A novel about heiress Mary Philipse's relationship with George Washington, based on historical accounts, letters, and personal journals bynine-time New York Emmy Award-winning journalistMary Calvi.
“Love is said to be an involuntary passion, and it is, therefore, contended that it cannot be resisted.” —George Washington
Did unrequited love spark a flame that ignited a cause that became the American Revolution? Never before has this story about George Washington been told. Crafted from hundreds of letters, witness accounts, and journal entries, Dear George, Dear Mary explores George’s relationship with his first love, New York heiress Mary Philipse, the richest belle in Colonial America.
From elegant eighteenth-century society to bloody battlefields, the novel creates breathtaking scenes and riveting characters. Dramatic portraits of the two main characters unveil a Washington on the precipice of greatness, using the very words he spoke and wrote, and his ravishing love, whose outward beauty and refinement disguise a complex inner struggle.
Dear George, Dear Mary reveals why George Washington had such bitter resentment toward the Brits, established nearly two decades before the American Revolution, and it unveils details of a deception long hidden from the world that led Mary Philipse to be named a traitor, condemned to death and left with nothing. While that may sound like the end, ultimately both Mary and George achieve what they always wanted.
MARY CALVI spent years as a child wondering about the heiress who had once lived in the grand manor in her hometown. She'd heard in passing that she was once courted by George Washington. Curiosity propelled her to do her own research, when no one could answer the questions she sought. What she uncovered stunned even her, a New York City anchor and reporter and winner of 9 New York Emmy awards. Dear George, Dear Mary is the story she crafted after years of research that took her around the world, physically and digitally.
Alicea Springer was Boyfriend Whisperer Enterprises’ top success story. That is, until her dream date, Ty Walker, dumped her a week before prom. Now it’s senior year, and Alicea has taken over the business and given it an upgrade using an automated matchmaking program designed to help her classmates find their perfect match.
Alicea has no interest in using the program herself. She already knows who her perfect match is … Ty. She doesn’t need an app to tell her that (or worse, match her up with someone else). In a moment of weakness, Alicea allows her friends to convince her to give the program a try. To her horror, it matches her with the last boy on earth she'd ever want to date — Darius Groves, the class deadbeat.
When she and Darius are paired up for a class project, Alicea learns there's more to him than his bad reputation. But the more she spends time with Darius, the more she questions their match. They have so little in common. Why did her program match them?
Can Alicea defy the odds and make a match of her own heart’s desire? Or will the matchmaker remained unmatched?
Linda Budzinski is the author of four young adult novels, all published by Swoon Romance YA: The Boyfriend Whisperer and The Boyfriend Whisperer 2.0, Em & Em, and The Funeral Singer. When she’s not writing, she works in nonprofit communications and outreach. She lives in Northern Virginia with my husband, Joe, and is active with her church’s youth group. She’s a sucker for romance and reality TV and has been known to turn off her phone’s ringer when watching “The Bachelor.” Her favorite flower is the daisy, her favorite food is chocolate, and her favorite song is “Amazing Grace.”
Synopsis: When a mummified body is found in a renovated building, the gruesome discovery leads Detective Kay Hunter and her team into a complex murder investigation.
The subsequent police inquiry exposes corruption, lies, and organized crime within the tight-knit community - and Kay’s determination to seek justice for the young murder victim could ruin the reputations of men who will do anything to protect their business interests.
But as Kay closes in on the killer, tragedy strikes closer to home in an event that will send a shockwave through her personal life and make her question everything she values. Can Kay keep her private and professional life under control while she tries to unravel one of the strangest murder cases of her career?
The Detective Kay Hunter crime thriller series by USA Today best-selling author Rachel Amphlett - pause-resisting British police procedurals for listeners who love Peter James, Ann Cleeves, and Peter Robinson!
Before turning to writing, Rachel Amphlett played guitar in bands, worked as a TV and film extra, dabbled in radio as a presenter and freelance producer for the BBC, and worked in publishing as a sub-editor and editorial assistant.
She now wields a pen instead of a plectrum and writes crime fiction and spy novels, including the Dan Taylor espionage novels and the Detective Kay Hunter series.
Originally from the UK and currently based in Brisbane, Australia, Rachel cites her writing influences as Michael Connelly, Lee Child, and Robert Ludlum. She’s also a huge fan of Peter James, Val McDermid, Robert Crais, Stuart MacBride, and many more.
She’s a member of International Thriller Writers and the Crime Writers Association, with the Italian foreign rights for her debut novel, White Gold sold to Fanucci Editore's TIMECrime imprint, and the first four books in the Dan Taylor espionage series contracted to Germany’s Luzifer Verlag.
From the author of The Beauty Doctor, Finalist for the 2018 Eric Hoffer Book Award, 2017 AZ Literary Awards, and a Medallion Honoree of the Book Readers Appreciation Group.
Seventeen-year-old May Convery, unhappy with her privileged life in turn-of-the-century New York City, dreams of becoming a poet. When she meets the talented young Mike Bernard, an aspiring concert pianist, she immediately falls in love. But after their secret liaison is discovered, neither is prepared for the far-reaching consequences that will haunt them for decades. As Mike abandons serious music to ruthlessly defend his hard-won title, Ragtime King of the World, May struggles to find her voice as an artist and a woman. It is not until years after their youthful romance, when they cross paths again, that they must finally confront the truth about themselves and each other. But is it too late?
The world of ragtime is the backdrop for a remarkable story about the price of freedom, the longing for immortality, and the human need to find forgiveness. From vaudeville’s greatest stars to the geniuses of early African American musical theater, an unforgettable cast of real-life characters populates this richly-fictionalized historical saga.
Excerpt
The women making their way down the avenue, cheeks glowing from the cold, eyes burning with conviction, came from every stratum of society, the wealthiest to the poorest. This was no picket line, no stubborn demonstration by a handful of militants hoping for a small headline in the morning paper. This was a force to be reckoned with, a force to which the politicians in Washington would have to answer, sooner or later. These women were betting on the numbers; there were too many of them to ignore.
But despite the impressive turnout, the suffragettes were clearly outnumbered. The street was lined with tens of thousands of onlookers, some only curious but others intent on undermining the women’s morale. They included men of all descriptions, from common laborers in canvas and khaki to office types in overcoats and gray bowlers. Men presumably with loving mothers and sisters, devoted wives, obedient daughters. Men who no doubt considered themselves inarguably civilized but, in the blink of an eye, had changed into quite the opposite. Their relentless heckling was predictably rude, shockingly hateful.
The arrogance of these ill-mannered naysayers only served to harden May’s resolve. But their voraciousness made her nervous. The policemen stationed along the parade route didn’t seem to be taking their assignment too seriously. Rather than pushing back on the crowd, they appeared perfectly happy to let the worst of the rabble-rousers do whatever they wished. Already a few had crossed the line that separated spectators from protesters, the authorities either unaware or simply choosing to do nothing.
As she headed down the parade route, trying not to let her uneasiness get the best of her, May thought of what Rosamond told her on the night they met, as they sat at her kitchen table sharing a fine bottle of Madeira. Freedom isn’t yours until you make it yours, not until you decide there’s simply no other way to live. Back then, she had only the vaguest notion of what he meant. She was too caught up in her self-inflicted misery; the only way she knew to express herself was through suffering. Her headaches had nearly driven her mad. But she had stopped seeing Dr. Adams long ago. Her need for him disappeared once she resolved to channel her anger and frustration in more productive directions—her poetry and the suffrage movement, work as vital to her now as the air she breathed.
There were some who argued that today’s parade, with its theatrical flag-waving, mounted brigades, marching bands, and floats, would only engender hostility. It would end up setting the movement back, they said, not moving it forward. May had sided with those who believed the time had come to stop begging and start demanding, and she felt honored to be among those selected to ride on horseback near the front of the parade. Granted, over the years, proceeds from sales of her books had provided substantial support to the cause. But she preferred to think she was singled out because of the voice she had given to the movement through her poetry, which had achieved a popularity far exceeding her expectations.
Still, in the midst of all the praise and notoriety, at times she couldn’t help feeling like an imposter, the kind of person who preaches one kind of life while living another. After all, her marriage was, and always had been, a hoax. It had become even more unbearable since her father’s death. Not surprisingly, Teddy seemed to believe that the passing of George Convery gave him license to treat her however he pleased. His disdain for her appeared no longer to have boundaries.
“Help! Somebody help!”
The screams came from behind her. Twisting in the saddle, she saw that a small group of men had stormed the procession. She watched in disbelief and horror as several of them began ripping signs and banners of protest from the suffragettes’ hands, snatching the women’s hats from their heads, pushing them to the ground, or grabbing them by the arms and attempting to drag them off the street.
Dear God, how could this be happening? Where were the police? The parade organizers had been assured by DC officials that crowds would be contained, the marchers would be protected. Why was no one in authority lifting a finger?
May signaled to the several other women on horseback who were close by, all of them now aware of the unfolding chaos. Without having to utter a word, everyone seemed to understand what must be done. May was the first to turn her horse around. She had never been more terrified; the last thing she had planned on was becoming a vigilante. But how could she simply stand by as her sisters were spit upon, brutalized, and literally kidnapped off the street?
She took a tremulous breath, then dug her heels into the animal’s side.
Elizabeth Hutchison Bernard is an award-winning author of historical fiction. Her novel The Beauty Doctor is a suspenseful tale that takes place in the early days of cosmetic surgery—when the world of medicine was a bit like the Wild West and beauty doctors were the newest breed of outlaw. Temptation Rag: A Novel immerses readers in the bawdy atmosphere of vaudeville and early twentieth-century African American musical theater in a story about the price of freedom, the longing for immortality, and the human need to find forgiveness.
Elizabeth currently lives in Arizona with her husband and their much-loved and very spoiled black Lab.
Flee West to find freedom that can only be had in a cowboy’s arms…
Courtney Adams never questioned the future her parents laid out for her…until the day she was to marry one of Boston’s elite. Desperate, she flees the church in a flurry of bridal finery and trades her pearls for a train ticket to Montana—only to be mistaken for a surly cowboy’s mail order bride!
Dean Lawton doesn’t want a wife—especially not some fancy Eastern lady he believes his brother “ordered” behind his back. Yet one mistake leads to another, and before the dust can settle, he finds himself married to a woman who challenges him at every step…and sets his wounded heart ablaze. But the clock is ticking on this marriage of inconvenience, and soon Dean must decide: convince Courtney to remain in his arms, or lose her light forever…
Excerpt
“Is there a hotel in town where I might procure a room for a few days?”
“Miss Mabel has a boardinghouse down the road, though I don’t know for sure if she’s got any open rooms.”
Courtney smiled her thanks to the postal clerk, already envisioning a quaint but comfortable room with clean sheets on the bed. Maybe even a hot, tasty meal. She had given up on finding food that was near the same quality she was accustomed to, but she would settle for edible and filling right now. She couldn’t very well expect a rugged town in the Western Territories to provide the same levels of comfort as a big city back East. She had left Boston in search of a new life. It was time to embrace all of what that meant.
As she stepped onto the boardwalk, blinking against the bright summer sunlight, Courtney didn’t realize she had stepped right into someone’s path until it was too late.
And of course, it had to be Mr. Martin.
What should have been just a very brief bumping of elbows and shoulders became much more when he took swift advantage of the encounter by wrapping his arms around her in an exaggerated and unnecessary attempt at steadying her.
Courtney immediately put her hands up to try to shove him away, but her efforts were ineffectual. He was intent on holding her close.
“It’s my lovely traveling companion,” he exclaimed. His face was so close that she could feel the heat of his breath on her cheek. “What a pleasure to run into you again so soon.”
“I would thank you to release me, sir.”
“Not yet, sweetheart. I never did get your name.”
“And you never will. Now let me go,” Courtney stated more forcefully. Her stomach turned in distress as she glanced around to see if there was anyone who might come to her aid.
“Let the lady go.”
Despite their low timbre, the words were spoken from behind her in such a hard and forceful tone that Mr. Martin’s grip around her waist loosened as though on command. She did not waste time in giving a solid push against his chest and wrenching free. She quickly backed away from Mr. Martin’s grabby reach, which brought her closer to her unknown rescuer.
Turning to acknowledge the man who had come to her aid, all she saw was the expanse of a broad male chest covered by a faded blue cotton shirt. The scents of horse and leather and sunbaked earth filled her nostrils. Distracted and still a little distressed, she felt her foot catch in the twisted length of her skirts on her next step, and she started to stumble. Warm, rough, capable hands grasped her arms as the stranger held her secure until she regained her balance. A low sound escaped the man’s throat as his hands dropped away.
“My apologies,” he muttered as he stepped back from her. The velvety texture of his voice soothed and flustered at the same time.
Courtney took a deep breath, trying to regain her composure after the discomfiting experience of being handled so familiarly first by Mr. Martin and then by the tall stranger. She wasn’t used to such treatment…but while Mr. Martin’s assistance had caused only irritation, this stranger certainly deserved her thanks. She corrected her posture and made sure her expression was perfectly neutral before she lifted her chin, prepared to utter a swift expression of gratitude.
The words never made it past her lips.
In fact, everything—her train of thought, her breath, time itself—just stopped.
The man stood a few inches taller than her and wore a wide-brimmed cowboy hat that blocked the sun, giving her an unimpeded look at one of the most handsome faces she had ever seen.
His skin was bronzed from exposure to the sun, and a hint of sandy-brown beard shadowed a hard jawline and square chin. Though his mouth was pressed into a firm line, it didn’t disguise the masculine beauty of his arched lips beneath a well-shaped nose and strong cheekbones. His features were put together in a way that was rugged yet undeniably attractive.
But his eyes—pale blue like a summer sky brushed with wispy clouds—were what had given her the intense little shock of awareness. It was like being woken up from a hazy dream. Everything just suddenly became more vivid, more…awake. His gaze held a hint of impatience as he looked down at her from beneath a furrowed brow.
While she stood dumbfounded, he swept his stunning gaze over her person.
His hard expression tensed even more as he took in the sight of her elaborate wedding gown before finally returning to her face. Only now, instead of impatience, she saw the glimmer of something more in his eyes.
She had to consciously tell herself not to react to the way he eyed her so openly. Keeping her expression calm and unruffled under this man’s intense regard was not an easy task, especially now that she was dealing with strange little sparks that had ignited beneath her skin everywhere his gaze had fallen.
She was accustomed to inciting admiration in the gentlemen of her circles—she had been told she was beautiful often enough throughout her life to believe it was so. But she could not say she had ever inspired the flash of irritation she noted in his eyes when he finished his perusal.
He sent a focused glare toward the post office behind her before looking down at her once again. “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he muttered, his smooth-textured voice a strange contradiction to his harsh visage.
The Confessional K. Nilsson Publication date: February 20th 2019 Genres: Adult, Romance, Suspense
Psychology student, Grace Fleming, is addicted to meaningless hook-ups in random places, impulsively following a script for self-destruction and bad behavior. She suffers from nightmares and a patchwork of flashbacks that leave her in a fugue state. Unsure what they mean, she goes to therapy, seeking answers. Is her mind conjuring them up or are they past encounters she’d blocked out?
Saint is a private investigator of dubious character. He will take almost any case, but his favorite includes entrapping married women into infidelity. Saint is hired to keep a watchful eye on Grace while keeping his identity a secret. The paradox tempts him; is Grace, a devil in disguise or an angel with a crooked halo? When he finds himself in a compromising position, Saint quits. He soon regrets resigning when he discovers a sinister threat to her safety, and it may be the reason for the nightmares.
Finn was working his shift, watching Grace from a side street near her house in Hollywood Hills. I went home to shower and eat something. Four hours later, he called.
“Grace’s going somewhere… she’s been dolling up for the last hour,” he said. “You can see that close?”
I was wondering what else he’d seen.
“If only you knew,” he chuckled. “The glass butterfly roof makes it easy viewing with the drone.”
“Do you want to follow her? If not, I can do it. I have no plans tonight,” I said.
“I need the money, boss. How about we do it together? I need to install the tracker app on her phone, and maybe you can distract her.”
I agreed. I’d wanted to meet this girl since taking the case. She hadn’t gone anywhere outside her usual radius ever since she returned home.
I was getting into the car when Finn sent me a text.
Finn: Grace is on the move, I need to follow her.
Me: Where is she?
Finn: She started up that little fireplug of hers and got on I-10 toward Santa Monica. I’m on her tail.
Me: I’m switching to the hands-free mode. I’m driving.
Finn: Oh, forgot about that. I am switching modes too.
Ten minutes later, I was right behind her.
Me: I’m on the highway. I think I see the Bug.
The VW Bug was like a toy, changing lanes seamlessly as if it were in a video game. If I got too close, Grace might see my car. It’s a little flashy for a private investigator, but it was perfect for driving in Southern California. I didn’t want to be spotted, but I wasn’t about to let her lose me. It wouldn’t be unusual for me to drive toward the beach at the same time as she, would it?
Grace pulled up in front of a nondescript little piano bar near the beach. The electric blue neon sign flashed its name, Place Pour Steaks. I got there just in time to see her hand keys to the valet and saunter in; her hips swaying from side to side.
Me? I was playing catch-up all the way. I screeched to a stop in front of the other parking attendant and tossed him the keys.
My 1962 Skylark convertible, though a little beat up, was my pride and joy.
“See this fifty-dollar bill? It’s yours when I leave if you park it over there.”
I pointed at a slot that said Reserved.
Once inside, I took two minutes to find Grace. She’d scrambled up to the bar as if the house was on fire. I looked around for the usual suspects—girls down for whatever and putting in the effort to get noticed. I wanted to meander over to Grace right away, but I couldn’t look as if I was stalking her.
She sat on the stool at the far end of the bar, her right leg elongated, the ball of the foot anchoring her in place, while she rested her left on the stool’s spindle, watching, scoping, and evaluating. It looked as though she had gone to the same school of surveillance as me.
Grace’s platinum blonde hair was in loose waves around her shoulders. She was wearing a style rich girls do well, casual, edgy, and expensive. An off-the-shoulder soft leather jacket, accented with zippers and buckles, was one breath away from slipping down her arms, even though it wrapped her upper body like a glove. A black lace strap appeared to be an afterthought. I wanted to lick her skin all along the edges of the lace and up into her collarbone.
Grace wore the RL signature crisp, white, linen shorts. She encased those long legs in a pair of black over-the-knee boots by MB, an Italian leather shoe designer. As an investigator, I notice these details. If I didn’t have a professional agenda regarding Grace Fleming, I’d know every inch of leg inside the boots. I leaned in close to her and tried to get the bartender’s attention, but instead, I hoped to get hers. First impressions were everything, but I didn’t know what kind of image I’d present, because my interest in the Fleming girl was strong. I shuttered my face into an expression I’d perfected, dispassionate eyes that veil what I’m thinking or feeling.
“Sir?” prompted the bartender.
“I’d like Scotch neat with a glass of water.”
“Would you like ice in your water, sir?”
“No,” I said, turning my palm down with a slight back-and-forth motion.
I stood close enough to Grace to inhale her scent, vanilla, and oranges, with a hint of clove mixed. It was a heady concoction. I wondered if her whole body tasted like sugary breakfast cereal. She turned toward me, and our eyes locked.
Author Bio:
K. Nilsson’s love of reading began with the Bobbsey twins. When she ran across some Italian True Romance novellas stashed in the attic, the musty serials hooked her on adult fiction. Though black and white photos were dramatic enough to know what the stories were about, she taught herself to read in Italian and translated them to her friends.
She’s an unapologetic reviewer of books, restaurants, and vacation destinations. An amateur photographer, K. loves taking editorial photos and documenting her travels. Her personal philosophy, sleeping is a waste of time.
