The Red Purse

There’s nothing remarkable at first sight of the current purse I carry. It’s a shoulder bag, not small but not huge either. It has pockets on both sides of a roomy interior that includes an inner zippered pouch. It has more than enough room for the things I feel I must carry, my billfold (which matches the purse), keys, ink pens, a small notebook, my veil for church, photographs and more. I carry the purse almost everywhere I go and because it’s a bright fire engine red, I often get compliments or comments about the bag. It seems that this vivid shade is not one common to purses.

                I smile and accept the compliments but I didn’t choose the purse although it’s very special to me. My mother shopped for and bought the purse for herself, intending to use it. I like to think about her perusing the merchandise at a department store, gazing over the many different styles, sizes and colors of purses that were available. Red was her favorite color so it’s no surprise she chose this one.

                What I don’t always say, depending on how well or if I know the person who comments is that this is my mother’s last purse although she never had an opportunity to carry it.

                After she passed away last May – the anniversary of that sad event falls on Memorial Day this year – she no longer had a need for a purse.

                Maybe the family could have tucked it with her in her casket. We’ve been known to add photographs or books or items special to the person we just lost.

                Instead, as we began the long and terrible process of sorting through her things, my brother offered it to me. In recent years, as her general health declined, he lived with my mother.

                “It’s new,” he told me as he held it up.

                The purse still had the tags attached and was still filled with the crumpled paper packing.

                I accepted with pleasure and more than a few tears.

                A year later, it’s still the purse I carry along with the matching billfold that came with the bag.

                I don’t know that I will always carry this same purse but I will always treasure it.

                I have many other purses, one I bought not long before receiving this one that I retired without hesitation, a large bag my late husband bought for me one year on vacation, a handmade leather purse that could almost double as a suitcase, and a delightful “I Love Lucy” themed purse that my children bought me because I’m a huge fan of Lucille Ball.

                For the foreseeable future, though, the red purse is the one I’ll carry.

                It’s almost – not quite, not really – like having my mom along. She loved to shop and so with her last purse on my shoulder, it doesn’t seem like I’m alone. As I take her final bag with me as I shop, seeking that perfect new blouse or a new pair of shoes, I can almost hear her voice. I easily can imagine her delight in shopping and guess what her reaction might have been to a color or style.

                Although my mother spent most of last May in the hospital, first with a diagnosis of pneumonia and meningitis, it was the final diagnosis that robbed our family of both hope and our mom. Doctors discovered she had advanced cancer and that it was far too widespread and too late to treat. Already weakened and in poor health, they gave her days to live – which is what she did.

                 So for those who wonder and tell me that they love my purse, there’s a story and this is it.

 

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