The wedding went off without a hitch (or, rather, with only the intended "hitch") on May 25 in Branson.  Receptions are forthcoming in Stryker and Macomb (really, I will get those directions up . . . )  Pictures to follow, but for now, a sneak preview:



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A Credit To Love has been reject by the first publisher, who obviously doesn't know what good writing looks like (and they sent the email on our wedding day, though I didn't see it until after we got back!).  Onward I shall go!  I have a few other projects in progress (a second book in this series, the first book in a different series, and one that I don't envision being part of a series), and I'll be posting exerpts from those soon. 



In the meantime--the long-awaited first half of Chapter 7!



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 Chapter 7

    Greg was stunned as he viewed the email from the company’s controller.  They had filed a complaint against Cate’s store?  Already that morning?  He checked the timestamp again—7:04 a.m.  Greg wondered if his own brain had even been fully awake by that hour, let alone capable of making a police report for an alleged fraud case an L1 could blow holes in with no help.  Someone is making seriously good time for a Monday morning!

    “You know you’ll need to go down to the station and file a statement later.”  Jack Denver, the firm’s long time controller, now back from his Caribbean vacation, had stuck his head in Greg’s office, looking noticeably more tan than the last time the two had spoken.

    Greg shook his head.  “A police report, Jack?”

    The older man held up his hand.  “It wasn’t my idea, Greg, but the partners insisted.  Be thankful you’re not being investigated along with it—remember, you were the one who signed the charge slip.  To an outside auditor, it might look like you and the cashier were attempting a massive fraud of some sort.”

    “The girl lost her job—isn’t that enough?”

    Jack’s eyes narrowed at the young lawyer.  “How do you know that?”

    Greg realized too late it would have been better to keep his contact with Cate strictly confidential.  He swallowed hard before admitting, “I may have gone to the mall on Saturday to apologize for losing my temper with the manager over the phone.”

    The controller shook his head.  “Greg Tanner going soft?  If I know you—and I do—you simply told her what she needed to hear.  Reality is harsh at times, and if the woman is going to let teenagers run million-dollar charges on someone’s credit card, she needs to be told about life in a civilized manner.”  Jack’s last words were edged in sarcasm.  “Told about life in a civilized manner” was firm-speak for giving someone a rather loud, rather public dressing-down.

    Knowing it would do no good to point out that Kara had been the assistant manager, rather than some random teenager, Greg merely nodded to the papers on his desk.  Jack took the hint and departed, reminding Greg once again that he needed to go down to the police department and give a statement.  Greg rose from his desk long enough to pull the door closed, and then went back to the auditor accounts he was reviewing.

    “Avoiding me, Greg?”  He had been intent enough on the papers on his desk that he didn’t hear Tamara open the door nearly three hours later.  Scribbling an arrow in the margin to mark his place for later, he looked up at the woman in the door.  Greg idly wondered if she was due in court that afternoon—Tamara was all business today, her hair woven into a knot, suit and pearls looking as though they had been painted in place by an artist.  She’d have jurors eating out of the palm of her hand, not to mention the judge!  “You didn’t return my call last night—why?”

    “I was out all day and was tired when I got home—I wouldn’t have been very good company.”

    “And who were you out with that was so much more interesting than an afternoon with me?”  Tamara appeared to be pouting now, which Greg had never seen before.  He wondered just how well he really knew this woman.  Her moods were more changeable than he’d ever seen in one person, and for some reason, that made him a bit apprehensive about spending more time with her outside of work.

“Keith Winters, the assistant county prosecutor—you know him, I believe?” Tamara nodded and Greg went on.  “We went to law school together.  He invited me to attend church with him, and we spent the afternoon watching movies with some friends of his from church.”

Her eyebrows went up, but Tamara didn’t comment.  Greg realized he had no idea if Tamara attended church, or what she believed.  He shook his head marginally to clear the stray thought, realizing the woman in question was still standing expectantly in front of his desk.  He looked up at her.

    “I’m not going to give up that easily, Greg,” she said softly, leaning forward over his desk.  He was glad she was at least staying on the other side of the desk today, knowing there was enough scandal hanging around his office at the moment without gossip of a relationship between to the two of them.  “But that’s best left to another time.”  She straightened up. “What on earth did you do at that gift store last week?  I heard Andrew on the phone with the police this morning, and Jack is fit to be tied.”

    Greg laughed.  What else could he do?  The entire thing had gone from a silly mistake to a ridiculous level of involvement and indignation in such a hurry it was ridiculous.  He told Tamara the entire story, ending with his recount of the afternoon before with Keith, Cate, Jodi, and the children.

    “I always knew you were different, Greg, and now I know why.  You’re probably the only person in this building who would have gone all the way down there just to apologize.”

    Greg knew her remark was most likely accurate, but hated to agree with her since Tamara had just lumped herself in with everyone else.

    “Why did you do it?”  Her question was so softly asked that Greg nearly missed it, but there it was, and after meeting her eyes, he couldn’t pretend he had missed it.  Maybe there’s more to her than I thought.

    Suddenly, he needed her to understand his motivations.  Especially since no one else at the firm seems to!”  Cate didn’t deserve to be treated like that.  Someone at her store made a mistake, but it was just that—a mistake—and it wasn’t even Cate who did it.  She’s so quiet and unassuming, Tamara, and was completely gracious when I went down there.  She could have been just as rude as I was, but she wasn’t, and I have to say, it made me feel even worse.”

“Sounds like she’s something else, the way you talk about her.”  There was no malice in Tamara’s voice, Greg noticed—almost a hint of sadness.

    She doesn’t think that Cate and I are . . .  his thoughts trailed off as he made himself focus on the woman in front of him.  “She is, Tam.”  He changed the subject.  “Was there something I can help you with?”

    Tamara shook her head slightly.  “No, Greg, I don’t think there’s anything at all.”  She turned and left his office without further comment.

    Greg refused to even wonder what had just happened.  He turned his attention back to the financial reports on his desk, deciding he would work through lunch in an attempt to get out of the office before 7 that night and call Cate later to explain that he’d had no part in this police report.  Surely she would understand.

    But would she?  Gracious or not, there was only so much a person could be expected to take.  Surely Cate had to be on the threshold of writing him off entirely, sincere apologies aside.  Greg sighed at the thought that the police report might have cost him any chance he still had of another date with Cate, however slight that chance might be. 

If Keith asks her out before this blows over . . .  he refused to contemplate the idea any further, knowing that continued speculation would do nothing to accomplish any work and would only serve to contribute to the headache that was already percolating.  Coffee, he decided.  He stifled the impulse to ask Tamara to join him—he had a feeling it wouldn’t take much to encourage her, and since he didn’t know whether he was coming or going where she—or Cate—was concerned, that didn’t seem like a great idea.  Telling one of the secretaries he would be back in a few minutes, Greg headed to the coffee shop, hoping a double-shot mocha would help the headache, if not his concentration level.