon if she is going to write it over the Christmas break. Kayla Danoli continues to moan about the amount of research required to write credible historical fiction. It’s not just the major aspects to set the story squarely in the context of time and place that are required but, every time the plot requires something to happen, it must be researched to be sure it could have happened that way. As an example, telegraphing to India news of a family death in the 1830s just was not possible. The telegraph live didn’t reach India until at least the mid-1850s. So, Kayla had no option other than to make the family wait six months for the mail to arrive to find out about their loved one’s death. SOME LIGHT READING
This month there is an excerpt that provides a sneak peek into Neive Denis’ latest book Growing Pains. The Visitor Having found nothing worth watching on TV after lunch, I took myself outside for a wander around my yard to take in some fresh air and sunshine – and hopefully dispel the red mist threatening to descend. My thoughts turned to Karen – past and present. She never worked after her marriage and, in all fairness, there was no need for her to do so. We both have been widows for some time now, and I knew she was left quite well off when her husband died. Had something happened to Karen after her husband’s death to turn her into the self-centred, rude tart who presently occupied my spare room? Pursuing the question further was prevented when my phone chirped in my pocket. “I’m planning a happy hour from 5:30 this afternoon. Can you come?” Rod asked. “As much as I would like to, I’m surprised you’re asking me after this morning. It might be wiser if I give it a miss. Otherwise, I’ll have to bring my ‘guest’ with me, and I don’t believe anyone wants to be subjected to more of her.” “Don’t be silly. Bring her along too. If she becomes too much to bear, I’m sure one of us will make her aware of it. See you both at 5.30.” God knows I hated the thought of inflicting Karen on them again, but I did need their company to stabilise my outlook on life. The dilemma now created by the impending happy hour was how to have dinner on the table at seven o’clock for my guest, who ‘always eats dinner at 7:00PM’. A couple of minutes later, I was hauling my slow cooker out of the cupboard before indulging in a lengthy chopping session. By the time Karen reappeared, I was relaxing in the lounge with a coffee. As a matter of courtesy, I asked if she had a good rest. If I had any doubts the situation between us remained frosty, her reply confirmed it. I chose to ignore it and confined myself to telling her there was coffee in the pot if she wanted a cup. After fussing around in the kitchen for a while, she came and sat in the lounge and glared at me over her mug. Apparently, conversation wasn’t on her agenda. It wasn’t on mine either but, after a few minutes, I realised I had to tell her about our invite to happy hour at Rod’s place. Her whole demeanour underwent a sudden change. The twinkle in her eyes was laughable when she asked, “What do people wear to a happy hour? Is it a dress-up affair, or a more casual, laid-back occasion?” I didn’t doubt she hoped it would be ‘dress-up’, and I took some degree of pleasure from telling her it wasn’t. “Dress-up…? Heaven forbid. No, it’s about a few mates getting together for a drink to help put the day to bed on the right note. Nothing fancy… no fuss… no dressing-up.” “Well, I suppose it was wishful thinking to hope it would be anything else.” Nevertheless, as soon as she finished her coffee, she was off to start ‘getting ready’. Goodness knows what that involved other than a shower, but she had almost an hour to spend on it. The next time she reappeared, it was 5:15, and her trendy casual pants outfit had her better dressed than the rest of us would be. She was keen to head to Rod’s place. After I explained it was a two-minute walk to Rod’s house, and he wasn’t expecting anyone before 5:30, she was unhappy about having to wait. Rod had said he wanted to discuss a few things before tomorrow when the newly elected bowls club committee would hold their first meeting to consider setting rules for the club’s operation. He wanted to develop a list of questions to put to management for their input before finalising such rules. It was an important step requiring careful consideration if the new club was to avoid an avalanche of hostile reactions when it launched. When setting them up, such matters as who could play when, and dress rules for both on the green and in the clubhouse, required a delicate touch. Having Karen along to happy hour meant our discussions would be severely hampered. I was so tempted to call and cancel, but I knew I couldn’t. There were no surprises. Karen behaved just as I expected. Not only would she not leave Rod alone, but she also was making an obvious play for him. Her shameless behaviour increased with each glass of wine, and she downed them one after the other almost from the moment we arrived. The more inebriated she became, the angrier I became. We hadn’t discussed anything Rod wanted to talk about tonight, and it looked as though that situation would continue, thanks to Karen’s presence. After we had been there for about half an hour, I was surprised when Karen asked for directions to the bathroom. Even her bladder couldn’t put up with the amount she was drinking. When Rod led her inside from the back deck, I heard him say, “It’s along there; second door on the right. Yes, keep going… no, on the right. Yep, that’s it.” “She really is a piece of work, isn’t she?” Cilla murmured and added a jerk of her head towards Karen’s retreating backside. “What is her name?” “Karen… Karen Hastey…” “That’s appropriate.” “Appropriate? What do you mean by that?” “Well, I don’t know about hasty, but she sure is fast. Are you sure you want her as a house guest? She seems a bit too predatory for my liking. I think Rod might need to have her surgically removed if she hangs around much longer.” Christ, if only I could slide under the concrete... I had never been so embarrassed in my life as I was then. As soon as Rod returned to the back deck, I rushed to him and apologised for Karen’s behaviour and for messing up his planned discussions. “As soon as Karen comes back, we are going home – even if I have to knock her out and drag her along the footpath. At least, after we leave, the three of you will be able to discuss the stuff you need for tomorrow’s bowls club meeting.” Of course, Karen did not want to leave and started to make a fuss when I insisted we were going home, and right now. After managing to herd her back into the house, I took her by the arm and tried dragging her towards the front door. Cilla followed in our wake and, at the door, made a great fuss of saying goodnight and wishing Karen ‘happy travels’ for the rest of her trip up north. Rod swung the front door open and joined in the chorus of goodnights, making it obvious we were leaving. As I helped Karen negotiate the steps, Rod leant in close to me and murmured he would let me know of any new developments after tomorrow’s meeting. Once we were out on the footpath, Karen’s anger was monumental but almost comical. She tried to storm off ahead of me. In reality, it was more of a stagger with a couple of stumbles included. I was happy to let her lead the way while I viewed the spectacle from some distance behind. Her show of bad temper encountered a major hurdle at my front door. I have no doubt she intended to belt inside and slam the door in my face. The only flaw in her plan was that the door was locked, and I had the key. Waiting for me to arrive and unlock the door, after I deliberately slowed my pace to make her wait as long as possible, only fuelled her anger. As soon as I unlocked the door, she slammed the door open and pushed me aside like a petulant four-year-old might as she rushed on into her bedroom. I strolled inside after her and went straight to check on the stew in the slow cooker. The moment I lifted the lid and breathed in its aroma, my stomach rumbled. Choosing to ignore her performance, after setting the table, I yelled to let her know dinner was ready and it would be on the table in a couple of minutes. My announcement brought her scurrying from her room. “What are we having for dinner?” she demanded. “We’ve only been home five minutes, so there hasn’t been time to prepare anything worth eating.” “True… but we’re having stew, and it has been cooking all afternoon.” “Stew…! I don’t eat stew. It’s always made with poorer cuts of meat. No thanks, I don’t eat stew, but you’re welcome to get stuck in if you feel so inclined. In the meantime, I’ll find myself a restaurant and have a decent meal.” “The number for a cab is on the list on the little table over there.”
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