Most of my stories have a mom. They’re usually in the background offering some comic relief or comfort. I like the comic relief role the best.
In Sleeping with the Lights On, Sandra Holiday has been divorced for quite a few years. She’s fifty and unsettled, but she is dating a rich man. In these three snippets of telephone conversations, it’s pretty obvious what mom wants for Sandra.
#1 “Are you two still just friends?” Mom put her emphasis on just, giving more meaning to her simple question.
“I guess we’re a little more than friends.” My gaze fell on the mussed cowboy sheets.
“How nice. They say you can love a rich man as much as a poor man.”
#2 “Are you two getting serious? Has he talked about moving in or marriage or anything?”
“He can certainly afford a wife.” She had trouble hiding the joy this gave her.
“Mom.” Five steps over and I attacked the mess in the kitchen.
“A woman gets to a certain point in life and she has to think about herself.
#3 “I’ve never worried about your sister like I do about you.” Mom had the world on her shoulders again. “I want to see you happily married before I die.”
“Mom, is there something you’re not telling me?” This typical motherly conversation could put me over the edge so I deflected it with humor.
“No, silly. You know what I mean. How are you?”
Then Sandra’s ex-husband lands in the city and Sandra’s mom is a bit worried when she runs into him and blabs as to Sandra’s whereabouts.
“Oh Sandy, I hope I haven’t caused any problems with you and your new friend.”
“No, Mom.” She’d hate to blow a prospect for her unmarried daughter. “Really got to go, Mom. I’ll call later. Love you.”
“Okay, sweetie. Say hi to Carson when you see him. He looked really good, Sandy, and he still talks with such a lovely drawl. Love you, too.” She meant well. And she meant to fix me up with someone, even an ex-husband who broke my heart once already. Of course, my new rich friend would meet with her approval, also.
After two failed marriages and countless relationships, Sandra Holiday thinks she’s met the man to end her years of less than perfect choices; choices that not only derailed her travel-related career plans but also left her single and broke.
Carson Holiday, a Las Vegas country crooner with swoon-inducing good looks, spent his adult life pursuing a recording contract and love, never holding on to either. After eighteen years, he drops back into Sandra’s life, reigniting an attraction he can’t deny.
When Carson reappears, Sandra must choose again. Only this time, nothing’s as it seems. A secret admirer, a redheaded stalker, and an eccentric millionaire throw her on a dangerous path, with Carson her only truth.
As life confronts her with yet another turning point, will her decisions find her eternally sleeping with the lights on – or will she finally discover a way to turn them off?
The mother in my book, The Morning After, is Abigail Martin's mom. Abigail's biological clock is ticking louder in Mom's head than in Abigail's. She gets excited when her daughter meets a handsome redheaded stranger at a wedding.
“You don’t have to tell your mother anything. Why would you tell your mother anything? But I know weddings are a good place to meet new people. New male people. Wouldn’t hurt for you to meet someone new. Going to a wedding can put you in the mood.” She chuckled. “In all kinds of moods.”
I had fun with Abigail's mom. Have to admit, a bit of my mother's personality seeped in there. But I'm guessing she has a bit in common with most moms.
Can there really be love at first sight?
Abigail Martin doesn’t think so. Unless the sexy redheaded stranger she wakes up with the morning after her best friend’s wedding is telling the truth.
Bobby Stockwood fell cowboy-hat-over-boot-heels for the brown-haired beauty, and married her in an impromptu wedding ceremony. Now he just has to convince his new bride that the morning after can be the first day of the rest of their lives.
But just when Abigail starts believing the fairy-tale is real, she finds out exactly who Bobby is, and the walls of make-believe start crumbling down.
The man rolled to his back, kicking off covers.
Abigail gasped. Her gentleman visitor wore only a bow tie and black socks.
She crept to the edge of the bed. His face was turned away, further hidden by red curls hanging down the nape of his neck and onto his cheek. A visual sweep of the attractive body brought a smile to her face when she paused on his more than ample endowments. A true redhead. An encounter of this magnitude should be easy to remember.
Abigail smiled in spite of her throbbing temples. Inching closer, she nudged his boots aside with her foot and leaned over to see his face. Mmm. He smelled good, like rich leather and fresh cut wood. As she bent to get a closer look, Kirby, her sixteen pound Siamese cat, entered her room and announced his hunger.
The visitor stirred, grasped her arm, drawing her down across his hips.
He rose up on his elbows and looked at her. “So, Abby, you’re a morning person, are you?”
Abigail launched off the bed, trying not to come into contact with anymore of the warm body than she already had. Tripping over the boots, she ended up sprawled on the floor. “Who…” She gulped. “Who the hell are you?”
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