Here's some information about what these lucky folks won!
I've been writing Coon Hollow Coven Tales in my mind for several years. It's set in southern Indiana, south of Bloomington, where I spent my favorite childhood years surrounded by the love of a big family. The book is rich with a warm Hoosier down-home feel.
I've been writing Coon Hollow Coven Tales in my mind for several years. It's set in southern Indiana, south of Bloomington, where I spent my favorite childhood years surrounded by the love of a big family. The book is rich with a warm Hoosier down-home feel.
Genre: New adult Paranormal romance
Description:
Twenty-three-year-old Jancie Sadler was out of the room when her mother died, and her heart still longs for their lost goodbye. Aching to ease her sorrow, Aunt Starla gives Jancie a diary that changes her entire life. In entries from the 1930s, her great grandmother revealed how she coped with her own painful loss by seeking out a witch from nearby Coon Hollow Coven. The witch wore the griever’s moonstone locket, which allowed whoever could unlock its enchantment to talk with the dead.
Determined to find that locket, Jancie goes to the coven’s annual carnival held in her small southern Indiana town of Bentbone. This opposes her father’s strict rule: stay away from witches. But she’s an adult now and can make her own decisions. She meets Rowe McCoy, the kind and handsome witch who wears the moonstone. He agrees to let her try to open the locket, but they’re opposed by High Priestess Adara and her jealous desire to possess him. Desperate for closure with her mother, Jancie persists and cannot turn away from a perilous path filled with magic, romance, and danger.
If you missed the contest, or weren't chosen as a winner, you can purchase a copy at Amazon.
Here's the Goodreads link for you to add the book to your TBR list. https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/24807853-witch-s-moonstone-locket
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from Chapter One: Great Aunt Starla’s Cornbread
Warm rain mixed with Jancie’s tears, and she
rose to stand beside her mother’s grave. She bent at the waist and her fingers
followed the arc of her mother’s name—Faye Sadler—in the headstone. From
numerous visits, she knew the unyielding shape well. The word goodbye stuck in
her throat. She’d said it aloud many times since her mother died six months
ago, only to have the cemetery’s vast silence swallow her farewells. Rain
beaded on the polished granite. Her hand, bearing her mother’s silver ring, slid
down the stone and fell to her side.
If only she could’ve said goodbye to her
mother before she died. After years of caring for her mom while she suffered
with cancer, Jancie had missed the final parting moment while getting a quick
bite of dinner. The pain still cut like a knife in her gut.
On foot, she retraced the too-familiar path
toward her work at the Federal Bank. Although she’d landed a job as manager at
the largest of the three banks in the small town of Bentbone, the position was
a dead end. Within the first six months, she’d mastered all the necessary skills.
Now, after a year, only the paycheck kept her there.
Jancie turned onto Maple Street. As usual,
wind swept up the corridor, between old shade trees protecting houses, and met
her at the top of the tall hill. September rain pelted her face and battled the
Indian summer noontime temperatures. She zipped the rain parka to keep her
dress dry, pulled on the strings of the hood, and corralled strands of ginger-colored
hair that whipped into her eyes. She gazed farther into the valley, where the
view spanned almost a mile out to the edge of town. Usually, farmers moved
tractors across the road or boys raced skateboards and bikes down Maple Street’s
long slope.
Today, on the deserted acreage just east of
Bentbone, people moving in and out through a gate of the tall wooden fence
breathed life into the rundown carnival. Surprised, Jancie crossed the street
for a better view. She’d lost track of life around her since Mom passed. The
coming Labor Day weekend in Bentbone meant the valley coven’s yearly carnival.
She and her girlfriends always looked forward to the cute guys, fair food, and
amazing magical rides and decorations, even if her father didn’t approve of
witches or magic. The residents of the sleepy town awoke to welcome a host of
tourists wanting to see the spectacle created by the witches of Coon Hollow
Coven.
Somehow, Jancie had forgotten the big event
this year. Last year, she didn’t go since Mom was so sick and couldn’t be left.
Jancie sighed and turned onto the main street toward the bank. She’d lost so
much since her mother passed. Really, since the diagnosis of cancer.
At that time, four years ago, Jancie withdrew
as a sophomore from Hanover College, a select, private school in southern
Indiana near the Kentucky border—too far away. Instead, she returned to stay
with her mother and commuted to Indiana University. Balancing hours with the
home health care nurse, Jancie had few choices of career paths. Not that it
mattered, since her remarried father expected her to find a job in Bentbone and
continue taking care of her mother. Despite the sacrifices, Jancie loved her
mother, who’d always managed money for a few special things for Jancie—a new
bike, birthday parties, prom dresses—even though their income was tight. Mom
had paid for her tuition and listened to every new and exciting college
experience.
Jancie smiled at the memory of Mom’s
twinkling brown eyes, that mirrored her own, when she asked about what happened
during the day’s classes: if Jancie liked the professor; if she’d made new
friends.
When she rounded the last corner, she
returned to her work day. At the bleak, limestone bank building, reality hit.
Jancie pulled against the heavy glass door, and a gust swept her inside. She
peeled off the drenched jacket and hung it on the coat rack of her small, plain
office.
Through the afternoon’s doldrums, punctuated
by only a handful of customers, her mind wandered to the carnival. She’d gone
dozens of times before and loved it. But since Mom passed, nothing seemed fun
anymore, like she couldn’t connect with herself and had forgotten how to have a
good time. She organized a stack of notes, anything to put the concern out of
her mind.
***
After work, Jancie drove her old blue Camry
the five miles to the other end of town where she lived in her mother’s white
frame house, the home where she grew up, now hers. Glad to own her own place,
unlike her friends who rented, she’d made a few easy changes. In the living
room, a new brown leather couch with a matching chair and ottoman. She replaced
the bedroom furniture with a new oak suite for herself in what used to be her
mother’s room. With pay saved from the bank, Jancie could remodel or build on,
but she didn’t know what she wanted yet. Her great aunt Starla had told her to
just wait and hold onto her money; she’d know soon enough.
Pouring rain soaked the hem of her dress as
she darted between the garage shed and back stoop of the small ranch house.
Glad she’d chosen to get her run in this
morning before work, she changed into cozy sweats, pulled the long part of her
tapered hair into a ponytail, and headed for the kitchen.
Her phone alerted her of a text, and she read
the message from her friend Rachelle, always the social director of their
group: R we going to the carnival?
Jancie typed a response. I guess. R
Lizbeth and Willow going?
Yep whole gang. What day?
Don’t know yet. Get back to u. Jancie worried she’d spoil their fun. Even
though they’d all been her best friends since high school and would understand
her moodiness, she didn’t want to ruin one of the best times of the year for
them. Since Mom passed, they’d taken her out to movies and shopping in Bloomington,
but this was different. Could it ever match up to the fun of all the times
before? “I don’t know if I’m up to that,” she said into open door of the old
Kenmore refrigerator while rummaging for leftovers of fried chicken and corn.
The meal satisfied and made her thankful
she’d learned how to cook during those years with Mom. Not enough dishes to
bother with the dishwasher, one of the modern upgrades to the original kitchen,
Jancie washed the dishes by hand and then called Starla. When she answered,
Jancie asked, “Can I come over tonight? There’s something I’m needing your
opinion on.”
“Why sure, Jancie. C’mon over,” the
eighty-five-year-old replied with her usual warm drawl. “Are you wantin’
dinner? I made me some soup beans with a big hambone just butchered from Bob’s
hog. My neighbor Ellie came over and had some. She said they were the best
she’s eaten.”
Jancie glanced at the soggy rain parka and
opted for an umbrella instead. “No, I just ate. Be right over.” Keys and purse
in hand, she hung up and darted for the shed.
Five minutes later, she turned onto the drive
of the eldercare apartments and parked under the steel awning where Starla gave
her a whole arm wave from her picture window. Jancie made her way to number
twelve on the first floor.
The door opened, and Starla engulfed Jancie
in a bear hug, pulling her into the pillow of a large, sagging bosom. Starla
smelled of her signature scent—rosewater and liniment.
Jancie had loved her great aunt’s hugs as
long as she could remember. Stress and worry melted away, and she hugged back.
Her arm grazed Starla’s white curls along the collar of her blue knit top
embroidered with white stars—her great aunt’s favorite emblem.
“It’s so good to see you. Come sit a spell,
while I get us some iced tea.” Starla pulled away and gestured to the
microsuede couch decorated with three crocheted afghans in a rainbow of colors.
“I thought we were done with this hot weather, but not quite yet. That rain
today’s been a gully washer but didn’t cool things off much.” The large-boned
woman scuffed her pink-house-slippered feet toward the kitchen. “Would you
rather have pound cake from the IGA or homemade cornbread?”
Jancie laughed and followed her into the
kitchen. She wouldn’t get through the visit without eating. “You’re just
fishin’ for a compliment. You know your homemade cornbread is better.”
Starla arranged plates with thick slices of
warm cornbread and big pats of butter on top, while Jancie transferred the
refreshments to the aluminum dinette table.
“With your hair pulled back like that, you’re
a dead ringer for your Ma. So pretty with that same sweetheart-shaped face.”
Starla folded herself onto a chair beside Jancie. “You look to be getting on
well…considering what all you’ve been through.”
“I’m doing okay,” Jancie said through a
mouthful of the moist cornbread. She washed it down with a swallow of brisk tea
that tasted fresh-brewed. “But sometimes, lots of times, I feel lost, like I
can’t move on.” She ran a hand across her forehead. “I didn’t get to say
goodbye. I spent time with her through all those years, and it shouldn’t
matter, but it does every time I visit her grave and most every night in my
dreams.”
“Oh, honey. I know it hurts.” Starla smoothed
Jancie’s ponytail down the middle of her back and spoke with a voice so slow
and warm, it felt like a handmade quilt wrapping around her. “You spent all that time and gave so much.
Just like when I cared for my husband some twenty years back. I know. I never
got the chance to tell Harry goodbye either. Time will heal all hurts.”
Jancie looked down at the marbleized tabletop
to hide her teary eyes. “I don’t think I’m ever going to heal, Aunt Starla. I
don’t know if I can ever move on.”
“There is one thing you can try. I’d have
done it, if I’d have known before decades softened my aching heart. Way back, I
was desperate like you.”
Jancie looked into Starla’s blue-gray eyes,
set deep inside wrinkled lids.
Her aunt leaned closer. “Not many know about
this,” she whispered as if someone outside the apartment door might hear.
“There’s an old story about how a member of the Coon Hollow Coven, one who’s
recently lost a loved one, is made the teller of the moonstone tale.”
Jancie rolled her eyes. “That’s just a silly story,
one of lots that Mom and Dad told to scare me when I was little, so I’d stay
away from the coven. When the moonstone locket opens at the end of the tale,
you’ll get your wish but also be cursed.”
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