I’m on a really tight deadline right now. By which I mean I’m
only two scenes away from finishing the second of three books that I need to be
putting to bed before the end of the year. On this day before Thanksgiving, that’s what I’m
most thankful for.
Being on a deadline means I get to tune out the family drama
that’s been erupting off and on for most of the year, the political drama—basically
everything. When the going gets tough,
the tough...get writing.
Being on deadline means I get to delegate without guilt. To
give up control, to stop worrying. So I
have twelve people coming to my house and my dining room table comfortably
seats six. What’s the worst that can happen?
Either I end up with a memorable (for all the wrong reasons) holiday, or
I end up with a new book. Maybe both? Either way, it’s a risk I’m willing to
take.
Deadlines aren’t anything I ever thought I’d be thankful
for, but oddly enough, I am. Here’s an
excerpt from the first book in this new series about three cousins who are
running a haunted hotel.
On her way back to her room, Gwyn castigated herself for
being such an idiot. She should never have spent the night. She should have set
her alarm for some ungodly hour and left while they were sleeping, while all
her illusions were still intact. Now, she had to navigate her way from one end
of the hotel to the other. It was lucky for her she knew all the hidden
passageways. The Wild Geese Inn was not
her walk of shame.
At least the ghosts seemed to find her predicament
entertaining. A murmur of voices flowed around her, coming and going, echoing
with amusement. Boards creaked beneath her feet. Lights buzzed noisily above
her head. Nails poked out of the wainscoting to catch at her clothes. Time and
again, she brushed at cobwebs, only to have them dissipate into nothingness at
her touch. But at least she didn’t encounter any stuck doors on her way. And
when she arrived at her room, she found the clothes she’d been planning on
wearing laid out and ready.
“Thanks, Haunt,” she muttered in grudging appreciation. She
was sure Brenda would have questioned whether Gwyn had suspected that she’d
be out all night, that she'd hoped for it, wanted it—and had set the clothes out
herself last night and then forgotten. Gwyn refused to think about that.
The
hotel ghosts had been her companions since she was a child. They’d been her
friends and playmates when the others went home, and she was here by herself.
She wasn’t about to start denying their existence now.
She grabbed her things, and ran back down a half flight to
the landing, to her private bath, built into what had once been a closet under
the stairs. She shed her clothes, turned on the shower, and waited until she
was standing under the spray, until the hot water was beating down upon her,
before she let her tears fall.
