At Face Value

 We've all heard the phrase "at face value" but what does it mean, really? Merriam-Webster defines it as "true or genuine without being questioned or doubted". If we take a person at face value, it means accepting he or she for who and what they are.

In the case of scarred Marine veteran Nicholas Reilly, it means accepting him as a man, as a person, despite his serious scars.

Until he meets Maribel - Belle - Barbier - no one does. They look at him with pity or horror or even fear.

 

At Face Value is a new full-length novel released from World Castle Publishing. It's a love story and yet it's more.

Since it's available now for pre-order in eBook, paperback, hardback, and audio formats, I thought, as the author, I'd share some snippets for readers.

There are three - here goes:

Excerpt one:

As he placed the tray across her lap, she looked up and saw his face, revealed since he no longer wore the ski mask.  She stifled a gasp as she schooled her expression to remain bland. “Thank you,” she said.

            “You’re welcome.”

            He sat down in the other chair with his own bowl, and as she ate, Belle sneaked glances in his direction, noting the burn scars that disfigured his face. His left eye pulled a little lower than his right, reminding her of the way a hound dog’s eyes drooped. Ridges of scar tissue crisscrossed his face, some stark white, others still red. His face lacked the usual shape, and, in some places, it almost appeared that his flesh had melted.  His chin seemed abrupt, and his lips on one side were more than a little twisted. His dark hair was cropped short, military style, and she noticed that part of the right ear was gone.  The scarring continued down his neck and along his arms, although his hands, though scarred as well, were dexterous as he used the spoon to eat soup.

            The poor man, she thought, he must have suffered so much. He must have been a handsome man and still was once you looked beyond the scars. Guessing at his age, she figured he probably served in Afghanistan. He had to be in his mid to late thirties, maybe early forties, not too distant from her own age of thirty. His scarring wasn’t new – he must have been burned a decade ago, maybe more.

            As if he read her thoughts, Nicholas said, “In case you’re wondering, I’m a Marine who served in Afghanistan. Freedom isn’t free. And now that the US pulled the troops out and the Taliban took the country back immediately, it leaves me wondering if my sacrifice even mattered, mine or any of the men and women who paid with their lives.”

            “That doesn’t make what you gave any less,” she said without thinking. “You paid the cost, no matter what happened afterward.”

            He nodded. “Whatever, but hey, at least I came home, and it wasn’t in a body bag. No one had to play Taps over me. It’s all good, so save your pity.”

            His tone, which earlier had been kind, became harsh, tinged with bitterness.

            “I don’t have any,” Belle said. Her heart ached for him. “I’m just glad you brought me here, Nicholas.”

            “Would you have come if you’d known I was dragging you to the Beast’s Lair?” he asked, voice harsh.

 

 

Excerpt two:

 

. One of the coloring books featured Beauty and the Beast, and when he started to color her gown a bright red, Teagan stopped him. “It’s yellow, Uncle Beast,” she told him. “You know that from the movie.”

            “I was a Marine, not a fashionista,” he answered without heat.  “I’m more familiar with desert camo than ball gowns, kid.”

            Teagan giggled. “Belle doesn’t wear red. Her other dress is a blue jumper with a white top.”

            Then the little girl glanced up at Belle and asked, “Do you have a blue or yellow dress?”

            Belle almost dropped her coffee cup. She did have a yellow chiffon formal gown she’d worn as a bridesmaid, then to a few evening events. “I have one that’s as yellow as gold.”

            “Or Mountain Dew,” Nicholas added. She noted the teasing light in his eyes and smiled.

            “Good,” Teagan cried. “You can wear it to dance with Uncle Beast.”

            Nicholas met Belle’s eyes and asked, “Do you dance?”

            “I’ve never tried, not ballroom style.”

            “Neither have I,” he said with a chuckle. “I’d probably step on your feet.”

            “I might step on yours, but we could try sometime.”

            “Maybe.”

            Teagan grinned. “And then when she falls in love with you, you’ll be good looking again and live happily ever after.”

            The enthusiasm in her voice rang loud, but Belle cringed. She watched as the lighthearted expression faded from Nicholas’ face. He put down the crayon he held and shoved his chair away from the table, then stomped outside without a word.  Teagan stared after him, then looked at Belle.

            “Is Uncle Beast mad at me?” she asked in a quavering voice. “I didn’t mean to make him mad.”

            Belle drew a deep breath. “I don’t think he’s angry, Teagan, but I think his feelings are hurt.”

            The little girl’s lip drooped, and she appeared to be on the verge of tears. “Why?”

            “Oh, honey,” Belle said. She wasn’t used to being around small children and didn’t know what to say, but something had to be said. “Nicholas isn’t ever going to look the way he did before he got hurt. Do you even remember him then?”

            Teagan shook her head as her eyes brimmed full of tears.  “Uh-uh, but I saw the old pictures. Mommy has some where he looked pretty.”

            Oh, good Lord, no wonder he’s upset.  “He’s not ugly now, sweetie, just scarred from being hurt in a war. But he’s the same person under the skin, and he loves you a lot.”

 

 

Excerpt three:

 

 

            He’d run out of the house like a chicken-hearted coward, and that shamed him. He’d been a Marine, for Christ’s sake, but he’d let the innocent words of a baby girl send him into retreat. Nicholas headed for the woods and considered pounding a tree to release some of the emotion but didn’t. It would hurt, and Belle would fuss, he thought, probably rub some salve or some shit on his bruised hands. Nicholas wanted her attention, but at the same time, he didn’t.  He didn’t want her babying or feeling sorry for him. Pity ate at his soul like battery acid at the best of times. From Belle, it would destroy him.

            Nicholas retreated to a lawn chair he’d salvaged from the old barn when he bought the place. It sat on the edge of the woods in a pretty spot, one that overlooked a spring that still bubbled up from the ground. Once, it had provided water for the original inhabitants of the house. Before that, he figured Native Americans drank from it too.

            He found some measure of comfort in the woods, always had. The Ozark hardwood forest had a few cedars, unlike the piney woods with tall evergreens stretching toward the sky in his native East Texas, but he liked it just as well.  As he breathed in the cold morning air, he calmed, although, after a few minutes, he shivered. He hadn’t bothered to grab a jacket on his dash out the door.

            Teagan’s words had wounded him, and he realized he shouldn’t have let them. Out of her fascination with the story, she’d spoken what she must believe – that if Belle loved him the way the other Belle came to love the hairy, ugly beast, then he would be transformed back into a handsome man. Teagan likely believed it, and Nicholas wished it was true. He knew better, though, remembering an adage Grampa Reilly was fond of sharing – wish in one hand and shit in the other and see which hand gets full first. The shit always wins, the old man would say. In Nicholas’ world, it certainly had.

 

If you enjoyed the snippets and look forward to reading it on May 15, why not pre-order? Here are the links:

 

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/at-face-value-lee-ann-sontheimer-murphy/1143402462?ean=2940160863955

https://www.amazon.com/Face-Value-Lee-Sontheimer-Murphy/dp/1960076647/

https://www.amazon.com/Face-Value-Lee-Sontheimer-Murphy-ebook/dp/B0C3L1CBYS/

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/141298506-at-face-value

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1385257

https://play.google.com/store/audiobooks/details?id=AQAAAECiWDwYjM

https://www.worldcastlepublishing.net/lee-ann-sontheimer-murphy

 

 

 

 

 

I still hear America singing!

In eleven short lines, poet Walt Whitman captured the spirit of a nation. His poem "I Hear America Singing" is part of his poetry volume, Leaves of Grass. The poem was first written before the Civil War and updated afterward with only minor changes. Although written more than a hundred and fifty years ago, the poem describes a nation of workers, each marching (or in this case singing) to their own beat.

Whitman describes a nation made up of varied people, each with their own song, as he writes "each singing what belongs to him or her and no one else".

In reading over the poem again, I was struck by the contrasts between our time and Whitman's.

I wondered whether or not America is singing. This year is a troubled time in our nation. Mass shootings, economy worries, ongoing war in the Ukraine, and a presidential election looming next year have the United States on edge. Are Americans singing? Right now it doesn't seem like they are. I hear a lot of voices but if most are singing, it's discordant. Too many songs have harsh notes. And many more aren't singing at all.

As a society, we probably don't sing as much as Americans did in the 19th century. We still have music, however, and maybe if we carried the ideas of this poem forward into the 21st century, it would be safe to say we hear America's music. We're singing along to the tunes.

Some of the occupations may sound a little outdated today. I don't know too many who call themselves a boatman or a woodcutter or a ploughboy. But still in the evenings, the young gather to sing - or hear - their songs.

As the nation celebrates July 4 this week, maybe it's time to start singing a new song - one of unity, not division, one of heritage and history, one of the nation we call home.

I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,

Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong,

The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,

Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.

The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work,

The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck,

The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands,

The wood-cutter’s song, the ploughboy’s on his way in the morning, or at noon intermission or at sundown,

The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of the girl sewing or washing,

Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,

The day what belongs to the day—at night the party of young fellows, robust, friendly,

Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.

-Walt Whitman, "I Hear America Singing".

 

A few thoughts and memories on ham

 A reprise of an old column about ham. My ham to cook on Easter Sunday is in my fridge, waiting!

 a previous Easter ham prepared in my kitchen.

My idea of a traditional Easter dinner includes ham as the centerpiece of the meal.  It’s a long standing tradition in my family although today many folks choose other options, everything from turkey to barbecue.  I know in some areas lamb has long been a popular choice for Easter but I can’t imagine serving anything but ham.  I’ve already purchased a bone in half ham for next Sunday to avoid the rush and I can’t wait to cook it the old-fashioned way.
    True hams – as in the joint from a pig – have a bone.  Whole hams are very large and we most often buy a half ham.  The bone can be used to season a delicious pot of beans at another meal as well.  While I don’t know the exact date (and couldn’t narrow it down with research) that boneless hams were first marketed, I know that in the mid to late 1960’s, my Pop got on his soapbox about them.  I’m not talking about canned hams or even small “picnic” hams because I think both have existed in various forms for a long time, maybe even a century or more.  I’m talking about the boneless hams, often around four or five pounds, with no bone and that slice with ease.
    Some are delicious, almost as tasty as what I consider “real” ham.  Since they’re made from actual hams with the meat removed from the bone and then formed into the convenient loaf shape, they are made from ham.  Some manufacturers use whole pieces of ham, others create a product with ground ham.  I’m not very fond of those.  The end result is very soft and the flavor has come a long way from the rich taste of a smoked or cured traditional ham.
    My Pop’s concern wasn’t just taste, however.  He worried that younger generations wouldn’t know what a true ham looked or tasted like.  In his lifetime, as the world and technology moved forward, he saw many marvelous improvements and other changes not as tasty.   You may have heard the expression – “the best thing since sliced bread”.  Well, at one time, up into at least the 1940’s, bread was sold unsliced.  And, although it’s long before my time, it’s my understanding that along with slicing and packaging the loaves, the recipes changed to provide bread with a longer shelf life.  I know my family much prefers when I bake homemade bread than the store variety but in the interest of time, being practical, we do of course eat our share of “store bread” in a plastic wrapper.  We also buy some of the bakery versions when I lack time to back.  Pop knew what homemade bread and early commercial bakery bread had been.  He also knew biscuits before they came shaped and pressed into a tube.
    He would probably have had a similar issue with boneless chicken.  In Pop’s lifetime, chicken was roasted whole, stewed and then boned to add to soup, dumplings, or another dish, or cut into pieces, then fried to a crispy brown.  Kids in my own childhood wouldn’t have known what a chicken tender was – we were routinely served drumsticks.  That piece was meant to be easier for little hands to wrap around and I remember when I became old enough to ask for a thigh, breast, or wing piece.
    Chicken tenders and nuggets have become so popular that some years ago, I had family members over for fried chicken and one nephew stared at the pieces on his plate with a combination of shock and awe.  He leaned over and whispered, “Dad, this chicken has bones.”  Once over his initial surprise, he soon learned chicken with bones also tastes great. 
    If I’ve accomplished nothing else (and I hope that I have), my children can recognize a traditional ham.  They know chicken has bones, although they’ve enjoyed their share of boneless chicken products.  However, they prefer me to make my own tenders or nuggets with my own coating over the freezer case variety whenever possible.
    Convenience foods are often handy for the home cook but on Easter Sunday, we’ll have our ham and a little lesson about where the food on our table comes from to reach it.
    Happy Easter to all as we join in celebrating a risen Lord!

New Releases and an old friend, The Man in the Moon!

It's been a busy month. It's been a busy year thus far. It's still March, for a few more days, the third month and if we're counting, I've had two new releases so far in 2023. 

 

 

 

 

Tall, Dark, And Cherokee debuted in February and has been stacking up some pretty decent reviews ever since. My alter ego – one of them – also has a new title out, The Lone Wolf of Kilkenny. In the meantime, I'm looking ahead to the release of The Last Love of The Leannán Sídhe from Evernight Publishing on April 27.  Down the road, you'll be seeing a reprise of Miss Good Samaritan from Champagne Books as well as The Scarred Santa (reading final galleys for that one now) from The Wild Rose Press.  At some point, still unknown to me, At Face Value (World Castle Publishing) will be out as well. So will The Bean Sídhe's Change of Heart (Evernight)

 

Last week I submitted a new submission, Huck's Legacy to Evernight Publishing. Fingers crossed while waiting for that. I've also submitted a sweet romance, The Cowboy's Last Chance to The Wild Rose Press.

And of course I'm at work on more titles…I have multiple novels in what I'm calling The Laredo Series that chronicles the Wilson family in post Civil War Texas. And yes, there are more in the works.

Meantime, though, I thought I'd share some thoughts on the moon, an old favorite that was once more mysterious than it is now!

 

 

Growing up, some adults that told children that the moon was made of green cheese. I never really believed it because that shining, silver orb seemed too pretty to be stinky cheese. I did, however, believe that there was a man in the moon.

After all, when the moon appeared, I could gaze upward and see his face, an eye, a nose, sometimes the hint of a smile.

The man in the moon was magical and mystical although no one, including me, could define him or his purpose. My black-and-white checked copy of Mother Goose had him coming down out of the sky long enough to burn his mouth on porridge. My grandmother said he carried a bundle of sticks on his back. Whoever he was, I liked to see his face and form on the surface of the full moon.

Sometimes my mother read me a little poem that said the moon was the North wind’s cookie that got eaten each month. The South wind, so the story went, baked a new cookie, devoured again in an endless cycle.

My dad said that we could tell the weather by watching the moon. If the half-moon appeared to be turned up like a cup, it would rain. More often than not, it seemed to be so.

All the magic in the moon faded when science debunked it all. On July 20, 1969, man walked on the moon for the first time and my aunt made sure I watched that historic moment.

On that day I was staying at Aunt Janet's and sat parked before her television set and watched.

I heard the words spoken, “One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind”.

History happened that day, but it was also the end of innocence for my generation. As one of the tail-end members of the Baby Boomers, I saw the loss of my dreams, the debunking of the stories. dreams, the stories, and the mystery. Science stepped in to replace the myths and magic. There was no longer room for the man in the moon or the north wind's cookie.

We were the last of the kids who believed in the Man in the Moon. We were the last who wondered whether or not the moon was made from green cheese.

With The Man in the Moon reduced to a series of craters and mountains on the lunar surface, the other mythical things we cherished soon faded from our imaginations as well. If there was no Man in the Moon, then perhaps there were no fairies hiding in the flowers, no elves making shoes – or even baking cookies in a big tree.

Sometimes I still gaze up at the full moon and see a face. Imagination has never vanished in me - if it had, then I would not have become a writer. And just maybe, a part of me still wants to believe.