Forgotten History Preview

This week Guideposts Books is officially launching my mother's and my latest book set - Chesapeake Antiques Mysteries.  In these books we explore two of our favorite topics: mysteries and antiques! Below you'll find a preview of the first chapter of Forgotten History, the first of the two books. We hope you'll enjoy it!

Best Wishes,

Pam

Forgotten History - Chapter 1

“What on earth is this?” Miriam Maxwell asked herself as she dusted a bizarre little figurine in her late sister’s antiques shop. It sat between a Roseville water lily vase, easily identified because their grandmother had had one similar to it—or could it actually be the same one?—and a brightly colored teapot by a famous English potter.

The little statue was made of garishly painted wood with seashell eyes and feathers for hair. It had to have some value because Ruth had priced it at $600, but Miriam had no idea what it was. She was beginning to feel that way about the entire store. The deeper she delved into the stock, the more mystified she was by her sister’s reasons for buying what she did.

After a hard morning of trying to organize the shop she’d inherited in picturesque Maple Landing, Maryland, on the Chesapeake Bay, Miriam was entertaining serious doubts about whether she could run her sister’s business. For several weeks Miriam had been trying to ready the store for a mid-June reopening, but she was still at a loss to figure out her sister’s business systems. The stock was a hodgepodge of anything and everything, and the second floor and the cellar were loaded with unsorted boxes and items not in the store inventory—not that Miriam could read many of her sister’s scribbles in the ledger.

Their phone conversations in recent years hadn’t been very informative, especially not where the antiques shop was concerned, and Ruth had always seemed too busy for the long heart-to-heart conversations of earlier times. One of Miriam’s reasons for returning to her hometown was to regain the feeling of closeness she’d once had with her sister, but so far she was only bogged down by dust and confusion.

“At least I’m good at dusting,” Miriam said aloud to bolster her resolve.

She moved her stepladder so she could reach the items on top of a display cabinet. A cobweb dangling from the ceiling brushed against her cheek, but she made short work of it with her feather duster. Thankfully she was wearing old jeans and an oversized plaid shirt with her hair covered by a red bandana. If the students who’d been in her high school business classes back in Indiana could see her now, they might not recognize her.

As she reached over to dust an old weather vane mounted on a wooden base, she was startled by the tinkle of a bell over the front door. The man who entered had carefully styled white hair and was dressed in a finely tailored blazer.

“I’m sorry, we’re not open yet,” she said, brushing a silver lock of hair out of her eyes.
“Miriam? Miriam Davis?”

She looked into the pleasant face of a man with a neatly trimmed snowy-white beard, and could hardly believe her eyes.

“Samuel Bentley?”

“It’s been a long time, Miriam, but I’d recognize you anywhere. What are you doing here?”

“Attempting to reopen my sister’s antiques shop. She passed away this winter and left it to me, but I’m not sure I’m up to it.”

“The girl I knew in high school could handle almost anything,” he said.

Except your going away to the naval academy, she thought, remembering how they’d dated during their junior and senior years. Their separation became permanent when she went off to a teachers’ college, but now the happy memories flooded back.

“Everything but seventh-hour biology,” she said with a laugh. “It still creeps me out to remember the snake Mr. Van Hoff made us touch.”

He laughed with her. “You must have washed your hands twenty times that day.”

“It’s been a long time,” she said, starting to climb down but forgetting how dirty her feather duster had become. A big puff of dust caught her unaware, and she sneezed violently, nearly losing her balance on the ladder.

Samuel rushed over and steadied the ladder, saving her from a fall, and extended his hand to help her down. Grateful for his help but a tad embarrassed, she thanked him and brushed her hands off on the sides of her jeans.

“How long has it been?” he asked thoughtfully.

“More than forty years.” She remembered he was only a few months older than she was. He’d turned sixty in March.

“I’m guessing your name isn’t Davis anymore,” he said, glancing at the wedding ring she still wore. 

“Have you and your husband lived here long?”

“It’s Maxwell. Ray passed away nearly five years ago, but I just moved here.”

“I’m sorry to hear about your husband,” he said. “Do you have children?”

“A daughter and son-in-law in Indiana. They have two lovely twins, Becky and Abby. I debated with myself a long time whether to leave Terre Haute to take over Ruth’s antiques shop.”

 “How long did you live in Indiana?” Samuel asked.

“We settled in Terre Haute after our marriage. I taught high school business courses for more than thirty years, but I’m retired now—retired from teaching, anyway. I may have bitten off more than I can handle with this shop.” She suddenly felt a little self-conscious telling him more than he’d asked. 

“What brings you to Maple Landing? Last I knew you were going to make a career in the navy.”

“Admiral Samuel Bentley, U.S.N., retired,” he said with a self-deprecating grin. “I decided to leave the service when they assigned me to a desk in Norfolk. I’m on my own now—my wife passed away suddenly six years ago from an aneurysm, and my two sons are both in the military.”

“You live in Maple Landing now?”

“I just moved here. In fact, I’m furnishing a house near the water. That’s why I came to your shop. I’m in need of a desk.”

“My sister must have liked desks. There are quite a few back here.”

She led the way to the rear of the store where the furniture was on display. They had to step over a child’s wooden wagon and a rusty scooter to reach the desks, reminding Miriam of how badly she needed to hire someone to help organize everything.

Samuel followed her, squeezing past a Victorian love seat and a mid-nineteenth-century cherry dresser with handkerchief drawers on either side of the top.

“Now, this is nice,” Samuel said, peering under and around a Queen Anne desk with inlaid mahogany. It was more table than desk, with only three small drawers across the front, but it was easily the most beautiful piece of furniture on display.

“It isn’t what I had in mind, but this should work better than a rolltop. I work on a laptop computer, but I need a lot of room to spread out my research materials,” Samuel said, pulling out one of the three drawers along the top. “Dovetail construction. I don’t have any doubts about its authenticity.”
Miriam watched as he tried to open a third drawer, but it wouldn’t budge.

“Hmm. Odd, the other two worked fine,” he said, bending to examine the stuck drawer.

“I should have a carpenter look at it,” Miriam said, concerned. Most of the items on display were in good condition.

“I don’t think it’s a major problem. How long would you say the top is?” Samuel didn’t wait for an answer as he used his hands to gauge the length. “Fifty-two, maybe fifty-four inches.”

“You must plan to do a lot of work,” Miriam said for lack of anything else to say.

Turning toward her, he smiled broadly. “Would you believe the guy who struggled in a high school lit class is planning to write a book?”

“Struggled and got an A minus, the only class where you didn’t get a straight A,” she teased, remembering what an outstanding student he’d been. “What kind of book?

“A history of America’s navy,” he said. “It’s something I’ve always wanted to do, and now’s my chance. That’s part of the reason I retired, although it was time to try something different.”
“That’s wonderful!” she said, genuinely enthused.

“It’s in great shape except for the drawer and the scratch on this side,” Samuel said, still examining the desk from all angles. “I would say it’s the original finish.”

“Oh my!” Miriam bent to see the defect he’d noticed. “I recognize this scratch. This desk was in my family for generations. We always thought some naughty child tried to scratch an initial on the side. I can’t believe I forgot about it.”

“Maybe it’s not something you want to sell,” Samuel said. “I don’t want to deprive you of a family heirloom.”

“No, it’s definitely for sale. The house is so crowded with all my furnishings and everything Ruth left that I can’t possibly find a spot for the desk.”

If there was one thing Miriam had learned about the antiques business from her sister, it was that everything was negotiable. She was debating what kind of discount to give Samuel to compensate for the stuck drawer and the scratch when he took the initiative.

“I’ll take it. How do you want me to make out the check?”

“To Ruthie’s Antiques. I’m keeping her name on the shop as a way to honor her memory.”

“I was so taken aback by seeing you again, I didn’t even ask about your sister. I’m really sorry you lost her. She was considerably older than you, wasn’t she?”

“Ten years older. In fact, she was almost a substitute mother for me after our mother died. She was on a buying trip in Pennsylvania when she suffered a fatal heart attack—although I’m not sure why she needed to find more stock. You wouldn’t believe how jammed full the cellar and second floor are here. But she died doing what she loved best: picking for antiques.”

“I take it she didn’t have children since she left the shop to you,” he said.

“Sadly, no. After her husband died, she put all her energy into finding and selling antiques. I gave a lot of thought to auctioning all her stock and the contents of the house and selling the buildings, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I feel closer to her surrounded by the old things she loved. I just have to figure out if I’m up to running the shop. So far, I haven’t made a very good start.”

“You’ll do fine.” He gave her a warm smile and took her hand between both of his. “Miriam. It’s nice to have you here. I hope we’ll see more of each other.”

“That would be nice,” she said, feeling a bit awkward. “Thank you for buying the desk. I’m glad it’s going to a good home.”

Samuel wrote out a check and handed it to her. “If there’s anything I can do, let me know.”

“Not unless you’re looking for a job,” she teased. “I haven’t had any success finding a sales assistant yet.”

After making arrangements for Samuel to pick up the desk later, Miriam watched him leave, feeling nostalgic about the times they’d shared when they were young, and then her thoughts turned back to the shop.

Could she make a go of living in Maple Landing and running her sister’s business? Maybe she was too old to start a new life. She could retire and enjoy her family, but would she be satisfied with her garden, her bridge friends, and her church work? As fulfilling as her life had been, she still faced long days alone in Terre Haute now that her daughter’s family was planning to move to California. Was this a second chance, or a bad mistake? Only time would tell.


In this warmhearted Guideposts original two-book fiction set, widowed Miriam Maxwell returns to Chesapeake Bay to take over her late sister's antique store and reconnects with old friend Samuel Bentley. When Samuel buys a desk that belonged to Miriam's family for generations, a discovery hidden in a drawer sends the pair off on delightful adventures in mystery and history. shopguideposts.org/ChesapeakeSet

Going Indie

Recently my mother/writing partner, Barbara Andrews, and I launched our first venture into ‘indie’ publishing. Faith, Fireworks and Fir written as Pam Andrews Hanson is an original inspirational romance available for Kindle at Amazon and for
Nook on Barnes and Noble.

My husband, who was instrumental in the process, strongly suggested I blog about the whole thing. “Write something clever, funny, and witty,” he said.

No pressure there!

Naturally all week I’ve felt more witless than witty. Cleverness also continues to elude, so here I sit on a Sunday night willing to settle for mediocre – but even that seems elusive.

I’m just going to plunge in and make do with what I’ve got.

Several factors influenced this leap into independent publishing. First, after 30-plus books with conventional publishers (with more on the way) for Mom and me (and 50 plus for Mom including those written under her own name), the time just seemed right to explore ‘long-tail publishing.’

It used to be if you wanted to write a book, record an album, or produce a movie, and you wanted it to go out to a national, or even global, audience, you had to work with a major publisher, recording company, or movie studio.

But today, with online technology, anyone can distribute his or her work to a vast audience independently. You can sell your book, album or movie using online stores like Amazon, Barnes & Noble, or iTunes. And since it is all done electronically, you don’t have to underwrite the costs of printing a book or burning a physical CD/DVD.

I have to confess I am slow to change when it comes to technology. Case in point: I just recently gave up my ‘chewing gum’ iPod, and I’m sure the Smithsonian will soon come to claim it. However, I’m also a voracious reader and being able to load half a dozen or more books onto an e-book reader when traveling is very appealing. I’ve come to believe electronic delivery systems of books don’t have to replace the traditional form but rather are complementary.

So why make the leap now? While my mom and I continue to write inspirational women’s fiction for Guideposts, we also love co-authoring inspirational romances. It is complicated to plan projects around multiple publishers. The interest in a measure of editorial and scheduling freedom meshed perfectly with the concept of indie publishing.

We view this foray into independent publishing as akin to launching a small business. Not only did we have to write a good book, we also needed to find someone to design the cover and figure out ways to promote it. I owe a great deal of thanks to many people, especially romance author Holly Jacobs who referred me to the fabulous Kim Van Meter, a Harlequin author who is a freelance designer. Holly was also instrumental in suggesting ways to use social media to promote the book, and she titled the book. She is an amazing cheerleader and friend.

And I owe a lot to my friends for not only liking me in person but ‘virtually’ on my official author Facebook page. Even people I don’t know have clicked like for which I’m also grateful.

This is not the first entrepreneurial venture my mom and I have tried. The summer after my junior year of high school, she and I went into the ‘junk’ business. My Aunt Marge (who gave my mom a paper bag of Harlequin romances which in turn spurred her novel writing career) owned a flea market in a small southwestern Michigan town not far from the city where we lived. She offered us a booth to set up and sell our wares. We haunted garage sales for antiques and collectibles and books to resell. I started collecting cookbooks that summer. After expenses, I earned enough to buy myself contact lenses. It was the best summer job I ever had, and my mom and I had a lot of fun.

Just like we are now.

So many books, so little time

Back before I was even pregnant with my first son I harbored this little fantasy of what life enceinte would be like. I imagined something akin to an extended beach vacation (a smooth, sandy Great Lakes beach) where my only responsibilities were to plump out and devour all the books I ever wanted to read.

I got the plump part right at least.

Instead, right up to my delivery date, I taught two classes at Northern Arizona University—much of the time in pain from sciatica. Between grading and clearing out the spare bedroom as a nursery, reading took a back seat. My husband, Ralph, was teaching fulltime at NAU and commuting up and down the mountain to Arizona State University in Tempe for his final PhD class. Our son Erik’s December birth coincided with Ralph finishing his coursework.

I went back to teaching parttime a semester after Erik was born. Sleep deprivation and school work trumped reading. It horrifies me to think of it now, but I only read one book that entire year: a Barbara Michaels romantic suspense novel that obviously did not keep me in too much suspense.

Fast forward to late summer 1995: I’m recovering from the C-section birth of my second son (my mother, God bless her, ‘edited’ my legs out from many of the pictures of me in bed holding my new baby. A career as an old-timey circus sideshow attraction was surely an option for me then…and I ain’t talking about the Bearded Lady.).

Why I chose as post-pregnancy reading material the Kazuo Ishiguro book from the library I did, the title of which escapes me and even a trip to Amazon doesn’t enlighten me, I’ll never know. I still have nightmares about that book. The ceaseless repetitive surreal scenes did not mix well with the pain pill Percoset. I soon abandoned both the narcotics and the novel.

Books are my vocation and avocation. Ever since my mother introduced me to the Honey Bunch series when I was five, I was hooked. They sure beat Dick, Sally, Jane and their insipidly named pets, Spot and Puff. A voracious reader from that age on, I soon ‘graduated’ to Nancy Drew and never looked back. The year I was ten I read “The Catcher in the Rye” and “True Grit,” both probably too gritty for a ten-year-old, but there was no turning back.

The only time my mom ever censored my choice of reading materials was when I was in 7^th grade. The Detroit Free Press was serializing excerpts from “Sybil,” the story of a woman diagnosed with multiple personalities. One morning the newspaper was missing. My mom explained she threw it away. That day’s installment contained graphic descriptions of abuse Sybil suffered as a child at the hands of her own mother. Naturally I dug the paper out of the trash and read it.

And I’ve regretted doing so to this day.

Over the years, I’ve belonged to four book clubs in three states and read countless tomes crisscrossing genres. About a week ago someone posted a question on the West Virginia Writers, Inc. Facebook wall asking people their favorite authors. Nearly a week later the thread is still going strong. I responded with just a smattering of my favorite books and authors.

And I’m constantly discovering new favorites.

But also over the years something alarming has happened. Some of the joy went out of reading—and writing. Granted, I write to earn money but also because it’s akin to a calling with me. That’s a part of writing I never talk about except to say I knew from elementary school on I wanted to be a writer and have never really veered from that path.

In the dead of winter of this year, my mom and I had a heart-to-heart talk. We both wanted to make writing fun again. And so we have.

That decision opened the floodgates of reading joy. I’m no longer approaching every book I pick up as a ‘textbook,’ wondering if I should try something new, stretch my skills, stick to tried and true, the list is endless. I’m not saying I won’t do any of those things, but for now I’m at peace writing in the voice my mom and I do best together. And ideas for exploring future projects ‘out of my comfort zone’ are already scribbled in a notebook.

This summer, ‘thanks’ to foot surgery, I find myself with lots of reading time and no maternity clothes in sight. So I’m devouring books the way I used to race through the adventures of Nancy and her pals Bess and George.

There are so many books I still want to read (and write) and I need to embrace my enforced stillness rather than railing against it.

Who knows? I may even spend a few hours revisiting “The Secret of the Old Clock,” or “Harriet the Spy” or Harry Potter or pick up Anne Tyler or Jonathan Franzen or Lynn Austin or—the list is endless.

And I, for one, feel like a kid whose just been let back into the candy store.

Happy Birthday, Nancy Drew

Intrepid girl detective Nancy Drew is 80 today, a fact I learned from the Facebook status update of one of my former journalism students when she linked to this USA Today article. (Thanks, Melissa Hostutler!)

Immediately I followed suit, linking to the article and wishing ‘Nancy’ a happy birthday too. Soon other friends of mine were sharing their reminisces of the books that gave all of us countless hours of joy when we were young.

Several prominent women, including Justice Sandra Day O’Connor, Secretary of State Hillary Clinton, and former First Lady Laura Bush have listed Nancy Drew as an influence.

Nancy Drew was a huge influence on my decision to become a journalist (I’m too cowardly to snoop around scary attics!) and a writer in general. Ironically, as big a mystery fan as I am…I don’t have a mystery writer’s ‘voice.’ And my mother/writing partner (my other big influence!) and I don’t have a collective mystery voice together.

But we share a love for stories with mystery and mayhem.

Nancy and her pals Bess and George were always on the trail of bad guys (or gals…?), zipping around in her speedy roadster. Good-natured Ned was secondary, and we readers know poor Mrs. Gruen could never rein Nancy in.

Years later, as a mother, I think Nancy would never have been allowed to get into all the ‘scrapes’ she did if her mother was alive. No figuring out “The Clue of the Velvet Mask” or “The Secret in the Old Attic” or “The Mystery at Lilac Inn.”

As a child, nothing made me happier than to get to stay home sick from school, tucked into my top bunk in the room I shared with my sister, a pile of Nancy Drew mysteries by my side.

When I was a child organized sports didn’t exist for girls (I woulda been a halfway decent soccer player…at ten), and it wasn’t until mid-year of sixth grade that the fairer sex was allowed to wear pants to school in the small Michigan town I lived in.

Happy Birthday, Nancy Drew. You’ve come a long way, and so have we.

So Many Books…

Like an expectant mother with a nesting urge, the arrival of a new year brings out an organizing urge in me. My current project is weeding out books to donate to the library…to make room for new books. The public library here is wonderful, not only for its collection but for the fact one can actually find a parking spot. Our previous city had many things to recommend it but being able to easily go to the library was not one of them.

Fast-forward to an hour or so after I wrote the above. Instead of making more room, somehow when I went to reshelve I had less room. The downstairs rec room bookcases look better, but I’d been hoping to bring more bedroom books (not bedroom books!) down to fit in the Christmas gift books and the ones I just ‘splurged’ on at the mall sale.

I’m wheezing and frustrated. And when my husband offers to help, I growl at him. Literally. He’s caught up in his own project of making sugar-free cranberry applesauce while re-watching Season One of Lost with my mom. Years ago, he also got her hooked on watching motorcycle racing with him. Don’t ask. I’m sure someday the mother ship will return my real parent….

Anyway, why does everything have to be about subtext? Am I really flummoxed because I don’t have room for both volumes of Valerie Bertinelli’s ‘memoirs’ or is it because I wonder if I’ll be alive long enough to read all the books I own, let alone all the books I want to read? And write?

Years ago, I had a fantasy. I envisioned that when I was pregnant with my first child I would sit and do nothing but read. Fat chance. At that time I was teaching two classes at Northern Arizona University and taught practically up until delivery. By the time I was finished with grading each night, I was too tired to even pick up a book for pleasure. That year after Erik was born I read one book. Yep, one. Things did improve; I went back to book group, even made it through Bonfire of the Vanities, which said son is nearly done with now.

Now I have a new fantasy, one that involves reading at lunch each day before I sit down to write. I’m an afternoon worker. And for the first time, ever, all afternoons belong to me.

Maybe it really is just a book about a whale?