This is a blog hop. Be sure to check the link at the bottom to see posts from other authors!
Blurb:
Your Desire. A mysterious shop appears in town for one reason: to bring the spice of passion and the thrill of love to one special person. Magic is in more than the item purchased—it’s in the heart of the buyer, often hidden, usually surprising. And after enchantment takes hold? The store fades from sight and memory, only to reappear somewhere else. Maybe in your town….
Buy link:
KU https://tinyurl.com/ux3asvo
Excerpt:
The whir of a sewing machine traveled across the ether. As intended, the sound blended with the those of a lawn mower in Cleveland, a blender in Dallas, an electric razor in Seattle. Some people, those specially attuned to properties outside the normal realm of humans, heard buzzing that could have been a sewing machine, but it was faint and truly indistinguishable for what it was. More like a mosquito at the ear. They heard it but couldn’t decipher exactly where to swat, so they did their best ignore it.
Of course, the sound was not supposed to be heard, and therefore not investigated. The very few who did hear it clearly, who also heard Nigel and his granddaughter clearly, well, they generally resided in a hospital setting where three squares a day were provided and tranquility came in the form of little green pills. At the least, they saw a shrink three times a week. Their knowledge wasn’t taken seriously.
This worried Nigel, but what could he do? It wasn’t his fault humans had devolved to the point where they no longer believed in enchantment. He shook his head and tsked as he sewed. When he was a boy learning the business from his grandfather as his granddaughter now learned from him, no one would have believed the universe could get to this point, where people believed in the “magic” of technology but not the magic that could be found in their own hearts.
Of course, challenges were exciting, and skeptical humans certainly kept him on his toes.
Absently, he hummed as he completed the final seam on the full, purple satin skirt. He pulled it from the machine, snipped the threads and shook the material out before pinning it on the dress form.
“Edwina! I have the skirt finished. Come here, dear.” Standing back to cast a critical eye over how the skirt hung, he held up an artist’s rendition of what the final product should be. He looked from drawing to garment, made a few small adjustments to the pleating around the waist and nodded in satisfaction.
“Hey, Gramps,” his granddaughter said, bounding into the room.
For the millionth time, he mentally cringed at the lack of style in today’s youth. Their kind had the ability to appear any way they wished. Glancing in the mirror, he saw a debonair David Niven reflected back. The sleeves of his snowy white shirt were rolled to his elbows, but the Windsor knot in his tie was perfect, as was the knife-sharp crease in his trousers and the shine on his shoes. When he rolled down his sleeves and put on his jacket, he would look every inch the gentleman. Quirking his brows in approval, he unconsciously ran a fingertip lightly over his moustache. Instead of selecting what he would consider an appropriate shell, Edwina—a name which screamed propriety—chose to look like a bag lady gone wild.
Like today, for instance. Long blond hair, streaked with pink and purple, pulled up into a ponytail to hang down the side of her head. Black lipstick and eye shadow. Two earrings in one ear and four in the other. A bright orange tank top and faded jeans—separated scandalously by a good three inches of bare stomach—looked as though they’d been worn (and torn) for centuries. And her feet—her lovely, dainty feet!—were shod in horrid, ugly brown things that not even the most desperate soldier in Caesar’s army would have donned.
When he had questioned her once about her appearance, she’d said with delight that she was starting her own trend. A Lauper-Madonna-Pink look. It was not something he’d understood. Today, after a quick perusal, he leaned closer.
“What is that?” He swiped his thumb across her cheek, then examined what was on the pad.
“Body glitter. Isn’t it cool?” She grinned at him.
Her enthusiasm, as well as her utter lack of self-consciousness, brought the slightest of smiles to his eyes, even as his mouth formed a moue of reproach.
“Yes, well.” He wiped his thumb on a handkerchief pulled from the pocket of his jacket, hanging on the wall behind Edwina. “‘Cool’ is what ice cubes provide. I don’t know what body glitter is good for.”
Giggles flowed from her, reminding him of when she was a small girl instead of the nearly grown youngster she was now. Where had the centuries gone? Despite the shudders her wardrobe caused, he loved Edwina enormously and strove to give her the very best education in what they did, which was make dreams come true.
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Since it’s snowing as I type this and is supposed to be for part of every day for the next 10 days, I feel qualified to describe what I could do on inclement days like these. I could paint a masterpiece, sew a glimmering ball gown, sculpt a museum-worthy bust of Alfred E. Neuman, or compose an opera in Italian.
say you do stuff like bake bread, organize a caroling group to appreciate the snow with song, or anything like that. You’ll just make me tired and I’ll have to slip in a nap between reading and writing.
Here’s a very small reason to be thankful: if you are reading this, you either own or you have access to a computer and the Internet, one of the most powerful forces on earth. With the Internet, you can change your life—find a job, find a wife (or husband), shop for a new dress or a new car, check the news, check the stock market—virtually (literally) anything you want.
we like, live where we like (for the most part). In the States (unless you’re on a college campus), you can speak your mind, vote for the candidate of your choice, attend church where you want. Here we live in a vertical society, where—again, with hard work—we can rise in the world “above our station.” We aren’t restricted to a class. If we aspire to become billionaires, we have the opportunity—and lots of us have succeeded.
Each and every day brings new reasons to give thanks. I don’t have a hard time finding them, whether it’s the beauty of a field of golden wheat or a star shooting across the heavens or rolling over in bed to snuggle up to my special person. I hope you find thousands of reasons to be thankful, too, not only in this season but all year long.