Photos
Seraphina in an oversized cream cashmere cardigan over a silk camisole and matching lounge pants, seated at her writing desk, tortoiseshell glasses pushed into her copper hair.
Sitting in a lounge chair on the beach reading.
Signing books at Ink & Anchor in a flowing emerald blouse and wide-legged cream trousers, gold bangles glinting on her wrist as she smiles at a reader.
About Me:
I'm a redhead, but not the feisty kind. My son always tells people I'm actually pretty shy. I write romance novels, which embarrasses him when his friends find out, even though he's proud of me. I've been writing professionally since I sold my first book at thirty and have been blessed with success in a hard field.
I'm a single mom to my fourteen-year-old son. If that's a dealbreaker, no hard feelings but keep scrolling. We've been a team from day one. There’s never been a serious relationship with a man in my life, other than my son. We wouldn't mind having a steady, kind person join our little family. Just don't expect me to cook dinner for you. My son insists I mention that we basically live on takeout because my cooking is "a safety hazard." Something about a burned bagel.
I love writing, but the public side of being an author makes me nervous. Book signings, photos, interviews - my son usuallyhas to push me out the door for those things. I'm much more comfortable observing from the sidelines than being in the spotlight.
My son says I should also mention that I work really hard and that anyone who thinks writing romance is easy doesn't know what they're talking about.
Some of my favorite things:
Old bookstores
Chicken pesto sandwiches
Crisp autumn days
Strong coffee and pumpkin spice everything
Sunsets over the Pacific
Rom-coms and sad country songs
Prompts
My real-life superpower is hitting my word count even when the power goes out.
After work, you’ll find me in the stands at my son’s baseball games, with friends, reading, or watching rom-coms.
I promise I won’t judge you if you’ve never read a romance novel—as long as you’ll read one of mine if I ask.
Favorite song: “Already Gone (But Still Here).”
What’s your comfort movie—and will you share the popcorn?
(It’s not technically a movie, but the 1995 BBC Pride and Prejudice is my favorite. Colin Firth is the best Darcy. And, for the record, you can keep the popcorn—I’ll take strawberry ice cream.)
I went back to her favorite song, staring at it for a moment, wondering what it was that had spoken to Seraphina in particular. She had said at Lila’s party that it was like I’d been in her head when I wrote it. I’d deflected, saying it was mostly because of Ivy’s perfect voice that had made the song come to life. However, I didn’t really believe that. I knew it wasthe finest song I’d ever written, pulling from the depth of my sorrow, regret and self-hatred. How sad it was—the way deep pain created our best art.
In that instance, I’d longed to take Seraphina’s hand and draw her away from the party. Tell her everything. About my brokenness. My longing. The loneliness that made me feel as if I’d lost a layer of skin. But it wasn’t necessary. She knew it all because it was right there in the song.
Maybe that’s why I’d refused to get a dog, even though I wanted one in the worst way. But my greatest fear? A man’s best friend could be suffocated by the likes of me. I could imagine waking in the morning to a partially open door, an empty food dish the only reminder that I’d loved him with every part of my sensitive soul, only to drive him away. Maybe he only went a few doors down, choosing someone else. Someone who would let him roam the beach without a leash.
My mother and Dana had taught me how to drive away the very thing I loved the most. And Seraphina seemed to understand. She knew that kind of pain. I wished it was not so. She was too good, too sensitive for a world that battered the soft heart of an artist who longed only for love that stayed. That aching longing for a love that never comes was not ours alone, but perhaps those of us who felt our way through life suffered more than those with logical, uncluttered minds.
What had she said to me earlier?Some heartbreaks suck the air right out of you. Leave you gasping for breath while curled in a fetal position. Stealing your muses. Making you doubt you could ever write about love again because you're not even sure it's real. Or something like that anyway.
I put the phone on the coffee table and reached for Georgia, held her for a moment, her elegant neck in my left hand, the worn spot on the body where twenty years of playing had smoothed the finish down to bare wood.
I played one chord. Then another.
