One Upon A Christmas Eve

“Close the door, would you?” Chelsea’s internal voice called to her father. She slid the bag of groceries onto the counter and turned back to kick the front door closed. Much as she’d like to have given it a quick karate slam, she pushed it shut like a normal human being even though there was nothing normal about this Christmas Eve.

“He’s gone.” The voice of the E.R. doctor reverberated through her as though she were still standing on the stark linoleum of Mercy General.

An exaggerated shiver shook through her as she made way back to the kitchen. There she hunched over the grocery bag staring, not seeing its contents on the countertop of her father’s small beach bungalow. Pressed against the bluff of the Santa Monica shoreline, it provided much needed isolation in the midst of its neighbours and the midst of her grief. People who lived in this close proximity to the ocean seemed naturally to remain self-contained in their own little piece of seaside heaven.

Six weeks since his death. The condition of the house would have made her mother turn in her grave, or urn as the case may be.

“You’re an orphan now,” her internal monitor spoke again.

“Oh shut up.” Her voice filled the small kitchen like an unwelcome visitor. Chelsea no more wanted to see anyone than she wanted to return to her cold dreary flat. The house was hers now. Inheritance and the holidays just didn’t seem to jive.

She sent a fist to the counter, the impact pounding her pinky finger into the rest of her hand wiring a grimace. God, you can’t even display righteous indignation. A girl wasn’t supposed to be alone in the world at the age of thirty-two. She was supposed to be married and having babies. Her parents were supposed to be doting over a couple of cherubic faced grandchildren, opening a mountain of tinsel strewn presents under an Edwardian decorated tree set in a bay window overlooking some snow laden hill. Fire crackling in a perfect fireplace, mantel resplendent with overburdened stockings and hot chocolate in unending supply, Chelsea should be sitting in the lap of her perfect match.

She jumped at the soft brushing of fur against her ankle. “Pockets!” She admonished her father’s gray and white cat now playing circle eights about her feet. Hooking him under the belly she brought him to her face, noses touching in familiar display of joint affection.

A knock at the side door and she lowered him back to the floor. “Who is it?’

“A friend.”

She tilted her head directing her attention to the side of the kitchen facing the neighbors. There was only a slim passageway between her and the trellised walkway of the next door property; one used seldom as it was well hidden from the street and any surfers or beachcombers seeking access to the sand.

She placed a hand against the jamb and leaned into the wood. “What kind of friend?”

A percussive chuckle followed by explanation laced in mirth, “The friendly sort, I should think.”

This further verbiage disclosed and accent. Scottish. Definitely.

Her mind raced through her Rolodex of friends and acquaintances, their faces flashing before her like some penny arcade machine.

“Gerry?” She almost couldn’t bring his name to her lips. They had after all parted on somewhat less than ideal terms. Before she could think it through one hand was at the lock the other turning the knob. Opening the door a broad crack, she placed her face in the slot.

In one arm he’d a small tree decorated to the nines with Christmas merriment. In the other a bottle of champagne and two tulip glass stems intersecting at the neck of the bottle like a skull and crossbones.

He lifted his eyes from their speculative stare at the peephole to her face wedged between jamb and door. He smiled.

Throwing the door open, she stepped back allowing him entrance. The resinous tang of pine swept past her as he entered. Placing the small tree on the window bench of the breakfast nook, he turned summarily shifting the glassware to his now unoccupied hand.

“A toast?” He leaned into her cheek imparting a kiss.

“Uh…I…you--”

“I know we’re supposed to be enemies or ex’s or some such nonsense. But it’s Christmas Eve and I’m on break from filming and you are---” He looked about the adjoining rooms, a frown wrinkling his brow. “Living in squalour.”

Chelsea swept the MacDonald’s wrappers and cup from the edge of the counter and dropped them into the bin.

“Come on, love. Don’t clean on my account.” He placed the glasses and bottle next to a sink full of dishes. “You’ve got more reason than most to be behind in the washing up.” The expression on his face morphed to compassion and he stepped to her wrapping an arm about her shoulder. His warmth did not feel foreign as all human contact had since the funeral. Rather the familiar scent of him sent a torch ablaze in her heart. It exploded into flame as he drew her closer.

“God I’ve missed you.” He whispered into her hair.

She pulled from him sending a hand to the center of his chest. “You don’t have to play consoler or mourner or whatever it is that brought you here.” The green blue of his intense gaze sent a brick splashing into her stomach.

His chin arched as he jutted his jaw infinitesimally forward. “Was I really that bad?”

“Only if you consider three hundred days a year on the road ‘bad’.”

“Through the years we all will be together. If the fates allow.” He broke into baritone song, eyes telegraphing apology steeped in sadness. Palms forward, arms at his side he stood as in submission. A long pause ensued as he remained motionless in front of her.

“Guilty.” The tone of his voice encompassed a myriad of emotions.

“And what makes this time any different than the others?” She forced words of reprimand out of her mouth even though they were about as natural as a blizzard in L.A.

The act of contrition in his eyes was so wrenchingly sincere she couldn’t help but allow the starch to seep from her posture.

Stepping to his chest the tears flowed down her cheeks as she pressed her face into the cotton of his shirt. His hand cradled her head, the other pressed into the middle of her back holding her against his beating heart. As the wave of grief subsided she felt his embrace loosen, hands coming round to cradle her face. Gentle kisses at her cheek, on closed lids and so tenderly on her lips, she felt every fibre of his empathetic display.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. She opened her eyes to engage his. Tears reddened his eyes too set under arching brows.

“He’s with Mom now.”

“And still with his daughter.” He stroked the back of two fingers across the apple of her cheek.

“He’ll always be.”

He kissed her so lovingly she thought what fragments remained of her heart would shatter. Another river of silent tears coursed down her cheeks.

“You know I meant coming here to be of help.”

She hugged him. “It is.” Looking up into his eyes she added. “More than you know.”

He slid his hands from her face and took hers into his grasp at his sides. “You go take a shower and I’ll tidy up.”

She sent a questioning look into his eyes.

“No complaints now.”

Chelsea turned down the hall to the bath.

A half hour later she emerged, cloud of steam wafting from the bathroom as she opened the door. Her hair damp at her shoulders, she pulled the soft terry robe about her, tightening the tie in a haphazard knot. Feet scuffing against the smooth wood of the floor, her head filled with the cinnamon spice of something baking as she made her way to the kitchen nook.

Fire ablaze in the hearth, the tree set on the bench at the window, his back to her as he glanced out onto the surf. He turned slowly; grin spreading across his face as he beheld her in all her freshly bathed glory.

“You’re the only man I know that can smile at my drowned rat-ed-ness.”

“It’s not that love. It’s you.”

She sent her eyes scrolling down to her feet. “Oh, yeah. I look the right---”

He grasped her arm and drew her into a kiss that made her knees nearly disintegrate beneath her. As the kiss ended breath mingling he whispered, “Angel.”

He opened his eyes connecting with hers. “You know I’ve always loved you in a robe.”

She laughed. “That’s not how we spent most of our time.”

His eyes turned sober. “That is not why I am here either.”

She tilted her forehead to his. “I know.”

“We can be together,” he said.

“Do you remember that time… I always will. That time in December along the loch when we walked through the snow and I told you I couldna possibly consider havin’ you along on my promotional tours?”

“Or on location.”

A pang of regret pierced the intensity of his gaze. “Yes.”

“And through a dark and frosted window that evening you left. I saw you walk out of my life.”

“You didn’t stop me.”

“I was a fool.”

“Nothing’s changed.”

“We’re both here in L.A.”

“And you’re spending more time on your career now than ever.”

“Aye.” He took her hand and squeezed. “With the exception of one thing.”

She looked into his open book expression, the vulnerability raw as wind off a wintry sea.

“What’s that?”

“I realize I---dinna have to do all this alone.” He shot a glance about the room, returning his focus to her.

“The paparazzi aren’t going to--”

“Dictate my life or who I choose to spend my time with. You know I’d never allow that. It was fear for you and your safety that--”

“Kept you away from me for weeks at a time?” She had a difficulty editing the bitterness from her voice.

“Please, Chels.” He entwined his fingers with hers. “We’ve made mistakes…I’ve made mistakes. Can’t we start again?”

“It’s just another end of a year. It’s just another auld lang syne. We’re not alone. We’ve got the world at our door you see.”

“Screw the world. It’s you and I that are important.”

“That’s exactly what the paparazzi think too.”

“I doen’t care.” He turned from her and looked out the window. “They can all go to the devil.”

“They’re not going anywhere, Ger.”

“That’s why it is high time they know I’m not for sale and neither are you.”

She walked up behind him, placing her cheek against his shoulder blade. “I can handle it.”

He turned. “I dinna want you to have to--”

She sent two fingers to his lips. “It is not up to you. It is part of who you are.” She curled a hand about his forearm. “And I love who you are.”

“I don’t deserve your loyalty.”

“You do.” She stared into him eyes burning with withheld tears.

He drew her to him bodies pressing together in wordless sanctuary. Kissing the crown of her head he said, “ I’ve always thought you smarter than me. We can make it work.”

“I’m dreaming tonight of a place I love even more than I usually do. And although I know it’s a long road back… I promise you.” She recited the words form the old song with meaning.

“You’ll stay safely tucked out of sight so as not to be maligned by the press?”

“I can do that.”

“And we can spend New Years Eve in Scotland?”

“If only in my dreams.”

“No, Chels. We can do it. I’ve two weeks break and mum will be expecting to see me. She’d be elated to see us for a few days between.”

“I can do that.” The tone of her voice reflected all sincerity.

“I know yoo can.” Hope sparked in his burr.

“I don’t mean deal with your crazy life. Although I know I could do that. I mean live my life without my family.”

“You’ll never be without them, love. They live in you.” He touched three fingers to her heart. “Your Dad would be so proud of you he’d burst.”

“I’m not quite sure.”

“You have more talent in you little toe than---”

“In the entire body of literary fiction. I know you’ve said.”

“And so have the critics.”

She sent a hand to his, “Let’s walk,” and tugged, pulling him toward the side door.

“I thought you never used this.”

“You didn’t seem to listen.”

He chuckled and followed along as they made their way down to water’s edge. The beach was deserted, great gray clouds hanging ominously above the waves. Faces turned to the sea, the breeze swept across their cheeks.

“Ger?”

“What?”

“Do you think we could ever live a normal life?”

“If you mean the house in the suburbs and work a day world, I--”

“No I mean being together like normal people.”

He turned his head to look at her, eyes full of remorse.

“You don’t have to be sorry.” She took his hand and squeezed it. “I’m not. You’re doing exactly what is right for you and the world is a better place for it.”

“But are we better?”

“Sometimes when I’m all alone when I’m feeling sad and sorry for myself I think of you and all the gifts you’ve been given. To suppress those in any way would be an affront to you, to your audience and yes…to me.”

Chelsea took his face in her hands. “Honor your gift.”

He covered her hands with his and turned to one side kissing her palm.

“To do any less is to deprive not only the world of your talents but yourself and the fabulous man you have become.”

“And you really dinna mind?”

“I insist.”

“Will you come along with me then?”

“Proudly.”

“And not let the world take advantage.”

“They can only do that if I let them. For me to work and write while you do what you do…now that is my idea of heavenly isolation.”

“Just we two.” He dropped the last of his masks showing her the depths of himself and the wounds of his soul.

They walked along the chilly sand, toes sinking into the glassy surface. A gull soared overhead, an arrow of pelicans skimmed the face of the waves and a foghorn blew its mournful song.

“Merry Christmas, darlin’” He glanced to her, fingers carefully weaving through hers.

She smiled.

Fiction and Life

Day Five

A writer’s path never comes to destination as there is always more. More stories to tell, more worlds to explore, more inspirations to see and convey by the most powerful force on earth…words. There is no other medium that respects the consumer as does a book. The reader brings with him a unique life experience that blends with the story and words of the author into a personal journey that has within it the ability to change worlds.

It has been said that fiction is not real. I beg to differ. I believe that fiction allows the individual to take what is offered, accept what is meaningful and valid for him, reject what is not and build on his internal screen a world not even the author has imagined.

For each person that reads a book it is an entirely new experience. Unlike the dictates of non fiction, the story of an author’s design does not try to convince or present facts. It offers choice. It is up to the reader to interpret taking what moves, inspires, educates and uplifts to enrich her world. It is within the pages of fiction that real truth lies---the truth of the heart.

So as I journey forth into new paths to publication hoping to spread my wings into larger arenas, I use the time and resources given to continue exploring where my own life circumstance have led me.

The British Isles have been in my heart since my college days. I spent a year here attending Birbeck college at London University. Ever since that time I have considered Briton a home away from home and continue to find its people and places a never ending source of inspiration.



Britain is the root of us, if not culturally, then certainly linguistically. As our two branches of language grow apart, we can revel in our joint heritages whilst being entertained by our difference. Every time I visit UK I learn more. Turn of phrase, slant of paradigm, difference in products--all this makes for an environment that challenges yet feels somehow like home.

My life in Los Angeles compliments these Anglophile leanings allowing me to write from an American point of view easing the reader through Briticisms that might confuse using context and characters that are traveling the same road of discovery.



My access to film, celebrity and music has allowed me to write about the people that populate what often is seen as an exclusive untouchable segment of society. All this blends into a unique opportunity for one who has the talent to put words together to enrich the lives of many. It is an honour and a responsibility I take in all seriousness.

Come along with me to such events as the Visual Effects Society awards banquet at the Kodak Theater in Hollywood, the Taurus Stuntman Awards on Paramount Studios back lot, premieres at Grumman’s Theater as the stars walk the red carpet,



film festivals and conventions where actors, producers and directors are available to speak to and see as the real people they are-- blessed with amazing creative talents and design. My London Blog explores this and much more. Travel the back roads of England, the turbulent waters off Scotland, the tranquil pastures and sea walks of Wales. Through my writer’s lens I hope to offer the most real look into the lives and times of this Island nation and its inhabitants via the vehicle of true settings and vulnerable people struggling to find that which is most important --love.

Please visit me on my website at www.christinelondon.com to have a read not only of excerpts from novels, but self contained short stories free for the taking (‘books’ page---bottom ‘free reads’) Photos of some of my travels are there for the viewing on the ‘gallery’ pages. My blogs can be access at my space (http://www.myspace.com/christine_london ) or on blogspot’s "London Blog” (http://christinelondon.blogspot.com/ ). I have a presence on Facebook and Twitter and am always available to be reached via e-mail at londonchristine@hotmail.com I consider it a privilege and responsibility to give back----in gratitude for this great opportunity I have been given. It is an honor to be able to provide wind for the fledgling wings of aspiring authors and insight into the world of other creative people to those who might sometimes be tempted to see them as only celebrity. They are that-- but first and foremost people just like ourselves struggling to make their way and leave something of import behind.

I look forward to visiting with you and am available to meet in person at various book signings, conventions and events throughout the year. Visit the ‘Events’ page at www.christinelondon.com to find the latest in that regard.
Thank you blog readers-- for this opportunity. I appreciate your time and consideration as a source of entertainment and escape into romance with a (Brit) twist.

(A Wonderful) Life Goes On

Day Four

The rain sputters against the slate of my cottage roof gurgling in the downspout. It has been light since three a.m. Days here on Skye never really end as the summer solstice approaches. Light streaks from the horizon even at midnight. I pull in a lungful of rain-scrubbed air allowing my mind to float where it may. The past year and a half I have lost my family. Two to death, one to disease, my family of origin have moved on leaving me the sole survivor. As I have tended to the needs of my father’s Parkinsons and its repercussions and seen to two memorial services my writing has been savior and challenge.

Nowhere in life have I found the total emersion possible when deep into the spinning of a tale. Hours pass without notice, journeys of thousands of miles take seconds and the unfolding of character and plot happens as though by proxy. I am not the first author to say she feels a conduit to some greater power. It has been through this mysterious force that I have produced stories that mirror some of my own life but also explore feelings and meaning never imagined. There have been times when the well is dry and the only thing to replenish it is time away from the mundane. Now is one of those times.

My next undertaking has been steeping for over a year now. The initial idea of writing a story about the Inner Hebrides of Scotland occurred when my long time friend invited me to sail on the paddle steamer Waverley down the Clyde river from Glasgow and out into these rugged remote Isles Of The Sea.



The last of a breed of steam powered oceangoing vessels, the Waverley is the pride of Scotland and a dream of days past when it was the journey that was the goal, not the destination.



May 2008 we set sail for a week landing in various ports around the inner islands. The isle of Iona, burial place of many Norse and Scot kings profoundly moved me with its ancient cemetery and stone walled monastery.



Weather kept us at bay from accessing the largest of the chain---Skye. I vowed to return to see what is and has been an inspiration for musicians artists and writers alike. A story was developing in my mind but it needed time to percolate.

Writing about a visit to the beautiful sister isle of Capri off the coast of Naples (now- Leap Of Faith-2010 release), I allowed this Scottish tale to linger in the recesses of my mind, A submission call from Phaze for stories set in large urban centers further detoured my Scot tale. Limited to a couple chapters, the story of a Seattle woman fleeing an abusive marriage taking refugee in her late grandmother’s Scot cottage by the sea continued to be mired in mist. The only thing I did realize was that this story was actually three and as such would require three books to do justice. The hero is descendent of the clan MacLeod, she of the MacDonalds. Anyone acquainted with the Isle of Skye knows this to be the Scot version of the Capulets and Montagues, the Hatfields and the McCoys. The first book would be set in 1990, the second visiting 1746 and the ancestors of the first, the third in 2012 as the daughter of book one’s heroine comes of age. (Working titles: Isles Of The Sea, Of Sword and Sea,Land of the Sea)

Meanwhile I have two manuscripts making the rounds at various houses, sold one more (Before You Say Goodbye) as part of the Urban Phaze series



and my Italian tale, Leap of Faith, set for 2010 release. Who would wonder that my mind is cluttered and in need of a dose of real setting to move the Scottish trilogy so long mired in family demands and life changes?

So here I am---exploring the misty isle of Skye. At long last Dad is living in a loving assisted care and I have the freedom to travel again. Truly blessed by means and with an internal drive that won’t allow me rest, I have finally discovered what I was meant to do. My blogs sharing these research travels with my readers are but prescience to the stories yet to come. Feedback from said let me know I am on the right path. In what other job can you lose yourself in a world of subconscious design, create something from nothing and leave it within the pages of a book for those now and eyes yet unborn?

As the Scots would say---it’s ‘pairfect’.
***

Setbacks Are A Part Of Every Journey

Day Three

First release slated for June of 2007, I forged on writing and rewriting. My first manuscript and story of my heart (Soul In His Eyes) was making real strides forward in edits. Readers were in tears one chapter and chuckling at the so human faux pas in the next. It was time to resubmit.

Approaching the publisher of my first novel, Sunninghill Snow, I expected they might find the story too tame for their spicy line of romance. Much to my delight, they accepted it almost immediately for contract. I would be going to my first writer’s convention with two contracted works in my career stable.



Dallas was sultry in July of 2007. Romance Writers of America’s convention is attended by over two thousand authors, aspiring authors, publishers, editors and agents yearly.



With a now successful blog being followed by hundreds of readers and a just released electronic book, I felt pretty good about attending workshops and editor/agent appointments. What else to do but blog about the rock stars of the publishing world? My writing about the people and topics of the convention was well received by attendees and those unable to make it to Texas that year.



A couple of manuscript requests for my Shadows Steal The Light left me on a positive note thinking the time and money well spent.

There is nothing like meeting the people of the industry face to face to garner an impression on both ends. The experience was a bit overwhelming as the Romantic Times Convention had been a few months earlier in Pittsburgh. Unlike RT, RWA nationals was solely focused on the professional. The readers that attend the RT yearly convention were not present at RWA allowing total concentration on professional growth. Both conventions were invaluable.

Returning home, I sent Shadows Steal the Light to those requested and others I had ascertained as good fits. My critique partner whom I met on My Space (thank you the power of the blog) had found a new small print publisher with a very exciting leaning toward the author. This new house wanted to put the author first and grow careers They touted the need for light to be shed on new voices; fresh names that had the potential to grow a readership that longed for something new. A lot of time and effort were to be put into promotions. I was impressed.

January 2008 the offer of contract came through my e-mail. Not only did this fledgling company want to contract Shadows, but also it’s spin off, Hog Wild. Ever the careful businesswoman, I had my lawyer look over the contract. He agreed that this company was indeed fair to themselves and the author. As a start up, the release dates were filled further in advance than most houses---eighteen months. I felt the wait worth it if I was to get in on the ground floor of something that had such potential and showed so much respect for the author. This contract would also afford me an advance, unlike the royalties-only business model of electronic books publishers. The time waiting for release could be well used in pre publicity and I could continue to write for my e-publisher, Phaze. Win-win.

As I worked on my next story, a tale about a Coast Guard rescue mission gone wrong, I sang the praises of this new publisher. By summer of 2008 I’d completed the Coast Guard story, Against The Current, and submitted it to Phaze.

Packing for my second RWA convention this time to be held in my old haunt, San Francisco, the word came down that my new print publisher would be closing its doors What’s an author to do when her hopes and dreams go up in smoke?

After drying well earned tears and pursuing proper channels to regain copyrights---submit again? What to do when your publisher goes belly up, your mother and brother die within the same year and your father is in need of twenty four hour care for Parkinson’s disease? Take more than a couple deep breaths, I can tell you. The real world impinges on us all. Sometimes even the most focused and driven of us has to take time to set the world back on its axis. More tomorrow about that…

Day Two - Rock On

Day Two

Monthly meetings at which an author, agent or editor spoke didn’t seem enough. Bitten by the writer’s bug, I had it bad. I needed to know everything I could about the business side of this new undertaking I had been drawn to and I needed to know ASAP. Like a house on fire, I checked out tapes recorded at past conference workshops, jotted down notes/pearls of wisdom from guest speakers, researched agents and editors online, read every craft book recommended and began reading what other successful authors of romance wrote.

Goodness…how wonderful! There was a world of fiction out there that was not dreary and gritty. Covering a range as wide as fiction itself, romance, I was to discover has only two rules:

-The story must contain a developing romantic relationship
-It must have a happy or satisfying ending

Wow….life should be so grand. Actually life can be and is---or so I was to discover. It seems that when you emanate positivism and enthusiasm you are contagious. I began to draw to me what I seemed to need. Experts and successful people within the publishing community were there to be accessed through the RWA and online. I began to research and attend Hollywood events. After all, I now lived on the doorstep of the film world and what better way to write realistically about a subject, place or persons than to actually immerse yourself in their world? It seems there are a lot of people who want to know about these events people and places as well. I began a blog.

Bringing my growing readership along with me, I traveled to the UK, took photographs of the places I went and wrote about it. Continuing with my monthly RWA meetings and workshops, I stuffed my head with knowledge and reaped wisdom from those who had forged this path before me.
I discovered the weaknesses in my now completed first manuscript (Soul In His Eyes) and began edits.

Whilst in the UK on a house trade another story occurred to me. I had read of an up and coming book faire that was to move to Earls Court London the following spring. Boy would I love to attend. Unaffordable? (Especially considering I was already in the UK on holiday and could not see myself making two trips in one year)

Write it! (Of course, silly!)

Once again I found myself possessed by a story. Californian spicy romance authoress travels to UK to attend international book faire staying at old college friend’s rural cottage just outside the city. A freak snowstorm hits in April paralyzing London (as it occasionally does) and surrounds. Isolated at the cottage and unannounced, her ex boyfriend drops in. They think they are still in hate, but fate has other plans. Sunninghill Snow was born.



I wrote the book nearly entirely whilst in the UK. After a day out I’d type into the wee hours of the night. Using my gained knowledge of setting, pace and point of view, I wrote a fun fast and hot tale of two people who just didn’t seem to realize they’d never stopped loving each other.

Returning to Los Angeles, I polished the story and sent it off to a couple targeted publishers. Two of my LARA colleagues had already been successful with Phaze Books, so Phaze was on my short list. Freshly inspired by New York published author Shelley Bradley and her hot contemporaries as well as having listened to workshop tapes on how to write a spicy novella, I penned a really fun sexy story. It was offered contract by Phaze Books within weeks of submittal. I was on my way.

It was now October of 2006--fifteen months from first keystroke to contract-- nearly unheard of as I was to find out. Now in the midst of writing a romantic suspense, I was bogged down by all the red herrings and intrigue requiring close attention to detail. Evidently writing a suspense/thriller is one of the most difficult things to do. I knew not, once again charging forward unthwarted by convention and tales of doom.

There was this sexy English rock star in my mind and his equally charismatic personal manager. My experience with rock and roll groups through my brother left me with definite mixed feelings as to the desirability of becoming ensconced in this world. Wouldn’t any reasonable woman feel the same? Let’s take it a step farther and make the heroine hate rockers. Shadows Steal The Light was on its way.
Would my first manuscript ever see the light of day (like most first manuscripts) relegated to a dusty place under the bed?

...to be continued