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About the author:
A seductress of sensual words and a lover of paranormal plots, Mac enjoys writing thrilling paranormal stories filled with naughty fun and hilarious hijinks. She is the author of numerous paranormal series that weave suspense, adventure and a good joke into a one-of-a-kind experience that readers are guaranteed to enjoy. From long adventure novels to tasty little short-story treats, there's a size and adventure for everyone.
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Also check out her website at macflynn.com
Here is a short sample from the book:
From tragedy, hope springs eternal.
For me, that hope was a long time coming. My parents were out on the rare dinner night. It was their anniversary, if I recall. Six years of marriage, and four of them with me. I’d been left with my grandparents, the ones who had raised my dad. Grandpa was always a blast, letting me ride his back, and Grandma was the best cook in the county.
Then the doorbell rang. That sound was long and hollow, like the tolling of a church bell at a funeral. My grandmother answered it. I can remember sitting on the floor of the living room with Grandpa. The doorway looked into the entrance hall. Two policemen stood on the stoop. Their voices were low, but the pity in their eyes was loud and clear, even to me.
Grandma’s hand flew to her mouth and her eyes widened. Tears pooled in them as she stumbled back.
“Bee!” Grandpa shouted as he flew to his feet and hurried over to her. He caught her before she dropped.
She spun around and buried her face into his chest. Her sobbing wracked her body. It was then that I knew that something truly terrible had happened. Grandma never cried. The policemen left. Their terrible duty was done. Now my grandparents had their own terrible duty to do.
Grandpa helped Grandma into a chair and came over to me. He knelt in front of me and clasped my hands in his large, worn ones. His eyes looked into mine. He was trying not to cry.
“Jane, there’s. . .there’s been an accident,” he told me. I nodded. I knew about those, but why was he crying? “Your parents. . .your parents’ car rolled over. They didn’t make it.”
“Make it to dinner?” I remember asking him. I didn’t want to face the truth. Why would I?
He shook his head. “No. They’re. . .they’re dead, pumpkin, but don’t you worry. Grandma and I will take care of you.”
He had more words of comfort to give to me, but I didn’t hear them. I couldn’t hear them. My parents. Dead. I was just old enough to understand what that meant. It meant they weren’t coming back. No more of Mom’s smiles. No more of Dad’s piggy-back rides. Gone. Fleeting innocence vanished in a single instance.
Tears welled up in my eyes. Grandma wiped her own and joined Grandpa in front of me. She opened her arms. I fell into them, balling my eyes out.
“It’s okay, sweetie,” she whispered to me through her own tears. She couldn’t stop them coming any more than I could stop mine. “We’re going to take good care of you for them.”
Grandpa wrapped his arms around us, and for a long time we sat on the floor joined in our grief.
Maybe that’s why I’m so close to them, and why it was so shocking to find out just how little I knew about them.