Here's an excerpt from my latest, a time travel, contemporary, historical, paranormal romance called
In Love's Own Time, new from Rebel Ink Press.
Let's start with the blurb, then the excerpt:
And here's the excerpt:
In Love's Own Time, new from Rebel Ink Press.
Let's start with the blurb, then the excerpt:
“In Love’s Own Time”
Lee Ann Sontheimer Murphy
Rebel Ink Press Feb 17 2012
$5.99 ebook
Contemporary/time travel/historical paranormal
There may be no place like home and nothing like love…..when history teacher Lillian Dorsey inherits a three story Edwardian brick mansion from the grandfather who banished her pregnant mother decades before, it’s a no brainer. She’ll visit the place, see it and sell it. Instead Lillian’s captivated by the beautiful home and intrigued by the ghost of the original owner, Howard Speakman. Soon she’s flirting with the charming, witty gentleman who’s been dead for more than a century and before long, they admit it’s a mutual attraction. Still, when she’s alive and he’s dead, any shot at being together seems impossible.
But where there’s a will, there’s a way….one afternoon while pretending to visit the past the impossible becomes a brief reality. If they visited 1904 before, Lillian knows they can do it again and if so, she can prevent Howard’s untimely death. With a combination of love, powerful hope, and stubborn will, Lillian bends time to her will and returns to the summer of 1904. But Howard’s death looms ahead and if she’s to find a happy ending, she must save him from his original death.
And here's the excerpt:
“Hello?” Her voice echoed in the big kitchen but no one answered.
Lillian traced the sound through the downstairs rooms until she knew the music came from what she called the second parlor, the room with a piano. Someone was playing the old upright, someone whose fingers danced across the keys with skill. Music rose in bright crescendo with the power of live music, never recorded or played back. At such close range, she recognized the tune as The Entertainer. Although she knew it only from The Sting, Lillian recognized it as the old Scott Joplin tune.
For the first time since entering the house, the door to the second parlor wasn’t open. Outrage at such intrusive chutzpah overrode her curiosity and she pushed open the door with such force it banged the wall. Despite the sound, the man seated at the piano didn’t stop playing but continue to move his fingers across the keys. He didn’t turn around, either, or act aware of her presence until she said,
“What are you doing in my house?”
The words came out shrill but it was anger, not fear elevating the level of her voice. She’d not yet seen his face but he heard her because he stopped playing and silence rose like swift floodwaters in the room.
Before he turned, she realized something very odd about her uninvited guest. His clothing was outdated; a heavy wool suit, dark brown, with high waisted trousers beneath a coat cut in an old-fashioned style. I do believe he’s wearing what they call a sack suit, Lillian thought, but where did he get it and why is he dressed up like 1900?
“Forgive me, dear lady.” His voice was strong, deep, with a hint of sweetness, and brown like aged root beer. “Let me introduce myself since there’s no one here to make proper introductions. I’m Howard Speakman and this is my house. I built it.”
Being speechless was a rare experience for Lillian but for the third time in her life, she stared and couldn’t find anything to say. As she grasped to find the right words, she studied him. His light brown hair was short, parted in the middle in a way she’d not seen since Buster Brown and for a long moment, she thought she’d come face to face with her mother’s ghost. Reality kicked in, however, and she laughed.
“Is this a joke? It isn’t funny at all. Did you think you could scare me in a moth eaten old suit from an antique store?”
“I assure you, it’s no joke. I’m Howard Speakman and this is my house. I planned it, I built it and lived it until I died in March, 1905.”
The letters stopped then, Lillian realized and the name he gave was the one written in the books upstairs. As a non-believer, her notion of what a ghost might look like was vague but she rationalized a decent ghost would be transparent if not all white or maybe glowing. Howard was his name was none of those things; he looked as solid as she was, his skin tone resonated color, and she would swear she could smell his cologne or soap. His eyes were the rich blue of a Willow Ware platter and he looked back at her with what seemed to be intelligence and life. Besides, if he was flesh and not spirit, he was attractive in a rugged, Western hero sort of way. Too many thoughts whirled through her brain like a sudden windstorm and she sat down on a brocade-covered chair.
“You can’t be a ghost.” Her voice sounded weak and squeaky. “I don’t believe in ghosts.”
“I assure you I’m indeed a ghost.” His lips curled into a wry grin as he spoke as if even he found the idea ludicrous. “Or, if not a ghost per se, then at least I’m quite dead.”
“Nonsense.”
Howard shook his head.” I wish it was and I could just walk out the door. I can’t and as much as I love Seven Oaks, more than a hundred years wandering through the rooms, frightening the occasional child ceased to be fun some time ago. I’m a farmer and I miss the outdoors. I’d almost sell my soul to feel sunshine beating down on my back or work the dirt with my hands again.”
He made the impossible seem within reach with his calm words and steady gaze. His diction and the words he used were as out of date as his suit. If he was an actor, then he was skilled at his craft but somehow, no matter how unlikely it was, he came across as genuine.
“I don’t understand how it’s possible,” Lillian said, choking on the words opening her mental door a crack to paranormal possibilities. “Look, I don’t know what to say or think but I’m Lillian Dorsey, Charles David’s granddaughter. He left me Seven Oaks.”
“I’m charmed to make your acquaintance, Miss Dorsey.” Howard stood and bowed from the waist with grace. “Are you Sylvia’s child or Monica’s?”
“Please call me Lillian. Sylvia is my mother.” This wasn’t possible. She wasn’t making polite conversation with a ghost, not just any specter but the ghost of her mother’s stories. “She told me about the ghost, warned me about you. Whatever you did, you scared her.”
He settled back onto the piano stool. Legs crossed, he sighed. “I never intended to scare your mother or anyone else. I couldn’t get my own mother to believe I was here and when she would catch a glimpse of me, she would weep. It was very difficult for me.”
Dear God, she wanted to believe him. He sounded so sincere, his emotions didn’t seem feigned, but what he said couldn’t be possible. With her brain on overload, she covered her face with both hands.
“Please don’t tell me any more now.” Her voice wavered and she wanted to cry, just flat out bawl. “I need time to think about this. I don’t understand it, not any of it and I don’t believe it’s possible but you’re here.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Howard?”
“Yes, Lillian.” His voice made her name sound like something sweet, a caramel or a chocolate covered cherry.
“Please come back sometime and we’ll talk after I try to process all this, okay?”
Howard nodded. “I’ll be here but I’ll stay out of your way until you’re ready.”
Ghost though he might be he rose from the stool and walked across the carpet in leather oxfords without sound. Although sunshine streamed through the windows behind him, he cast no shadow on the opposite wall. As he passed, she felt his hand touch her shoulder in reassurance. It felt both warm and solid but when she reached upward to grasp it, she met empty air and Howard was gone.
