Another Book Excerpt

This is an excerpt of my next, not finished, novel. Frank Roselli was on his way to the beach cottage he and Katherine, his ex-wife, owned and shared. Myra, his live-in girlfriend had just dumped him for Jack, his long time best friend. They were on their way to Los Angeles where his friend had just landed a better position with an advertising agency out there. 

Frank went to the beach cottage to clear his mind. Ease his wounded ego.

To Cross That Bridge 

by

B.D. Adams

Chapter IV

   Not speeding this Thursday afternoon, but Frank maneuvered his red, Fiat Spider. His 1978 Spidereuropa, with the black top down, zoomed around vehicles on Ocean Parkway. He even wore goggles when he drove the car – to protect his eyes, of course. The wind in his hair tantalized!

     Frank mused: ‘Frank Roselli has pulled in front of Mario Andretti. They had been see-sawing for the lead in the last five laps. Can Roselli beat Andretti? Not yet – Andretti has the lead again. Wait a minute – Roselli has moved to the outside – he has a nose lead! They’re now side-by-side. They’re coming to the checkered flag. And … and … Roselli wins! Roselli wins! Frank Roselli wins The Monaco Grand Prix!!’

     Frank put his head back and made the crowd noise, the cheering crowd! He had to do this more often, he smiled with a happy sigh.

     He loved driving his Fiat like a race car in Monaco, France. Unfortunately, he had never been to Monaco. He and Myra had been making plans to go to Europe. He wanted to visit Italy again, now he was a grown man.

     Not in his madras shorts, he wore his khaki cargo shorts, a light blue T-shirt, and his leather Dockside shoes.

     He had gone the distance down Ocean Parkway on Jones Island to the obscured dirt access road to Oak Beach Road to go to the cottage. Just another 300 yards east of the Community Center.

     He kept mulling over the recent crap with her, Myra. He was more than glad that he decided to keep his private bank account to him only. She cleaned out the shared account, though. He could file a domestic complaint, but it was a shared account. What she did irritated him, but was it worth to file a lawsuit? Why did she leave him?

     Stop that, he scolded. No more Myra. No more Jack. Only Francis Roselli from now on.

     Francis pulled into the long driveway to the back door of the cottage. The front neighbor’s cottage was between the beach and their cottage. They allowed him, Kathy and their friends, to go down their path to the beach when desired. It didn’t look like the neighbors were there. That was good. They always liked to banter with him – be nosy.

     This cottage, his and Kathy’s, had been built several yards to the left behind the front property. However, the ocean was very seeable. He would do a lot of writing while there.

     Anxiously, impatiently he opened the screened door and unlocked the wooden door. Inside, the window over the sink was opened – there was a puff of a breeze, a little less stuffy. With a minor survey of the inside, everything seemed to be as it should. He carried his duffle to the inside of the cozy, comfortable cottage. The ceiling was faux-vaulted in the main area. A nice touch.

     Beginning with the window between the apartment sized stove and refrigerator and the small bedroom, he opened it wide. Then he moved to the living room area windows – one on the west wall near the bathroom and the two windows beside the front door.

     Just an average cottage of the 1920s. One airy bedroom, which was fairly large, with a queen-size bed and a good sized closet. The other bedroom was just a bit smaller than the front room, like a den or library. No bed – two armchairs and a small table with a lamp. The sofa in the main area made into a full bed, if needed. The matching overstuffed armchair added to the coziness of the area. In the cedar chest, in the front bedroom, there was a queen-size blow-up mattress. Came in handy many years ago for a beach weekend with friends. That was a fun weekend!

     This cottage was built in 1922 – the time of Gatsby. It was furnished, decorated in that era. However, definitely not meant for year round living.

     It was sturdy enough, though. As it was, there were oak hardwood floors, well-constructed walls of modern sheet-rock, not plasterboard, tall windows of 1920s vintage. There was very creative, outside bric-a-brac. Inside, the original cast-iron claw-foot tub with copper fixtures was spectacular!

     An article was written about the cottage by the local tabloid. He and Kathy bought it, had painted, repaired and put in a small shed that housed the beach chairs and other items. Not many of the older cottages were still in existence.  That was sad.

     In the bedroom, it was clear that Kathy had left the room spic and span after the tryst with her new boyfriend. Clean sheets on the bed, comforter neatly folded, as usual.

     He tossed the duffle bag onto the queen-sized bed. Raised those windows. Ah … refreshing!

     His curiosity got the better of him, though, as he went to the bathroom.  Even here, there wasn’t any telltale evidence that a man had been there. Frank shook his head. Did he really want to see remnants of another man?

     He and Kathy still had a kind of – affection -- for each other, which irked Myra at times. But could Frank and Kathy evolve back to something more? Especially now, with Myra gone.

     He must forget those thoughts!

     The little writing desk was still by the front window way to the left where he could look out at the beach and the breaking waves. He could gaze out when he needed a break. The laptop was placed there.

     In the kitchen, as in the bathroom, neat and clean. Frank opened a cupboard to see what might be there for food. Canned tuna, canned pork and beans and -- what’s this? A can of B&M Brown Bread.

     Bread in a can? Who was this guy she was dating? Was he someone from upstate … The Adirondacks? Frank shook his head with a tsk-tsk. Should he worry about his ex-wife? No … not now. He would open that can later to see if it was, indeed, bread.

     The fridge was empty, plugged in, but empty. He’d go to the little convenience store to see what he could buy there. Only going to be there for a few days.

     Looked into the cupboard by the sink where a few bottles of alcohol would be kept. Ah, yes. Half-gallon bottles mostly full of whiskey, vodka, rum and scotch, his favorite. That new guy must not drink much. That was good for Frank.

     The cottage felt more welcoming now with the windows opened, so he unlocked the front door and opened it wide. Then went through the screen door to step out onto the narrow porch where two white painted, wooden rocking chairs were. He just stood on the porch, leaned against one of the porch posts, to enjoy the ocean breeze. This was what he needed after last night.

     The sun was more to the west, over the city. A few seagulls flew near to the porch and screamed to him, so he imagined. They hoped he would throw food to them.

     “Go away you moochers,” Frank said, “I might have food for you later.” He laughed, but not heartily. Since he read that damned “Dear John” note, what did he have to laugh about? He smiled anyway. A smile came more easily made than a laugh.

     He would survive even this.

Bridge -- Excerpt

To Cross That Bridge

An Excerpt – Chapter VIII

by

B.D. Adams

© 2016

   This is an excerpt of my new novel.

   Frank and Darcy had not really met. They had literally bumped into each other one night a few weeks before when Frank was horribly drunk. His live-in girlfriend had left him with no notice with his best friend to Los Angeles.

   Frank had calmed from getting dumped by that girlfriend and figured he’d never see the woman he had bumped into again. Or would he?

    Sam is his literary agent

   Katherine is his ex-wife

     The reception, given by the New York Publicity Club, was for new publicists/agents and authors and journalists to be introduced to the world. Everyone would “eyeball” everyone. To scope who could help the individual the best or from whom to steer clear. A special social event. Kind of like a Debutante Ball, if they were all young women. Frank sort of chuckled to himself.

     He had declined to attend the last reception, his first invitation, because he was feverishly working on the completion of The Breath of Amour. Thought that was more important than sucking-up.

     The reason for him to be at this soirée, at Sam’s insistence, was to show the powers-that-be that he was not a rude or crude writer. A nice guy, a congenial guy.

     He considered asking Katherine to come along, but no. He had to do this without a woman at his side.

     Sanchez turned right at 50^th Street, headed east to merge to the curb by the Rockefeller Plaza, so he could let his passenger out easily. Before leaving the car, he put the cap on again, and then held the door for Frank.

     Frank donned his black movie-star sunglasses, as he exited the car. He had taken a ten-spot out of his wallet to tip the driver, but Sanchez declined and said, “No, sir. Sam has taken care of that. Really.” The driver gave a genuine smile, then added, “I’ll be back to pick you up.” He took a beeper device out of his coat pocket. “Just push that button. It’ll let me know you’re ready. Only be a moment to get you.”

     Frank nodded, and then Sanchez hurriedly got back into the Cadillac and took off, so not to get a ticket. There were two Cops that stood and watched the cars and drivers, as well as the public.

     The Plaza was roped off, for the Gold Carpet arrivals. Nothing like the Red Carpet events, but there were fans that stood by the roped off area. A few actually called his name.

     A girl screamed, “Frank! I love you!”

     Another girl kind of asked her friends, “Who’s that?”

     “Frank Roselli! He wrote The Breath of Amour!” Now there were more giddy screeches from all the girls who clicked away with their camera-phones!  

     “Oh, my God – that’s him? He’s handsome!” Then the girl called, “We love your books, Frank -- you sexy man!”

     Frank waved with a big grin. He even stopped to pose, sort of, to let the fans take their photos. That really helped his ego!

     Inside, two elevators were assigned to take guests to the 67^th floor. Some other guests waited with him.

     One of the elevator doors opened. A speed elevator lifted to the 67^th floor in a matter of moments. The doors opened.

     Live jazz music (a quartet, complete with a baby-grand) greeted. Waiters and waitresses had trays with glasses of good champagne and tasty hors d’oeuvres that awaited the newcomers! A lot of talk and laughter could be heard, as well. There were two bars set up with anything anyone could want. And, free!! The Publicity Club must be doing really good to afford this spread in this room, Frank decided.

     Sam saw Frank almost immediately.

     “Ta-da … he has arrived,” Sam said exuberantly. They hugged briefly. “Really, Frank? Sandals?” he quietly commented. He gave a twitch of his mouth, then said, “Come with me. There are oodles to meet.” Sam was in his realm at these events. He always turned on his “feminine side,” not totally, but enough to make Frank worry, somewhat.

     Some of the better known writers and journalists were there, like James Patterson, now a resident in Florida, John Grisham, a resident in Virginia, and Diane Sawyer and Brian Williams (recently reinstated with NBC) – and many others!

     Sam had taken Frank to this publisher or that critic to shake hands. Also, he watched Frank’s alcohol intake, to make sure he wouldn’t take off his clothes here.

     Frank talked with several other guests. Sam was right … this helped Frank out of his doldrums. More smiles and laughter.

     Sam scurried to another group and left him with a couple he just met. Then, a familiar face a few feet away, looked to Frank and gave a smile. Katherine was here. He nonchalantly approached.

     “What are you doing here?” he asked with his glad, easy face.

     “Well, my boyfriend is a writer, believe it or not. Non-fiction. Oh, and I got a phone call about my bail refund. Thanks for show-ing up.” She gave her pleased face.

     “Non-fiction, eh? Coming up in the world, are we,” Frank chuckled. “Where is the prodigy?”

     “David, his name is David. He’s Jewish, so please be nice,” Katherine urged.

     “Sweetheart, I’m always nice,” Frank stated, as he gave her a warm hug. He saw a guy toting a couple of scotch and sodas headed in their direction, who was probably David. About as tall as Frank, slender, short-cropped black hair, but no Yarmulke – the Jewish beanie. Might not be orthodox.

     Frank wondered how his tolerance level would be toward her ex-husband.

     David touched Katherine’s arm. She turned, smiled and took her drink from him, as she introduced, “David, this is my ex, Frank Roselli. Frank this is David Stenman.” Katherine took a sip of her drink then informed, “His first book just came out. He writes non-fiction.” She said the last bit as if that would impress Frank, a fiction writer.

     “Dave … very nice to meet you. Did you enjoy the cottage? A shame the coffeemaker decided to quit.” Frank mustered the best smile he could and gave his hand to the other man.

     David smiled the best smile he could give to this man, and informed, “David. As Katherine doesn’t like being called Kathy, I don’t go by Dave.”

     The men shook hands. Almost like a stand-off. The parameters had been set.

     “Hi, Katherine. Nice to see you,” Sam greeted with a smile and a kiss on her cheek. Frank was so glad that Sam came to his rescue.

     “Sam, this is David Stenman, a non-fiction writer,” she informed.

     “Nice to meet you, David. Uh, see that woman over there with the god-awful blood-red scarf? She is an agent for your genre. A very good one. You should talk to her, if you haven’t already.” Sam was always sincere about his information. Then, he excused him and Frank, as he steered them from the couple.

     “Do you see that reporter over there?” Sam asked Frank.

     As he sipped on a fresh tulip-flute of champagne, Frank looked in the direction Sam motioned. Then nodded and asked, “Who’s he?” He looked to all the other people near to the reporter, as well.

     “He’s with The Times and rumors have it he might be taking the old man’s position, the paper’s literary critic. I’m trying to get ----,”

     In all of a cryptic moment, Frank saw the woman photographer with the reporter. When she turned so he could see her face, without the camera in her face, Frank nearly fainted! She was that woman – blue eyes and all! The woman he had bumped into on the sidewalk at 10^th and Bleecker! He almost dropped his champagne.

     “Frank – Frank? You all right?” Sam asked concerned. “What’s wrong? You look … a little peaked.”

     “Sorry, Sam. Thought I saw someone I knew. Someone I did not want to see.” He gave a one-sided smile, then excused himself, “The johns are down that way … right?”

     Sam nodded yes.

     Frank nearly jogged to the restrooms. He gave an attendant the champagne glass, and then ducked into a stall and pulled down his pants. What else could he do?

     Man, oh man, Frank silently sighed. He didn’t think she saw him. If she saw him, would she recognize him? He looked very different from that evening. If she recognized him, would she make a scene?

     That drunken evening, she didn’t yell or scream for the police. She was angry with him, but didn’t act like a drama-queen.

     It was her, he knew it was her. He could not remember everything about that night, but he definitely remembered that face with those beautiful blue eyes. In the room’s light, he saw her shoulder-length hair was dark auburn and styled softly around her face.

     She was dressed for this vogueish affair in a fitted linen pantsuit with dark brown flats and nude hose. The sleeves of her jacket were rolled up like his were, and he could tell the jacket was over a cream colored, silk halter top. Not plunging, but a decent V to hint what was underneath. She was taller than what’s-her-name, maybe as tall as Katherine.

     Maybe, he should just go out and man-up, take whatever consequence there might be. Okay? Okay!

     He pulled up his trousers, flushed the empty toilet. Then, went back to Sam.

     “No more booze for you, Frankie,” Sam said.

     “Sam, this is a soirée. I’ll just stay with the champagne,” he said with a wide smile. He took a glass from a passing waiter with a full tray. “Now, where’s that reporter?”

     No clue of what was going on with his writer, Sam proceeded to the reporter.

     Frank was all smiles as Sam made the introductions.

     “Stan Makruski, this is Frank Roselli, a hot property,” Sam proudly stated. He noticed that Frank purposely did not look directly at the woman photographer. 

     “It is a pleasure to finally meet you,” Stan said with a sincere face. “Uh, Frank or Mr. Roselli?”

     “Frank is good. I am always appreciative and available to the members of the Fourth Estate. What can I do for you this evening,” Frank offered.

     Fourth Estate? Sam knew that term – antiquated, but appropriate for a newspaper reporter. So, he just stood back to watch this new part of Frank’s persona. He wondered if Frank was drunker than he thought. Then, after a little more attention, Sam noticed how Frank shot glances at the woman photographer. Was she the one he “did not want to see?” He figured that Frank had seen that she was a nice looking woman, a nice looking woman with a real occupation. Not a measly secretary. Sam was pleased.

     “This is my photographer, Darcy Darden,” Stan informed. “Do you mind, Frank?”

     “Not at all,” Frank assured. “Darcy. Very good to meet you.” He held out his hand to shake hers.

     Darcy readjusted the camera to take his hand. She had shaken several hands this evening. Finally, she really looked to this man, Frank Roselli.

     “Very nice to …..” Darcy became astonished! She could not believe she was looking at the face of that asshole who bumped into her a few weeks ago. What should she do? She wanted to slap him, but she hadn’t slapped him when he grabbed her arm. She decided to just be cool -- don’t make a scene.

     “Mr. Roselli,” was all she could say. Professional, but not flowery. She gave her hand, but not enthusiastically.

     Stan kind of noticed Darcy’s reaction to this man, so he had to ask, “Do you two know each other?”

     Almost simultaneously, they said, “No!”

     With his reporter’s instinct, he knew they lied. Now, he wanted even more to get Darcy’s story. He decided he’d ask her later. Now, he began his questions for this author. 

Book Excerpt

This is an excerpt from my new book in progress. The title is "To Cross That Bridge" -- a romance/mystery. The main characters are Frank Roselli and Darcy Darden. They both live in New York City. Frank is an accomplished novelist, while Darcy is a rookie photographer with the New York Times. (FYI -- this is not the sequel after "Spider.") This story takes place after Frank and Darcy have met -- sort of. The woman in this excerpt is Katherine, Frank's ex-wife. She is a secondary character, but important to the story. 

To Cross That Bridge
by
B.D. Adams - 2016

Chapter V
Excerpt 

     It was wicked late. Too, too late – or too early – depending.

     “Ohhh,” he moaned. Frank’s head throbbed. He wanted some aspirins. Why couldn’t he get an aspirin? A lousy aspirin. And who were these bums and why couldn’t they shut-up, Frank asked to himself? Why was he dressed in an orange jumpsuit with orange flip-flops? There was sand on the flip-flops. Sand?

     Now, he remembered. As he ran down the beach, he thought he was Ian Charleson as Eric Liddell in Chariots of Fire. However, with no clothes. What a vision that had to be, he mused with a small smile. Would this make the tabloids?

     Then, Frank realized he must be in jail. Possibly a holding cell for drunks. Probably in the Suffolk County Police Department in West Babylon, NY. That was the jurisdiction for Oak Beach. He sat on a bench with a few bums with his back against the chain-linked fence wall. Had he been sleeping or just catatonic? There were many drunks in the cell. Was it a full moon, he wondered?

     How could he get a damn aspirin? He knew he couldn’t yell – that would only anger the powers-that-be.

     Now, he listened to the man near to him who thought he was a Shakespearean actor. If he began to spout Macbeth, Frank might become violent.

     “Roselli!” a police guard loudly called out. All the other men tried to say they were the called Roselli. The guard held them off, as Frank rose from the bench to leave the others.

     “Good night, sweet prince. Parting is such sweet sorrow,” Shakespeare babbled to Frank.

     Frank wondered if the guy thought he was Juliette. That was really Juliette’s line. The guy was evidently drunker than Frank or was he an out of work actor or … who gave a rat’s ass.

     He walked with the guard. No cuffs were put on his wrists or

ankles. They went into a small, brightly lit room with a table and two chairs and a long horizontal mirror on the wall near the door that reflected the entire room.

     “Have a seat,” the guard instructed.

     “Can I, please, get an aspirin?” Frank calmly pleaded.

     The guard just gave a one-sided smile and left the room.

     Frank sat in the chair that faced the mirror and looked around the room. No windows, the floor was dirty -- someone had puked in the corner to his left -- the air-conditioning was low, almost hot. He wondered what was going to happen to him.

     Never had felt it before, but was he claustrophobic? He began to feel anxious in this undersized, windowless room.

     “Come on guys, why won’t you give me an aspirin?” he asked out loud. He’d watched enough “cop shows” to know they have microphones in these places “Please.” Now, he was feeling worse. Wanted to cry, but manned up. Just took deep breaths.

     Finally, he heard a noise with the door’s handle. It took a moment for someone to open the door.

     “Here he is, ma’am,” the guard said as he held the door for someone.

     There were feelings of relief and dread as Kathy was allowed in.

     “Thank you, Officer,” she said. Her face did not look thankful.

     As if his night could be any worse, she had to walk in. All Frank could do was bow his throbbing head. He was now mortified!

     “I was called -- by Sam and the cops. I’ve been at the night court to pay your bail and fine!” She said as calmly as she could while she paced back and forth – that’s what she’d do when she was irritated.

     “Kathy … I’m sorry ….”

     “Sorry?” she blurted, “Sorry? Is that all you can say?”

     What else could he say? She was there for him for which he was grateful.

     She looked casually sweet in a calf-length skirt in pale, muted colors of mauve and purple, with cloth from India -- a sleeveless top of the same cloth as the skirt and dainty leather sandals. Her long brown hair was swept-up off her neck for the hot weather. She might have been on a date with the “canned bread” guy. Her make-up indicated this possibility. He wished she would have worn an outfit in black – like a Nun. That would have suited this situation.

     “You are so going to owe me, Francis! I’ve had about all I can take of your childishness!” When she was really angry with him, she would call him Francis. “Where’s that bimbo of yours? Huh? She should be her. Is she in jail, too?” She stopped the pacing with her arms folded akimbo to stare and await his answer.

     “Kathy –“

     “Don’t call me ----!”

     “Katherine!” he corrected as quickly as he could. “Katherine … she left me … for Jack! That’s where she is.”

     She looked at Frank, blinked her eyes a few times to digest what he just said, then asked, “She’s with Jack? In Los Angeles? Now?”

     “As far as I know,” Frank calmly said. He glanced to her face and saw that her expression had changed. Not that she was happy with him, but he saw more compassion than anger.

     “Well, good riddance,” was all she said. “To both of them.” She didn’t like Jack.

     Frank nodded his head.

     She got quiet in thought – making her decisions. Then, suggested, “I know you were at the cottage. We’ll stay there – go back to the city by noon. I already arranged for someone to drive the Fiat back. You’ll just have to slum-it in my Mini-Cooper,” she said with no smile.

     Frank nodded, and then asked, “Do you have any aspirin?”

====

     Katherine gave him three aspirins when they got back to the cottage. Then Frank just fell into the bed – orange jumpsuit and all. He glimpsed that he should let her have the bed, but she went to lie on the sofa, as it remained a sofa, not a bed.

     The bedside clock said it was 3:17a.m. They both just slept.

====

     Frank woke before her. Nearly eleven o’clock. He showered and dressed in his cargo shorts and a white T-shirt. The jumpsuit and flip-flops were put into the garbage. Then, he took over the kitchen to begin breakfast; eggs, bacon and toast. Boiled water for the coffee bags. OJ was already poured in small glasses and on the table.

     He noticed the Fiat was already gone from the driveway.

     “You becoming domestic?” Katherine asked.

     He had a small jump because she surprised him, but said, “The least I can do for you, Katherine.”

     She stood by the short wall that divided the kitchen from the bathroom. The only attire difference from last night was her feet were without the sandals. Her long brown hair was not in the up-do, was over her shoulders.

     He was still so wickedly attracted to her. Divorcing her was a mistake. He sighed quietly.

     All they did was give calm expressions to each other. He continued with the breakfast while she went briefly into the bathroom.

     Once the food was ready to partake, they sat across from each other at the small table, what they had done many times when they were married.

     “I don’t know why she left me,” Frank began. Katherine gave him a curious look. “I figured I should say that before you asked.”

     “Frank ….”

     “No, Katherine. Let me finish.” He took a good sip of the orange juice. “You’re right. I’ve been childish. Not intentionally, but that’s the best description.” He scooped egg onto his fork, and then chewed.

     “Frank, have I said, ‘I told you so?’” She continued to enjoy this breakfast.

     He ate the last of the scrambled eggs on his plate, then shook his head and said, “No … not yet.” He gave a quirky smile.

     She turned her head so he wouldn’t see her smile.

     “Last night and the last few days, haven’t been “me.” I honestly had no idea why this made me a drunk, an asshole.”

     “An asshole?” Katherine mused.

     Frank nodded and added, “Someone called me that.”

     “Who?”

     “No one I knew. Just a woman walking on Bleecker Street.”

     Now Katherine really frowned.

     “She bumped into me at 10^th and Bleecker. I knew it was an accident, but … but it made me angry. And, yes … I had been drinking. I dropped the bottle of scotch I had bought. The bottle broke.” He sighed rather loudly and continued, “I think I yelled at her. Don’t know what I said, but she called me an asshole.”

     “Did you touch her -- grab her?” Katherine asked, a bit surprised.

     “No. Not really. Well … a little … an accident.”

     “Had you ever seen her before?”

     He shook his head, no.

     “Well, you’ll probably never see her again.”

     He nodded his head in agreement. For whatever reason, he neglected to mention that he followed the woman to her apartment on Bleecker. He decided that Katherine was right -- he'd never see her again. New York was a large city! Many, many people! What were the odds. 

     Their conversation ended. Katherine got up, gathered the used dishes to wash and dry, while Frank began to pack his duffle bag and laptop. Then he made the bed and went around to close and lock the windows and doors.

     She wrapped a long Kelly-green scarf around her head to keep her hair from blowing everywhere, as she drove her dark green Mini-Cooper with the top down. They were quiet.

     After just a moment, though, he did ask what happened to the coffeemaker.

Published Books

B.D. Adams the Author

by

B.D. Adams

©2916

To my Blog Readers:

            “The Spider Sat Beside Her” – suspense/thriller

            “The Moon Cries Blue Tears --

      Four Short Stories & A Novella” – thriller/eerie

   Many may already know this, but for those who don’t know, I am now a published author with two books in print!

   Both books are fiction, however, the first one is somewhat autobiographic. I am a stroke survivor of 18 years. The heroine is the same as me … a stroke survivor. The second book is a small collection of my short stories and a novella of strange and eerie material.

   The following are the descriptions for my two books. 

B.D. Adams – “The Spider Sat Beside Her” – A Novel

     -- Description --

   Liz Jacoby is a petite, single, 48 year old woman, who was a photographer and longtime resident of Columbus, OH. It is July. She is in the hospital’s rehab center to overcome a hemorrhagic stroke. She has to use a wheelchair, but her recovery has been rather routine, as well as tedious. Nothing an active, talented photographer would want any time.

  Pete Young, a short, wiry, 45 year old man is the patient across the hall with an “accidental” gunshot wound and a mild concussion. In reality, he had been hired to kill a political city candidate and was shot by that target. This was his first messed up hit. A known thief, not a known hit man.

   Liz overhears the argument Pete and Luke, his boss, have about why he was shot. Liz is convinced Pete is a hitman. Pete is certain that she heard their argument, so he begins to weave his web-of-doubt to play-up her stroke’s mental deficiency to the hospital’s staff.

   The last thing on Liz’s mind is to deal with a hit man in the hospital. Her biggest question was who could she tell about Pete; who would believe her?

   However, along with her medical concerns, her current life gives her a new boyfriend, Scott Warner, a Physical Therapy Intern. He began late to begin his Physical Therapy career; a little younger than Liz, but not that much.

   Liz confides in Scott and knows he believes her because he tells his police detective friend of her dilemma with Pete. Liz is disabled, but she becomes a tenacious, gritty patient to deal with Pete’s mental torments. No matter, Liz is a survivor!

   With emotional twists, a murder and a bit of romance, The Spider Sat Beside Her is riveting!

B.D. Adams – “The Moon Cries Blue Tears –

                   Four Short Stories and A Novella”

                                -- Description --

   Short Stories and Novellas entice readers to go from one story to the next. To enjoy. To savor. That is every author’s hope. The hope for the conventional fiction writer.

   However, for the unconventional, the author entreats the reader to read each story wide eyed with a fast beating heart – to be scared to death. Almost.

The Short Stories

   “The Bum’s Rush” is a different handling of a werewolf story – not a man, but a savvy woman. “The Devil’s Axe” is about a young man who makes his unintentional bargain with the devil. “Checkmate” is how a young man meets a woman of indescribable beauty who only wants him for her breakfast. “The White Haired Man” appears to a construction supervisor in a forested area that causes the supervisor to question his sanity.

The Novella

“The Moon Cries Blue Tears”

   This story involves Spencer Jamison, a vampire who has been a vampire since 1655, from England. The story is

present day, but with historic treatments of Spencer’s life.

   To begin the story, Spencer is in North Carolina. It is almost the dark hour. His desire this evening is to meet a mortal woman who could become his companion, his lover. And with his luck, Spencer meets Cynthia. They are at an open-air amphitheater to enjoy a string quartet of classic music.

   All seems to be in Spencer’s favor, until during the concert, he gets a cell phone buzz from someone he hadn’t heard from since his making!

   Angus, his creator in 1655, contacts Spencer to warn him. He warns of a rogue vampire that wants to kill Spencer for ancient vampire reasons.

   This book is about a werewolf, the devil, a ghost and vampires – Oh my. Enjoy, unless you’re too scared.

   If so intrigued by these descriptions, please buy my Paperback Books or Kindle Books at Amazon –

            “The Spider Sat Beside Her”   ---   and

            “The Moon Cries Blue Tears”

  

Both by B.D. Adams. Enjoy reading!!!!

----- FYI ----

There is another author who has the Pen Name of B.D. Adams on Amazon. That title is “Three Days.” Definitely not one of my books or my genre. 

An Author

To Be An Author

by B.D. Adams ©2015

 

 

 

“A

nd, what do you want to be when you grow up?”

 

Most of my young life, I was asked that question by older folks who thought they were being wise or studious. Mostly, they just wanted to show they were wiser than my little self.

How I hated that question. Once, being in a bratty mood, I answered, “I want to be the president.” That brought snickers and looks from the men that said, “In your dreams.”

The women were no better with their answers. Always, they would piously smile and offer, “You want to be a Mom. Right? Or a secretary or nurse first – and then, marry the boss or a doctor!”

Bull-pucky!! I was a Texas girl and wanted to be the boss! I was born in Ft. Worth and lived in Texas until I was 18. Then, moved to Columbus, Ohio, to attend Ohio State University.

Because of the social stigmas, I lived my life according to “Hoyle.” My mother was an avid Bridge player in the ‘50s. I never learned to play that card game. I was more into Poker and Pool and Tennis. Because my father taught me to fish, swim and play tennis, I developed a competitive personality. I learned how to play pool/billiards all on my own. I played pool in any bar or hall I’d go to. Still have my cue. (check out my Blog for “The Rolling 8 Ball”)

Because of my tenacious/competitive nature, I became a pro photographer. My longtime male friend trained, educated me in photography. He knew I was an artist and wanted to use my artistic know-how to be in his studio.

For over 25 years – in different studios around the country – my career was in the photo arts.

As the direction of my “luck” went, however, I had a hemorrhagic stroke in June of 1998. My right side was taken from me. I was in Columbus surrounded with my friends and competitors. Most didn’t know how to be with me, once I was out of the hospital.

Talk about a change! I was forced into “early retirement” from photography. Oh, I tried to
maintain my vocation, but when you had limited, and I mean very limited use of your right leg and hand/arm, photo equipment was more than a struggle.

I had a few friends who encouraged my continued reconnections with photography. My dear friend who taught me photography, gave me a recorder to possibly write about my condition. However, even I knew my limits. I needed more physical therapy to better become mobile, more regular.

My condition became as better as it could with all the therapy. However, I became tired of all “pity” I heard from people, especially from many I knew. I needed a change. I relocated to New Hampshire to live with the encouragement of a woman I had met on-line in a Chat-Room way before the stroke. I loved NH!

Once in NH, my friend introduced me to the fellow I now live with. How nice.

Since I had been able to type – took typing in high school – I trained my left hand to do ALL the typing. Forget “blind typing.” Because I could type, I was able to get a few jobs in NH. Unfortunately, though, I was always too slow because of the stroke’s condition. My “nice” bosses would lay-me-off, so I could get unemployment.

I was not happy with this treatment, but I didn’t begrudge them. This was business. Even the last job I had in a hospital, through Community Action for senior citizens, I knew why the supervisor wouldn’t allow any “real” training for me. “This was NOT a training hospital,” so I had heard her say. I guess she never heard about the Ohio State University Hospital. They were proud of that description.

Well, all the other employees were constantly going through “additional training.” I hadn’t had education in “medical coding,” but I did have a couple of years of liberal arts education at OSU. Didn’t graduate, but I was trainable (my time with photography). When I left the university, I had a 4.0 GPA. I believed she didn’t like that I attended a liberal arts university. Perhaps, she didn’t. I had had enough of her attitude, so I decided to really become “retired.” I left that position. That supervisor, I begrudged.

At this age, I was 62. Tired of banging my head against all the preverbal walls for employment, I went back on Disability and decided to try my hand at writing.

I had already gotten my Blog going and had written a few stories. I really enjoyed this. However, a novel had rattled around my brain ever since I was in the hospital’s rehab when I had the stroke. Something took place in my hospital room that gave me the idea for the novel. A nurse and a patient came into my room one night. I woke up and asked them why they were in my room. They left. Hmmm … I thought to myself. This could be a story.

I began to write my novel in 2006. Once I decided to be retired – stopped trying to be employed -- I worked daily on the manuscript. It is NOT the Great American Novel, but is the novel I felt compelled to write. My dear photo mentor had given me the idea to write about my stroke’s story while I was in the hospital, but when I tried to write the non-fiction version, it bored me! I felt the need to make it juicy, which I did. Therefore, it is a work of fiction.

Of course, writing a full-length novel is much different from writing a two to three page short-story for the Blog. The story entails true accounts of medical situations for me. So, there is some reality.

Mostly the novel is a suspense/thriller, with a touch of romance. Not all, but many stories need a hint of romance … and some humor. I kept it as much PG-13 as I could, with a bit sex.

 My heroine is Liz Jacoby (me), a stroke survivor rehabbing in the hospital’s Rehab Center. Of course, I have written her differently from how I actually was in the beginning of my hospital stay. My antagonist is Pete Young, The Spider. He’s a small man, a jerk of guy, who is in the rehab from an accidental, self-inflicted gunshot wound. He refers to Liz as “not all there” because of the stroke. Pete was supposed to kill a man, but he was shot by his target, instead. He and Luke, his boss, pick my room to “talk” about why Pete was in the hospital (see the thread?).

 If you read my book’s description and/or the first chapter, you might be surprised how a still stroked mind thinks/writes. Hence, the old saying, “Different strokes for different folks.”

I have been lucky here in New Hampshire. My live-in boyfriend, soon to be husband, has been my steadfast fan of my writing. He reads everything I write. Within the last year, I became involved with the Gilman Library Writer’s Group in Alton, NH (where I live). A small group, but should increase soon.

The Group’s monitor has been very encouraging for my novel! She has offered her “grains of salt” to add to or change the manuscript to make it better. Plus, one of the Library’s following authors, Anura Gurugé, who lives in Alton, has guided me to publish the manuscript, once I felt it was worthy.

On June 4, 2015, the Gilman Library had a program on “How to Self-publish You Book,” given by Anura. He chose my novel to show how it is done and how easy it is to do. I became a published author on Amazon! It is a full-length novel, an eBook for Kindles. I’ve been on cloud 9 since June 4^th!

Without the ability to do things physically, I retrained my brain to continue to think, to mentally create, to write. It is believed, by me and others, I have accomplished this.

“What do I want to be when I grow up?” Right now, an author sounds very good.

 

“The Spider Sat Beside Her”

A Novel

by B.D. Adams --- on Amazon

 

 

Dear Reader,

Please buy the eBook (99cents) to show Amazon that I have people who will buy my work. If you read what you buy, you will be entertained.

The Spider Sat Beside Her - 2

          Readers, this is another excerpt from the novel I've been writing. Just to remind, it is a suspense, crime drama. With a touch of romance. The novel/story is finished, but I'm still working on the editing part -- to make it as perfect as possible for publishing. My Minor in college was English. Since my medical dilemma, however, most of what I had learned in high school and college has gone by the wayside. I have been very happy, though, that I have had helpful folks who have loaned their knowledge to me. I hope who reads this will be intrigued. Cheers!!!

 

Just some info about character and places --
       Travis Withers - a detective with Columbus Police Department (Columbus OH).

       Liz (Elizabeth) - the heroine in the story.       

       JD - Liz's 24 year-old son.

       Nikki's - an up-scale restaurant where Liz's son works as a bartender.
        Luke -- a local mob boss (not Italian).

        Pete Young - a patient in the same hospital as Liz and has become her nemesis.

        Scott - the Physical Therapist Intern and Liz's new love interest.

        Ms. Cox (Maureen Cox) - another patient and has become  Liz's friend.

        COSI - Center of Science and Industry, a museum in Columbus.

 

       All names are fictitious -- no one alive or deceased.

 

The Spider Sat Beside Her

Chapter XXX

 

by

B.D. Adams ©2015

 

 

          Travis had just dropped Liz’s son off at Nikki’s. JD was a polite young man, but was very concerned about his mother, which any son would be. He gave as much info as he could to the lad, but remained confidential. Travis would tell Liz her son was polite.

            He used an unmarked car to drive JD, so not to draw too much attention. There was no guarantee that Luke or Luke’s men would leave Liz’s son alone, but it was better to be cautious. Travis assigned a plain-clothes and a uniform at Nikki’s, just as a precaution. The management was agreeable without too much explanation.

The “3-C Connection” (Cincinnati, Columbus, Cleveland) had begun alliances with some other organizations, other mobs. One was the Russian's.

Sy Moretti, the Midwest Italian boss, had already hit some of that mob. Luke wanted to make nice with the Italians, so he loaned-out some of his soldiers.

            However, Travis had to forget that for now. He was in a hurry to get back to the Head-quarters because he had just gotten a text message from Roger, the Head Lab-tech. All Roger said was that Travis needed to return. Soon!

It had to be about that partial print on the bullet casing that old Chuck had given him. Chuck really believed that the bullet had a “real story” connected to it, which gave Travis the same uncanny notion.

            Saturdays were calmer days -- unless it was an OSU football game day. This was a regular Saturday afternoon in July. Also, he wanted to do some internet search work to scrutinize what might be going on with Pete Young.

Pete had become more active with Liz. She had had a bracelet stolen just the other day out of her room; out of a drawer. He stole it, without a doubt – he’s a known cat burglar. However, with the new material he learned about Pete, Travis never thought he would ever escalate into a hitman, a total criminal act. He never seemed the type. Even the Profilers said that. But now?

 

           Scott had called him late last night to let him know that Liz had another room intrusion by a short, skinny creep with bad teeth. He really frightened her. That sounded like Sid Borocco, one of Luke’s dependable soldiers. Another local mob untouchable. Travis would have to get a uniform for Liz, like he had for Ms. Cox. Scott was with her now, but he had done all he could. Now, the CPD would be needed. He would take care of that order after he spoke with Roger.

            Another disturbing piece of news for this morning, a Security Guard at the hospital had come up missing. He had gone to investigate the intrusion call, but that was all that was known. Probably, hung-over some place and would be found soon, so Travis hoped. He really hoped Sid didn’t do any-thing to that guard. Then, they’d be looking for the body.

            After a long straight way and a few turns, Travis was able to park quickly in the underground garage at the Headquarter. The Lab was in the basement, anyway. If Travis would stay in that huge, bright room too long, he’d get a headache. Way too bright for his tastes. He entered the Lab, nodded to a couple other techs and approached Roger.

            “Ah, good. That was quick,” Roger said. He moved on his rolling stool from his microscope to fetch some paperwork with a couple plastic evidence bags attached to hand to Withers.

            “Whatcha got?” Travis inquired.

            “I’m still waiting for all the evidence from COSI, but ... ” Roger fished out a tube with a different bullet (rather damaged nose) and continued, “ ... this was found lodged in a lamp-post in the lot. This was recent, also, but no blood on this one. A .38 caliber -- probably a revolver. They found a revolver in a near-by dumpster. It has Pete Young’s blood on the grip -- same DNA.” Roger paused as he read something, then continued, “Ballistics is testing now. I’ll let you know in an hour, or so, what’s found.”

Then, he took out the bullet and casing tubes, for which Travis was the most interested. The attached sheets of paper showed all kinds of typed forms and graphs on them. He held all of this out for Travis to survey.

            “You know partials are a lot of hard sorting for the needle through all that straw, even with the computer,” Roger stated, and then added, “These are all the ‘possibles.’” He thumbed up a sheet and pointed to a name on this page, “And then, this name printed out.”

            Travis read the name silently, and then just smiled to Roger with a wicked smile.

            “I thought that name would be of interest to you boys,” Roger said smugly.

×******Ø

           
  

         The conclusion of "The Case of the Red Painted Lips" will be put up in a couple of weeks.