The Welcome Sign by Barbara Jean Weber

  

After finding a beautiful mermaid welcome sign, a young girl encounters a hidden and wondrous magical realm filled with magical characters, unlikely new friends and embarks on a dangerous quest to save the world from evil and restore the balance between the real world and the magical realm...

When 10-year-old Molly Parnell’s grandmother mysteriously disappears she and her mother travel to Cape Cod to take ownership of the house they inherited and find out answers about the sudden disappearance. But what they discover could be more dangerous and life changing than they ever imaged. Molly and her mother find a beautiful mermaid welcome sign in the attic and place it on the front door. Unusual things start to happen and they are flooded with visitors who claim they knew the grandmother.  The true powers behind the mysterious sign are revealed as Molly learns her grandmother was part of a secret organization working to keep balance between the magical realm and the real world. The magical realms placed an invisible veil of secrecy over the world to hide their true identities from the human world but allowing them to live among them  in secret. An angry rebel group of magical beings, tired of living in hiding is tearing down and destroying the magical cloaking fabric between the two worlds. If they are not stopped the magical realm will no longer be safe from the world.  As Molly and her mom embark on a dangerous and magical adventure throughout the magical realms to help stop  the rebels, she learns of her own magical powers and her strong family heritage connected to the welcome sign. Along the way, she teams up with new magical friends helping to keep the realm of magic safe from the eyes of the world and discovers that her grandmother was right all along. The world she thought she knew no longer exists, but an amazing world of magic woven into their world has always been hiding  in plain sight.

Read sample here.

The Welcome Sign is available at Amazon.

Excerpt: 

PROLOGUE

CRYSTAL PERKINS SLIPPED INTO HER OFFICE AND LOOKED carefully down the hallway. It was shortly after 8:00 p.m., and the office was dark and deserted. The only staff remaining was the cleaning crew. She threw one last look around the hallway and nervously shut the door quickly behind her. She glanced out the window, closed the blinds, and turned on the small desk lamp.

Crystal slumped down in her chair and unfolded the newspaper on her desk. She ran her hand anxiously through her short, curly black hair. She couldn’t believe all of this was happening so quickly. Things were totally out of control, and she didn’t know how they were going to fix them. Sighing deeply, she glanced at the article in bold print and reached for the phone. She continued to stare at the front page of the newspaper as she frantically dialed the numbers on the phone. In bold print on the first page of the newspaper were these words: “More Unusual Sightings of Strange Creatures: An Elaborate Hoax or Fact?”

“Warren, it’s Crystal. Have you seen the newspaper today? There have been more sightings!” Her voice was shaky and worried. “It’s getting too overwhelming!” She ran a hand across her forehead.

“Crystal! Calm down. I have my people looking into this right now on my end,” a deep voice replied. “Have you questioned the witnesses yet? Are their stories credible? Are you—” he asked with a concerned tone but stopped suddenly.

“Yes, of course I have investigated all of the local reports and followed up on all the new leads regarding the sightings! Besides, Warren, that is my job. Isn’t that why you put me in the position of investigative reporter in the first place? Plus, Warren, like you. I know the real story. She paused with a deep sigh. “But Warren, there are too many! I can’t keep up. Warren, what is it? What’s wrong?”

“Crystal, do you hear that humming sound in the handset? I’m not sure this is a secure line! Quick, call me on the other line!” There was a click and the line instantly went dead. Crystal dug deep in her purse and pulled out a small pearl-colored compact. The circular device shimmered as she turned it in her hands. She quickly scanned the room to make sure she was alone. Flipping open the compact, Crystal dropped in five small glowing bead-like objects from a long, clear vial she had also removed from her purse. She breathed over them, and instantly they broke apart into smaller pieces. She pushed a button on the side of the compact, and the glowing objects began to melt and formed a glowing, watery substance. Crystal dipped her finger in, swirling it slowly in a clockwise direction. Slowly the glowing substance rose out of the compact in a funnel shape and expanded out to form a lighted, liquid screen about ten inches in length. Through a shimmery haze Warren’s face appeared in the watery screen. He spoke in a low voice.

“Is it safe to talk here?” he asked quietly. Crystal nodded. “Yeah, it’s late. There shouldn’t be anyone else here. Everyone has gone home. I think the only people that are here now are the cleaning crew.”

“We must be absolutely sure! There is too much at stake here. I think your office phone may be bugged. We can’t speak on the regular line anymore, understand?” Warren warned. “As my number one investigative reporter, YOU are in charge of making the witness’s stories sound ridiculous, and it’s your job to discredit the reports inthe papers. Under no circumstances can we let the real story get out. EVER! It’s important that we keep the truth hidden. I’ve got others strategically placed in these roles around the world doing the very same jobs. Don’t make me think I picked the wrong person for this job, Crystal!”

Crystal nodded. “You did pick the right person for the job. You know Warren, it’s getting harder to cover this up.” Crystal ran a hand slowly across her forehead and through her hair. “Wait, Warren,” she stammered. Hearing a noise in the hall, Crystal stood up and approached the door. “Warren, hold on. I heard something.” She listened quietly, cracked open the door, and peered into the darkened hallway. The light from her office made dark shadows dance along the walls as she opened the door. Silently and unseen, a tall, slender figure slid the toe of his shoe into the dark shadows, pulled his body tighter against the wall, and held his breath. Crystal glanced around, and when she was convinced no one was there, she closed the door quietly. “I’m losing my mind, Warren. I’m sure I just heard footsteps in the hallway.”

“Calm down! Don’t be so jumpy, Crystal. You’ve got to hold it together! It was probably just the cleaners. Now is not the time to lose it. You’ve got to keep your head clear,” Warren stated authoritatively.

“Warren, there’s something else. I think I’m being followed. I swear I keep seeing the same car—”

Warren cut her off with, “Don’t panic. I’ll get someone over there for your protection and to keep an eye on you. They should be there in the morning. Just stay focused and on task. We can’t let this get out of control, understand? We won’t let anything happen to you!”

“Our paper wants to run a similar article as what the witnesses are saying,” she whispered. “And Warren, I’m looking at a press release that they want sent out as soon as possible. The witnesses sound very credible this time . . . I’m having a hard time covering this up. Warren, what do we do? There are too many sightings. More and more are coming in every week, and I’m running out of creative ways to cover them up! We need to get this stopped RIGHT NOW! I need some serious help from your end!” Crystal stammered nervously.

“I know! I know,” Warren nodded. “We’re doing all we can over here. We’re trying to find out who’s responsible so we can stop them. You just keep doing the best you can. We’ll get to the bottom of this as soon as possible. Whatever you do . . . Keep the secret hidden. It’s imperative that we continue to keep this under control. We’ve been able to keep this hidden for a long time, and I’m not about to let the secret loose now. We must keep covering this up! And we need to do it quickly! We’ll talk in a few days. Warren out!”

The liquid screen started swirling slowly, gradually picking up speed and ultimately dissolving back into a sparkling funnel shape and descending into the compact. All that was left in the compact were several glowing bead-like objects. Crystal held the compact out and blew at the objects. The bead-like objects instantly disintegrated into a fine powder and were swept away without a trace. Crystal snapped the compact shut, shoving it back in her purse. This wasn’t going to be easy. Warren had given her the tough job of keeping their identify safe. Although there had been sporadic incidents here and there, their secret had been kept safe for nearly three centuries.

Why was it getting harder now while she was the investigative reporter? Things were skyrocketing out of control at a rate faster than she could handle.

Crystal had known Warren Tracer ever since she was a little girl. He was a dear family friend. They had all been true believers, and when Crystal was old enough to know the secret, she was brought into the circle of trust. As she grew older, she had seen more of Warren and learned about his unbelievable secret. Warren Tracer hadn’t always been Warren Tracer. His original name was Whalen Marks, and although he was not a magical being, he possessed great magical powers.

In his younger years, he and her father had been with the Special Forces for the military. During a particularly secretive mission, a trap had been set, and the mission had gone terribly wrong. Everyone had been reported dead. However, the real events of the mission had never been revealed.

All Crystal knew was that Warren, her father, and several of the men had made an amazing discovery on that day. The mission had indeed gone horribly wrong, but several of the Special Forces men had been rescued. Crystal suspected that Warren and his men had made contact with beings of the magical realm. Warren rarely spoke of the events of that day, but she knew better than anyone that Warren was a true believer. Something remarkable had happened to him and his men, but no one knew exactly what that was. Just that it was remarkable and life changing.

Warren had eventually changed his identity, becoming Warren Tracer, and begun working undercover for the magical realm. When her father died several years later, Warren had stepped in as a replacement. He had been family from the beginning, so to accept him as a father figure wasn’t difficult.

Eventually, Crystal had been approached to work for Warren in helping keep their secret safe. There was nothing more in the world that Crystal wanted than to help out her new friends. She’d jumped at the chance to work undercover at the newspaper and keep Warren up to speed on all the local sightings. It was a dream come true. Warren and the others didn’t disappoint her, and she loved her job. She had been working with the newspaper for over eleven years now, but of late, she was finding it harder and harder to hide the truth.

Crystal hoped Warren would find those that were responsible for the tears in the fabric and stop them. They would need a lot of help if they were going to keep the secret safe this time. As she sighed heavily and slumped back in her chair, she caught a quick glimpse of movement to her side. Startled, Crystal looked up suddenly. There had been more noises that she was sure weren’t made by the cleaning crew. In a flash Crystal stood up, knocking her chair to the floor. Before she could fully comprehend what was happening, two tall, shadowy figures flung open the door, bolted from her office, and were joined by a third in the hallway. They had heard everything. In the wrong hands, the information that she’d conveyed to Warren could prove very dangerous. As she grabbed for the compact in a frantic panic, the three figures dashed from the building at an astonishingly fast speed and vanished without a trace silently into the night.

– Excerpted from The Welcome Sign by Barbara Jean Weber, BookBaby, 2025. Reprinted with permission. 

The Inspiration Behind 'The Welcome Sign'

The inspiration for The Welcome Sign began when I received a beautiful metal Welcome Sign as a gift. I love and collect mermaids, and my parents had found the beautiful sign with a mermaid on it. The store was going out of business, so they purchased the sign for me. I have always loved stories that were full of magic, magical beings, intrigue and good vs. evil so I was familiar with fun adventure stories that included these elements. After I received the sign, I had a series of incredible dreams involving the origins of the sign. The dreams became the inspiration and basis for the book.  As it evolved, it became a fun adventure story that I was eager to share with my family and others as I felt they would also enjoy reading it.  This book allowed me to create magical worlds, interesting characters, intrigue and battles between good and evil. The Welcome Sign was written as the first book in a series of three. The second book is written but not edited or published yet and the third book is still being developed and is in outline form.  It's fun to believe that my metal mermaid welcome sign might actually have a magical origin story. You just never know.

How I got published: Initially I was going to go with a traditional publisher but didn't have much luck. I had started to make inquiries with publishers when a dear friend suggested I try Book Baby self-publishing. I had never heard of that company before and did some research on it. My friend had a sister-in-law who had gotten her a booklet that talked all about BookBaby-self publishing. My friend shared a copy of the booklet with me. It was easy to follow and read. Once I contacted the company it was amazing and easy. I was assigned a BookBaby Publishing Specialist who answered my questions, guided me step by step throughout the process, kept me on track for timelines. She was amazing and super helpful. I was able to get suggestions and help from her whenever I needed it. We had consistent email contact and some phone calls. I am very happy with my decision to go with BookBaby self-publishing.

About the Author

Barbara Jean Weber lives in Skagit County with her husband and two daughters, where she works as a speech and language therapist. Her novel, The Welcome Sign, was inspired when she was gifted a mermaid welcome sign. The more she studied the sign, the more her story evolved. She is currently an active member of the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators.

Visit her website at https://www.barbarajeanweber.com/. 

 

 

The Inspiration Behind ‘Evan’s Gift’ by author Karen Charles

 

When Evan trades his dream of a new bike for compassion, he discovers the greatest gift of all—helping others.

When Evan trades his dream of a new bike for compassion, he discovers the greatest gift of all—helping others. Perfect for classrooms and families, "Evan's Gift" celebrates empathy, courage, and the beauty of giving in a warm, uplifting story about generosity and the power of choosing kindness.

Ethan’s Gift is available at BookBaby.

The Inspiration Behind ‘Evan’s Gift’

I didn’t start out thinking I want to be an author. I started as a teacher and a listener. For years, I worked with children during moments of real upheaval, social unrest, trauma, fear, and uncertainty. I saw how deeply children absorb what’s happening around them, even when they don’t have the words to express it.

Writing became a way for me to make sense of those experiences and to offer stories that could help others do the same. Whether I’m writing for adults or children, my goal has always been to tell stories that heal, that open conversations, and that remind us of our shared humanity. Evan’s Gift came from that same place, wanting to reach children early, before the world hardens them.

Evan’s Gift is based on my experience as a kid earning my own bike, growing up in Africa. The idea came from watching how children respond to kindness, both when they receive it and when they give it. I’ve seen classrooms change because of one child’s gentle act or quiet courage. Evan’s Gift grew out of the belief that kindness is not small or passive; it’s powerful. I wanted to create a story that shows children that they already have something meaningful to offer the world, simply by noticing others and choosing compassion. Evan doesn’t have superpowers; his “gift” is something every child can access, and that was very important to me.

Evan is a thoughtful, observant child. He’s not the loudest or the most outgoing, but he pays attention. He notices when others are hurting or left out. Evan represents so many children who feel deeply but don’t always know how to express it. What makes Evan special is that he learns his kindness matters, that even small actions can ripple outward and change how people feel about themselves and each other.

The other characters are the people in Evan’s world, friends, classmates, roommates, and adults, who are affected by his kindness. They’re intentionally relatable so children can see themselves and their communities in the story. Each character reflects a different emotional experience, helping young readers recognize feelings like loneliness, gratitude, and connection in a gentle, age-appropriate way.

Kindness and empathy are skills we have to nurture, especially in children. Evan’s Gift opens the door to meaningful conversations at home, in classrooms, and in counseling spaces about how our actions affect others. It’s a story that reassures children that they matter and empowers them to make a difference simply by being who they are. In today’s world, that message feels more important than ever.

About the Author

Karen Charles grew up in West Africa and traveled to countries in Africa, the Middle East, and Europe. Her rich background and lifetime experiences are reflected in the depth of her writing. In her stories, she transforms real-life narratives into gripping fiction thrillers. Her novels intricately weave the threads of truth into a tapestry of suspense, intrigue, and riveting storytelling. She is the author of two children’s books, “Freeman Earns a Bike” and “Evan’s Gifts,” and three thrillers based on true stories. “Fateful Connections” takes place in the aftermath of 9/11, and “Blazing Upheaval” takes place during the Rodney King riots in Los Angeles and the Northridge earthquake. “A Glimpse Too Far” offers all the mystery and heart-pounding suspense of a psychological thriller and is based on a true story. Karen Charles has two businesses—a global company that trains international teachers to teach American English and an Airbnb on a beautiful bay in Washington State, where she currently resides with her husband. 

Visit her website at www.weaveofsuspense.com. 

Connect with her on X, Facebook and LinkedIn.

Crossing Cultures Through Food by Evy Journey

 

Unveil the beauty and complexity of the world around you by unleashing the power of art as you satisfy your wanderlust.

Experience the transformative power of art when you see the rich and vibrant city of Paris through the eyes of a mindful artsy traveler. From the light-inspired grandeur of Gothic cathedrals and the fresh beauty of Impressionism, sinuous forms that speak to our innate sense of beauty, and the rare library that helps one define oneself; to the role of French cuisine and cultural events in shaping the city’s uniqueness, this collection of essays will take you on a journey of discovery and self-reflection.

Amidst the charm and allure of Paris and its art, questions arise and conflicts are explored. Can art truly enrich our understanding of life? Can it help extricate us from constantly waging wars? And how does a urinal become a symbol of controversy that challenges our conception of art? If you enjoyed “A Moveable Feast” by Ernest Hemingway, this thought-provoking and sometimes meditative collection of essays will unveil the beauty and complexity of the world around you by unleashing the power of art as you satisfy your wanderlust.

Read sample here.

Artsy Rambler: Mindful Journeys to Paris and Beyond is available at Amazon.

Excerpt:

Prologue—How It All Began

I ran after my brothers and their friends—empty cans in their hands—as they rushed to a pond to catch tadpoles. They filled their cans with water from the pond and dropped the tadpoles into the cans. What they did with those tadpoles, I would never know. Later in the afternoon, they flew kites when the wind was good. Or they rode astride a water buffalo that took them across an open field behind the few houses in the neighborhood. 

They refused to take me on those little adventures—I was a girl, wore dresses, and could never keep up with them. That was what they said as they ran faster so I couldn’t catch up. I was unhappy at being excluded. Who wouldn’t be? But I had, by then, started to learn to live with being alone.

I spent my first six years with adults—my Lola (grandmother) and her two young unmarried daughters—in a town eight hours by slow train from the big city where my parents lived. Having no one my age to play with, I conjured up an imaginary playmate who stayed with me until we no longer needed one another. I had a big brother who kept my mother’s hands full as she took care of him and worked to secure a permanent position as a teacher. 

In my Lola’s little town, no family owned a television to entertain them. But on occasional nights, sweet and sentimental tunes accompanied by a guitar pierced the dark silence just below the closed window in my aunts’ room. The serenaders were young swains courting one or the other of my pretty aunts who, if they liked these suitors or how they sang, invited them into the living room. There, singing went on for another hour or two. My youngest aunt who had a nice voice and knew some English songs was always invited to sing. 

Like the adults, I stayed up for those soirees, sitting with Lola on the steps of the stairway to the bedrooms. Out of sight of the serenaders and my aunts. Lost, as much as the adults were, in the beguiling strains of what I learned later were love songs. I had heard many of those songs in previous serenades, and heard them sung again in later ones.

My parents took me back when I was ready to go to elementary school, although I continued to spend school vacations with Lola. I met my brothers—three of them by then—for the first time. To ease the transition to a new, and for me at the time, a strange, maybe even threatening environment, I learned to draw, initially by copying images of objects in picture books. Things like fruits, flowers, cups and glasses. Figures didn’t lag far behind. And soon, they claimed most of my drawing time.

Maybe it was from those preteen years of solitary innocence that I began to see myself as a spectator of life. I became more convinced of it as I spent time alone in my room, hearing the boisterous playing and feuding from the adjacent room shared by my brothers. 

Across the years, I watched them play and fight, and the only time I remember going with them—when they ignored me—was when they flew kites, those light as the wind inanimate birds my brothers fashioned from colored paper and bamboo sticks. I filled my solitude by drawing and playing the serenades I remembered in my head. 

In those early years, I lived within walking distance of the Pacific Ocean. You stare at that extensive expanse of blue long enough, and you can’t help wondering what’s beyond that seemingly infinite space. 

I wasn’t alone in my curiosity about that imagined faraway world. Left to entertain myself, it was probably inevitable that I eavesdropped as my mother revealed her dreams to her relatives and friends. My mother dreamt of sailing across oceans to visit places that promised so much more than the island we lived in. Maybe her dreams were imprinted from the accumulated legacy of more than 400 years of domination by Spanish and American conquerors. Dreams that needed translation into some version of reality.

For her, that reality meant living in the United States, visiting Spain, and later, seeing as much as she could of the rest of the world. She talked about her dreams often enough that they became my dreams as well. Dreams that, for me, morphed into a near-obsession when I read English-language fiction that kindled a desire to see its varied settings. 

My mother realized her dreams in her forties, coming to the United States, first as a student pursuing a master’s degree in education, and shortly thereafter, as an immigrant when my father retired from the military as an officer with a pension. Applying for immigration usually takes years, but it’s expedited in certain cases, e.g., having relatives who are American citizens, or being a WWII veteran, like Dad. 

That monthly pension was to be put in a kitty for travel. Or for necessities, if money got tight. But they both found jobs in California, maybe thanks to their facility with English and their former professions in the native land (Mom was a teacher and Dad, an army lawyer). So, when the time felt right for them, they toured Europe and Asia.

I didn’t wait until I was forty to discover what lay beyond Pacific shores. Shortly after getting an undergraduate degree at twenty-one, I was accepted to two American graduate schools. One, in Michigan, came with an offer of a scholarship. But it had a price—returning to teach at a university in the Philippines for about ten years. The second university, in Hawaii, offered a graduate assistantship, no strings attached. 

For me, the choice was clear. Hawaii would be less of a shock than Michigan, and better than that, I could do whatever I wanted after grad school.

Grad school, particularly for a foreign student, required dogged concentration that curtailed social life. But it also needed relief. For me, that relief came from doing art. It wasn’t so much the finished drawings as it was the process of making them that helped sustain me through the stress of graduate school. 

After a couple of years in Hawaii, I completed my graduate program in Illinois, interspersed with hours of doing pencil sketches in between writing term papers, a master’s thesis, and a dissertation.

Later, during breaks from regular jobs, I completed a year’s worth of art classes—some theory and history, and a little more on art technique and creation. My media expanded from pencil to oils, acrylics, pastels, charcoal, and lately, digital art apps.

Though I sold a painting once, I’ve never made money from art. I love looking at art, and time passes quickly and pleasurably whenever I draw or paint. But maybe, I was not driven enough and events didn’t align to steer me towards a life devoted to profitable art production. 

Those years of drawing since I discovered the fun of  making marks on a piece of paper convinced me that everyone has what the authors of Your Brain on Art call an Aesthetic Mindset. It’s up to you to nurture it and let it serve you in any way it can. Actually, I’d go further and propose that since Art is a form of language, it’s also built into your genes.

After my first full-time job after graduate school, I went with a friend on a cheap packaged tour to Europe during which I wrote my first travel journal. And it was during that three-week tour that I learned to be “in the moment”—to cast my full attention on what I was looking at. 

I think it was inevitable. Gazing at masterpieces of art (a Praxiteles statue, for instance; or centuries-old architecture) as well as ruins of old civilizations (Pompeii) fired my imagination and evoked awe and wonder for what was before me. They made me reflect on what they meant to me (and all of us) and my (our) relationship to the world and history around us. For example, while touring Pompeii: I have always thought that across centuries, civilization has progressed. Now, I’m no longer so sure. And: Two thousand years from now, what would be left to show of our own modern civilization?

By now, I’ve lived in and visited many places, much of it with Rich (my husband): Asia and Europe and a bit of North Africa. In subsequent European travels, we’ve often ended up in Paris. Twice, we stayed six months, the longest the Schengen agreement allows visitors to stay in countries within the Schengen area (unless you’ve obtained a specific visa like a student visa, for instance). One of those six-month sojourns was spent entirely in Paris where I became something of an observer-wanderer. A flâneuse, as the French would say.I kept reading. Initially, books, journal articles, and research papers necessary for my education and my job. When I needed a little respite from life, I read fiction—world literature that ranged from Austen to Dostoevsky (who ignited my first existentialist crisis in my late teens). I found words are great containers—for adventures, memories, and stories; even for art.

– Excerpted from Artsy Rambler: Mindful Journeys to Paris and Beyond, 2025. Reprinted with permission.

Crossing Cultures Through Food

How many ways can you get to know a culture different from that in which you grew up? One way is through cuisine—usually a delicious, pleasant, and painless way of immersing yourself in an otherwise strange culture, if you don’t balk at trying unusual foods. Because I’ve experienced various cultures, I am fairly adventurous about food. And I’ve learned that we bring our life histories into any experience—whether it’s about food or any other foreign tradition. 

I love many things Japanese. The food, the architecture of traditional Japanese homes, some of their cultural values (respect for elders, for instance). We've added a few Japanese touches to our home, and we’ve traveled to different cities in Japan, a cinch on their Shinkansen which is faster than the French TGV (train de grande vitesse—speed  train). Nothing in this high-tech, car-obsessed culture of ours matches either one of these train systems. That fact, in itself, tells us something about culture and society. What we value more, for instance. 

I have to admit, though, that I know little about Japanese farms and indigenous Japanese culture except for the little bit I've seen in movies. So, I’ve turned to reading books that dig into this subject—like Japanese Farm Food by Nancy Singleton Hachisu, a professional teacher/chef married to a modern Japanese farmer. It gives an intimate look into one Japanese farm and how the family living in it eats to live—a fact that’s helpful to keep in mind. Translating a dish from one country to another, or executing anyone’s recipe in your own kitchen never really produces exactly the same result. So many things can change your final dish.

I ate things I was familiar with when I was in Japan, but I tasted soft tofu served at a mountain Buddhist retreat that was like nothing I’ve had before. It looked like regular tofu, but creamier, more like custard in taste and feel on your tongue. I’ve looked, in vain, for something like it at home.

Then, there’s unagi (eel)—that long slender fish that looks like a slithering snake as it swims in the water. In some restaurants in Japan, they kept live eels in tanks, ready to be fished out when customers ordered them. At home, I’ve only had pieces of seasoned cooked unagi served on top of a clump or bowl of tangy salty-sweet rice. 

Like everyone, my husband and I have food preferences and prejudices, shaped by the culture in which we grew up. And neither of us could speak Japanese. We didn’t ask to try the eel. 

This American chef/author moved to Japan equipped with the sensibility advocated by California food guru Alice Waters, one much like the French concept of terroir―organic, as close to the source as you can get, and simple preparations that make main ingredients shine. These are practices easy to adapt to the ingredients and techniques of a Japanese farm.

About the Author

Evy Journey writes. Stories. Blogs (three sites). Cross-genre novels. She’s also a wannabe artist, and a flâneuse (an ambler). Evy studied psychology (M.A., University of Hawaii; Ph.D. University of Illinois) initially to help her understand herself and Dostoevsky. Now, she spins tales about nuanced multicultural characters negotiating separate realities. She believes in love and its many faces. Just as she has crossed genres in writing fiction, she has also crossed cultures, having lived and traveled in various cities in different countries. Find her thoughts on travel, art, and food at Artsy Rambler. She has one ungranted wish: to live in Paris where art is everywhere and people have honed aimless roaming to an art form. She visits and stays a few months when she can.

Evy’s latest book is Artsy Rambler: Mindful Journeys to Paris and Beyond.

Visit her website at https://evyjourney.net.

Connect with her on social media at:

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/evictoriajourney

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/eveonalimb2

BookBub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/evy-journey 

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/14845365.Evy_Journey 

The Inspiration Behind Cinder Bella by Kathleen Shoop

She never had anything and he lost everything, but together they create a Christmas to remember.

 

She never had anything.

He lost everything.

Together they create a Christmas to remember.

December, 1893–Shadyside, Pennsylvania

Bella Darling lives in a cozy barn at Maple Grove, an estate owned by industrialist Archibald Westminster. The Westminster family is stranded overseas and have sent word to relieve all employees of their duties except Margaret, the pregnant maid, James the butler, and Bella. Content with borrowed books and a toasty home festooned with pine boughs and cinnamon sticks, she coaxes the old hens to lay eggs–extraordinary eggs. Bella yearns for just one thing—someone to share her life with. Always inventive, she has a plan for that. She just needs the right egg into the hands of the right man.

Bartholomew Baines, a Harvard-educated banker, is reeling in the aftermath of his bank’s collapse. With his friends and fiancé ostracizing him for what he thought was an act of generosity, he is penniless and alone. A kind woman welcomes him into her boarding house under conditions that he reluctantly accepts. Completely undone by his current, lowly position, and by the motley crew of fellow boarders who view him as one of them, Bartholomew wrestles with how to rebuild.

With the special eggs as the impetus, the first meeting between Bella and Bartholomew gives each the wrong idea about the other. And when the boarding house burns down a week before Christmas it’s Bella who is there to lend a hand. She, Margaret, and James invite the homeless group to stay at the estate through the holidays. But as Christmas draws closer, eviction papers arrive. Maple Grove is being foreclosed upon. Can Bella work her magic and save their Christmas? Is the growing attraction between Bella and Bartholomew enough for them to see past their differences? 

Read a sample.

Cinder Bella is available at Amazon, Apple Books, Barnes & Noble & Kobo. 

Book Excerpt

Chapter 4

Bartholomew

He didn’t know how long he’d been daydreaming before excited murmurs drew him back to the line he was standing in and his assigned errand. So distracted by his childhood memories, he hadn’t even noticed the egg girl arriving and fitting her bin into the table space the bread lady had cleared. But he did watch as the bread lady hugged the egg lady and though he could see her only from behind, he could tell the egg girl was much younger. A scuffle in the line drew his attention to two women in front of him, one shouldering ahead of another for the “best selection of the special eggs.”

The dustup died down when the bread lady huddled up to referee. The egg girl was prancing away looking like she had the world on a leash, like he used to feel every day. Imagine feeling like that in such dire times. He watched those ahead of him gently place eggs in their baskets, only permitted to select twelve at most. None of them picked up eggs and weighed them in their palm. Choosing in the hopes of winning a double yolk was apparently only the desire of Mrs. Tillman and as he inched closer to his turn he was growing more self-conscious about what he had been commissioned to do.

When it was his turn he followed his orders, picking up each egg, closing his eyes and feeling the weight or whatever in his palm before either placing the egg back in the box and selecting another or putting it into the basket.

When he’d gotten to egg number six the woman behind him pinched the back of his arm. Not that it hurt through layers of clothing, but it startled him. “What?”

“What is right, all right. Think I got all day and night to wait for you to court each egg like it’s the princess you’re taking to the Christmas ball?”

He flinched and stared at the woman. Sooty cheeks and raw hands gave her station in life away. And her treatment of him caused him to lose any chance of responding. How dare she?

“Cat got your tongue, fancy pants? Let’s go or I’ll butt right in front of you.”

“Yeah, get the lead out,” another voice came from farther down the line.

“Ain’t got all day, sailor,” a third heckler joined in.

He lifted his basket. “I’ve been issued specific instructions for—”

A snowball smacked into his back, shutting him up. He spun around and scanned the crowd for who’d thrown it.

“See, even people not in line with us are tired of your mouth. Move it.” The woman behind him held his gaze.

He’d never felt so… he didn’t even know how to describe how this treatment made him feel. He tried to stop himself from rattling off the specifics of his resume and instead went with the general query of, “Don’t you know who I am?”

Another snowball thwapped his back.

“A regular jackass,” someone said from down the line.

He turned again to see who’d hit him with the snowball and the woman behind him used the opening to slide in front. He turned back and stuck his hand into the box, blocking her out. “I’ll hurry. Just let me get the other six.”

She crossed her arms, the baskets resting in the crook of each bent elbow. “Six seconds for six eggs. Get on with it, moneybags.”

“Thank you,” he said. He reached for an egg and lifted it in his palm as he had the others.

The woman started counting one, two, three and the rest of the line joined in. They were serious about him moving quicker. Mrs. Tillman would just have to understand. He didn’t doubt they’d toss him out of line if he didn’t just pluck eggs from the box and move on. And so he did. The last thing he wanted was to break eggs and have to shovel coal or something to make up for it when he got back to Mrs. Tillman’s.

“I have things to do, too, you know,” Bartholomew said. “You folks aren’t the only ones with obligations and—”

“Yeah, whada you have to do today, change into other pairs of fancy pants another three times before burrowing into a bed laid with golden goose feathers?” the woman who’d pinched him asked.

His tongue tied, but he didn’t stop himself from responding. “Uh…”

“Uh? Smoke a pipe of the finest tobacco? Yeah, what else? Sit all day with the paper while someone shines your shoes?” another voice from down the line said.

He straightened, face burning hot, blindly plucking eggs from the pile and placing them into his sack. All of those things would have been fairly close to his daily life before. Before it all crashed around him. “No. Newspapers, yes, but for the market reports and…” Suddenly his studying the news of the day seemed like a luxury instead of the work it was when pronouncing the task to the particular crew waiting in line. Suddenly, he had no words at all. “Forget it.” It was as though none of them knew he was a nice guy. It was as though they assumed he’d done something awful—that it was written across his forehead. He hesitated before moving to pay, considering whether to give them an education in all his achievements and good works. But the woman muscling past him sapped the last bit of energy he had that morning.

He paid and stalked away having been saturated with enough degradation to last the day, to last a century.

– Excerpted from Cinder Bella by Kathleen Shoop, Independent, 2021. Reprinted with permission.

The Inspiration Behind Cinder Bella

Cinder Bella was a really fun story to write and the concept for the novel emerged through layers of ideas and inspiration. The first iteration came when I wrote something I refer to as a Tiny Story. I share these little literary snippets online or as part of collections like the book called Holly and the Christmas Tree. They give me the chance to play with characters and plots that I don't think of as seeds for book-length works at first. These slender bits also give my readers something new to enjoy in between bigger projects. But Bella Darling and her chickens were first inspired by a TikTok friend of mine, Cinda Kukas, who refers to people as her chickens. It always tickled me when she used that term.

That was in my head when I bought an antique postcard of a young woman with an armful of chickens and the tiny tale of Bella saving a wealthy man's life (circa 19^th century) was born. When it came time for me to write my yearly holiday book I'd been researching about Christmas in the old days. I came across articles that reported that people knitted mittens and emptied eggs and slipped messages inside of them to send halfway across the country. They even received replies and sometimes gifts. What an amazing concept! Those articles, my tiny story of Bella, the man she saved, and the postcard sparked an idea. Turns out Bella Darling was book-length worthy! Bella and the odd historical facts were perfect to build a holiday book around.

One thing I love about storytelling—books and movies—is a raucous ensemble cast of characters. It gives the main characters so many opportunities to develop and be seen by "others" in various ways. This provides the reader with a robust view of who they truly are. I knew I would set Bella's story in Pittsburgh during the Gilded Age. At that time the Steel City was home to more millionaires than anywhere else in the country including New York City. Shadyside, a suburb of Pittsburgh was where many of the steel, glass, iron, and engineering magnates built their homes to enjoy fresher air than was available in the city center. 1893 brought a bank collapse, panic, and a depression that destroyed the lives of many. This was the perfect time and place to set a Christmas miracle!

I can't remember exactly what inspired Bartholomew Baines' character but it didn't take long before I was writing a debonair man who'd lost it all in the collapse, into the story. Though this is historical fiction it does have a romantic thread (it won a Next Generation Indie Book Award for romance) that somewhat draws on classic Cinderella elements. However, I didn't want Bella to be rescued, just scooped out of the ashes because she was beautiful. She's resourceful, funny, kind, and her wide-open friendliness (think golden retriever energy) compliments the magic she shares with all. That doesn't mean everything comes easy for her, but she is absolutely loveable, especially in the face of someone like Bartholomew (who she insists on calling Bart) who until he lost it all, had everything. She's got nothing compared to him, yet she's the teacher.

When the boarding house where Bartholomew is forced to stay after losing his money burns down, Bella brings all the tenants to stay at the estate where she's been living since she saved the owner's life. This found family scrapes together money and food (the wealthy owners are overseas, escaping their own financial losses) and more than that, they create a holiday season that exceeds expectations. As one reviewer said, "Enchanting and uplifting, Cinder Bella is big screen-worthy while filled with lyrical prose at the same time." –Lisa McCombs.

Christmas markets, a homemade ice skating rink, "magic" eggs, unexpected deliveries, a cameo by Henry Heinz, and a blend of softness and grit, Bella's story will put you in the Christmas spirit. It's amazing how much of the past is relevant in current times and bringing this story to life was so much fun. So far readers have felt that joy in this warm-hearted tale. Get yours now and let me know what you think!

About the Author

Bestselling author Kathleen Shoop, PhD writes historical fiction, women’s fiction, and romance. Shoop’s novels have garnered awards in the Independent Publisher Book Awards (IPPY), Eric Hoffer Book Awards, Next Generation Indie Book Awards, and more. You can find Kathleen in person at various venues. She’s on the board of the Kerr Memorial Museum, teaches at writing/reader conferences, co-coordinates Mindful Writers Retreats and writing conferences, and gives talks at various book clubs, libraries, and historical societies.

Sign up for her newsletter at www.kshoop.com. 

Visit her website at www.kshoop.com or connect with her on X, Facebook, Instagram, BookBub, TikTok and Goodreads.

Cinder Bella is available at Amazon, Apple Books, Barnes & Noble & Kobo. 

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