Round Robin Blog - Emotional Wounds

 

 

This month our topic is emotional wounds for our protagonists – and how to help them learn to cope with and accept those wounds.

 First, what is an emotional wound? We likely all have one or more, to some extent, and it is the same for the characters we create.

 Wounds can be caused by an event or series of events, by a person, particularly someone close, be it a friend or family member, from either a parent or parents, or a (usually older) sibling. It might be caused by a careless comment heard in passing, one that our character hears at a vulnerable point in their life. Rather than let it go, our character hangs on to it until it becomes ingrained in them, colouring their thoughts and feelings in a negative way.

 However, much like an alcoholic who cannot recover until he or she recognizes their condition and makes the personal choice to overcome it, our characters are unlikely to recover from an emotional wound unless they look into themselves and choose to make changes. As their creators, we authors can start by building a believable backstory for the characters. The deeper the wound, the more complex the character, which can then lead to creating a strong character arc.  

 What is your character’s greatest fear, and why? Answering the why can be the path to overcoming the fear. Perhaps your character was bullied as a child. Not having the physical or mental strength to overcome it at the time the event(s) occurred might mean your character has difficulty standing up for himself or herself. A weak person making a bold decision can be the start of a change in that character.

 One of my characters was overshadowed and controlled by her mother – until the mother was out of the picture. My character’s first step on her path to healing and growth was stepping alone outside her front door. Mother/daughter or father/son wounds are often the strongest, deepest wounds to heal.

 Perhaps your character has a physical flaw which they have been teased about or otherwise made aware of. This might make them not value their self, to make them think they have less to offer than the next person. It might make them unlovable when what they want most in life is to love and be loved.

 Another of my characters dealt with her father’s murder by tracking down the murderer. The villain in one of my short stories suffered abuse as a child, which led to him being an abuser and ultimately committing murder.

 This is an extensive and complex subject, and I have given only brief examples of ways in which characters can be wounded. Because I write historical and contemporary romance, my characters' wounds are usually resolved through love. Idealistic, maybe, but the genre known for its happy-ever-after endings still leads the market.

 Now to visit my fellow bloggers to see what they have to say on the subject.

  

Connie Vines http://mizging.blogspot.com/

Dr. Bob Rich https://wp.me/p3Xihq-2W9

Fiona McGier http://www.fionamcgier.com/

Marci Baun http://www.marcibaun.com/blog/

Skye Taylor http://www.skye-writer.com/blogging_by_the_sea

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 For our April topic, we are discussing how authors breathe life into their characters. Every author has their own methods. What works for one doesn't or won't work for another. This is my take.

 

Love ‘em or hate ‘em, a writer’s characters can make or break a story. An author may base them on someone or several someone’s they know, or they may be complete figments of that author’s imagination.

Whichever way an author approaches character building, there are some tried and true methods. I’ve been fortunate that most of my characters have come to me almost fully formed. I can see them. I know their names, but I must get to know them after that.

I have always been methodical, and the method that works for me is the character-building questionnaire. Some may call it a developmental worksheet or character arc plan. Beyond hair and eye colour, what is the character's physical type? You may have a tall male character, but how is he tall? Is he proportionate, or does he have a short torso and long legs? The same applies to a female character. Do they find their height awkward and stoop or otherwise try to disguise it, or are they proud of it and stand with shoulders back and head held high?

One of the most delightful heroines I ever came across was Winnifred Gardner in LaVyrle Spencer’s Spring Fancy. Win blinks with one eye. Not winks, but blinks. How can a reader not be intrigued by that distinction? Or how about Catherine Cookson’s ‘Mallen streak,’ that section of white or grey hair in an otherwise dark head that marks the Mallen men? Then there’s Rex Stout’s PI, Nero Wolfe, who rarely leaves his home and has his sidekick Archie do the legwork for him. Many of Georgette Heyer’s aristocratic heroes are proud, cold, and bored men whom Society believes the worst.

What causes Win to blink with one eye, or why does Nero Wolfe not like leaving his home? The Mallen streak is a condition where the hair follicles are devoid of pigment, a harmless but distinctive condition. And what does hide behind the proud, cold, and bored facades of those Regency rogues and rakes?

Knowing everything I can about my characters, and maybe finding out even more as I write them into life, helps build a better character and story. None of the characteristics are presented as a laundry list. More dropped into the narrative through dialogue or introspection. Is a character’s hair colour more important than the fact that she’s particular about the shape of her fingernails? That would depend on the story’s genre and what part either feature might have to play as a clue or red herring.

I will conduct a character interview if I get stuck at any time. I have lists of questions and pick six or seven. Sometimes the answers come quickly. Other times they take a long time to surface. Those questions the character does not want to answer tend to dig the deepest, but when the answers come, they can be an ‘aha’ moment and make the person on paper burst into life. All these facts, the weighing up of strengths and weaknesses, likes and dislikes, hopes and fears, may not appear on the page. However, they have helped me, the author, get to know my characters better and in doing that, presenting a more realistic cast in my books.

And for more ways to breathe life into characters, check out what my fellow bloggers have to say.

Anne Stenhouse http://annestenhousenovelist.wordpress.com

Connie Vines http://mizging.blogspot.com/

Diane Bator https://dbator.blogspot.com/

Dr. Bob Rich https://wp.me/p3Xihq-2TY

Fiona McGier http://www.fionamcgier.com/

Marci Baun http://www.marcibaun.com/blog/

A.J. Maguire http://ajmaguire.wordpress.com/
Helena Fairfax http://www.helenafairfax.com/blog

Judith Copek http://lynx-sis.blogspot.com/

Skye Taylor http://www.skye-writer.com/blogging_by_the_sea

 

 

 

  

The Viscount and the Orphan

 

AVAILABLE HERE

THE VISCOUNT AND THE ORPHAN by Rosemary Morris

Gabriel, Viscount Cavanagh, is a gambler, womanizer, and bankrupt. His grandfather, merchant Adam Maynard, will absolve him of his debts if Gabriel agrees to marry Adam's wealthy orphaned ward, Dorinda Davenport.

Sixteen-year-old plain, plump Dorinda, fueled by romantic notions from the novels she reads, considers Gabriel a knight in shining armour who will whisk her away from the orphanage to a life of love and luxury.

Nothing could be further than the truth, and this story’s eventual truth has a stunning twist. Along the way, Gabriel and Dorinda grow as characters. Gabriel's friend Avery is an engaging foil and the 18^th Century historical detail, as always with Ms. Morris’s books, is on point. You will surely enjoy this tale if you like historical romance, or romance in general.

 

This month’s Round Robin topic asks how can contemporary fiction keep up with our swiftly changing world, politically, socially, or technically. Or how do you keep your stories located in time?

It is a good question, but one that does not affect my writing. My genre is historical romance, so while I delve into the 19^th century, I don’t worry so much about any of those topics. Politics a little, the social world a lot, and technicalities hardly at all. 

The technicalities of the time were about the craft involved in producing furniture, of making the best clocks and carriages. There were theories on how to breed the best carriage horses or hunters. As Juliana Clifton discovers in His Ocean Vixen, weapons vary in weight and use depending on whether it is a rapier or cutlass. Beyond maybe creating an image of what a pair of Manton’s duelling pistols looked like, describing Captain Morris’s pistol crutches in Hester Dymock, or mapmakers’ instruments in Charlotte Gray, technicalities are not at the top of my list. 

The social scene makes much more impact on my novels. The Regency era was well known for its strictures. From the correct time of day to visit friends and acquaintances and the length of the visit to the rules and regulations for riding and driving in Hyde Park, Society was rigid. Confusingly, morning calls were made between one and four o’clock in the afternoon. This was because the whole period before dinner was referred to as morning.

 A visitor would send in a calling card via a footman. The caller would be invited to join her if the lady of the house was receiving visitors. Visits were usually no longer than thirty minutes, less if other visitors arrived and the first visitor would then leave. Each visit was long enough to be polite, and short enough not to outstay one’s welcome.

A lady could only venture out alone in a closed carriage. Other than that, she would travel in the company of a gentleman or chaperone. If a single lady happened to be found in the company of a single gentleman by chance, the most likely outcome would be a proposal of marriage to save the lady’s virtue and satisfy her parents.

Other than referring to battles and incidents during the Peninsular Wars, politics rarely rears its ugly head in my books. Politics has no place even in the two contemporary western romances I have written, nor will it in my current work in progress which is another contemporary romance. I will leave that to more skilled authors than myself. I am looking forward to reading what my fellow bloggers have to say. Find them here:

 

Connie Vines              http://mizging.blogspot.com/

Dr. Bob Rich               https://wp.me/p3Xihq-2QS

Anne Stenhouse          http://wp.me/31Isq

Helena Fairfax             http://www.helenafairfax.com/blog

Skye Taylor                 http://www.skye-writer.com/blogging_by_the_sea

 

 

Thanks to shepherd.com for promoting my book His Unexpected Muse, Book 3 in my Berkeley Square series. You can find it here https://shepherd.com/best-books/that-end-with-happy-everafters-for-any-era.

The above are the books I selected for my book list that accompanied the promo. It is free for authors and worth taking a look at. You might like to check one of their new features at https://shepherd.com/bookshelf/storytelling.

 

 

 

Look at us! A new logo and a great blog topic to start the New Year: New Beginnings. How do you motivate yourself to get back to writing when life has interrupted your flow and/or how do you begin a new writing challenge? A new genre? A new series? 

Life interrupted my flow last year. I had a book to finish, books to edit, blogs to write, and no inclination to write another word when that was all done.

I went to the UK for April and most of May, visiting my three children before flying to Glasgow to meet up with a friend who was born there. She was happy to show me her Scotland, and after not enough time in Glasgow, we travelled to the island of Arran, off Scotland’s west coast. Arran is Scotland in miniature, with the scenery in the north of the island like the highlands and the south the lowlands. Some of it was rugged and regal, threatening at times when the weather changed, the clouds rolling in from the Atlantic and soaking us with cold, heavy rain. Lots of atmosphere here prompted me to scribble notes in the pad I always have in my purse.

Scotch is my tipple of choice, so going to a distillery for a tasting was a must. We first visited the Lochranza distillery in the north of Arran and then Lagg in the south. I learnt so much, not just about the distilling process but the smuggling that went on too. Hmm. Smuggling. There’s a trope here. We visited the heritage museum and listened to one of the volunteers talking about the clearances, a dark time when entire communities moved out of their homes and off their land. The stories we heard sparked my imagination. What would it be like to live off seaweed, fish, and little else? Lady – what shall I call her? - was furious with her father when he claimed the crofters' land. Now, where did that thought come from?

After a week on Arran, we set off again, this time to Edinburgh. Whereas Glasgow is primarily a Victorian city, parts of Edinburgh are Georgian, especially the lovely Charlotte Square. I could see any of these houses as the home of my character Lady – oh, hang on a minute. Scratch that. I’m off writing. My Scottish experience was over too soon, but before we parted company, my friend challenged me to write a Regency romance with a Scottish setting. Hmm. Possibly.

I returned to my family for a few days and then drove down to St. Ives in Cornwall. I had forgotten the steep hill down into the town and how narrow the streets were. After checking into the hotel, I walked to the beach and, darn it, another idea struck me. Out of nowhere, I had the premise for a women’s fiction novel. So much for not writing.

In quiet moments I jotted ideas for a Scottish Regency and a contemporary women’s fiction. I had settings, characters, and a few lines of dialogue all worked out over a solitary lunch of blackened, locally sourced sea bass. Before I knew it, I had a whole new writing plan, which made me conclude that once a writer, always a writer.

Just because we are not sitting in front of a computer, or however any writer chooses to work, does not mean we are not writing. The ideas spring from anywhere at any time. We may not act on them immediately, but they are there, ready to be worked into something solid at some point. Taking a break from writing, as I found, stirred up the creative juices. I have a contemporary western romance in progress, so I will be kept busy between these three ideas for a while. That spring break gave me the quiet time I must have needed. Now for the hard part, actually knuckling down and writing them.

I’m looking forward to reading how my blog compatriots fare with their new beginnings. If I’ve missed anyone, I apologize in advance.

 

Dr. Bob Rich                https://wp.me/p3Xihq-2OQ

Anne Graham               https://goo.gl/h4DtKv

Connie Vines              http://mizging.blogspot.com/

Diane Bator                  https://dbator.blogspot.com/

A.J. McGuire               http://ajmaguire.wordpress.com/

Fiona McGier               http://www.fionamcgier.com/

Marci Baun                  https://www.marcibaun.com/blog

Skye Taylor                  http://www.skye-writer.com/blogging_by_the_sea

 

 I have been sadly missing in action for a while now. Good intentions apart, I have been writing on various projects but here is my Christmas story for this year. I hope you enjoy it.

HOME FOR CHRISTMAS

 

“Your sister’s coming home then.”

Marg Nicholls stood, dripping, in the doorway of Hetty Pimm’s shop. Marg had lived in Lower Vale all her life, but the speed news travelled around the community irritated her. She considered it must be the postman who regularly delivered more than the mail to anyone willing to listen. The local grapevine would have expanded from there. Who needed a cell phone when they had a Barry Jones?

“Well, shut the door,” Hetty commanded, rubbing her arms against the wind gusting forcefully into the little shop. “You can use that mop and bucket to clean up your puddle, and there are old newspapers by the door to soak up what you miss.”

Marg looked down at the rivulets of water trickling off her unflattering oilskin mac and green-booted feet and shook her head, which caused more water to fly off her plastic hood. Where else but in the bastion of an English village shop would one be expected to clean up after oneself? Marg took hold of the mop and spread its cotton threads over the floor. One did not argue with Hetty. Her shop had been converted, not very imaginatively, from her cottage’s living and dining rooms, and Marg supposed she still thought of it as her home.

Shelves stacked with bottles, tins, and packets, which, to Marg’s eyes, looked not to have been dusted or changed since her last visit, lined the walls. There was just enough space for a central display stand packed with Mother’s Pride bread, Mr. Kipling cakes and biscuits on one side, and toiletries and cleaning supplies on the other. At the end of the counter, from behind which, Hetty owlishly surveyed all who entered, stood a small cooler holding milk, butter, cheese, and eggs.

Marg knew it was not Hetty’s way of doing business to ask if she could help her customers. The customer had to do the asking, and Hetty would point a gnarled finger to the items they wished to purchase. Cash would cross the counter, and that would be it. No debit or credit cards for Hetty. Anyone who missed the ‘Cash Only’ notice on the door was invited to leave. Marg had no idea how Hetty managed to keep her business going, but the locals were thankful for it as it was the only shop in their small community.

Having purchased the unsalted butter, cornstarch, and waxed paper she needed, Marg left the shop, bending her head against the roaring wind and lashing rain. She threw her shopping bag onto the passenger seat of the old Land Rover and squeezed in behind the steering wheel. The weather reflected her mood, which transferred to the gears as she viciously reefed through them.

The wipers barely cleared the rain from the windshield as the Land Rover laboured up the lane to Hill Farm, which took its name from the slopes rising steeply behind it. Bare, blackened tree branches on either side rattled above her like sabres. Marg peered ahead, steering between every pothole and wheel rut in the gravelled surface. She knew them all.

And into this moisture-laden mayhem, her sister was about to arrive. How could Ruth do this to her after all this time? Marg didn’t even need to close her eyes to see the note she’d received. It was too brief to be considered a letter.

Dear Marg

Kenny and I are in London and would love to come and spend some time with you and John. We’ll travel down on Christmas Eve and stay for a few days. Hope that’s all right. You will have stacks of that delicious shortbread you always used to make, won’t you?

Love, Ruth.

That was it. No return address on the rich but anonymous cream-coloured stationery. No telephone number, text, or email contact.

“On purpose,” Marg muttered. “She knew if I couldn’t contact her, I couldn’t say no.”

Marg parked as close as possible to the utility room door. Holding on to her plastic hood with one hand and the shopping bag with the other, she dashed to the door, thanking heaven that farmers were practical people who expected and provided for extremes of weather. The old rush matting inside the door took the brunt of her wet wellies as she kicked them off. The dogs, Harvey and Beau, brushed their damp, smelly bodies against her in welcome, soaking up the rain from her mac but leaving a swath of their yellow and black Labrador hair. She shooed them back to their beds while she hung up her outdoor clothes, pushed her feet into ratty looking but comfortable slippers and entered the warmth and peace of her kitchen.

Well, it had been peaceful when she left. Now it was something of a battlefield. Her daughter, Penny, sat grumpily on one side of the long, pine table. An antique dealer would describe it as distressed and probably sell it for a small fortune. Penny’s brother, Mark, sat opposite her. Marg’s husband, John, sat in his usual place at the head of the table. He sipped tea from a battered old enamel mug which he refused to replace. Pottery broke. Enamel chipped but lasted longer. End of argument.

Marg knew he disliked the prospect of the impending visit as much as she did. Now it looked as if the children were rebelling too.

“Ask your mother.” John pursed his lips and cast Marg a gloomy glance.

“It’s not fair, Mum,” Penny complained. “I don’t want Mark sharing my room.”

“For heavens’ sake,” Marg snapped. “Who said Mark had to share your room?”

“Well, where else are Uncle Kenny and Aunty Ruth going to sleep if not in Mark’s room? They’re not having mine.”

“I’ll sleep in Pilot’s stable and take the dogs for extra warmth,” Mark said.

“Good idea. That pony would probably appreciate the company.” Marg went to the Aga, where a large teapot sat warming and poured herself a cup of tea. Was it too early in the day to add a tot of whisky? “There’s that foam mattress and your sleeping bag from when you camped last summer with the Scouts. You should be cozy.”

“Oh, wow.” Mark suddenly looked cheerful. “Can I take a flask of hot chocolate and some cake out there with me?”

“Whatever your heart desires.” Marg passed a weary hand across her forehead as Mark scraped his chair back and rushed upstairs.

“You never let me sleep in Lark’s stable,” Penny grumbled as she stood.

“You never asked,” Marg said.

“Bloody Aunt Ruth.” Penny kicked the leg of her chair and stalked out of the kitchen.

Marg recalled when she kicked the leg of another chair, and her mother immediately told her to stop that. At twenty-two, she was old enough to know better.

Her mother’s tears and her father’s temper had flowed and raged for days, ever since her younger sister, Ruth, announced she was going to Australia with her boyfriend, Kenny Parker. Their father raged that she was going nowhere, especially with Kenny, that skinny, spotty, good-for-nothing layabout. Ruth shouted back that she was nineteen and could go where and with whom she pleased, and anyway, they had already got passports and visas. Their flight was booked and paid for, and that was that.

Marg sighed and topped her tea before sitting in Penny’s recently vacated chair. Looking around the kitchen, she realized that, except for a coat of paint and a new backsplash behind the Belfast sink, Ruth would hardly see any difference. It saddened Marg that twenty years had slipped by almost without her noticing.

The early days when she and John were first married were marvellous. They lived in the cottage across the yard, helping her parents run the family sheep farm. One of their shepherds occupied it now. He also helped raise and train their border collies. Autumn, winter, spring, and summer did not mark their seasons. Breeding, feeding, lambing, shearing, and all the other tasks necessary to maintain a well-run farm, did. Marg’s father passed away quite suddenly, leaving her mother in a permanent daze until she, too, gave up her grip on life and peacefully followed him.

Ruth’s letters then had been full of remorse that she had not been able to support Marg and John, but in her heart, Marg knew this was not true. The letters became more infrequent, and when they arrived, they told of endless blue skies, beach, pool, tennis parties, and all the excitement of shopping in Melbourne. There were postcards showing kangaroos and koalas, sheep and camels. Did they have camels in Australia?

Marg wasn’t sure but supposed it must be true for them to be on postcards. Photographs occasionally accompanied the letters bearing the legends, ‘Me at Ayers Rock,’ ‘Me scuba diving on the Great Barrier Reef,’ ‘Me with opal miners.’ Me having a great time. Me having no responsibilities, me obviously not working. Me! Me! Me! Marg supposed all these adventures were because Ruth and Kenny had decided not to have a family, but what was Kenny doing all this time, Marg wondered.

Penny and Mark came back into the kitchen, still bickering. It was suddenly all too much. Marg slammed her mug down on the table, making John and the children jump.

“You listen to me,” she snapped, standing and gripping the back of her chair as if to gain strength from the solid wood of it. “Ruth has been gone for twenty years. She’s not coming back to live here. She’s coming for a couple of days’ visit. The least you can do is be accommodating and welcoming. Ruth’s your aunt, for heaven’s sake. Hill Farm was her home before it was yours. Yes, she chose to leave, just as your father and I chose to stay here and run the farm, and that’s all there is to it.” Marg paused for breath. “Penny, Mark, I don’t want to hear another peep out of the pair of you. And you, John, can stop looking like you’ve lost a pound and found sixpence. Ruth’s my sister. She’s the only family I have outside of you lot. She may never get to come home again, and what chance have I to visit Australia, even if I was invited? Oh.” Marg stopped as something became blindingly clear to her. “You’re afraid I’ll want to go back with her.”

John blustered it was no such thing, and Penny and Mark quickly removed themselves from the kitchen, sensing a disagreement brewing between their parents.

Marg pinned John with a fierce glare. “That’s it, isn’t it? It’s not the fact that Ruth’s coming to stay but that I might want to leave.”

John spread his big hands with their square-tipped fingers down on the table and pushed himself out of his chair. “You’ve got to admit you used to get pretty mopey when you got Ruth’s letters. I knew I couldn’t put a step right for a few days after they arrived. I put it down to jealousy.”

Marg bit her lip, knowing John only spoke the truth. She nodded slowly. “It seemed like she had an easier life than ours.”

“But you don’t know that.” John gripped her shoulder. “And who knows what kind of dance Kenny might have led her? Come on. I’ll help you make up the bed in Mark’s room.”

 

~*~*~*~*~

 

Marg could not quite believe how they managed to pull everything together. For once, Penny and Mark did everything she asked of them without arguing. They fetched boxes of decorations from the attic and arranged the blue and silver tree on its stand. Now, on Christmas Eve morning, everything was as festive and ready as it could be for Ruth and Kenny’s arrival. There was only one thing left to do. Marg didn’t even need her mother’s old cookbook. She knew the shortbread recipe by heart. Beat one cup of brown sugar into two cups of softened butter, then add four to four and a half cups of all-purpose flour. Simple.

She placed the butter and sugar in her mixing bowl and beat it until it was fluffy, then carefully mixed in most of the flour. The dough was too soft, so she added more flour until satisfied with the consistency. Humming to herself, she sprinkled flour onto her pastry board, took the dough and began to knead it. She should have made it yesterday and left it to chill overnight in the refrigerator. Now she could only give it half an hour but filled that time with trimming Brussels sprouts while she waited.

Marg kept a close eye on the clock as she listened for the oven timer. At least the family was out from under her feet while she busied herself with the food preparation. Another glance at the clock had her reaching for the chilled dough. She transferred this to a sheet of parchment paper and rolled it out. When she had an almost perfect rectangle, she placed it on a baking sheet and cut it into finger-sized strips. Using a fork, she pricked each strip several times before putting the tray back in the fridge for another half an hour and then turning the oven on to preheat.

Her mother had made the preparation of Christmas dinner, and all the trimmings look so easy, Marg thought now. She had paid attention and helped her mother, while Ruth always managed to find something else to do and stay out of the way. Marg grinned while taking the baking tray from the fridge and slipping it into the oven. If Kenny had expected a home-cooked meal every evening, she didn’t mind betting he was one disappointed man. The sound of car doors slamming made her look up, frowning. They couldn’t be here already, could they? She wiped her hands on her apron and opened the back door but gasped at the figure filling the doorway.

“Kenny?” She looked up at the well-built man with a tanned face and laughing grey eyes.

“G’day, Marg. Here, take these.” He handed her the shopping bags he carried.

“Kenny?” she repeated, still squinting at him. Of the skinny, spotty youth she remembered, there was no sign. “My Lord, Australia’s been good to you.”

“We made the most of our opportunities, that’s for sure.” Kenny stepped inside. “Hope we’re not too early, but someone’s been hopping around like a shrimp on a barbie since early this morning. Now she’s gone all shy.”

“No, I haven’t.”

Kenny moved out of the way, and tears sprang to Marg’s eyes when she saw her sister. Kenny, she would have passed on the street and not known him, but Ruth, her dark brown hair now fetchingly streaked with grey, she would have known anywhere. The years rolled away as they fell into each other’s arms, hugging each other tightly, words, for now, unnecessary. All the talking and catching up could come later.

Mark and John came in from the yard. Penny wandered downstairs, a little shy but intrigued to meet the visitors. Marg was happy to introduce her sister and brother-in-law to the children. For once, Penny and Mark behaved impeccably. Mark asked Kenny what Australia was like and grinned at the response, “bloody hot, mate.”

Ruth turned her head and sniffed. “Is something burning?”

Marg’s hands flew to her face. “Oh, no.” She raced to the oven, grabbed a tea towel and opened the door. Smoke billowed out. She wafted it away and stared in dismay at the tray.

“Mum,” Penny breathed, stunned at the sight of the blackened offerings. “You never burn anything.”

Marg shook her head as she emptied the tray into the waste bin. “There’s a first time for everything, I suppose.” She looked at her sister. “Sorry, Ruth. I so wanted everything to be just right for your homecoming.”

Ruth stepped forward and hugged Marg. “Tell you what, why don’t we have coffee and then you and I will make shortbread together.”

Marg stared at her. “You? Make shortbread?”

“You’d be surprised at what Ruthie can make.” Kenny pulled out a chair and sat on it. “She’s been writing a cookery column for our local paper for the last few years.”

Marg’s mouth fell open. “A cookery column?”

Ruth nodded. “It’s been quite successful too. But in my last post, I promised my readers a shortbread recipe. Would you please–pretty please– share yours?”

Marg thought of all the times Ruth was MIA when it came to anything in the kitchen. She heard again her mother’s grumbles, the mutterings that Ruth would likely live on fast-food and fresh air, and now, Ruth was asking for help making shortbread. Marg smiled, then started to laugh.

“How can I refuse?” She shook her head. “Mum would be so impressed, and as it’s her recipe, I don’t see why not, but we’ll have to run down to Hetty’s for more butter.”

“Good Lord, is she still running the shop?” Ruth sounded incredulous.

Marg nodded. They collected their coats and left John and Kenny chatting as if they’d only seen each other yesterday while Penny and Mark fired questions at Kenny about life in Australia.

“They can come out for a visit any time they like,” Ruth said quietly as they headed outside. “You and John too.”

Marg paused as she opened the Land Rover’s door. “Ruth, I will do my best to make it happen. But if we come for a visit, I expect you to make shortbread.”

Ruth clambered up into the passenger seat. “I’ve missed you, sis. I’ve missed all this.” She indicated the sweep of the hillside dotted with sheep, the windswept trees and hedgerows, and the lowering grey sky. “But you know what I’ve missed most?”

Marg swallowed the lump in her throat and shook her head as she turned the key in the ignition.

“Family,” Ruth said, raising her voice over the cough and splutter of the engine as it came to life. “Us. I remember all those Christmases when I’d do anything to get out of doing chores, and now I so wish I hadn’t.”

The rain started as Marg pulled up in front of Hetty’s shop. The sisters sat looking at the bow windows on either side of the door, the sturdy limestone walls, and the slightly overhanging roof.

“Hasn’t changed a bit,” Ruth commented as they left the vehicle and stepped across the narrow pavement.

Marg pushed the door open, listening to the clamour of the overhead, old-fashioned doorbell. Hetty looked up from behind her counter. There was no welcoming smile, just her usual owlish look, but Marg was sure there was a slight twitch at the corner of her mouth when she saw Ruth.

“You’re home then,” Hetty said.

 

THE END