And by potpourri I mean a fragrant seven-can soup that we will throw against the wall to see what sticks.

Please ignore my metaphor-mixing. I’m talking about stuff we do in the New Year.

I don’t do Resolutions. I do Goals. (I also do Pioneer Woman’s 7-can Soup. It’s delicious.) I know you may say they are the same thing, but in my mind Resolutions are doomed to failure and Goals are accomplish-able.

So, every year I make new Goals, based on the list I used the previous year. This helps me to reckon how big a failure I was last year and how ambitious I should be this year. Judging from last year’s pitiful showing, I have a rough year ahead. I need to step up my game.

For a lot of people this means tying harder to lose weight. That is true for me also, but first it means cutting down on my sofa time in the morning.

I figure I am spending as many as four hours (okay, sometimes more) in the morning, in my jammies, on the couch, drinking coffee, doing word games. I’m now up to 11, plus two in the afternoon. Plus an entire New York Times Sunday crossword.

Hi, I’m Cindy and I’m addicted to words.

So, I’m having an intervention with myself. I need to set a goal to be off the couch by 9 a.m. every day.

This gives me two more hours for reaching other goals.

First, the losing-weight goal because I can use one hour to walk on the treadmill every morning.

I can use the other hour to work on divesting myself of the website business, an albatross around my neck that I cannot seem to shake.

Woohoo! Three goals met in one fell swoop!

Which brings me to another Goal for 2024: write another book. I want to get another book ready to send to my publisher, hoping they will want another one. I have several completed manuscripts, most of which are upwards of 25 years old. That’s pretty long in the tooth considering how much has changed in that length of time. Think computers, cell phones, TV, clothes, everything. They would need a lot of work.

Only one is a real possibility. It’s a romance with a mystery and some action thrown in for good measure. I was told back in the day that it was too edgy for publication. I think it could pass muster now.

I’ve also started a couple of new books, both involve mystery, but one is also a romance.

Here’s where you come in. I want to post a few pages of two books and let you decide which one I should work on first. I’d love your feedback and it would be fun to read your comments.

So, here they are. Let me know in the comments which is your preference. (NOTE: Ignore the irregularities in the formatting. The website is not letting me fix it.)

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WINDSHADOW–This is a new romance with a mystery element

CHAPTER ONE

            What am I doing in Ireland?

            Dawn shoved the car door open against the wind and struggled to stand in the slashing rain.  A flash of lightening illuminated a huge black stone against the dusky, gray sky in front of her. Only for an instant she saw the carved faces, round and primitive, screaming out at her from the ancient obelisk. Horrified. Terrified.

            “You and me both,” she muttered, her voice carried away by the wind.

            She walked around the car, only slightly aware that she was getting soaked, using her cell phone as a flashlight. The narrow lane she had driven in on dead-ended at the obelisk, standing sentinel in a tiny clearing, the craggy cliff beyond dropping who-knew-how-far into the ocean below. 

            The rented Toyota was lug-deep in the sandy loam of Ireland’s western coast, hopelessly stuck.

            Suddenly freezing, she dove back into the car.

            “Now what?” she asked herself aloud. She had begun talking to herself when Matt died, as if he were still there, listening, answering, breathing. 

But, as usual, no one answered.

So, she studied the GPS on the phone. She had followed Siri from Dublin, six torturous hours trying to drive on the left side of the road, navigating the twisty, turny streets, the two-lane highways, the impossibly narrow country lanes. Getting closer to her Air B&B outside the little fishing village of Dingle on the desolate west coast. Racing to get there before dark.

The woman at the car rental desk told her a storm was coming, bigger than they’d had in years.  Tropical storm winds, heading straight for her cozy cottage on the coast.

Dawn had called Peter Meier, the owner of the cottage. “I hadn’t heard about a storm,” he said, his German accent evident. “It’s no problem. We’re in a windshadow.”

Windshadow.  That sounded safe enough. It reminded her of a Cat Stevens song.  So, she had driven across Ireland. Alone. On the left side of the road. Mostly.

But Siri had led her astray. Which turn was wrong? She had turned a dozen times since Dingle.  And worse. How was she going to get the car out of the mud? In the pouring rain? And the darkening dark?

“There’s really nothing else to do but stay overnight in the car. Wait until morning and walk out of here for help,” she muttered again.

            The faces on the obelisk flashed again in the lightening. She looked away, tamping down the rising panic. There was no wind shadow here.

            She must have dozed off because the knock on the window startled her awake.  A flashlight shone in her eyes. Then furious knocking.  She cracked the window open.

            Rain splashed in.

            “Are you Dawn Winter? The woman who’s supposed to be coming to my cottage?” The German accent was muffled in the sound of the storm.

            “Yes! Yes! It’s me.  I’m stuck.”

            “Yes, I see that,” Peter Meier answered, a note of sarcasm evident even in the whipping wind.

            The flashlight still shone on her but wavered to take in the car’s wheels, then back to her face. She put up her hand to block the blinding light. She could just make out the man beyond, tall, wearing a hooded jacket. 

            “Give me the keys and get out,” he ordered.  She did so without thinking, grabbing her bag and jacket.  As she shrugged into the rain jacket she had bought for the trip, Peter got her rolling bag from the trunk.  She noticed the other car then, parked feet from hers.

            “Get in,” he shouted above the din of the rain and wind. He slipped the bag into the backseat as she slid into the front.  “You want to drive, then?” He said, standing in the doorway. Dawn realized she was in the driver’s side and had to get out, squeeze past him, and run around to the other side, her wet face blushing hot.

            What an infuriating man.

            “I’m not sure what happened. I was following Siri and she turned right into the dead end,” she said, feeling the need to justify her situation to this perfect stranger who was driving hunched over, nose nearly touching the windshield, trying to see through the blinding rain. “How did you find me?”

            “It happens all the time,” he answered without taking his eyes from the road. “Not sure how to correct Siri, but it is a problem.”

            They drove in silence on a single lane dotted with quaint cottages, then turned into an impossibly narrow path, deeply rutted and edged in stone walls covered with ivy. In the lightning flashes, Dawn could see how truly close the sides of the car were to the walls. She shrank back against the seat.

            “Good grief! How can you drive through here?”

            “Well, I do it all the time, but in this weather, it does require a little more concentration.” He glanced in her direction.

            Dawn couldn’t overlook the emphasis and decided to be quiet and let him concentrate.

But after a few minutes, she couldn’t help herself and blurted out, “How far is it to the house.”

            “400 meters.”

            A few harrowing moments later they pulled into a clearing.

            “Get out and I’ll get your bag,” Peter said, the gruff edge in his voice only slightly softer than before.

            Dawn slipped out of the car and let her eyes adjust to the darkness surrounding them. The rain had stopped.  And the air seemed eerily quiet, with only a light wind ruffling her hair.  She could make out the shape of a building to her right and a wall of vegetation in front of her. Another car was parked to one side of the clearing. She swiped open the flashlight on her phone.

Hoping to get a better look at her host, she pointed it up in his face, which he immediately covered with his hand against the light.

“Sorry,” Dawn muttered and aimed the beam at the ground.

“Come this way,” Peter commanded.

She followed him around the wall of foliage onto a path, using her flashlight to illuminate the ground for both of them, but he quickly outpaced her.  When she caught up, he was unlocking a heavy wooden door. Pushing it open, he ushered her inside.

“Here is the kitchen,” he said, walking a few steps into a stone kitchen, rough, but clean. He walked to a spot which looked as if it had once held a wood-burning oven. Now it held a huge earthen bowl.  “We recycle kitchen scraps by throwing them in the sea.  Gather them in this bowl and tomorrow, I’ll show you where to put them.  Otherwise, you should have everything you need.”

He walked toward the front door and motioned to a key on a hook on the wall. “Lock the door and take this with you when you leave.”

“What about the storm?  Do we need to do anything?  Close shutters or you know, batten down the hatches?”

He headed down the path and called back over his shoulder, “No… windshadow, remember?”

“Right. Okay, thank you.”

“I’ll see you in the morning,” he said.

Dawn felt an odd chill as she watched him disappear into the darkness.

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KEY TO HER HEART–This is the old edgy romance with a murder thrown into the mix

CHAPTER ONE

     Bursting through the surface of the azure blue water, Samantha Morgan spit out the mouthpiece of her oxygen tank and gasped for a breath of fresh, salty air. She swam in long, deliberate strokes toward the waiting boat and clambered aboard, feeling more clumsy than usual in the ungainly fins and cumbersome SCUBA gear. 

     “That was incredible!” she exclaimed, as she shrugged out of the equipment that had been her lifeline for the last hour.  “I’ve never experienced anything like it.  When can we go again?”

     “I’ll set us up for a time tomorrow afternoon, ok?”  Jack Stone answered, smiling in amusement at her, as he removed his own tank. “Here, let me help you with that.”

     He reached over and unbuckled the strap around her waist, letting his hands linger a moment longer than necessary.  Her gaze met his.

“I’ve got it, thanks,” Samantha said and turned slightly away.

When they had stowed their gear and pulled T-shirts on over wet swimsuits, the captain of the rented boat started the rumbling engine and headed toward shore.

“Do you come to Key West often?” Samantha asked, plunging her hand into the frigid water of the ice chest to retrieve a beer.  She grabbed another and handed it to Jack.

     “I haven’t been back since I was stationed here with the Air Force.  This is where I learned to dive—before Key West became such a tourist Mecca.” He popped the top on the beer and took a long draught.

     It was as hot in the Keys as in Dallas that time of year, Samantha thought, watching a sliver of ice trickle down the side of the can.  She was glad to be out of Dallas in August, but why couldn’t her father have picked a cooler place—say Alaska? 

     Jack leaned back and propped his feet on the cushion next to Samantha. “Is this your first trip to the Keys?”

     “Yes.  I’m glad Dad decided to bring the company down here for the annual meeting.  It’s a lot less stuffy than last year in Cincinnati.”

     “Oh, Cincinnati’s not so bad,” Jack teased.

     Samantha wrinkled her nose at him.  “You can’t go diving there.”

     “No, there aren’t many oceans in Ohio.”

     “And no coral reefs like this one.  Incredible, aren’t they?  It’s a shame they’re in such jeopardy.”

     “I don’t think the problems with the reefs are as bad as the environmentalists make out.”

     “Really?  Everyone seems pretty serious about preserving them.  You’re not even supposed to touch the coral.”

     “That’s just a bunch of alarmist rhetoric, designed to increase their importance, and the price of everything that has anything to do with them—fishing, boating, diving—all the things that make Key West so popular.”

     Jack’s negative attitude startled Samantha.  She knew the real dangers threatening the coral reef off the coast of Florida.  It surprised her that someone as educated as Jack would label it all a publicity hoax. 

     Samantha found herself staring at him.  He grinned back at her, as if he were pleased with himself for getting her goat, then pulled his sunglasses off his forehead and over his steel gray eyes.

So he’d been teasing her. Jack Stone might be more interesting than she had originally thought. Maybe more complicated than just the superficial player she’d heard about.

 Samantha studied him from behind her sunglasses. She couldn’t help but notice the sheen of water that caused his wavy hair to glisten blue/black in the sun. Or that the chiseled planes of his face were nearly perfect, except for the tiny crook in his nose, the result of one too many football tackles in school, no doubt.   Or the way the muscles in his long legs bunched and relaxed with every move he made.  He was like an exquisite animal, lazing in the sun, just before he went off to devour some hapless fawn, she mused, and smiled at her overly active imagination. 

She leaned her head back, closed her eyes, and let the wind whip her hair dry as the boat cut across the waves. 

He is a handsome thing, she thought, and very charming.  But, all she needed was another Gary—he was charming, too, at first, and look at the way that had turned out. Besides, she didn’t even know anything about Jack. 

He’d only been in charge of International Sourcing at RL Morgan a few months.  And he had a reputation as a man who was fond of fast cars and faster women.  But in the few weeks they had been dating, she had found Jack Stone hard to resist.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it? As hard as she tried to refuse his invitations to lunch or the theatre, the more charming and persistent he became. Finally, she succumbed.

“What’s one innocent lunch,” she asked herself. Then, “what can dinner hurt?” “It’s only the ballet,” she said on their third date.  And the dates had been platonic enough, nothing threatening in Jack’s behavior. In fact, he’d behaved as a perfect gentleman.

So why did she feel unnerved now? Because I can feel myself slipping.   Even as the boat powered through the waves, she knew Jack’s charms were cutting through her resolve.  And how much longer would he be content with a chaste kiss goodnight?  The Jack Stone she had heard about wouldn’t put up with anything less than a physical relationship for long.

When they docked, Jack stepped off, then reached for Samantha’s hand.  Suddenly the boat lurched on an incoming wave.  She lost her balance and plunged off the side into the yawning gap between the boat and the dock.  But before she hit the water, strong arms caught her and set her down gently on the creaking planks of the old dock. 

“Good grief! That was close,” Samantha gasped, “Thanks.”

 Jack’s arms stayed protectively wrapped around her, his breath close to her ear, “My pleasure.  Are you all right?”

“Perfectly fine, thanks.”  She wriggled out of his grasp, smiling up at him.  His mirrored sunglasses made it impossible to read his expression, but she noticed a tightening of the nearly perfect mouth as she withdrew from his embrace.

Samantha rushed to fill the self-conscious silence that followed, “I guess we should be going.  It’s got to be nearly time for the awards banquet.”

Gone as quickly as it had come, the hardness in Jack’s expression was replaced by his usual disarming smile.  He glanced at the diver’s watch he wore, “Yeah, you’re right. It’s almost six. Let’s get the bikes.”

They walked toward the shack which served as a boat rental shop, and Jack reserved the boat for the next afternoon. As he maneuvered her bike from the rack and wheeled it to her, she watched him warily, steeling her resistance to his all-too-visible good looks and undeniable charm. 

Jack Stone wasn’t the kind of man she wanted — the kind who would settle down with a wife and kids and a house in the country. From what she’d heard he wouldn’t settle down with any one woman. 

She shook herself from her reverie.  What was she thinking about—settling down!  She didn’t want to settle down with anyone, either.  She reminded herself of the promise she had made on New Year’s Eve—no more men!   Gary was enough for a while.  She didn’t want to get involved! She made up her mind.   When they got back to Dallas, she wouldn’t see Jack again.

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There you have them! Two romances in the making. Let me know which one you like best. I need to get to work!