CHAPTER ONE Newport, RI, August 1895 She awoke that morning to an angry sea battering the edges of the promontory, and gusting winds that kicked up a spray to rattle against her bedroom windows. She might simply have rolled over, closed her eyes again and sunk pleasantly back into sleep, if not for the— Here the nib of my pen ran dry and scratched across the paper, threatening to leave a tear. If not for the what? I knew what I wanted to say; this was to be a novel of mystery

I know that whether it's mystery or romance, contemporary stories sell better than historicals. I know that, but I choose to write historicals anyway. Am I a glutton for punishment? Afraid of success? Just plain stubborn? The answer to that last one is probably a resounding "yes!" but the real reason I write historicals is because I can't NOT write them. Seriously. Now, I'm a modern woman with modern beliefs and values - I think women should follow their dreams and be given t

My daughter left yesterday to return to school in NJ, where she's studying to get her PhD. It made me sad to see her leave, but before she went we had a discussion about a book. My book! She had just read one of my ARCs of Murder at The Breakers, and to my great surprise and delight, she didn't guess who the murderer was until the evil villain was unveiled. Now, this is a child (ok, she's 25), who often within the first 15 mintues of a movie will tell you exactly what's going