Over the past year or so I have been selecting photographs I’ve taken on many travels, and put a story to them.
When I reached a milestone of 50, I decided to make them into a book, and, in doing so, I have gone through each and revised them, making some longer, and almost a short story.
50 photographs, 50 stories. I’ve called it, “Inspiration, Maybe”
It will be available soon.
Over the past year or so I have been selecting photographs I’ve taken on many travels, and put a story to them.
When I reached a milestone of 50, I decided to make them into a book, and, in doing so, I have gone through each and revised them, making some longer, and almost a short story.
50 photographs, 50 stories. I’ve called it, “Inspiration, Maybe”
It will be available soon.
I’m back home and this story has been sitting on a back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.
The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritising.
But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.
An interrogation and a revelation.
Debriefings were like interrogations, only friendlier. We were trained to withstand interrogation, so it would be interesting to see how I reacted. I had no doubt what some of the questions would be.
While I had a few minutes to myself, sitting down behind a bare metal table on a hard plastic and uncomfortable chair, with a warm cup of station house coffee, to consider the briefing.
Target, male, 6 foot 3 inches, 200 pounds, Caucasian, thought to be from either Russia or Bulgaria, but nothing to define his as such. I had wondered, at the time, what that meant. When I saw him in the alley I knew, then, what was meant, he looked the same as you or me.
No explanation for why he was under surveillance, but we did get a warning that he might be dangerous if he suspected he was being observed. Right about that, given team casualties.
Main objective, who he met, talked to, and where he went, every place, every detail to be noted. The unpredictable explosion threw the whole operation into chaos.
The door opened and a woman, middle-aged, conservatively dressed, walked in, closing it behind her. She sat in the other chair opposite me. She brought a file, thin, and put it in front of her on the table.
“Your name is Sam Jackson?”
“Yes.”
No introductions, nothing, just a start on the questions. No nonsense, but I could see she was very, very angry. With me, or those who had run a failed operation?
“How long have you been with us?”
“Eight months.”
She opened the file and glanced at the piece of paper on top. A minute passed before she closed the file again. “Closer to nine,” she said.
I said nothing. I wasn’t counting the days.
“How many operations have you been on?”
“Six, including this one.”
“Who assigned you to this specific operation?”
“Couldn’t say. I got the usual request via text message to attend a briefing at the midtown office.”
“What was the designated operation name?”
“Chancellery.”
For a brief second, there was a quizzical expression on her face, then it was gone.
“Who was running this operation?”
“Director Severin.”
A full three minutes of silence passed. I thought she was looking at me, the sort of stare that would break a lesser man, but in the end, I think she was looking right through me. I could not read her thoughts, but if I was to guess, they would be rather dark right now.
Then she spoke.
“You should know that there was no Chancellery on the books, and we certainly do not have a Director named Severin.”
© Charles Heath 2019
Here’s the thing…
Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.
I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.
But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.
Once again there’s a new instalment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.
Rather tired and bleary eyes, I made it to the fishing store five minutes late. I had a lot on my mind, woken late, and then had to battle traffic. I longed for the day I could afford a car, though riding the bike kept me fit.
It also took my mind of the encounter last night, the one that had kept me away, my imagination almost getting the better of me.
Boggs was there, and he didn’t look happy.
“Where were you last night? I tried to get you, but you weren’t answering.”
I had the phone on silent. Ringing phones had a way of bringing unwanted attention.
“I had something I had to do.”
“You went to the Lantern without me.”
What? Does he have a network of spies I knew nothing about? “So, I heard it went respectable and had to check it out.” And hoping Boggs didn’t know who was in attendance, other than me.
“We said we would go there together.”
“You apparently had something else on last night.”
“It’s not what you think. I had to go with my mother to the hospital for her 6 monthly checks.”
It was easy to forget. She’d had a cancer scare a few years back, and had undergone chemo for a few months, sending it into remission. But it came with 6 monthly checks, and both Boggs and his mother were constantly worried it might come back. It seemed it always did when you least expected it.
“And what was the verdict.”
He relented a little. “Good.”
“Then, I assure you that was more important.” No point in telling Boggs what I was doing, just in case it backfired, or he disagreed. “And I can assure you the place is not worth it anymore. Boring as shit.”
He shook his head. Not pleased, but at least not angry.
“Has Rico shown his face?” I asked.
“Yes, about an hour back, some of those people he associates with came and they went off together.”
Perhaps he was annoyed that I hadn’t been there because I’m sure Boggs would follow him.
“You’ve been here all this time?”
“He came to our place last night. I’m sure it was him who searched in my room. Not much of a professional thief, he left a mess behind. Went through the outhouse as well.”
“Looking for the map?”
“Seems so. He didn’t find it.”
No, he wouldn’t, because Boggs had it with him. At least that was what I thought he intimated a day or two ago.
“Copies?”
He reached for his back pocket and pulled out some folded paper. “Thought you might like to keep a copy for yourself.”
I tried hard to keep the excitement out of my manner. It saved me having to make up an excuse as to why I wanted a copy of the map, and I didn’t want to tell him about the plan involving Nadia, not unless I had to.
“Thanks,” I said, and slipped it into my pocket.
“Now, let’s go check out his boat.”
© Charles Heath 2019
For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.
Whilst I have always had a fascination in what happened during the second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.
And, so, it continues…
We walked slowly towards the end of the passage, each time I passed a cell I had a look in, and noted if it had a prisoner or not. By the end of the passage, I counted six prisoners, and one was a woman.’
She just looked at me sullenly, and I guess if it was light enough, that look would be with pleading eyes. Sadly, I couldn’t save her, or the other five.
At the end of the corridor, we retraced our steps towards the hall, along the passage where I counted another three prisoners, then up the stairs to the ground level. We came out into a better-lit alcove with arches leading in three directions.
Straight ahead was the hall.
We turned to the left. Along another passage that seemed to run the length of the wall, what I thought was the stone battlement that made up one side of the castle, looking out over fields, with a village in the distance.
What I thought was the opposite side to the guard tower I’d been in earlier.
I tried to figure out if that’s where we were, and if my memory served me correctly, we were heading towards the wall that was built into the mountainside, in which case we’d go up another set of stairs, at the top of which would be an exit, or turning right, to a room that once served as the guards quarters, now used for kitchen supplies.
What else was here? My mind was blank.
Up the steps, so far I was right, ahead of a thick wooden door, locked, so we turned right and passed a small room. I’d forgotten it, but it was the radio room, wires leading out a small arrow slit window to the aerial. The man in front stumbled, then regained his gait.
I could hear the man behind me shaking his head.
“Halt,” the man behind me barked.
The man in front stopped dead, and I crashed into him. I felt rather than saw the fist come towards me; it was not for me, but the other guard, who, preoccupied with not falling, never saw it coming.
He went down like the proverbial ask of potatoes, no idea what happened.
My turn?
A hand landed on my shoulder, thrusting me towards the door to the storeroom. “Go, now. The door on the other side is open, head down to the creek and follow it. Someone will meet you.”
I half turned, “Who…”
“No time. Go. And shut the door behind you.” I felt him thrust a gun in my hand. “Hit me.”
I hesitated.
“Do it, or I’ll be shot.”
I shrugged and hit him. He slowly slid to the floor. A second glance, no, I didn’t know who he was, the headed for the back of the storeroom. The door was open. A cautious look before stepping out, I saw no one but heard breathing. Jack. How did the dog know I’d be here?
I closed the door behind me and heard the lock engage, then after a pat on Jack’s head, he led the way.
© Charles Heath 2019
I’m working on a novella which may boringly be called “Motive, Means and Opportunity” where I will present a chunk of information from which you if you want to, can become the armchair detective.
Here’s the first part, the so-called Motive
So, here’s the thing…
I said it. Not once, in the heat of the moment, but more than once, to several different people. I wanted James Burgman dead.
Why?
Because I knew he was the man sleeping with my wife, Wendy.
I’d long suspected she was having an affair, you know the signs, not where you expect her to be, making excuses where none were necessary if she was doing what she said she was, and disappearing for hours without an explanation.
And I knew James Burgman was an old boyfriend, a discovery that was made quite by accident. In fact, I followed her one night, not because I was suspicious, but worried for her safety.
That was where I saw her meet him with more than just a friendly handshake.
I had to say it made me feel gutted.
But would I kill him?
It was not worth the problems it would cause me to do so, and, when push came to shove, neither of them were worth it. I knew, even if he was out of the way, she would not stay with me.
That train had left the station about a year ago when our only son had been killed in a senseless road accident.
© Charles Heath 2019
Now that I’ve hit the age of 65, I now have to give some consideration to creating a will.
You know, that document that specifies which child gets what, or if you think any or all of them don’t deserve what’s left of the hard-earned millions, which cat or dog will inherit a fortune.
A will is both a reason for siblings or beneficiaries to kill to get a reward or the fact you have to make one so that the state doesn’t inherit your fortune.
This is only one use of the word.
Another might be that it’s possible to have something like the will to carry on.
Carry on what?
Life, a marriage, a business relationship.
Does it require will power, or is it a matter of where there’s a will there’s a way?
I will come over. I will turn up tomorrow.
In this sense, it is promoting futility.
Of course, seeing is believing.
And as a bit of self-serving advertising, I’m going to promote a new story, actually titled, The Will.
Inheritance can resolve monetary problems, and not only that, set one of the siblings up financially for life. All they have to do is wrest the family home from the dying fingers of a mother who had seen it all.
Into the mix comes the grandson, a man who sometimes is a son but mostly a grandson, someone who doesn’t fit in, who doesn’t want to follow family tradition, and who prefers to go to his grandmothers rather than going home to his family.
He is constantly appalled at his mother’s lack of respect for her mother and suddenly finds himself in the middle of a battle between his grandmother and her daughter, his mother, over the family estate.
Who will win?
That’s a question that will be answered when you read the book.
From the days of wandering the remote country towns of New South Wales in Australia.
The man who had said that we would never make the distance was right.
It had been my idea to go ‘troppo’, forsake everything, hop on a motorbike and go around Australia. I was, at that stage fed up with everything and, catching Harry in one of his low spots, he decided there and then he would join me.
For the first few days, we believed we were stark staring mad and talked about calling it quits, but perseverance made all the difference. After two months we were glad we had the resolve to keep going, and in that time we had managed to see more of the Australian countryside than we’d seen all our lives.
That was until this particular morning when we arrived in Berrigum, what could have been called a one-horse town. It consisted of one hotel, one general store (that sold everything from toothpicks to petrol) and an agricultural machinery depot. It also had a station and some wheat silos, and this appeared to be the only reason for a town in this particular spot in the middle of nowhere.
And it was the railway station that interested Harry, who was, by this time, getting a little homesick and fed up with his motorbike.
After coughing and spluttering for the last week it had finally died, and the five-mile walk to Berrigum had not helped either his temper, or his disposition, and had only served to firm his resolve to return home.
It was hot but not unbearably so, unlike a hot summer’s day in the city, and even worse still in public transport. For miles around as we tramped those five miles all we could see was acres and acres of wheat, but no sign of life. It was the same when we reached the town. It appeared all the people were either hiding or had left. Harry suspected the latter given the state of the road, and the buildings, more or less the epitome of a ghost town.
Standing at the end of what could have been called the main street with only our own dust for company, one look took in the whole town. In a car, one wouldn’t have given it a second look, if one had time to give it a first. I didn’t remember seeing neither any speed restriction signs nor signpost advertising a town ahead.
And since no amount of argument could sway him from his resolve, the first objective was to get a train timetable, if such a thing existed, and make arrangements for Harry’s return.
The station was as deserted as the town itself, and a quick glance in the stationmaster’s office showed no sign of life.
Leaving the bikes on the platform outside the office, we headed for the hotel for both a drink and make enquiries about rail services. Being a hot day and the morning’s tramp somewhat hot and dusty, we were looking forward to a cold glass (or two) of beer.
The hotel looked as though it was a hundred years old though there was no doubting a few relentless summers would reduce it to the same state. It was as bad inside as out, though the temperature was several degrees lower, and we could sit down in what appeared to be the main bar. We were the only occupants and still to find any sign of life. Overhead, two fans were struggling to move the hot air around.
More than once Harry reckoned it was a ghost town and I was beginning to believe him when, after five minutes, no one arrived.
After ten, we stood, ready to leave, only to stop halfway out of our chairs when a voice behind us said, “Surely you’re not going back out there without refreshment?”
“I was beginning to think the town was deserted,” I said.
“It is during the day, but when the sun goes down…”
I didn’t ask. We followed him to the bar where he had stationed himself behind the counter. “The name is Jack.” He stretched out his hand towards us. “We don’t bother with last names here.”
“Bill,” I said, shaking it, and nodding to Harry, “Harry.”
Harry nodded and shook his hand too.
“The first one’s on the house.” He poured three glasses and put ours in front of us. “Cheers.”
In all cases, it went down without touching the sides (as they say) and he poured a second, at the same time asking, “What brings you to our little corner of the earth?”
“Just passing through,” I said, “Or at least for me.”
“And you?” Jack looked at Harry.
“I can’t hack the pace. I can truthfully say I have thoroughly enjoyed the trip so far, except for a few mishaps, but for me, it’s time to get back to the big smoke. My ‘do your own thing’ has run out of momentum. Do you know if there is a train that goes anywhere important?”
The publican looked at him almost pityingly. “Important, eh?” He rubbed his chin feigning thought. “You make it sound like you are in purgatory.”
“Aren’t we?”
I suppose one could hardly blame Harry for his attitude. After all, at the beginning, he had numerous accidents, caught a virus that stayed with him (and a couple of torrential downpours had done little to help it), and now his motorbike had finally died. No wonder his humour was at an all-time low.
For a moment I thought the publican was going to tell Harry what he thought of him, but then he smiled and the tension passed. “Perhaps to a city fellow like you it might be,” he said. “The mail train which has a passenger carriage comes through once a week, and, my good man, you’re in luck. Today’s the day.”
“Good. How do I get a ticket?”
“You’d have to see the Station Master.”
“And where might he be at the moment? We were at the station a while back and there was no sign of life.”
“Nor will there be until the train comes. Meanwhile, there’s time enough for lunch. I’m sure you will stay?” He looked questioningly at us.
I looked at Harry, who nodded.
“Why not.”
Over lunch, we talked.
I remember not so long ago when I had to attend a large number of lunches where the talk was of business, or, if anything, mostly about subjects that I had no interest in. It was always some posh restaurant, time seemed important, the atmosphere never really relaxed, and to get into a relaxed state it took a large amount of alcohol to deaden the despair and distaste of that one had to fete in order to secure their business.
How different it was here.
We talked about the country, and, after seeing as much of it, and worked on it as we had to fund our odyssey, we could talk about it authoritatively. And, most of all, it was interesting.
The atmosphere too was entirely different than it had been in the city. Out here the people were always friendly, people always willing to stop and talk, particularly farmers; share a drink or some food.
There was none of this carefree purposefulness in the city, and more than once I’d thought of the fact one could travel in the same train with the same people for year after year and still not know any of them. It was the same at work. Even after five years I still hadn’t known three-quarters of the office staff, and most of them probably didn’t want to know me. Harry was virtually the only real friend I’d had at work.
But here, in ‘the middle of nowhere’ as Harry had called it, I felt as though I’d known the publican all of my life instead of the few short hours.
Some hours later and after much argument, where Jack and I tried to talk Harry into staying (Jack said he knew someone who could fix anything including Harry’s bike), Harry remained unconvinced and resolute. Jack, to round off the occasion (we were the first real guests from outside he had had in a week) provided another on-the-house ale and then saw us to the station. “After all”, he had said, “I’ve nothing else to do at the moment.”
By that time the station was showing a little more life than it had before. A station assistant, moving several parcels with a hand trolley, slowly ambled towards the end of the platform.
And whether it could be called a platform was a debatable point. It was a gravel and grass affair that looked more like part of cutting through a hill than a station.
At the station, Jack portentously announced he was also the stationmaster and would be only too happy to take care of Harry’s requirements. It would be, he added, “the first passenger ticket sold for several months.” Certainly, the ticket he handed Harry bore witness to that. It had yellowed with age.
One would have thought with the imminent arrival of the train there would be more people, but no. The only event had been the station assistant’s stroll to the end of the platform and back. Now both he and Jack had disappeared into the office and we were left alone on the platform. Very little in the whole town stirred, nor had it the whole time we’d been there.
“Well,” I said to break the silence. “I’m sorry to see you going through with it. I thought I might have been able to talk you out of it…” I shrugged, leaving the sentence unfinished.
“I’m sorry to be going too, but a body can take only so much bad luck, and God knows that’s all I’ve had.”
“Yes.” I couldn’t think of much else to say. “But it’s been good to have your company these last few months.”
“And you. When do you think you’ll get back?”
“When I get sick of it I suppose.”
“Look us up then when you get back.”
“I will.”
Thankfully the appearance of the train in the distance broke off the conversation. I had begun to think of what it was going to be like out on the road with no one to talk to but myself. The thought was a little depressing and I tried not to let it show.
We said little else until the train pulled in, three flat cars, seven enclosed wagons, a passenger carriage and the guard’s van. The train stopped with only part of the passenger carriage and the guard’s van at the station.
The guard took aboard the parcels the station assistant had left for him earlier, and then put those that were for Berrigum on the trolley.
I shook Harry’s hand and said I’d see him around. Then he, the motorbike, and the guard were aboard and the train was off, disappearing slowly into the afternoon haze.
The station assistant then repeated his amble to the end of the platform to collect the hand trolley.
“Staying or moving on.” Jack had come up behind me and gave me a bit of a start.
“Staying I guess, until tomorrow or maybe later.”
“I had heard one of the farm hands is leaving tomorrow heading back to Sydney. There could be a vacancy.”
“Sounds like a plan,” I said.
“I could put in a word for you.”
“Thanks.”
Jack just grinned and we headed for the hotel.
© Charles Heath 2016-2019
I’ve been toiling away and this is the result. My stories are usually longer, but I thought I’d try my hand at writing a piece of short fiction.
I looked at the invitation, a feeling of dread coming over me. It was not entirely unexpected but like a great many things that had suddenly come into my life, it caused equal measures of fear and excitement.
The gold edging and the perfect script displaying my name in the exact center of the envelope made it almost unique. Very few people ever received such an invitation.
I held it in my hand for a longer than necessary, then put it down on the desk carefully, as if it would explode if I dropped it.
My first instinct, driven by fear, was not to accept.
But, fear or not, there was no question of me not attending. Circumstances had painted me into a corner; I’d agreed to go a long time ago when I thought there was no chance it would come to pass.
Way back then, I had been compared to the aspiring painter in an attic having to die before I made any sort of impression. In those days people thought it amusing. I thought it was amusing. Kirsty, in particular, had thought it was as impossible as I had.
Now it was not amusing. Not even remotely.
My life was once quiet, peaceful, sedate, even boring. That didn’t mean I lacked imagination, it was just not out on display for everyone to see. Inspired by reading endless books, I had the capacity to transport myself into another world, divorced from reality, where my boring existence became whatever I wanted it to be.
It was also instrumental in bringing Kirsty into my life. In reality, I thought she’d never take a second look at me, let alone a first. So I pretended to be someone else. Original, witty, charming, underneath more scared than I’d ever known.
And yet she knew, she’d always known and didn’t care.
As we spent more time together, she discovered I liked to write, not finish anything, just start, write a hundred pages, then lose interest. Like everything I did. Start, and never finish.
Why not? It would never be published. It would never succeed.
So she bribed me. If I didn’t finish my first book and send it away, I couldn’t marry her. It didn’t matter if it was rejected, all I had to do was finish a book, and send it.
The thought of marrying her had not entered my mind, because I hadn’t thought she would. Incentive enough, I picked out one of the unfinished manuscripts and humored her. She read bits of it, not saying a word. Sometimes she’d put a note or two on the manuscript, her equivalent to sweet nothings, and with it I gained an inner confidence in my own ability, not only to write but in many other aspects of my life.
When it was finished, it was Kirsty who sent it off. She read it, packaged it, addressed it, and sent it before I had a chance to change her mind. Once gone, I heaved a huge sigh of relief. It was done. That was, as far as I was concerned, the end of it.
It was not possible that one letter could change a person’s life so dramatically. I came home to the all-knowing smile and mischievous whimsicality that had always suggested trouble.
Trouble indeed!
My book was accepted. With a cheque called an advance. For more money than I knew what to do with.
This was followed not long after by publication. And a dramatic change to my life, one I didn’t want. To become a public person, to face an enormous number of people, people I didn’t know.
I went back to being scared.
Kirsty smiled at me and told me how wonderful I looked in my monkey suit. Why couldn’t I go in jeans and a dress shirt? All the best actors in Hollywood did it.
“This is not Hollywood. You’re not an actor.” It was a simple, practical, answer.
The hell I wasn’t. I could act sick, dying, fake a heart attack, anything. “What am I going to say?”
“You could talk about books.” Quiet, efficient, oozing the confidence I didn’t feel.
She didn’t fuss. She took it in her stride. She dressed in her usual simple elegance, in a manner that made me love to be seen with her. I couldn’t tie my tie, so she did it for me. She straightened my jacket because I couldn’t do that either. Nerves. Can’t live with them, can’t live without them. Or was that a reference to wives, or mistresses, or something else?
The palms of my hands were sweating. Meatball hands, I thought, the sort of palms that betrayed the pretenders. Me, I was the pretender. My neck felt too large for the shirt. Beads of sweat formed on my brow. Where was a sponge when you needed one?
“I can’t do this.”
“You can.”
We hadn’t even left the hotel yet.
“How long before the execution.”
She looked at me with her whimsical smile. “Long enough for me to give you a hard time.”
I lost count of the number of times I had to go to the bathroom, for one thing, or another. Nerves I said. Perhaps a dozen Valium or something similar. Did I have any? Had she hidden them? Why did she keep smiling?
In the car, I looked at my watch at least a dozen times. I couldn’t breathe. It was too hot, too cold. She held my hand, and it served best to stop the trembling that had set in. Why did I agree to this? Why?
We were greeted by the Events Manager, who was polite and genuinely interested. He took us inside where he introduced the interviewer, another woman who oozed confidence and charm, who went over the format and generally tried to set me at ease.
I didn’t let Kirsty’s hand go. Not yet. She was my lifeline, the umbilical cord. When it was severed, I knew I was going to die.
Bathroom? Where was the bathroom? Hell, five minutes to go, and I felt like passing out. No, Kirsty couldn’t come in. Comb my hair. Straighten my tie, no it was straight. Maybe I could hide in here? I looked around. No, maybe not.
Time.
The cue man was standing beside me, hand gently on my back. He knew the score. He knew I would turn and run the first chance I got. Kirsty was on the other side, smiling. Did she know too?
Then the announcement, my cue to walk on.
The gentle shove, the bright lights, the deafening applause, the seemingly endless walk to the chair, dear God, would I make it without tripping over?
How many times had I made this trip? I stood, facing the audience, waved, then sat. It was the fifteenth. You’d think I’d learned by now.
There was nothing to it.
© Charles Heath 2016-2018
Now that I’ve hit the age of 65, I now have to give some consideration to creating a will.
You know, that document that specifies which child gets what, or if you think any or all of them don’t deserve what’s left of the hard earned millions, which cat or dog will inherit a fortune.
A will is both a reason for siblings or beneficiaries to kill to get a reward, or the fact you have to make one so that the state doesn’t inherit your fortune.
This is only one use of the word.
Another might be that it’s possible to have something like the will to carry on.
Carry on what?
Life, a marriage, a business relationship.
Does it require will power, or is it a matter of where there’s a will there’s a way?
I will come over. I will turn up tomorrow.
In this sense it is promoting futility.
Of course seeing is believing.
And as a bit of self serving advertising, I’m going to promote a new story, actually titled, The Will.
Inheritance can resolve monetary problems, and not only that, set one of the siblings up financially for life. All they have to do is wrest the family home from the dying fingers of a mother who had seen it all.
Into the mix comes the grandson, a man who sometimes is a son but mostly a grandson, someone who doesn’t fit in, who doesn’t want to follow family tradition, and who prefers to go to his grandmothers rather than going home to his family.
He is constantly appalled at his mother’s lack of respect for her mother, and suddenly finds himself in the middle of a battle between his grandmother and her daughter, his mother, over the family estate.
Who will win?
That’s a question that will be answered when you read the book.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 