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Welcome back to Satisfaction for Insatiable Readers.
Today, we're joining ranks with Rachel's Random Resources for a stop along their current tour featuring the second release in the Lorna and Tristan series from author Cynthia Hilston. From the sound of things, it's a work of historical fiction with more than one surprise in store that could upturn oh so many lives. Ready or not, here comes today's title in the spotlight...
Rocks and Flowers in a Box
Lorna and Tristan series, Book 2
by
Cynthia Hilston
About the book....
The wedding bells for Lorna and Tristan Blake toll doom right as the honeymoon begins with an unexpected turn in Tristan’s health. While World War II winds down, Lorna receives a letter from the War Department informing her that the brother she thought killed in action is still alive. She is overjoyed, but his return will dredge up a devastating secret about their parents’ tragic death –a secret that could destroy her new marriage and threaten her husband’s physical and mental well-being. What unfolds is balancing act of keeping the faith and shattering the pieces of the life she’s worked so hard to put back together.
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~~~ EXCERPT ~~~
(Chapter 4 - Context: After her husband, Tristan, threw an old address book away because he wants nothing to do with his family, Lorna sneaks out after he’s gone to bed to retrieve it.)
I sat in my dad’s old armchair as the clock struck midnight that evening. Tristan went to bed hours ago, his snores traveling from our bedroom into the living room. I fiddled with my brother’s dog tag, the chain smooth from everyday wear. Nearly a year had passed since I’d received the awful news of Chucky’s death in Tunisia. I smiled ruefully, kissed the dog tag, and placed the chain around my neck.
In the months that followed his death, I’d received his belongings in the mail, followed by his Purple Heart and his life insurance policy. The money had meant little to me, a meager replacement that would never fill the void left by the loss of my last family member. I’d opened an account at the local bank and left the money, in the hopes of one day giving it to my children, telling them it was from their uncle, a man they would have loved as much as I had.
One brother. That was all I’d had. Tristan had at least two brothers still living and likely sisters as well. Tristan’s siblings were probably scattered around the country. Do they have children? Does Tristan know or care if he’s an uncle?
I shook my head. What was the matter with me? I was meddling in things best left alone, but as I stood and slid into some shoes to step outside, something prodded me to keep moving. In the black of night, I glanced around, as if I were a thief sneaking about and hoping not to get caught. No movement came from my house, so I continued to Tristan’s house, all the way to the back yard. The stones crunched underfoot as I approached the trash cans.
“If I were smart, I would’ve brought a flashlight,” I muttered.
The closest can was piled to the brim. With only the moonlight as my guide, I scanned the contents. My eyes fell on a black book. It was almost too easy as I grabbed it. I returned to the house and sat at the kitchen table with the light on over the sink. The book weighed heavy in my hands like I was hoarding an illegal substance. I opened it. On the inner cover, a name and address written in thick, loopy letters stared back at me: Stephen Richardson, 145 Stephens St., Cleveland, OH. I ran my fingers over the words. Tristan’s original name, before the accident. I read more pages. After a few minutes, I yawned, my eyesight going blurry. I stood and tucked the book into the back of the ironing board cupboard. The last thing Tristan ever did was the ironing.
I joined my husband in bed a minute later. As I pulled the sheet up to my chin, the warmth emanating from his body almost burned me.
I sat in my dad’s old armchair as the clock struck midnight that evening. Tristan went to bed hours ago, his snores traveling from our bedroom into the living room. I fiddled with my brother’s dog tag, the chain smooth from everyday wear. Nearly a year had passed since I’d received the awful news of Chucky’s death in Tunisia. I smiled ruefully, kissed the dog tag, and placed the chain around my neck.
In the months that followed his death, I’d received his belongings in the mail, followed by his Purple Heart and his life insurance policy. The money had meant little to me, a meager replacement that would never fill the void left by the loss of my last family member. I’d opened an account at the local bank and left the money, in the hopes of one day giving it to my children, telling them it was from their uncle, a man they would have loved as much as I had.
One brother. That was all I’d had. Tristan had at least two brothers still living and likely sisters as well. Tristan’s siblings were probably scattered around the country. Do they have children? Does Tristan know or care if he’s an uncle?
I shook my head. What was the matter with me? I was meddling in things best left alone, but as I stood and slid into some shoes to step outside, something prodded me to keep moving. In the black of night, I glanced around, as if I were a thief sneaking about and hoping not to get caught. No movement came from my house, so I continued to Tristan’s house, all the way to the back yard. The stones crunched underfoot as I approached the trash cans.
“If I were smart, I would’ve brought a flashlight,” I muttered.
The closest can was piled to the brim. With only the moonlight as my guide, I scanned the contents. My eyes fell on a black book. It was almost too easy as I grabbed it. I returned to the house and sat at the kitchen table with the light on over the sink. The book weighed heavy in my hands like I was hoarding an illegal substance. I opened it. On the inner cover, a name and address written in thick, loopy letters stared back at me: Stephen Richardson, 145 Stephens St., Cleveland, OH. I ran my fingers over the words. Tristan’s original name, before the accident. I read more pages. After a few minutes, I yawned, my eyesight going blurry. I stood and tucked the book into the back of the ironing board cupboard. The last thing Tristan ever did was the ironing.
I joined my husband in bed a minute later. As I pulled the sheet up to my chin, the warmth emanating from his body almost burned me.
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About the author...
Cynthia Hilston is a thirty-something-year-old stay-at-home mom of three young kids, happily married. Writing has always been like another child to her. After twenty years of waltzing in the world of fan fiction, she finally stepped away to do her debut dance with original works of fiction. Visit her website at www.cynthiahilston.com for more information.
In her spare time - what spare time? - she devours books, watches Doctor Who and Game of Thrones, pets her orange kitty, looks at the stars, and dreams of what other stories she wishes to tell.
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Special thanks to Rachel at Rachel's Random Resources for the chance to bring this tour to you. (THANKS!) For more information on this title, the author, this promotion, or those on the horizon, feel free to click through the links provided above. Be sure to check out the rest of tour for more bookish fun!
Until next time, remember...if it looks good, READ IT!
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