Wednesday, July 15, 2015


The newest Tabor Heights novel has been released at Desert Breeze Publishing:


Vic owed Agent McCoy his soul, so when 10-year-old Joey McCoy arrived in Tabor, needing protection, he gladly paid that debt. Children weren't his forte, so he turned to Rene, his business partner, for help.

Two weeks of instant family life had them chafing at the secrets they both imagined blocked their passage from friendship to love. Minor irritations, like someone sabotaging their gym and husband-hunting twits trying to trap Vic added to the discontent that threatened their safe, comfortable lives.

Then Joey's talent for calculating the odds gained the attention of the wrong people. Protecting her and paying his debt exposed Vic's secrets to the wrong people -- and to Rene. If they could learn to face the past together, they might just be able to build a future together.

Sunday, June 28, 2015


When Audrey stepped out the back door, the snooty woman was stomping her way down the icy sidewalk, muttering to herself, heading straight for her. Audrey tugged her cap lower on her head and hunched her shoulders.

"Excuse me," the woman said, just when Audrey thought she had escaped unscathed. "Do you -- is that a Dolce set?" She rocked back a little on her high heels and blinked a few times, as if maybe she thought she was seeing things. Obviously she didn't expect people in Tabor Heights to wear designer originals.

"This old thing?" Audrey tugged on her hat and slung the long end of her scarf around her neck. She had seen the label when her aunt sent her the scarf, hat, and gloves set last winter and considered throwing them out just because they were designer. Still, they were warm and went with her coat. "Yes, I believe so." She muffled a snort as she heard the voice of the debutante character she had created two years ago coming out of her mouth.

"Do you know where Emily Keeler is?"

"I would expect Miss Emily to be..."

Maybe she wanted to shove the woman's attitude back down her throat, as well as vent her long, frustrating day. Audrey didn't spend more than half a second examining her reasons, but let her creativity flow.

"Well, she's very busy at this time of year. She's involved in so many charitable functions." She fluttered her eyelashes as she added a snooty drawl to her voice.

The woman's sneer relaxed into something that looked like a real smile. Audrey speculated that it was because she heard a cultured voice and probably thought she was talking to an equal. After all, despite this being a hick town, the woman talking to her was wearing Dolce.

Thursday, June 25, 2015


Someone at the gossip sheets had figured out -- probably from a more knowledgeable source -- that Jorge's information was a complete farce.

That phone call that had him so upset had been a major reaming, and probably a demand to return whatever money he had been paid for his "inside information."

And this woman had read that gossip sheet, and was so incensed that she hadn't been consulted to design a dress for Carlo Vincente's daughter, she hadn't bothered to get enough information. She knew to come to Tabor Heights, and she knew about Homespun Theater, but didn't know where the theater was or even pay attention to Max's real name.

"Besides," Audrey continued, "Miss Emily is making Max's wedding dress."

"Whoever she is, this Miss Emily doesn't have the reputation or the experience to qualify for the importance of this occasion!" For punctuation, she slapped her hand down on the edge of the counter again. Several of the people waiting in line took steps back or sideways, as if whatever was wrong with this woman was contagious.

"Emily Keeler, mother of the bride, with twenty years of experience designing clothes. Lots of people are proud to wear Emily Keeler originals."

"She can't be that wonderful," the woman said with another sniff, "since I've never heard of -- Keeler? Emily Keeler? The actress? She's here?"

"Uh, yeah," Saundra said. "Considering she's Max's mother?"

"Can I help you, Ma'am?" Simon said, stepping up to the counter. Finally.

Audrey took the opportunity to turn and beat it double-time for the kitchen while the snooty woman's attention was off her.

Monday, June 22, 2015


"I need to speak to her immediately. There's no time to spare." She dug in her purse.

"Excuse me -- but in case you haven't noticed, this is a restaurant," Audrey began.

"If that's what you want to call it." She stepped up to the counter and held out a gold-embossed business card. "You'll give this to her, and make sure she calls me."

"I'm not Max's secretary." She stepped back, crossing her arms, and tucked her hands into her elbows. "If you want to talk to her, you'll have to call the theater and leave a message."

"You don't understand the seriousness of the situation. I am the finest couturier in the entire East Side. The most exclusive families come to me for the most special occasions."

"What does that have to do with Max?"

"If I am to design her dress in time for her wedding this fall, we have to get to work!"

"If Max wanted you to design her dress, she would have contacted you." Audrey dropped her arms, wanting to laugh as she realized what had happened.

Her lies to Jorge had hit the gossip sheets.

Friday, June 19, 2015


"This lady wants to ask about Homespun," Saundra said.

"Romeo and Juliet at the end of February. Tickets go on sale--" Audrey began.

"I don't care what half-baked productions you might have in this hick town," the woman said, her face twisting enough it resembled a bleached prune.

"Then I don't think I can help you with anything." She turned to leave.

Much as she wanted to argue about the high quality standards of Homespun and that Tabor Heights was not a hick town, Audrey knew better. Besides, the clock was ticking and she needed to get home and off her feet.

"I want to know about Maxine Vincente," the woman snapped. She slapped her hand on the edge of the counter when Audrey didn't turn around to answer immediately.

"Who?" Audrey stopped, but she refused to turn any more than it took to look over her shoulder.

"The daughter of Carlo Vincente." The woman sniffed.

"Max doesn't go by that name," Saundra said. "She--" She stopped, responding to Audrey's grip on her wrist.

Tuesday, June 16, 2015


Audrey sighed as she settled the tray into the display case and stepped back. She was so late, the pre-dinner rush was starting to spill into Stay-A-While. With a glance at the customers lining up, she turned to go back into the kitchen. Thank goodness, she was done for the day. She would be grateful if she could get out of there without Simon lecturing her. Even the fact that Allen knew what had been going on all day and put the blame squarely on the evening crew, that wouldn't stop Simon from blaming her. How was he ever going to make it as management if he couldn't examine the situation before lambasting people for problems that weren't their fault?

"That's her. Hey, Audrey?" Saundra beckoned from the counter.

Audrey glanced at her watch. She hoped this wouldn't take long. She needed to get home, shower, and put her feet up for at least an hour before rehearsal.

"Need something?" she asked, praying the woman on the other side of the counter wouldn't be one of those people who expected everything to be made fresh just for them.

"She's just a cook," the woman said, taking a step back and looking her over from head to foot. Judging by her fox fur stole and matching hat, and the disgusted little curl of her mouth, she thought the outside indicated the inside of a person. And didn't like Audrey's outside.

Yes, Audrey admitted, today had been especially messy and colorful. She had smears of red and blue icing on the left hem of her shirt from a batch of monster cookies for a five-year-old's birthday party. She had smears of apple pie filling right across her bust line, courtesy of Jorge bumping into her -- deliberately -- as she carried the industrial-size open can to the work table where she filled three dozen graham cracker crusts for individual pies. Then there was the usual assortment of butter smears, egg spatters, and other detritus of cooking.

Saturday, June 13, 2015


Audrey picked up the tray of fresh apple fritters to take up front to the counter. She was almost an hour behind schedule, thanks to dozens of small disasters. The evening crew had emptied the twenty-pound canister of flour, and didn't bother refilling it. There was only one egg in the dozen-and-a-half carton, so she had to get more. The evening crew borrowed from her shelf of ingredients in the walk-in cooler and didn't replenish anything, so the cream cheese and butter was frozen instead of soft and ready for use. Jorge didn't feel like cleaning the pans and tools he regularly used, so he borrowed hers, so she didn't have anything when she needed it and had to stop constantly to rinse or scrub something. On and on.

Not that she would complain to Jorge. He had been too quiet from the moment he walked in the door. Every time she turned around, he was watching her. Then he took a phone call and in the middle of it started cursing in Spanish and slammed out the back door -- which didn't want to close, so the kitchen got filled with gusts of icy, snow-laden air. That wasn't good for the half-raised yeast donuts. Jorge hadn't come back for twenty minutes, and the meat he had been browning started to burn, so the fire alarm went off.

It was never good to have a fire alarm go off in a restaurant kitchen. Simon had come barreling into the kitchen, snarling in stage whispers. And of course it was Audrey's fault that Jorge's meat had burned, even though she had her hands full with her own tasks.

When Jorge finally came back into the kitchen, he muttered under his breath and slammed lids and cleavers and pots all over. Whatever his gripe, it was poisonous enough to scare Simon. He had stopped with a squeak in the middle of a scolding encompassing every kitchen sin Jorge had committed in the last five months, and stormed out. After that, Audrey had felt that prickling up her back that meant Jorge stared at her with particular malevolence. She didn't look at him. That might be all the excuse he needed to spew whatever was bothering him.