SUZANNE RUDD HAMILTON

New Kindle Vella Romance Series

Click here for a free preview https://amzn.to/3vJ7cqE

Love is powerful, fulfilling, and redeeming. It makes you feel a sense of comfort, peace and pure enjoyment in life. Like most things, when it’s right, it’s very right and when it goes wrong, nothing can make you feel worse.

Does real love last? Can it last forever? And if it does, how do you know it? When do you know it? And is it possible to fall in love at first sight or is it a euphoric fantasy?

Is it possible to look across a water cooler, a bar, a street or a crowded room and fireworks ignite or at least flicker?

The search for love is as curious to us as the need to know how people achieved great wealth. Both accomplishments, both sometimes seemingly unattainable. After all, when you meet a new couple at a party, often don’t you ask – how did you meet? We all have an insatiable need to know.

In this new Kindle Vella Series, the pheomenon of love at First Sight is celebrated. These are REAL stories of REAL people (the names have been changed to protect the innocent…and not so innocent) who at first meeting experienced sparks, fireworks, trumpets and lightning bolts and fell in love.

Much has been written about love as one of the most encompassing and enlightening feelings that most people will ever experience. Different for everyone and yet mesmerizing and illusive for some who still believe in the depths of their souls or who just hope in their consciousness that at the end of the day, it can happen to us all.

The first three episodes are free and the following require purchased tokens. New episodes available regularly.

What If? Peace in Serene Scotland

Author Note: This was a writing group challenge to write a story with a fictional “what if” scenario about a historical time or event. I am enamored with history and the idea of alternate realities. In this incarnation, a time loop changes the scenario but protects the timeline. It’s interesting to consider how choices mold and alter events…

Surrounded by her loyal corgis following her every step, Lilibet walked along the rolling green and amber hills of her family’s Scotland estate looking for a buck. They’ve been tracking it for a week for a hunt later in the day.

The highland grounds of the Castle of Mey were her favorite place in the world. The early morning mists slightly levitating above the fields. The crisp smell of the heather waking up with dew. And the yellow sun gently rising from the horizon. It was a quiet and peaceful.

It was her twenty-first birthday and Lilibet’s mother, father, sister Margaret, and her new beau, Phillip, were all gathering for a family birthday breakfast before the hunting party arrived. They were all glad to be together once again for this momentous occasion.

The war years were difficult for everyone, especially the royal family. It was a roller coaster of uncertainty, pain and heartache for years. When it began, in her shelter of their tranquil estate, the blitzes in London seemed so far away. She felt for the poor families and worried for her father, who moved to London to help her uncle, the king, and the prime minister deal with the war. Luckily, for the worst of the Blitz her father was in Churchill’s underground bunker. When they heard a bomb hit Buckingham Palace, they were certain it was the end.

For many nights, Lilibet, Margaret and her mother laid awake listening to the solitary night crickets in the deafening silence of safety, wondering what would become of their country and the world, while feeling helpless in the turmoil.

After the bombing ceased, her father and Churchhill worked together with the Allies to defeat Hilter, but her uncle, the king, was terribly shaken. The shell that hit the palace convinced him failure was the only possible result and he retreated into a debilitating melancholy state. He even dispatched Queen Wallis to Switzerland for her safety.

Churchhill didn’t trust the king or the queen, so he had agents watching them and his suspicions were right. The agents found the queen engaged in seemingly innocent parties and meetings with people who knew people the Nazi hierarchy. When they infiltrated from the inside, they uncovered the queen was trying to forge a secret treaty to spare England in exchange for information on the Allied plans.

Luckily they were able to intercept and squash the dastardly alliance in its infancy. The queen was escorted back to England under close supervision and she and the king stayed under house arrest in Windsor Castle for the remainder of the war to avoid any further unseemly conduct.

Once Hitler was defeated, her uncle was forced by Churchill and Parliament to abdicate, claiming health reasons, but only a few knew of their deep deception. Now with her father as king and her mother as queen, they faced the task of rebuilding the country and building the people’s faith.

Lilibet shuddered just thinking of what could have happened. She was disappointed and ashamed of her uncle’s cowardice, but proud of her father and his steadfast resolve to serve the people. The sacrifice of her father and mother resonated with her and inspired her to spend her life in service of the United Kingdom for the day she would be queen.

Walking back to the house, Lilibet and the dogs strode through the maze of the proper English gardens to admire the beautiful blooms her mother planted. Her mother Elizabeth doted for hours year after year to sculpt it to perfection. She paused to consider the dedication required to create and keep something so wonderful.

For now, her path was clear. She looked forward to minimal royal duties and a happy life in their serene Scottish home. Maybe one day she would be the proud Navy wife of her first love and raise a bunch of children, along with her dogs and horses. Maybe she’d become a horsewoman owning a stable of wonderful prize steeds. She always had an eye for a good horse and loved to care for them.

Eventually, she would learn the family business beside her father. But with the worst behind them, she felt content with her glorious future and ready for what it would bring.

What is Emotional Bullying?

Most people agree a bully is someone who physically assaults another by pushing, hitting, punching, grabbing, knocking books out of hands, stuffing someone into a locker or a dumpster, sticking a head into a toilet, etc. But physical bullying is not the only brand of terror; emotional bullying often leaves as many and deeper scars, especially since it’s not as easily detected.

But there’s debate over what is and isn’t bullying. Especially for some who have never been bullied, the outsiders and even insider’s view of bullying can be murky.

In its simplest explanation, emotional bullying is when someone makes another feel lesser, while asserting their dominance by belittling or giving orders or commands. And many people, adults and kids, don’t even realize they’re doing it. This can be a semi-regular or habitual occurrence, leaving no place for the bullied person to breathe.

Intent is communicated in words. “I didn’t mean that,” “you know what I meant,” and “you are reading too much into it” are arguments often used when someone verbally and emotionally bullies another, but in actuality may reveal that person’s inability to effectively communicate. After all, communication, by definition, is when a message is sent from one point to another. But it’s the sender’s job to communicate the message to the receiver, not the other way around. If someone doesn’t receive your email, you don’t tell them they should have expected the email and should have intuitively known and understood the message that never came.

Differences of opinions can also degrade into emotional bullying. If you call someone “stupid,” most people would concur… that’s bullying. But what if you say… “you’re wrong,” “you’re making too big a deal of this,” or “you’re being too sensitive” – is that bullying? Yes, it is. Those statements are directed at the person, not the disagreement. Opinions are in the first person… “I think.” If someone changes the opinion into “You don’t, shouldn’t, etc.…,” it exposes a need for supremacy to win the debate without merit by belittling the other’s opinion. There’s a difference between disagreeing with another and diminishing them.

Everyone has a right to their opinion and the right to disagree with another’s opinion, but no one has the right to tell anyone their opinion is less than. If I say, the water is blue and you say the water is green, that’s ok. It’s a difference of opinion. But if I say “you’re crazy, that water is blue, you don’t know what you’re talking about”…that’s bullying. Often people resort to bullying when they want you to agree with them and can’t get you to change your mind.

Psychologically, bullies declare superiority in physical or verbal forms over another to compensate for something lacking in their own esteem or to claim control. These people will sometimes use commands to diminish another while elevating themselves. Commands like “Forget it,” “Get over it,” “Move on,” “Get off of it,” “Don’t worry about it,” especially when prefaced by “You need to…” is one person ordering another what to do.

Anyone, any age can bully another and anyone, any age can be bullied. Parents, teachers, spouses, partners, friends, siblings, significant others or even strangers can all stealthily and even inadvertently cut emotional scars into others. This can cause resentment; lack of self-esteem and can fester into long-term issues which often lay dormant until they erupt, creating division which can break the person or the relationship.

Several tools can be used to prevent bullying…

Clearly communicate your message and intent in words; don’t expect another to understand your meaning if you don’t say it.
Stay on topic in disagreements and express YOUR opinion. Use “I” not “you.” And sometimes you have to agree to disagree or find a fair way to arrive at an agreement, like flipping a coin.
Respect everyone’s opinion and feelings. Only they can decide how they think and feel.
Don’t try to make yourself taller by standing on someone else.

It all comes down to this…making someone feel inferior can never make you superior.

Happiness is NOT a Warm RV

In a pandemic world of limited safe travel, two girlfriends and I decided to take an RV trip to visit another friend a few states away who was isolated, depressed and in need of a boost.

With the best intentions, we rented a small RV to minimize contact with the outside world. It was the perfect plan. We’d stay at RV campgrounds to sleep and reduce nighttime driving and we brought food, so the only stops were for gas once a day. But, if you’ve ever been trapped in a tin can for 72 hours with even very good friends, you’ll discover what I did – friendship has its limits and nerves don’t.

We tried to anticipate problems by agreeing to “going native.” With limited storage space and the normal accruements of three women, we decided room for food must be prioritized over makeup, hair styling devices and large luggage. We each were allowed one medium-sized duffle bag with three changes of clothes and would do laundry on arrival. This alone nearly torpedoed the trip.

My predisposed picture of an RV trip comes from wacky scenes in Lucille Ball’s movie, “The Long Long Trailer” where she is thrown out of an unlocked door into mud and pummeled with flour and other ingredients out of unsecured cabinets. Unfortunately, my lens was fairly accurate.

Our first hazard came quickly. Within a few minutes, we heard a piercing alarm, as the other two annoyingly questioned the newbie driver…“What did you do?”

After we pressed all the buttons to no avail and could no longer stand the stabbing noise, we pulled over and called the RV shop. The first of many calls with a quick fix that I’m sure had them laughing at we three dim old ladies. Turns out the carbon monoxide detector was located in the banquette table, right where any normal person would put their feet. Needless to say, this was not the last time that sound plagued us. What dimwit thought of that brilliant location for a heart stopping alarm?

We drove in shifts to give everyone a break, but driving the RV proved challenging. We all underestimated the crosswind and the wide load of the RV which had each of us frequently riding the rumble strips on the shoulder. The first time it happened, we were terrified, holding on for dear life and yelling at the driver, who was also screaming in fear. After we realized this was one of many perils on this trip, the horror subsided, but the discomfort didn’t. The road rash and bad shocks left an impression on our bottoms and our waning anxiety.

Life inside the RV, or the rolling turd as I began to call it, was not much better. The first time we tried to make a sandwich, I was having flashbacks to the dreaded Lucy movie, but in real time. Standing and performing any job amidst the rumble strips and swaying cab took practice that geriatric ally challenged knees don’t favor. You get bumped and bruised a lot. Even simple tasks seemed difficult and required multiple attempts in slow motion. Just buttering bread you felt like a malfunctioning robot with a loss of full kinetic operation.

Then with one slight break for traffic, the bread, butter, meat and cheese slide off the counter like they’re fleeing while plastic cups, breakfast cereal boxes and other pantry items fall on your head from the cabinets above. Lessons learned. You need to hear two clicks on the cabinet to ensure they are locked, not one. And sit down when making a sandwich.

The slight braking mishap continued to be a cruel test, though. Anything on the table like cards, laptops, glasses and cell phones would regularly plunge to their doom with each press of the brake pedal, even light ones. And there was a lot of traffic. After day one, the driver tried to shout warning while the others gripped everything like octopi attempting to ride out an earthquake. Good thing there were cup holders for drinks or else we would all have been sticky and drenched.

Outside foibles aside, I think the most surprising annoyances came from inside the RV. Actually, three fifty-five plus women are not the best company when trapped. For the sake of brevity, I will list the infractions and save the commiseration. Snoring; CPAP machine noises; horrible driving (especially next to mountains); endless negotiation of the heat and cold settings which would never please anyone; and continual absentmindedness regarding turning on and off lights and water pumps, resulting in one odorous day with no water and no showers and several nights in complete darkness.

But the straw that broke the camel’s back and my head was the chattering. The unanticipated volume and clatter of the RV was menacing, to say the least. Everything creaked, rattled, banged, jangled and clanged, creating a symphony of irritating sounds. My headache began at one in the first hour and reached Defcon five proportions by day three. And because I was in the driving pool, I could only drink myself to sleep at night, which was never peaceful. I direct you to the previously mentioned snoring and CPAP machine noises. If I were a cartoon, my head would’ve been too big for the RV by day two.

And the loud unabated road noise caused every conversation to be at a volume of eleven. Loud one-sided cell phone conversations were aggravating, but the maddening prattle of nonstop nervous and bored chatter left me wanting to hurl myself out of the RV into the Smoky Mountains below to escape. My only measure of passive resistance was when driving. At least I could roll my eyes, make faces and silently mock them undetected. It turns out the wonderfully fun discussions we always had over afternoon wine or game nights turned into empty idle babble when forced in a continuous loop. Maybe wine does improve banter and friendships.

When we finally arrived at our friend’s house, I was tempted to rush out the door and kiss the ground for safe arrival, but I settled for being the first released out the door. I have a sneaking suspicion that even though our remote friend was desperate for company; we all were frantic to get out of that tin can. The only problem, in a few days we had to go back home and do it all over again.

The White City

From her first step off the el train, Maggie’s eyes widened in wonder. The newspaper accounts and word-of-mouth tales of the grand White City paled in comparison with her green eyes looking at the real thing.

After seven years in America, she was accustomed to the sight of buildings tall enough to reach the sky, but this was different. It was magnificent – the most brilliant collection of crisp and clean white buildings she could imagine.

The expansive, elegant neoclassical Court of Honor buildings created u-shaped mirror of glistening reflection in the water basin in the center. Behind the sparkling fountain stood a series of roman columns topped with alabaster statues that overlooked the lakefront, as if standing guard. A giant glittering gold Grecian lady towered over the spectacle like a golden key welcoming entry.

Among the sea of black bowlers and straw hats, Irish immigrant Maggie and her new beau, Scottish arrival Davey McIntyre, moved in a daze marveling at the magical city created in less than two years to celebrate the 1893 Columbia Exposition World’s Fair.

Over the last several months, Maggie heard the other servants in her Lake Shore Drive household tell fanciful tales they read about of the beautiful and mysterious wonderland, wishing for a chance to see it with her own eyes. Her employers attended the grand fanfare of opening day and regaled the staff with first-hand accounts of the glorious firework display over the basin and the miraculous dusk illumination of thousands of electric light bulbs dancing to shed beams of light over the exhibitions, tricking nighttime back to day.

“What do you want to do first, me lassie?” Davey asked taking her hand. “I’ve a pocket full of nickels and the world is your oyster.”

Maggie knew he saved for two months to spare the cost of several days’ wages to give his best girl this once in a lifetime experience. But with the train fare and the fifty cent per person admission, she feigned interest only in the free exhibitions to see as much as they could and save their pennies for a special ride or two.

For hours, they viewed the art and beautiful pieces of grand china, glass, and glamorous textiles from all over the world. They walked through many pavilions displaying the latest innovations in machinery and invention, which were expected to usher in a new century of prosperity. One of the most memorable was the hulking Edison tower of lights which was choreographed in time to the Blue Danube waltz.

Touring “Little Europe” to sample the architecture, music, food and drink from abroad, Maggie felt a comforting warmth she hadn’t experienced since she left the Emerald Isle.

“Try this beer,” she boasted, “Me dad said there’s nothing in the world like an Irish stout.”

“Maybe, but it doesn’t top a Scotch Whiskey and a bag pipe ceòl mòr ,” he chided.

“If you don’t mind me saying, it sounds like when they killed the cow,” Maggie laughed.

And so started the playful but proud banter arguing which display was better, Ireland or Scotland. The tie-breaker was the Gallery of Beauty visit between the pretty Irish maid and the handsome Scottish lass. They finally agreed that the dainty maid would carry the day. At least they both got a taste of each other’s homeland.

The exotic Midway plaisance recreated the lands of the far east with realistic buildings, food, marketplaces, music and native dances.

“Can ya imagine the beautiful dresses that could be made out of this silky gold fabric,” Maggie wondered as she draped the cloth over her arms.

“Well, I can’t afford enough for a dress, but could ye make a scarf outta a wee bit?” Davey said as she smiled and nodded.

“Are you a seamstress?” a young girl standing next to her in the market asked in a harried voice.

“Well, me ma is a dress maker and taught me everything she knew,” Maggie boasted.

“Maybe you can help us.” She grabbed Maggie’s hand and whisked her to a nearby tent. There she saw a gaggle of young half-dressed Egyptian girls in revealing harem clothing.

“Fatima ripped her pantaloons in the last performance and we can’t fix them,” the girl said handing Maggie the garment, needle and thread.

The sheer fabric was tricky to work with and mending the break in the middle of the pant would take a skilled hand. Maggie learned to sew lace at her mother’s feet, so her needlework was second to none, In just a few minutes, she restored the tear perfectly.

The girls thankfully ushered Davey and Maggie into the tent to watch Little Egypt’s show in gratitude.

Most of the gossip about the fair surrounded the risqué costumes and “impure” indigenous dances by bellydancer Little Egypt. Her “hoochee coochee” dance was the hit of fair and equally scorned by the “church ladies” of the city.

Maggie was entranced at the astonishing way she could twist and move her body. But when she saw the enormous smile on Davey’s face, she said grabbed his hand to lead him out of the tent.

“Wait,” said a man standing next to the girls. “Do you need a job? We could use a good seamstress.” He handed a confused Maggie a card and told her to come back tomorrow if she was interested. Maggie smiled and put the card in her purse, waving goodbye to the girls.

As dusk peaked, they cued for the soaring Ferris Wheel, a new engineering phenomenon. Rushing in with crowds of others, they garnered a perfect view through the metal webbed windows in the steel framed cab car to see the sun set on the unique White City and a day they would not soon forget.

Note: This is a short story adaptation of a small part of a new historical romance book Irish Eyes, which is book 2 to the Timeless American Romance series of books to be released in Spring 2022. Sign up for my email list on the home page to get updates and sneak peeks on this and more books.

What you want to see

Death and afterlife are one of the common unsolved mysteries of human reality. In popular media, ghosts and aberrations are regular protagonists or antagonists, giving credence to their existence and acceptance in popular culture. But can they really be seen?

Tales of ghost sightings are a plenty. There are whole commercial industries devoted to the pursuit. Skeptics continually question their operation, but some say undiscovered portions of the human brain do give people a sixth sense to see into a different plane. Or do we see what we want to see?

I’ve longed been intrigued by ghost sightings to the point of regular tours in historic areas that promise the possibility of witnessing a specter. Mostly they are historic tours full of fanciful tales of intrigue, murder, heartbreak and woe from a long gone time. Based on the storytelling prowess of the guide, they are often quality entertainment.

Visiting some of the most reportedly haunted areas in the country, each time I open myself to the possibility and garner the hope of actually seeing a ghost. Tour guides always point out where past guests have unknowingly photographed or actually reported seeing a ghost. This is usually followed by banter of one or two fellow tourists regaling the group with their proud personal accounts of spirit detection. But did they? Or was it a matter of boasting, wishful thinking and booze. Some areas do allow open liquor on the tours. This can make you more susceptible to many things.

In Gettysburg, there was the tale of the nightly light spotted in a nearby school dormitory that was used as a make-shift hospital during the Civil War.

New Orleans offered many opportunities of all manner of ghouls, as many believe the French Quarter is laden with magical aprons of mystic energy from voodoo practitioners past and present. I’ve been on that tour twice hearing new stories and visiting new haunts each time.

A small pre-revolutionary hotel in tiny Williamsburg promised aberrations with tales of heartbreak, scandal and murder by several former scorned occupants.

And even in my adopted home of Ft. Myers, a longstanding school and courthouse tell of the mean headmistress and affable judge who just never left their prior occupations and can be seen working overtime still into their afterlife.

The anticipation always added to the adrenaline rush of the exciting opportunity and likely the appeal of these tours, but unfortunately, I’ve never seen anything supernatural. So, while I leave each tour informed and thoroughly entertained; I am often slightly disappointed and left wondering why.

Is it that I want to see something no one else does? Or that I have an insatiable need to solve a mystery. Since I do write whodunit novels and plays, that could be part of the issue. But I also think it’s part of a bigger picture with most people. If ghosts do exist, does that mean there is life after death? Can you linger past your expiration date? A comforting feeling for some, a nightmare for others.

As for me, the biased part will continue to believe in the possibility that benevolent or even somewhat mischievous spirits roam this plane, one foot in and one foot out, to resolve some leftover business from their past lives. But the realist in me would like to see some empirical evidence, just once. My mind is open; my drink is full and I will continue to search for educational and amusement purposes. I am ready to be proven right.

A Starry Night

Galaxy Galaxy Starry Night Sky Halo Background, Star, Galaxy, Starry Sky Background Image for Free Download

One of the best things about being a kid is exploring and noticing the little things in life. Tyler and his friends were no different.

On a warm summer night, they enjoyed a rite of passage for eleven-year-olds, the backyard tent sleepover. Tyler and his dad pitched a small pup tent in the backyard and laid out some of sleeping bags and other camping equipment acquired during the family’s all too brief camping experiment.

They stacked some firewood in the pit to roast marshmallows for S’mores and cook hot dogs on a stick, the essential menu for camping.

Tyler was excited to have his friends, Billy, Cole and Mel, short for Melinda, for the sleepover outside. He had wanted to camp out for a lot time, but his dad said they had to be eleven before they could sleep alone outside.

Billy and Mel were neighbors and the three played together for years. Cole was a school friend who lived a few blocks away.

Tyler wanted to host on his own, so his mom and dad went through all the steps with him and promised to leave them alone, but kept a watchful eye on them through the windows.

Most of the culinary camping techniques were improvised, such as the use of the long wooden hot dogs sticks as Jedi light sabers locked in battle. Unfortunately, the fired hot dogs did not fare as well as they were flung two and fro in the skirmish. The kids just wiped them off and ate them anyway…five second rule.

The methods of roasting marshmallows ended in a contest of who could keep their marshmallow on fire for the longest time, which made for some charcoal flavored S’mores.

Not unlike most sleepovers, there was very little sleep, so they all settled into their sleeping bags, staring up to view the clear sky and bountiful nighttime landscape of stars.

“Look, I saw this in a book. There’s the big dipper and the little dipper,” Mel exclaimed, tracing the heavenly figures out slowly with her finger.

“What’s a dipper?” Billy said.

“I don’t know, it just showed the pictures of these constellations in the book?” Mel snapped a little.

“What’s a constellation?” Cole asked.

“The pictures in the sky made up by stars, I guess,” Mel answered quickly.

“I don’t see anything. Just a bunch of stars,” Billy said.

“Look, they’re right there, see?” Mel insisted and traced the pattern in the sky again faster this time.

“Ok, if you say so. I don’t see anything but stars,” Billy shrugged.

“Oh, I see them now,” Cole said. “That’s cool. You say you found it in a book?”

“Yes, there were some other star pictures too, but I don’t see them now. Just the dippers,” Mel answered.

“I think the stars are like a painting in the sky,” Tyler said. “Tonight it looks like a bunch of puppies playing in a yard to me.”

“I didn’t read anything about puppies in the star book,” Mel answered skeptically.

“Oh, I can see the puppies now,” Cole said.

“I don’t see puppies,” Mel crossed her arms.

“I still don’t see anything,” Billy sighed.

“It can be anything to anybody or different things to everyone,” Tyler explained. “It’s just what you see through your own eyes and with your imagination. It changes every night.”

“That’s not what the book said,” Mel maintained.

“My dad said imagination is all in your head,” Billy said.

“Imagination is in your head, dummy,” Cole laughed.

“It’s in your eyes and your head. It’s what makes us all special,” Tyler said. “It would be boring if everyone saw the same thing all the time.”

NEW RELEASE! PUZZLE AT PEACOCK PERCH Secret Senior Sleuths Society Mysteries Book 1

Why have one detective when you can have a whole secret society? This group of seniors is making time amid their bridge and mahjong tournaments, bingo games, arts and crafts, and tennis and pickle ball matches to solve mysteries together in their community. They put all the knowledge from their former occupations to work together to crack the case.

In this first book in the Secret Senior Sleuths Society of Peacock Perch Series, these seniors are tasked with a genuine puzzle and their original investigation of many “The Case of the Vanishing Vixen.” Their neighbor, Willow Wisteria disappeared, but not without a trace. They’ll use all their cunning, life experience and the knowledge from their former occupations to follow the trail of gossip and social media posts about Willow to gather clues and find suspects with means, motive and opportunity.

People think retirement communities are quiet with sleepy residents, but in fact, Peacock Perch is a typical senior village full of misdeeds and mystery that keeps the detectives very busy. And they know just where to look.

Now Available on Kindle, Kindle Unlimited and Large Print Edition paperback on Amazon.

Subscribe to the newsletter on the Home page to receive exclusive videos of the secret camera footage discussed in the book.

The Perfect Date

The beaming sun stretched its smile over the park, enveloping the lake. A comforting warm breeze coaxed ripples to dance across the surface in aimless joy to the beat of a full symphony of lilting melodic wonders playing the soundtrack for love in the band shell. Two swans sang an operatic aria accompianment while floating about in undisturbed harmony.

Add in a basket full of wine, bread and cheese and it was the perfect setting for romance. I even saw a butterfly go by. Neal left no stone unturned to create a beautiful first date.

He was attentive. He was kind. He was generous. It was everything I could have asked for and more than I expected from a date on harmoniousencounters.com.

I went into online dating with a lot of skepticism. This site asked every question except my blood type and promised to use their groundbreaking algorithm to find my perfect match. Well, it worked.

Neal and I had everything possible in common from the choice of wine and type of music to books, politics… and on and on. We talked for hours about every manner of topic from travel and wines to architectural styles and classical music preferences. He was a simply perfect match. Yet I sit in this perfectly wonderful setting with this charming man across from me and all I can think of is… “Meh?”

It was pleasant, but I was not attracted to him in the slightest – not at all. I don’t understand it. He was smart, good-looking and funny, but that spark, the joie de vivre, just wasn’t there.

I dreaded the end-of-date kiss like the plague. Everyone puts so much emphasis on the fireworks of the first kiss. But if there are no embers the entire day, the pressing of lips together can’t create a fire. They’re not flint. Unfortunately, I was right. It was like kissing a friend or relative; it was just pressing lips, nothing more.

That night as I cozied into a cup of hot tea and my romance novel du jour, I started to think I expect too much from a first date or any dates. In all these novels I read, its instant chemistry. They either hate each other or love each other at first site, then sparks fly. Of course, it’s fiction, but after a lifetime of reading books and watching sappy movies, I think I’m programmed to believe in love at first site and happy endings.

Maybe the perfect person is the wrong fit. Opposites attract, right? Maybe you need someone who’s your exact opposite and makes your blood boil to get your gears running. Neal was too perfect. Instead of Prince Charming, maybe I’m more of a dashing rogue girl. Where do you find them? Is there an unharmonious.com?

Well, for right now, I know where to find them – right in the pages of this book. But first, I need to cut the cord. Even if my happy ending isn’t easy, it will never happen on a computer. harmoniousencounters.com—delete account.

Common Sense Perceived

Ali loved her Noni’s seaside house in Florida. The minute she walked off the plane, she could feel the warm sunshine on her pale cold and wind-battered northern skin. It was so inviting, it enveloped every pore in her body and made her smile. Whisking off her coat and putting on her sunglasses, she was in Florida mode again.

When they arrived, she immediately kicked off her shoes and ran around to the beach backyard to immerse her toes in the warm white sand.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath to inhale the ocean. The salty balmy breezes and distant sounds of the seagulls bouncing off the gentle tide always welcomed her home. It was a feast for the senses and to Ali, there was nothing else like it.

“Come on in,” Noni laughed. “You can’t start your vacation without my famous sandwiches.”

Ali walked into the aroma of the crisp turkey and ham Monte-Cristo sandwiches ala Noni. Her secret ingredient was parmesan cheese baked into the bread-machine bread, which gave it a delicious and unexpected flavor.

Noni’s home had been in the family for nearly 70 years. Each generation spent their vacations visiting the beach to escape the cold Minnesota winters. Noni’s parents bought the house when nothing else was around it. Over the years, larger houses and condominiums sprouted up around it like towering weeds, leaving the strange spaceship-like house an odd oasis link to the past.

Inside, the house looked like a typical beach home with soft tan and white colors everywhere. Since Noni moved here full time, she completely renovated the home with its open spaces and wide curved walls to reflect her decorator tastes. Instead of the mismatched hammy-down afterthought it used to be as a vacation place, Noni turned it into a showplace dedicated to the beach. She added a big deck and full glass sliding doors to the back to enjoy the ocean breeze and spectacular multi-million dollar view. She usually kept all the windows and glass doors open to experience the beckoning warm breezes and ocean sounds at all times.

Outside, the strange round spaceship shape perched on the pillars still resembled a UFO on a launchpad waiting to erupt into outerspace. Whenever anyone asks about the unique look, Noni says,

“My father was obsessed with space travel and it was the 1950’s, after all.”

The family laughed and accepted the shaped of the home as city rules did not allow any major outside changes without complete demolition as it was “grandfathered” into the old codes. Noni just barely got the deck put up without a fight.

The village people were lucky. Noni was a one-of-a-kind force. She was fearless, funny, creative and formidable. Her 60’s hippie roots never went gray. She tried anything, fought for everything and explained nothing. You never knew what she was going to do next.

For Ali, it was a home away from home. For five weeks in the summer and two weeks in the winter, she lived with Noni in the spaceship beach house and bummed around swimming, collecting shells and most recently boogieboarding sailing. Last summer she worked for weeks to get up and stay up before she went home. Now, she could zip up and down the surf into the yellow and blue horizon.

Away from the beach days were spent reading, painting on canvasses with Noni, and exploring the area looking for interesting sights or antique sales. Over the years, they had many fun adventures getting lost on nearby islands searching for out of the way tourist spots and the elusive glass dolphin figures that Noni and now Ali collected.

It was fun. It was easy. It was comfortable. And when her friends all talked about the places they were going on vacations, Ali would smile and say “Just going home to the beach.”

For her, coming back to the beach home and grandmother she loved was just common sense.