Since the 14th century, Robin Hood has proven to be one of the most enduring and versatile folk heroes. Medieval historians believed Robin lived during the 12th or 13th century but despite decades of intense research by contemporary scholars, solid evidence has never been found.
Until now.
Logan Daggett, son of Donald Daggett, well known CEO of one of Australia’s largest international corporations, has his 21st birthday celebrations disrupted by a family tragedy, the revelation of his mother’s decades-old secret—and a birthday gift of a collection of centuries-old family heirlooms. This series of events contrive to change the course of his life forever.
Accompanied by his two closest friends, the young Aussie sets out to uncover the truth behind the accident that irrevocably changed his life, and to research the authenticity of the priceless heirlooms, completely unaware of the adventure and dangers lurking around every corner.
During the course of their journey they uncover irrefutable evidence that causes further turmoil among the family, spark controversy among medieval scholars worldwide, and the potential of sparking upheaval to a country’s history and creating conflict between two nations.
Liam Cadoc’s stunning debut to historical fiction sweeps readers into a ruthless world where greed and corruption threaten to deprive a nation of historical riches and the world of the truth behind a legendary hero. This is Book 1 of a 2-book set.
**On Sale for 25% off at Smashwords with code PUHT7**
Cadoc endeavors to create a feasible balance of historical fact and fiction into his writing in order to meet his obligation, as an author, to his readers. To that end he spends a large part of his conceptual writing on researching the world in which the characters will inhabit.
“I’ve always had a fascination with history, particularly the medieval period of England and the Arthurian Legend. Though my genre is historical fiction, I hope that my readers will come away with a better understanding and appreciation for how people survived and endured before the inception of the basic luxuries we take for granted each day.”
Retiring in 2016, he then spent 9 years working on THE ARCHER’S DIARY, his first historical fiction / modern thriller adventure novel. Most of that time was devoted to in-depth research.
He penned his first fiction while in high school and was quickly recognized by the English staff and his class for his vibrant imagination. He was also a talented artist and, after graduating, followed a 45+ year career as a graphic designer in the publishing industry compelling him to put aside writing for a number of years.
Damned Yankees is a gripping tale set during America’s Revolutionary War, where loyalty is tested, and survival is anything but certain.
Damned Yankees
By Ray Deptula
Genre: Historical Fiction
Those who fight their nation’s wars are typically those least able to avoid it.
The world was, is now, and always will be a complicated and volatile place filled with those whose self-interests supersede more noble aspirations.
If history has taught us anything, it is that times may change, but human nature does not.
The competing interests and political tensions of the formation of our country were no more or less dysfunctional than they are today, with the best and worst of individual behavior continually on display.
Jack Halliday wants nothing more than to belong somewhere that provides him with security and values his worth.
In an uncaring world that devours the weak, he is forced to rely on his strongest attribute, his ability and willingness to fight, which ironically belies his benevolent nature.
Much like the fledgling union of the thirteen original colonies, Jack’s rebirth into autonomy constantly teeters on demise in a world where his decisions are all he can control.
A young prince begins his quest for purpose in this epic first installment in the War of Fear Historical Fiction Trilogy
Eye of the Nomad
War of Fear Book 1
by Umberto Nardolicci
Genre: Historical Fiction
#1 New Release in Historical Asian Fiction
Based on actual events surrounding Genghis Khan’s death squad of special operators, known as The Mangoday, this historic saga immerses the reader in a spellbinding tale of life, love, and revenge that will leave you breathless…
Book I, Eye of the Nomad, so begins the legend of Yasotay, a gifted young prince whose search for purpose takes a dramatic turn saving an illiterate nomad from captivity. He embarks on a hero’s journey far from home to learn the true meaning of life. Murder, kidnapping, and revenge soon find Yasotay in a thrilling race against time to save someone he loves from a fate worse than death.
Author Umberto Nardolicci takes the reader to the 12th-century Eurasian Steppe in this heart-pounding tale of adventure.
What readers are saying:
“A superbly written and researched tale of high adventure and deeply felt family and tribal ties.”
-Goodreads Reviewer
“Have an interest in historical fiction? War of Fear is a must-read… The character development and portrayal of the times in which the characters lived make for an exciting and wondrous read. The stage is set, the anticipation palpable; I am very much looking forward to reading the next book in the series.” – Goodreads Reviewer
“This book truly kept me on my toes. The writing was so vivid and descriptive that I felt like I was physically present in each scene.” – Amazon Reviewer
“Eye of the Nomad is a riveting story that will keep you hooked from its beginning through to the last page. The story not only offers intrigue, heroism and passion, it also presents an incredible history lesson into one of the most mystifying and exciting periods of human existence.” – Goodreads Reviewer
Feet spread shoulder-length apart, Emperor Shizong, dark-haired and clean-cut, peered down at the ornate stick in the grip of his delicate, privileged hands.
“I am intrigued by this…this child and his potential,” proclaimed Shizong, appearing relaxed and focused on playing his game of chuiwan.
The eyes of the sixty or so guests in attendance were glued to the emperor’s every move. The tip of Shizong’s tongue slightly protruded from the left corner of his mouth as he concentrated on aligning the f at end of his stick with the wooden ball at his feet.
He was comfortable performing in front of a crowd. His next move was to strike the ball toward the hole in the lawn, two-and-a-half paces away, all the while trying to converse with Master Chang, which was proving to be a challenge for the priest.
“It’s all very interesting, my emperor,” responded Chang, mildly irritated by the lapses in their conversation. This silly game is a distraction; why did he call me here? “My emperor, I am still unsure how you see this child relating to our efforts?”
Chang’s formal, deep-red daopao robes, tied at his lean waist by a black dadai belt, and his simple black hat topped with a round, silver pin made him appear positively priestly.
Chang was shadowed by his watchful and silent lead assistant, Master Gao, who was nearly identical in appearance and stance. The priest maintained a respectful tone and a pleasing smile with the emperor, but the beleaguered look on his usually kind face betrayed his frustration.
“He’s an amazing young man,” said Shizong. Noticing Chang’s irritation, a wry smile formed on the emperor’s face, whose prickly whiskers ran around his mouth and down to his chin.
He mumbled something as if he were talking to himself. Focusing on the immediate challenge, he lightly struck the ball with his jewel-encrusted stick. The perfectly round wooden ball, not much bigger than a walnut, rolled toward the hole in the lawn six chi away.
The eyes of everyone in attendance were fixated on the ball as it moved across the well-manicured grass toward the impeccably cut round hole, measuring just under a half chi in diameter and depth.
“Go…IN…,” playfully exclaimed the emperor. A smile spread from his pursed lips into a broad grin as the ball approached the hole. The emperor quickly stepped forward in unison as the ball spilled into the hole, making a hollow, cavernous noise as it hit the bottom of the wooden cup.
Light applause erupted in the south garden from the guests gathered to watch their emperor play chuiwan with the elegant Lady Shimo. Only those in his favor were allowed the privilege of observing today’s game in the blistering sun.
The midday shadows sheltered small portions of the south garden, giving shade to just a fortunate few. Today’s parade of gentry, arrayed in their colorful hanfu, comprised almost all the fashionable elite of the 12th-century Jin Empire.
“I think he’s adorable,” purred Lady Shimo, the emperor’s kittenish courtesan whose floral-red, exquisitely designed hanfu hung down in the back, making her look as if she had a tail.
“I asked him about the Buddha, and his answer was, was…precious.” Then, the pretty paramour, whose apple-red cheeks and plump round bottom had won the emperor’s favor, brought her stick back and struck her ball toward the same hole.
“See, I think the fair lady is infatuated with the young boy, and I think you will be too, Chang,” said the emperor as he admired Lady Shimo’s sultry body move sprightly with the roll of her ball directly into the hole at his feet.
“Nice shot!” exclaimed the emperor with a playful grin that showed his pearly white teeth. All those in attendance, while subdued, did show their appreciation with nods, hand gestures, and verbal displays of approval.
“You will see, Master Chang, you will see!” chided the emperor as he retrieved his ball from the hole. “Have you ever played chuiwan?” he asked the priest. “It originated hundreds of years ago; I think it was called buda in the Tang Dynasty…it’s great fun!”
“I look forward to meeting him, my Emperor,” replied the venerated Master Chang, who was one of the North’s seven most respected and venerated Taoist priests. As a disciple of the most revered Master Wang Chong, he was no ordinary priest. “And no, my Emperor, I have never had the pleasure of playing chuiwan.”
“That’s three hits for you and four for me, Wulu. You always win,” Lady Shimo teased in a playful voice. Hearing her use his intimate name, never used in public, made his cheeks flush just a little.
The emperor handed his ornate stick to one of the eunuch assistants among the crowd of those waiting to serve him. Eunuchs attended to his every need, from consoling him on military machinations to wiping his nether region. They were a valued commodity within the imperial palace.
“Oh, here he is now!” exclaimed Lady Shimo loudly, her baby face bubbling and body bouncing while she excitedly clapped her hands in a light and rapid fashion.
Princess Jia and her son Yasotay entered the sun-soaked south lawn through the Moon Gate, a large circular opening in the garden wall covered in tangled green vines and adorned with hundreds of little white flowers.
It was one of the main entrances to the emperor’s residence. A woman, who appeared to be somewhat older than the princess, followed two paces behind the pair, a governess to the young boy.
Princess Jia was radiant in her flowing, floor-length, deep royal blue silk hanfu. The gold-colored piping around its edges matched the intricately folded gold sash around her middle.
Her delicate footwear, also gold with royal blue stitching, rounded out the stunning and well-planned presentation of the twenty-year-old princess as she walked through the Moon Gate. With every intricate detail of her beautiful face, thin lips, large brown eyes, and attire fashioned
to present a very delicate, refined, and contrived look, her natural beauty was almost obscured.
“Princess Jia and young Yasotay, I would like to introduce you to Master Chang,” said the emperor.
“It is my pleasure to meet you, Princess Jia, and certainly you, young Yasotay!” greeted Chang. “I have already heard so much about you.”
While he deeply bowed, a small pair of round hazel eyes, those of the five-year-old child’s, calmly held Chang’s gaze.
The child’s face had been dusted with a thin coat of white powder, making his eyes and their startling hazel hue stand out.
Dressed in a plain cream tunic with a blood-red sash around his middle to match his silk trousers, the young boy responded, “It is also an honor to meet you, Master Chang.”
Princess Jia, reflexively fussing with and straightening the bottom of Yasotay’s jacket, noticed the prized dragon figurine held tightly in the boy’s hand.
Princess Jia hissed and whispered in an aggravated tone, “Yasotay, give me that.” The green figurine seemed enormous compared to his tiny hands. The boy refused, tightened his hold, and looked to his governess instead.
Mana held out her hand and smiled kindly at him with warm eyes, and Yasotay handed the dragon over. Chang looked on at this exchange and smiled.
“Good, now we’ll show what this young boy can do. Let’s see,” the emperor paused, thinking, “What can I ask him?”
Cupping the palm of his hand under his chin with his fingers on his cheek, he was thinking intently, getting straight to the task at hand.
Yasotay looked to Mana, and she responded with a slight affirmative nod and another warm, encouraging smile. The young man turned his attention back to the emperor and Master Chang.
“I have one,” proclaimed the emperor to Master Chang. “I have a question for young Yasotay, which will honor you and your interest in ethical matters.”
Chang bowed in appreciation. Ten, the emperor looked directly at Yasotay and said, “I would like you to recite section seventy-four of the Tao Te Ching.”
“Stand up straight and answer the question!” ordered Princess Jia to her son, who was already standing perfectly straight.
Yasotay took one small step forward and began to speak, “If men are not afraid to die, it is of no avail to threaten them with death. If men constantly fear dying, and breaking the law means a man will be killed, who will dare break the law? The official executioner kills. Substituting him is like substituting the master carpenter who carves; you can do so, but one rarely escapes harm.”
“Very well said. Well done, young man!” responded Chang with a broad smile, mildly surprised that this child, whose appearance and doll-like performance conjured thoughts of a trained monkey, could articulate so clearly from the great works of Master Lao Tzu.
“But do you know what it means?” asked Chang in a jocular tone bordering on sarcasm.
“All creatures fear death,” said Yasotay matter-of-factly. “Master Lao knows that each of us fghts our own internal war of fear. Once cornered by death, both man and beast do but one of two things: fight with fury or cower in fear!”
The young man paused for a moment in thought. “Plagues, wars, and famine make death a daily reminder; people lose faith…they cower.
Master Lao was speaking to those in authority, those leaders who choose to kill deviants, and others who disobey the law.
Leaders must be careful not to create too much fear within those they lead, lest they become immune to death as a deterrent, which makes them more inclined to strike out in response.
Teir yearning for a supreme god and the hope for something or someplace better renews faith! Therefore, the belief in a god is both useful and difficult when managing the affairs of state.”
His young voice changed tempo when he expressed the afterthought, “The closing point, referencing the master carpenter and the executioner, merely argues that those trained and conditioned for killing are best kept to their calling.”
Chang’s long, clean-shaven face began to change color, turning visibly red. His visions of a trained monkey were long gone. Not sure what to say, mouth gaping wide, totally surprised, he instinctively responded, “Yes, well, I agree, interesting, and thank you for that!”
“He’s a bit of a know-it-all,” proclaimed the emperor, breaking up the awkward moment. “But I believe that if you are building this library of all known knowledge, as you put it, to discover some supreme singular…”
“My Emperor!” interrupted Chang, speaking over him. One of the eunuchs drew his breath in loudly at this breach of protocol. No one ever interrupts the emperor.
“Yes, I know, Chang, secrecy and all, but someone like young Yasotay here could be a valuable addition to our efforts.” The emperor did the signature twirl of his chin whiskers with the side of his left index finger.
“Your staff seems less than satisfactory for this effort! Have you considered bringing on others?” asked the emperor, giving Yasotay an affectionate pat on the back while extending a dubious glance at the less-than-satisfactory Gao.
The emperor’s slight was received loud and clear by Chang’s principal assistant, who just stood there, silently observing their interactions. His teal-colored daopao, typical Taoist attire, was aged and slightly faded but with perfect folds and creases.
“Yes, Emperor, I understand your point,” said Chang with a nod, not actually comprehending the point or even thinking about an answer. Still, the bewildered look on his face revealed much. Chang was struggling to understand what he had just witnessed with this child.
“He is still too young,” said Princess Jia hesitantly. “The emperor must be talking about once he is of age for such things.”
“Yes, obviously, Jia, I’m not looking to pull the baby from the breast,” the emperor conceded.
After expressing an odd look of surprise and confusion with his brow furrowed, he continued, “It seems that for now, Master Chang will have to rely on understudies who are hopefully smart enough to understand what we are handsomely paying to collect.”
Then, as an additional intentional insult, the emperor mocked Chang, whispering, “…and, more importantly, for what purpose we labor.”
“How old is he, four or five?” asked Chang incredulously.
“He was five just two weeks ago,” said Princess Jia.
“Five years old!” Chang hesitated for a moment to bring his emotions under control. “Young Yasotay is many years away, and I would certainly welcome him when the time comes, Emperor…I deeply apologize for any misunderstanding.”
Chang’s long face softened. “But if there is nothing further, I must take my leave.” Chang bowed deeply and awaited the emperor’s dismissal.
The emperor feigned a nod of assent and quickly turned away, which told the priest, You are fine, leave. Chang bowed for the last time toward Princess Jia and Yasotay.
Then, giving the boy one long, last look, he slipped out quietly with his shadow, Gao, trailing closely behind.
“I had heard of this child, but I wasn’t expecting THAT,” whispered Gao to Chang, dumbfounded, as they walked quickly through the Moon Gate and out of earshot from the gathering.
“What was that?” Chang exclaimed in a low, exasperated tone, seemingly speaking to himself. “That child spoke as if he possessed the intellect of an ageless master! His tone and the confidence in his voice sounded more like those of a very mature and learned person!”
“Who is he?” asked Gao, whose low tone and mannerisms seemed to replicate Chang’s, just in a younger version.
“He is the second cousin to the emperor, Princess Jia being the emperor’s first cousin.”
“Who is his father?” asked Gao, “that child looks different!”
“I don’t know.” Chang’s eyes narrowed, his brow furrowed in confusion. “Princess Jia’s husband died soon after she was wed. All I know is she left Zhongdu for the port city of Pingzhou after her husband’s death and returned a year later with his child.”
“His facial features look a little odd,” added Gao, “he almost looks foreign.”
Chang ignored this comment. “That had to be some sort of trick,” mused Chang out loud. “I could swear I’ve read a similar opinion of Master Lao’s work.”
“Are you saying he memorized some obscure commentary on section seventy-four of the Tao Te Ching?” asked Gao. “Who would do that?”
“I don’t know what I’m saying. Maybe the emperor gave him the question in advance,” said Chang.
The priest hesitated momentarily, then continued, “Gao, I want you to talk to our friends and find out as much as you can about this child prodigy. Who his father is, his history, everything.”
“Yes, Master Chang, I will attend to it!”
“What of the emperor breaking protocol and mentioning our project in public?” asked Gao.
“What of it?” replied Chang sharply. “He can tell what we do to everyone if he likes.”
“I don’t trust those around him! Tey latch on to him like parasites stealing crumbs from the sides of his mouth,” said Gao.
“Those fools know what we do, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t change anything!”
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Born in upstate New York, Umberto Nardolicci is a computer engineer and businessman.
After completing service with the US Navy in 1986, he worked as an engineering consultant at Johns Hopkins University, Applied Physics Laboratory in the Advanced Systems Design Group.
He received his degree in Computer Science and Information Systems from the State University of New York (ESC) and, after some brief independent consulting “gigs,” co-founded Systems Made Simple (SMS) in 1991.
He managed daily operations and P&L responsibilities within SMS for 20 years as Chairman of the Board, President, and principal founder.
During his tenure, SMS evolved from a ‘garage startup’ to an industry-leading Federal Health IT Company with employees nationwide and over 350 million in sales.
SMS achieved INC 5000 honors six years running, with INC 500 honors in two of those years until its “Entrepreneurial American Dream” sale to Lockheed Martin in the Fall of 2014.
During his five-year forced sabbatical from Health IT, he focused his full-time efforts on writing War of Fear.
He put a great deal of research into this effort, which actually spans over 40 years, and began with his initial foray into martial arts and the teachings of Eastern philosophies.
Nardolicci is a disabled veteran, like his father and one of his two sons. He also has numerous relatives and friends who are veterans or currently serving in the military.
He is committed to supporting veteran organizations such as the Wound Warrior, Tunnels2Towers, Nardmoor, and the DAV.
Dan Roland has always gone it alone. And no prissy miss from back East is going to convince him to do otherwise.
Even if she does have the most alluring brown eyes he’s ever seen. But when his boss suddenly orders that he help the brunette beauty find a buried treasure, the rugged ranch foreman doesn’t have any choice but to offer his protection.
It’s not just the weather leaving Penny Anderson feeling a bit chilly upon her return to Texas.
First she gets the news that her ailing father has hidden the family fortune. Then she learns Dan Roland is the only one he trusts to help her find it.
And yet one teasing, tempting kiss at a time, he starts to thaw her out until all she yearns for is A COWBOY FOR CHRISTMAS.
Excerpt
John couldn’t believe his luck as he tracked Dan and Penny. Things were turning out far better than he’d ever hoped. First, he’d turn their horses loose and then he’d get the money from them and take off. His plan was perfect. This blue norther would take care of everything else for him.
Dan and Penny were so far away from the line shack they wouldn’t last in the freezing cold, and even if they did survive, he’d be long gone by the time anyone rescued them.
Feeling more confident than ever, John moved down to where they’d left their horses. He checked the saddlebags and found the metal box filled with money that they’d found on their first dig. After running the horses off, he went to find them.
John reached the drop-off on the side of the road and was surprised to see Dan and Penny on their way up carrying another box of money. He stepped back to stay out of sight until Dan reached the trail.
Dan got to the top and helped Penny up to find John waiting there for them. He immediately feared the worst – that he’d come after them because Jack had died.
“John, what happened?”
“Nothing’s happened … yet,” John said, his tone serious.
“Then why are you here?” Dan demanded.
John’s expression turned deadly. “I want the money.” He drew his gun and aimed it at them. “Just toss the box over here, real easy.”
“Don’t do this. You’ll never get away with it.”
“Thieves only get in trouble if they get caught,” John sneered, “I’ll be so far gone before anyone finds out what I did, they won’t have a chance. Now, throw that box over here or I’ll shoot the girl.”
After working as a department manager for Famous-Barr, and briefly as a clerk at a bookstore, Bobbi Smith gave up on career security and began writing. She sold her first book to Zebra in 1982.
Since then, Bobbi has written over 40 books and 6 novellas. To date, there are more than five million of her novels in print. She has been awarded the prestigious Romantic Times Storyteller of the Year Award and two Career Achievement Awards. Her books have appeared on numerous bestseller lists.
When she’s not working on her novels, she is frequently a guest speaker for writer’s groups. Bobbi is mother of two sons and resides in St. Charles, Missouri with her husband and three dogs.
Romantic Times Storyteller of the Year
NY Times Bestseller
USA Today Bestseller
Inducted into the Sigma Tau Delta Literary Fraternity
What if everything we think we know about Vincent van Gogh is all lies?
Vincent’s Women:
The Untold Story of the Loves of Vincent Van Gogh
by Donna Russo
Genre: Historical Biographical Women’s Fiction
Donna Russo’s ‘Vincent’s Women’ is the untold story of Vincent’s loves: how they shaped his life, his art, and his death.
It writes against the ‘myths, ‘ exploring the possibility that none of them are true.
It is the only novel to bring into question his sexuality, how he lost his ear, who he lost it for, and how he might have died, all through the eyes of a woman. We learn of Her; we learn all of it through Her.
The story is guided by Johanna van Gogh Bonger, Vincent’s sister-in-law, as she decides to reveal the truth about Vincent to her son.
We are then taken on a journey through Vincent’s life, each section bringing a pivotal moment of Vincent’s life alive while showing us the part she played in bringing it about.
Between each woman, our guide, Johanna, gives us the transitional periods, right up to his death, which is now in question.
Hundreds of the nearly thousand letters between Vincent van Gogh and his brother Theo, now considered one of the greatest documents of the human experience, were used to help construct this novel, its narrative, and dialogue, especially the dialogue of Vincent himself.
Vincent van Gogh is one of the most well-known artists of all time. The world knows of his madness, traumas, and suicide.
But what if all that we know isn’t true? What if this knowledge is based on rumors and nothing more? What if his true story is vastly different when based on factual material and forensic information?
What if the truth of Vincent’s life-his madness and his genius-is defined by his never-ending search for love?
Advance Praise:
“Arresting…masterful… a provocative and compelling look at one of history’s most enigmatic artists.” -Publishers Weekly
“A symphonic novel that sheds new light on an elusive genius.” -Kirkus Reviews
“Vincent’s Women represents historical fiction at its best…astute, thought-provoking, and revealing.” -Midwest Book Review
“One of the most wonderful books about an artist I have ever read.” -Stephanie Cowell, Author of Claude and Camille: a novel of Monet, and Marrying Mozart. Recipient American Book Award.
“A powerful and satisfying read.” -Lynn Cullen, Bestselling Author of The Woman with the Cure and Mrs. Poe
“The writing and dialogue are all so well done, and the use of a fictional narrative makes it all feel authentic. Very highly recommended.” -Readers’ Favorite 5-star Review
“This novel is not just a book; it is a masterful painting in itself, portraying the vibrant, volatile, and often tragic life of one of history’s most renowned artists.” -5-Star Amazon Review
“This is historical fiction at its best…a tour de force!” -5-Star Goodreads Review
“This is easily the best book I’ve read this year!” -5-star NetGalley Review
“You think you know him. You don’t. You think you know what happened to him. You do not.”
“Mother!”
My son sputters. Tea spills as he drops his cup and saucer on the curly-legged table beside him.
It’s not well done of me. To dive into it. But I saw his eyes glance up to the portrait, the self-portrait of his uncle, Vincent van Gogh.
My son and I were speaking of his work and mine. In mine, it is there. All I have found. All I have discovered. The string, the true thread of such surprising colors. The colors of women, of love, and of lust.
He starts to rise to his feet.
“Please don’t,” I beg. I am not ashamed to. I will beg for more. And soon.
But he is kneeling before me as I quiver in my chair. His father’s greenish-blue eyes bore into me. I sigh from the comfort of them. My hands wring at the fear I’ve put in them.
I cup his face in my veiny hand. His face, long like his father’s as well. But capped by the startling red hair of his uncle.
“I am not long for this world. I feel it, my son,” I say. I know. Of that, there is no fear. Only of what I leave behind. “And when I am gone you will learn the truth. I’d rather you heard it from me.”
“Now, Mother…,” that long head shakes. I can’t stop my grin from forming as his shaggy hair flutters. He’s in need of a barber. I look at this young man as a child, I know. But he is that. My child. My only child.
“It is all right,” I assure him. Trying desperately to for it is my truth. “I am almost ready. I will be with him, with them, again.”
I am the widow of Theo van Gogh. I am one of the women who shaped Vincent van Gogh’s life. Just one of them. I am the woman who allowed the world to discover the genius of Vincent’s art.
Many come to me looking for answers. I have yet to give the true ones. Not even to him. I’ve guarded them. Their pain is too great. But the time has come. I can guard them no more.
I rise. Old bones creak. I groan.
My son, Willem, as he likes to be called, rises, and takes my arm. I lead him into my study.
Vincent’s art covers my walls, piles in corners. The Van Gogh family letters—some I’ve translated for I speak many languages; some I’ve read but not yet translated—stalagmites of varying sizes at various places. The odd pairing of my husband’s old, carved desk with the straightly cut modern chair behind it can barely be seen.
“This will all be—”
“You know I have little interest in all this,” Willem says, sounding like a child.
“Yes, yes,” I tut. “I know your mind bursts only when it sees numbers…your engineering.”
Now I hear Willem chuckle softly. He knows the true depth of my pride.
He helps me sit on one side of the beige brocade settee. I pat the other with an expectant look.
The time is drawing closer. I find it harder to swallow. I have no time for preamble. There is no time. I tire so easily these days.
“You will read my diary.” Once more I startle him. Unintentionally so. If there is a proper way to do this, to confess others’ sins as well as my own, I do not know it.
“Your diary?” He turns to face me. “I never knew you kept one.”
He is curious now. I’ve presented him with a puzzle. Perhaps it will help.
“I’ve kept one almost the whole of my life.” My gaze drops into my lap. “Save for the time I was married to your father.” A marriage that lasted not even two years.
Would he ask why I didn’t write during those years? I hope not. The answer is a tangle of love and despair.
No, it is better I tell him. Tell him the all of it. No matter how it will test me. How it may hurt. I will tell him the truth. I will pray he loves me still.
“There is the story of your uncle, of Vincent van Gogh, the story that the world has taken as truth.”
Willem has always worshipped the uncle—the man he was named for—that he knows only from my memories. The ones I’ve shown him.
“They say he went mad because of a certain kind of disease.” I try not to blush. I lose the battle. “It is not what caused his madness. They say he cut off his ear for a prostitute. He did not cut it off for her. It may be that he did not cut it off himself.
“And they say he killed himself.” I bang my moist hand on the fabric between us. “He…did…not.”
Willem gasps, flinches. I feel the cushion below me flutter with his jerky movements.
“But how can…why have you not—” He tries to interject.
I pay attention to none of it. I can’t. For once begun, this spewing of truth cannot be stopped. I can only hope he will be my son—that I will live in the same place in his heart—when the telling is done. I am, at last, ready.
“I will tell you, oh, yes, I will. I will tell you the truth of him…the truth of Vincent. Me…and Her.”
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Donna Russo is the bestselling author of historical fiction, women’s fiction, and fantasy including the international bestselling Novels of Newport: Gilded Summers and Gilded Dreams as well as her latest release, Vincent’s Women.
Her critically acclaimed work has been praised with multiple awards and has received a starred review in Publishers Weekly.
Additionally, Donna worked as a model and actor since the age of seventeen, working on such projects as Martin Scorsese’s The Departed and Showtime’s Brotherhood.
Donna is also an award-winning screenwriter, ghostwriter, and painter. She holds two degrees from the University of Rhode Island. Her two sons—Devon, an opera singer; and Dylan, a chef—will always be her greatest works.
Spring 1946–Following four years of war on the heels of the decade-long Great Depression, Americans are finally feeling a sense of hope that begins sweeping the nation…
Jo-Jo Anderson feels that optimism too. Slipping the reins of her Iowa farming town, Jo leaves to make her mark on the entertainment scene in Manhattan. Audiences are clamoring for new musicals on Broadway, nightclubs are flourishing, and NYC is the beating heart of the radio networks.
After arriving, Jo-Jo quickly realizes that thousands of would-be stars are following her same ambitions, making opportunities scarce, but her luck begins to turn when she hears about Talent Jackpot.
Her twin, Sarah, finds success with her studies as a scholarship student at the University of Iowa. But Sarah is adrift socially, finding it difficult to forge friendships. Her perfectly planned life is upended when her hometown boyfriend announces he’s suddenly joined the navy.
Sarah’s top grades draw the attention of a crusty biology professor and after accepting his offer of a lab position, her rigid lifestyle gets a lot more complicated.
This novel tells a story of unexpected change. The twins make their way through multiple challenges with humor, ambition, and heartbreak but remain tied together by the bonds of sisterhood, winding their way through the seedier backdoors of the entertainment business, and into college dorm life and love nest apartments.
With the historical backdrop of the post WW2 era, Falling From The Nest, reads as a stand- alone story but also serves as a sequel to author Bobbie Candas’ previous novel, The Lost and Found of Green Tree.
Excerpt:
The last of the audition line moved forward and I was suddenly thrust up on the stage of the Imperial Theater. There were three lines of ten on stage, filled with nervous male and female hopefuls auditioning for chorus line spots for a new Irving Berlin musical, Annie Get Your Gun.
I could smell my fear as it branched out within me in tingling connections from my frozen face down to my feet. Feet that now felt like dead weights attached to heeled dance shoes whose soles were glued to the floor.
I’d arrived late and was in the last group of an open-call audition and purposely nudged myself into the center of the middle line, hoping for a hiding spot. But hiding is hard when you’re a leggy, five-foot-nine, pale blonde female in a string of short, muscular dancers. Kinda like a spotted giraffe among the lions.
After lining up, our executioner and choreographer took about sixty seconds to show us a dozen linking steps to an opening dance sequence. His arrogant face, slim body, and searching eyes leaned back appraising the lines. “OK, boys and girls, this one’s simple. Think you got it?” Everyone around me anxiously nodded yes.
No, I wanted to shout. Repeat please!
The orchestra in the pit began cranking out a tune, as the choreographer yelled out…”And a one, and a two–knee up, kick left, circle back, hop, hop, knee up, kick right…” Then he motioned for the music to stop.
An exasperated expression covered his face. “Ladies and gentlemen, these are the basics, the easy connections. Let’s start again on three. And a one, and a two–knee up, kick left, circle back, hop, hop…” He stuck his arm out, motioning again for the music to stop.
“Alright, first cuts.” His long arm and dismissive finger pointed to the guilty dancers. “Tall blonde, center middle row, thank you. You…guy on the end, first row, that will be all. Back row, green sweater, left side, you may leave.”
He sighed deeply, clapped his hands, and said. “Let’s go again, cue music…repeat.”
The author will be awarding a $25 Amazon/BN GC to a randomly drawn winner. Click the link to enter.
I’m a Texas girl: grew up in San Antonio, went to school at UT in Austin where I earned my degree in journalism, and settled in Dallas where I raised a husband, two kids and a few cats.
My husband, Mehmet, and the cats will probably disagree on who raised who, but I’m a sucker for a robust discussion.
For years I was involved in retail management, but in 2014 I refocused on my writing, taking deep dives into the lives of my characters. When you can pry my fingers off the keyboard, I enjoy entertaining, sharing food and drink with friends and family.
I enjoy shopping, usually on the hunt for apparel, with a special weakness for shoes, and will frequently jump at the opportunity of an unexpected trip to a far-away place.
And I always make time for reading. I keep a stack of novels ready and waiting on my night stand, with a few tapping their toe in my Kindle. I bounce around genres, and I’m always ready for a good recommendation.
By way of introduction, here is Deborah Kalb’s bio.
Deborah Kalb is a freelance writer and editor. She spent about two decades working as a journalist in Washington, D.C., for news organizations including Gannett News Service, Congressional Quarterly, U.S. News & World Report, and The Hill, mostly covering Congress and politics.
Her book blog, Book Q&As with Deborah Kalb, which she started in 2012, features hundreds of interviews she has conducted with a wide variety of authors.
Hello, Deborah, welcome to Angel Kiss Publications! Thank you for agreeing to do this interview.
Thank you for having me.
When did the writing bug ensnare you?
I’ve always been interested in writing. I grew up in a family of writers and journalists, so I guess it was just something in the air. I remember writing a “novel” in third grade in a series of black-and-white notebooks.
Is writing your full-time profession?
At this point, more or less. I was a journalist for many years but have been focusing more lately on writing books, plus freelance writing and editing.
How long have you been writing?
Most of my life. But specifically, in terms of published books, for more than a decade now.
How many published books have you written?
I’ve written a nonfiction book for adults (with my father, Marvin Kalb)–Haunting Legacy: Vietnam and the American Presidency from Ford to Obama.
I’ve written three children’s books, George Washington and the Magic Hat, John Adamsand the Magic Bobblehead, and Thomas Jefferson and the Return of the Magic Hat.
They’re a series of middle grade novels focusing on a group of fifth graders in Bethesda, Maryland, who go on time travel adventures and meet the early presidents. I’ve also edited/written some reference books about U.S. history and government.
Which genres do you write?
It’s eclectic nonfiction for adults and fiction for kids. Plus, I have some other manuscripts I’m working on that are fiction for adults.
What do you find most challenging writing for these genres?
In terms of the children’s books, probably getting the right balance between the historical time travel events and the everyday 21st century events happening in the kids’ lives.
What are you working on now?
I’ve handed in book four in the series, James Madison and the Magic Book, to my publisher and am working on book five, about James Monroe.
Where do you find inspiration for your characters?
It’s all a matter of combining bits and pieces of things I see, hear, and experience. Somehow the characters emerge. And for the historical characters, I do a lot of research to make sure the details are right.
What has been your most rewarding experience since publishing your work?
Talking to kids in school groups or elsewhere about the books and answering their questions, which often make me look at things in a completely new way!
What advice would you give to authors just starting out?
Don’t give up! Keep trying. Don’t be too hard on yourself if you run into writer’s block.
Is there anything else you’d like your readers to know about you?
I live in the Washington, D.C. area and I have a blog, Book Q&As with Deborah Kalb, where I interview a wide range of authors about their books.
What message are you sharing in your books?
The importance of understanding history.
What are your favorite books?
Some of my favorite kids’ books are the Half Magic Series by Edward Eager. I loved them as a kid. There are so many others. For adults, again, there are so many it’s hard to say. Some authors whose work I admire include Elinor Lipman, Nick Hornby, Stephen McCauley, and Tracy Chevalier.
If you could create an author’s group with writers from any time period, who would you invite?
I’d invite Jane Austen, definitely. Maybe Louisa May Alcott and E.L. Konigsburg.
Who has influenced your writing the most?
My family. My parents are both authors, and so are my uncle and aunt and sister and cousins.
After almost six months in Maryland, fifth-grader Oliver still misses his friends back in New Jersey. But things start to change one day, when his neighbor—and possible new friend—Sam lends Oliver a magic hat that takes him back to the 18th- and 19th-century world of Thomas Jefferson.
Oliver and his sisters—Cassie, the nice one, and Ruby, the annoying one—end up learning more about Jefferson than they’d expected. And Oliver finds that his new neighborhood might not be so terrible after all.
Thomas Jefferson and the Return of the Magic Hat is the third in The President and Me series that began with George Washington and the Magic Hat and John Adams and the Magic Bobblehead.
This new adventure brings back previous characters Sam, Ava, J.P. (blink and you might miss them, though!), and of course the cantankerous talking hat itself.
