Once I got over my first thought of cannibalism (hey, paranormal author!), I fell in love with the idea behind this blog topic. Who would you love to share some table talk with? A celebrity? A great mind? A religious icon? My choice was immediate and not so grand as that. I’d love to share a meal with the one person who never said anything at the table beyond, “Pass the potatoes.” So Gandhi, Einstein, Jeremy Renner (Wait . . . maybe another time), nah. I’d like to sit down and pass the potatoes one more time with my dad.
My dad was the original strong, silent type, easily confused with John Wayne. He didn’t graduate high school, needing to go to work to help support his family, he carried the morphine in WWII in the Philippines, he grew our vegetables, was a hunter/fisherman for all seasons with always the right tool for the job whether it be loose table leg or timing belt. He laughed at Bugs Bunny and the old guys in the Muppet Show while pretending to read the paper. The dry sink we built together in the garage has made every one of my moves even though it weighs a ton. He was my hero.
My dad died before he saw my sons, before he knew I’d realized my dream of seeing a book come out in a store where we shopped. He would have hated the idea that I now drive a Honda. And he would have pretended not to like my cats, the way he once did my gerbils. I wouldn’t want to sit down in a noisy, crowded restaurant with him. I’d fire up my grill and toss on a couple of really bad for you steaks, crack a Pabst and cut a slab of pie that we could eat outside with a dog begging underfoot. And I’d make him get beyond those few soft-spoken words to hear him talk about the things that made him a strong man – the Depression, his sister who died young, about how a shy farm boy got up the courage to ask my mom to marry him, about being in the thick of battle so far away from home, about those treasured days sitting out in the garage listening the Detroit Tigers on the radio, and how his love of pulp Western novels, hard boiled PIs and Perry Mason sparked my imagination and led to so many, many more words on the page than we ever shared in a lifetime. I’d thank him for the food on the table, the roof over my head and the chance to get the education, he himself never had. I’d show him pictures of his grandson. I loved my dad. I’d tell him that, too. And then I’d pass the potatoes.
I wouldn’t be who I am if he wasn’t who he was. Thanks, Dad. Here’s book Number 60. It doesn’t matter that you wouldn’t read, just that you’d be proud of it.
PRINCE OF HONOR
“House of Terriot” Book 1
The hunter becomes the prey, a prisoner to his own desire . . .
Turow . . .
Strong, silent man of integrity content to serve his new king as a prince in the turbulent shape-shifter House of Terriot. A tracker and relentless hunter, he’s used to running trails alone until charged with returning a traitor to their mountain top home to face the unforgiving judgment of their clan. Isolated with the bad girl he’s loved forever, the choice between duty and desire has never been more difficult . . . or deadly.
Could the bargain made to save their lives become reality?
Sylvia . . .
Manipulative schemer or victim caught between a mother’s ambition and a rogue prince’s lust for power? Trust is almost as foreign as the idea of love, but to save herself from certain death, she must risk both on the good man who deserves them . . . from someone worthy. Trapped by the only one who believes in her goodness, she must betray him and run for her life . . . or stay and destroy him with a long hidden truth.
Deadly, Damaged, and Delicious!
House of Terriot
Brothers too H.o.T. to Handle!
Excerpt from PRINCE OF HONOR:
Heat pounding off his body burned against the backs of her fingers as they bunched the bottom of his tee shirt, shucking it off him with a violent pull. Her palms prowled chest and shoulders, pausing for him to identify each unfamiliar scar.
At his collarbone: “Cale’s lesson on how to use a blade.”
At the glorious swell of a bicep: “Stephen. Bar fight he started and I had to finish.” Probably because he was too drunk, though Turow would never say so.
Across the hard ridge of his abdomen: “Sparring with Rico.”
Tongue dampening her lips, eyes glowing, obviously turned on by the catalog of combat, Sylvia let her fingertip follow a thin line across his left pec as she purred, “And this one?”
“You. Where you broke my heart.”
Nancy Gideon is the award winning author of over 59 romances ranging from historical, regency and series contemporary suspense to dark paranormal, with a couple of horror screenplays tossed into the mix, and is currently testing the “Hybrid Author” waters of self-publishing. When not at the keyboard, this central Michigan writer feeds a Netflix addiction along with all things fur, fin and fowl. She also has written under the pen names Dana Ransom, Rosalyn West and Lauren Giddings.
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Thanks for pulling out a chair for me today, Di! Pass the potatoes.