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1. 

   Terri Main on April 19, 2011 at 10:30 am

   Just thought I’d drop by an thank you for featuring our new books for the week. I’m Terri Main. I wrote Parmenter’s Wager http://www.tinyurl.com/parmenter. Just thought I’d try to leave an excerpt from the book here for your readers.

   Pastor Chris Parmenter stepped out of his office and into the church sanctuary. He stopped a moment and took a deep breath. There was something about the aroma of the empty church midweek which made him feel comfortable, safe, and certain about his calling, his God, and his life. Why the mixture of musk and pine cleaner should do that he never could figure out.

   Nevertheless, for the Reverend Christopher Parmenter, D.D., Pastor of All Souls Church of Wallace, California, it was the one place in all the world where he felt secure and free from doubt.

   As he walked around the pews, praying over each one, he saw those people who occupied them every Sunday. The Jacobson family with five children filled second pew on the right. Sister Viola Martindale, 83, recently widowed, sat on the back pew her husband preferred, leaving enough room for the memory of Henry on her left. Jane and Marvin Jamison always held hands on the third pew from the front. He officiated at their wedding just six weeks ago. Will they still be doing that six years from now? Against the odds, he believed they would.
   Then there were the new members. The Carter family with their four children had just moved to town from Philadelphia. Last week, Mrs. Carter said she felt at home and loved his sermons.

   Chris said a short prayer to remain humble when he remembered that, but he figured God understood. He had to admit he was a competent public speaker.

   As he paused in his prayer to ponder whether he was truly prideful—and what to do about it, the door to the sanctuary opened, letting in the glare of the sunshine and the sound of the traffic. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. As he squinted into the light, he realized that part of the charm of the sanctuary was its emptiness and the subdued light of the stained glass windows.

   “Pastor Chris?” Parmenter recognized the voice of Erica Lincoln, a new parishioner who jumped right into the life of the church six months ago—volunteering in the nursery and taking food to poor families.

   “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

   “No, of course not.” The pastor felt a pang of guilt that he was, in fact, annoyed to be shaken out of his quiet time. “How can I help you?”

   “Well, I’ve been coming here for the last few months,” she began. She paused, as if thinking of what to say next.

   Parmenter filled in the silence, “Yes, I know, Erica.” Chris prided himself on knowing his parishioners’ names. “Mrs. Carson says you have been a great help in the nursery. The children seem to like you.”

   She smiled a faint, but sincere, smile.
   “I-I really like working with children. My first choice for a career would have been a grade school teacher, but…” her voice trailed off. She looked away briefly and then at her left hand.

   The pastor knew that this was one pause he should not interrupt. He simply smiled his trademark sympathetic smile that made people trust him with their deepest secrets.

   “I have to tell you something. Nobody knows, but it could come out, and you have a right to know,” she dropped her head. “I don’t want to, but commitment Sunday is coming and I would like to commit to this church, but it could cause trouble if anyone found out.”

   “Erica,” Parmenter said as he took her hand. He paused. The hand felt greasy. She pulled it back. “Erica, did this thing happen before your conversion?”

   “You could say that.”

   “Well, then, it’s in God’s hands.” It was one of those Christian clichés which, while theologically correct, was mostly a place holder he used when he couldn’t think of anything else to say to a parishioner struggling with guilt over the past.

   “You don’t understand, Pastor. It’s not what I’ve done,” She paused for a second then looked him in the eye, “It’s what I am.”

   She reached into her purse, took out a tissue, and rubbed at her left hand. Chris saw the thick makeup fade under the scrubbing. He saw the dark lines of a bar code emerge. She was a clone.

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2. 

   Phyllis DeMarco on April 20, 2011 at 6:44 pm

   Hi, I love your site– and I really appreciate listing the books from The Wild Rose Press (including mine!)

   I thought I would give your visitors a little taste of “Passage to November,” which will be available on April 22. I hope you enjoy!

   Clara Grace cannot recall the traumatic events that brought her to this desolate Canadian beach. As debris washes ashore, memories flash through her mind: a terrible storm…men swept to their deaths…the deep, menacing darkness of the lunatic sea. Cold and alone, she only knows she must wait for the man who promised never to leave her.

   For Captain William McTavish, life alone was simple, so he thought, until Clara Grace came to work aboard his ship. Something in her eyes, something in the music from her old violin, broke through his hardened heart…he’d found his kindred spirit.

   Torn from each other by the white hurricane that has devastated the Great Lakes, will they find their hard-won love can somehow lead them home?

   Excerpt:

   “If I touch you, Clara Grace…if I kiss you again, I won’t stop,” he whispered. “I will never be able to let you go. And that cannot be.”

   She studied his face, that wonderful, fearsome face, and felt her knees start to fail. The breath fled her body, her heart pounded furiously, and for a moment she wondered if she might faint. “William, I just don’t understand…”

   McTavish shook his head. “Someone like you, Clara…you could never understand what it means to guard your heart.”

   “You’re breaking mine.”

   She tried to look away, but the intensity of his gaze held her still. As he studied her face, searched her eyes as if he sought some sort of meaning in them, her hands trembled. He reached out to her, caressed her cheek, the curve of her neck, the swell of her breast. His eyes never left hers.

   “You’ll not toy with me, Clara Grace.” His voice was low now, that quiet growl that sent a shiver down her spine. “I am not some stupid boy whose heart you might trifle with. I am a man, Clara, accustomed to solitude…and you cannot possibly imagine what you have done to me.”

   Clara’s bottom lip trembled. As his words sank deeper into her mind, her heart pounded madly in her chest. “All I ever wanted was to love you.”

   At once, the cold anger in his eyes flickered to disbelief, and as he finally took in a hesitant breath, what remained in his expression was the terrible longing of a man who desperately wanted to believe her. He needed to believe her, for he knew now without a doubt that he could not possibly live without her.

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