Imagine That
Children’s author Emily Sinclair was
supposed to be the next J.K. Rowling… Until her second book flopped
and her imagination went on the fritz. So Emily sets out on an epic
adventure to find inspiration again. Till a dead car lands her in
Covington Falls, Georgia. Soon Emily is taking up her quest, looking
for inspiration driving a mobile library van, as a companion to a
crotchety old woman and her insomniac dog, and as a very
ungraceful baker’s assistant. Of course, what really sparks her
romantic fantasies is a valiant hero, though he yields a paint roller
instead of a sword.
Rugged, blue-collar Nate Cooper has
spent most of his life avoiding the printed page. These days he
doesn’t have much use for fancy words and certainly not for a
slightly off-center writer on the lam. Not when his mother is
battling cancer, his little brother has morphed into a teenaged ogre,
and God seems to have taken a vacation.
On paper, these two would seem the
least likely pairing, and a happily ever after nothing but fantasy.
But with faith and imagination Emily and Nate are about to write a
new chapter that will lead to unexpected love.
Excerpt:
Chapter
One
A
stomach-churning thunk.
A disaster-laden chug.
A scary, threatening gurgle.
Emily
Sinclair’s hands clutched the steering wheel as she guided her
how-could-you-give-out-on-me-now
convertible to the side of the road. With a last ominous blunk
and splutter,
the car gave up the ghost.
She
switched off the engine, waited a few seconds, and then turned the
key again. Nothing.
Not
surprising. As if anything glug-glugging
like an octogenarian trying to cough up a lung was going to restart
with so little effort.
A
cranky yowl went up from the passenger seat. Emily glanced over at
the pet carrier and sent the fat Persian inside a confident smile.
“Don’t worry, Wordsworth. This is why modern man invented cell
phones.”
She
fished her phone out of her purse. A blank screen stared back at her.
Pressing more buttons did nothing.
Dead.
Dead
as her car.
With
a sound of disgust, Emily tossed the useless phone aside and stared
out the windshield at the deserted country road in front of her. The
very
deserted country road that stretched around a sparkling blue lake and
disappeared into the back of beyond. The kind of road featured in all
the best horror stories. Emily’s mind conjured up every one, along
with the opening line in the newspaper article.
Once-famous
children’s author found mangled to death. Quest to locate her lost
imagination and revive faded career ends in disaster… as her mother
predicted.
Muttering
an oath, Emily climbed out of the car and slammed the door as hard as
she could. What a fix. And ironic. There were rules about writing.
Not grammar rules, like where to put commas or when to use a
semicolon. No, the unofficial rules for fiction writing. Chief among
them is that an author should never start a novel with the character
driving or thinking. No, readers wanted action right off the top, and
the car could never break down.
In
college, Emily had written a short story where the heroine’s car
stalled in a typical these-people-will-murder-you-in-your-sleep town.
Emily’s professor had written cliché
in bold, red pen across the page. Not satisfied, she’d added boring
cliché, underlining
the boring
with three thick red lines. The critique had stung. The fact that it
had come courtesy of Professor Vanessa Sinclair, Emily’s mother,
had been like ripping off an old bandage.
Emily
was breaking all three cardinal rules of writing at once. Though
technically the driving rule didn’t apply. Same for the sitting
rule. She was thinking, though. Thinking her entire life had become a
cliché, so what did it matter if she broke her mother’s precious
writing rules? She was a one-hit writing wonder. A flash in the pan.
A big-haired eighties’ rock band that had scored one giant hit and
then disappeared into the oblivion of those nostalgic ‘Where
are they now?’ music
specials.
Emily
sighed. If one had to break down somewhere, one could do worse than…
what had the sign said back there? Covington something. Covington
something, Georgia. Muted afternoon sun shimmered off the surface of
the lake. She lifted a hand to ward off the eye-watering glare and
focused on the water. In her previous life, the golden flecks of
sunlight reflecting off its surface would have transformed into a
million different kinds of fantastical creatures. Or maybe something
nightmarish would charge out of that bank of oak trees across the
lake.
Unfortunately,
Emily was stuck in her real life, and her imagination was on the
fritz.
Well,
at least she wouldn’t die of water deprivation while she waited to
be rescued.
Speaking
of rescue.
A
car had appeared, winding around the curve of the lake. A big ole’
country truck calling to mind hoedowns and hay rides. A big ole’
rusty
truck, Emily realized as it drew closer. Burnt red growth spread out
across the hood like a marauding band of Vikings overtaking a
defenseless village. She imagined rust was the only thing holding the
vehicle together.
The
truck slowed and Emily tensed, torn between elation at being found
and wariness regarding exactly who might be behind the wheel of the
ancient rattletrap. The glare off the windshield made it impossible
to see inside the cab, however.
The
tires veered off to the side of the road and stopped, sending up a
cloud of dust. Emily waved her hand, choking on the airborne dirt.
Her mouth felt dry as if she had licked the ground. The door opened.
Work boots emerged. Brown and roughed-up and covered in… paint. A
man stepped out, and Emily steadied her hands against the car to keep
from falling over.
Mr.
Darcy. No, Heathcliff. Only instead of a cravat and breeches, he was
dressed in faded jeans and a black T-shirt, which seemed molded to an
impressive chest. Heath stretched up a good six-plus feet, towering
over her puny five-foot-two frame. A lock of dark chocolate-brown
hair brushed over his forehead. Their eyes met. Since she was already
thinking in clichés, Emily’s mind offered up a million of them to
describe his eyes. She could start with gray, but no way did such a
mundane word do them justice. Slate, storm clouds, a roiling sea,
glazed pewter. Devastating, and framed by thick sooty lashes no man
had a right to possess.
He
stopped a few feet away, and Emily had the fanciful notion he was
trying not to frighten her. Like she was a skittish filly about to
bolt.
“Hi,”
he said. “Car trouble?”
His
voice was like his eyes. Smooth and deep, like honey in a cup of hot
tea.
Emily
nodded. How could she speak when every male literary fantasy she’d
ever dreamed about had unfolded from a rusted-out pickup?
Buy
Links:
Barnes
& Noble:
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/imagine-that-kristin-wallace/1119886610?ean=2940149785476
About Kristin Wallace
Growing up Kristin devoured books like
bags of Dove Dark Chocolate. Her first Golden Book led to
Laura Ingalls Wilder, Nancy Drew, C.S. Lewis and the Sweet
Valley High series. Later, she discovered romance novels and fell in
love all over again. It’s no surprise then that Kristin would
one day try her hand at writing them. She writes inspirational
romance and women’s fiction filled with love, laughter and a leap
of faith. When she’s not writing her next novel, Kristin works
as an advertising copywriter. Kristin is the author of the
Covington Falls Chronicles, romances set in a quirky Southern town
with a character all its own. Be sure to check out the first two
books in the series, Marry Me and Acting Up.
Connect with Kristin:
Website:
http://KristinWallaceAuthor.com
Facebook -
http://facebook.com/KristinWallaceAuthor
Twitter –
http://twitter.com/KWallaceAuthor
