Guest Post by Marci Boudreaux
Thanks for having me, Sara!
As I’m making the rounds celebrating the April 3 release of The Road Leads Back, I am actually a wee bit shocked that I pulled this thing off.
I’m sure those authors who have self-pubbed several times are like,
“pfft, so easy,” but for me, this presented a challenge. I never realized how
much I relied on my publisher to ease the stress of putting a book release
together.
I am perfectly capable of doing the design, the cover, finding a
qualified editor, connecting for a blog hop, so this should have been a breeze,
right? Wrong! It isn’t just the basic work, it’s the emotional ups and downs of
finding errors after thinking it is perfect (the last error—at least as of this
writing—was finding “bewtrayed” on the back cover after 40 print copies showed
up on my door!), it’s the stress of wanting—no, needing—everything to be
perfect, it’s the self inflicted pressure of doing everything right the first
time. Or, maybe I just take myself too seriously and the rest of the authors
who jump into self publishing can take these things in stride. Whatever it is,
I wasn’t quite prepared for the stress of writing, editing, and releasing The Road Leads Back.
Even with all the blood, sweat, and tears (okay, maybe just tears), I am
so proud of this book. There’s quite a story packed into these pages and I’m so
happy to get to share it with you.
Blurb:
Kara Martinson and
Harry Canton weren’t exactly high school sweethearts, but they did share
one night neither will ever forget. Twenty-seven years later, Harry surprises
Kara at an art gallery opening and discovers he left her with more than just
memories when he went away to college. Desperate to connect with the family he
never knew existed, Harry convinces his son to move to Stonehill—and pleads with
Kara to come, too.
Kara hasn’t stepped
foot in their hometown since the day she was sent away to a home for unwed
mothers. Now Harry’s back in her life and as they put together the pieces of
their parents’ betrayal, old heartaches start to feel anew. She wants to be
near her family, but returning to Iowa means facing some things…and some
people…she isn’t quite ready to.
Can Harry convince her
to forgive the people who betrayed her so they can embrace the future they were
robbed of so long ago? Or will the pain of the past be too much for Kara to
overcome?
Excerpt:
Kara squeezed her way toward the
crowded bar, nudging between two kids who she couldn’t quite believe were old
enough to be legally drinking in public. Shouldn’t they be funneling cheap beer
in a college dorm somewhere? Or sneaking shots from Daddy’s liquor cabinet?
Art gallery openings used to be much
more sophisticated than this. When she was a young artist, openings were about
appreciating the art and the artist, not the free booze.
Shit.
Had she really gone there? Kara shook
her head at her bitter thoughts.
The bartender, a walking tattoo with
spiked black hair, leaned close so she could hear him. “What’ll it be?”
She realized all she wanted was wine.
And quiet. The kids around her were acting more like pre-teens jacked up on
sugar than art aficionados. One made a face, squished and reddened, as he held
up an empty shot glass as proof of his triumph.
She wondered when she had gotten so
damned old. She never used to snub her nose at a good drink. Actually, she
completely understood what her problem was, and it had nothing to do with age.
She’d conformed. She’d fallen into line. She’d done what she was supposed to
do. Agent? Check. Gallery opening? Check. Interviews with all the local
fancy-pants magazines? Check.
But this wasn’t her. None of this was
her.
Frowning, she leaned in as well,
making sure he heard her over the jeering of the kids next to her. “Tequila.”
Within seconds he set a glass in front of her and filled it with amber liquid.
He started to walk away but she held up one hand and lifted the glass with the
other. She downed the drink, slammed the glass down, and gestured for
another—one shot wasn’t nearly enough to numb the misery of this evening.
The young man lifted his brows and
smirked as he gave her another shot. He laughed as she motioned for him to
fill the glass a third time. “I can’t do this all night, lady.”
“One more.”
“Some of the crap in here costs more
than my car. No puking. Got it?”
Kara chuckled. Clearly he didn’t
recognize her as the artist who had made the crap. “Honey, I was doing tequila shots before your daddy dropped
his pants and made you.”
The barkeep threw his head back and
laughed, then filled her glass one more time. “Nice one, babe.”
Babe? Kara
snorted as she lifted the glass. It was almost to her lips when a hand squeezed
her shoulder.
“Kara?” asked a deep, smooth voice as if the
man wasn’t certain who he was touching.
She turned. Her eyes bulged as she
looked into an intense dark gaze she hadn’t seen since the night she’d lost her
virginity.
The music had been loud, the beer
lukewarm, and everybody who was anybody—and several nobody’s like Kara and
Harry—in their senior class of Stonehill High was at the graduation party. The
only person she had cared about, though, didn’t care about her. Or so she’d
thought. Until she’d somehow ended up on Shannon Blake’s disgustingly pink- and
ruffle-covered bed with Harry Canton, book club president and algebra
superstar, clumsily removing her clothes, leaving slobbery kisses in their
wake.
Kara swallowed hard as the flash of a
memory faded, and the man standing before her, looking as shocked as she felt,
came back into view.
She downed the liquor, slammed the
glass against the bar, and sighed before she announced, “I’ve been looking for
you for twenty-seven years.”
He sank onto the vacant stool next to
her and lifted his hands as if he were at a loss for words. Something that
appeared to be guilt filled his eyes and made his full lips sag into a frown.
She’d be damned if temptation didn’t hit her as hard as it had when she was a
hormonal teen.
“I wanted to tell you I was leaving,”
he said, “but I didn’t know how.”
“You should have tried something like,
‘Kara, I’m leaving.’”
“You’re right. But I was a kid. I
didn’t have a lot of common sense. All I could think about was how I finally
had my freedom.”
She tilted her head and narrowed her
eyes at him. “You had your freedom? You selfish prick.”
His eyes widened. “Well, that might be
a little harsh. I was just a kid, Kara. Yes, I should have told you I had no
intention of staying with you, but I was a little overwhelmed by what had
happened. I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry?”
Harry’s shoulders slumped, as if he
had given up justifying sneaking out on her in the middle of the night. “Look,
I saw a flier for your gallery opening, and I wanted to say hello. I thought
maybe… I don’t know what I was thinking.” He sounded hurt, dejected even. “I
didn’t mean to upset you.”
He stood. She put her hand to his
chest and shoved him back onto the barstool. The move instantly reminded of her
their one night together. All of seventeen and totally inexperienced, she’d
fancied herself a seductress and pushed him on the bed before straddling his
hips like she had a clue what she was doing.
Touching his chest now, warmth
radiated through her entire body.
She glared, pulling her hand away and
squeezing her fingers into a fist. “Are you living in Seattle?”
He shook his head. “I had a conference
in town. There were fliers at the hotel. As soon as I saw your picture, I knew
I had to come.” His smile returned and excitement oozed from his face. “I can’t
believe you have a gallery opening. This is amazing, Kare.”
She wasn’t nearly as thrilled by her
accomplishment as he seemed to be. She felt like she was selling her soul
instead of her art. She’d always preferred to go the indie route, but that crap
agent had cornered her at a particularly vulnerable moment and convinced her
she needed him…just like he convinced her she needed to be in a gallery.
Although, now she was glad she’d conceded on the open bar.
The tequila swirled through her,
making her muscles tingle, preventing her from fully engaging the near-three
decades of anger she’d been harboring. She had spent an awfully long time
wanting to give Harry Canton a piece of her mind.
Even so, hearing him say she’d done
something amazing warmed her in a way very little ever had. If he had come
looking for another one-night stand, she hated to admit that she would consider
reliving that night again—only this time with more sexual experience and less
expectation of him sticking around.
He might be almost three decades
older, but his face was still handsome and his brown eyes were just as inviting
as they had been when he was a high school prodigy and she was a wallflower.
She smirked at a realization: he was
in a suit, probably having just left a corporate meeting, while she was wearing
a red sari-inspired dress at her gallery opening.
He was still the straight arrow. She
was still the eccentric artist.
“Did you hear what I said, Harry?
About looking for you for the last twenty-seven years.”
His shoulders sagged. “I never meant
to sleep with you that night. I mean”—he quickly lifted his hands—“I was
leaving and should have told you before taking you upstairs. I shouldn’t have
just left like that, but I didn’t think you wanted to see me again anyway. If
it’s any consolation,” he said giving her a smile that softened the rough edges
of her anger, “I’d been working up the courage to kiss you since junior year
when you squeezed a tube of red paint in Mitch Friedman’s hair after he made
jokes about Frida Kahlo’s eyebrows in art class.”
She frowned at him. That hadn’t been
her finest hour. Then again, neither was waking up thinking she was starting a
new life as a high school graduate and the girlfriend of the cutest boy she’d
ever met, only to find the other side of the homecoming queen’s bed empty.
“There’s nothing wrong with a woman embracing her natural beauty.”
His smile faded quickly. “I’m sorry,”
he said, sounding sincere. “I shouldn’t have left you like I did. I hope you
believe that I regret it. Not being with you,” he amended, “but leaving without
explaining.”
She laughed softly. He’d had that same
nervous habit in high school. He’d say what was on his mind and then instantly
try to recover, afraid his words had come out wrong. Usually they had. For as
awkward as she’d been, at least she’d always been able to say what she meant and
to stand behind it. Of course, that ability got her in trouble more often than
not.
She’d told herself a million times
that Harry didn’t owe her an explanation. They hadn’t been in any kind of
relationship. She’d drooled over him from afar, but other than an occasional
smile in the hallway, he’d barely acknowledged her existence in high school.
Even if he hadn’t gone off to start his Ivy League college career the day after
graduation, he likely never would have looked at her again. Well, at least not
until she could no longer hide the truth of their one-night stand from the
world.
“I expected so much more from you, Harry,” she
said sadly, the sting of what he’d done back then numbed slightly by the
tequila.
His shoulders sagged a bit. “I know.”
“Why didn’t you ever write me back?”
Her voice sounded hurt and pathetic. She was surprised that after so many years
of being angry, there was still pain hiding beneath her fury. “I must have sent
you a hundred letters.”
He creased his brow. “Letters? I
didn’t get any letters.”
Kara searched his eyes. He looked
genuinely confused.
“I sent them to…” Her words faded.
Suddenly the tequila-induced haze wasn’t so welcome. “Your mother said if I
wrote to you, she’d make sure you got my letters.”
“My mother? I never got any letters.”
“But you sent money.”
Harry shook his head slightly. “What
the hell are you talking about? Why would I send you money?”
She stared at him as realization set
in. He hadn’t responded to her letters because he hadn’t received her letters.
And if he hadn’t received the letters, he hadn’t sent her money. And if he
hadn’t sent her money, he hadn’t known that she needed it. Sighing, she let
some of her decades-old anger slip. Her head spun, either from the alcohol or
the blurry dots she was trying to mentally connect. Leaning onto the bar, she
exhaled slowly. “She never told you, did she?”
“Told me what?”
Kara couldn’t speak. Her words
wouldn’t form.
An arm wrapped around Kara’s shoulder,
startling her and making her gasp quietly. She turned and blinked several times
at the man who had just slid next to her.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he said, “but I
need to get home.” Leaning in, he kissed her head. “Congratulations on the
opening, Mom. It was great.”
“Um…” She swallowed, desperate to find
her voice. “Thank you, sweetheart.” She flicked her gaze at the man sitting
next to her. The longer Harry looked at her son, the wider Harry’s eyes became.
Phil cast a disapproving glance at
Harry then focused on his mother again. “Don’t forget that Jess is expecting
you to make pancakes in the morning. You promised.”
“I haven’t forgotten.” Kara returned
her attention to Harry. His jaw was slack and his cheeks had grown pale.
Phil nodded at Harry as if he were
satisfied that he’d made the point that his mother didn’t need to be staying
out all night and walked away. Harry watched him leave while Kara waved down
the bartender and pointed at her glass. The tattooed kid hesitated, likely
debating the ethics of giving her another shot. She pointed again, cocking a
brow for emphasis, and he finally filled her glass.
“Kara…” Harry’s voice was breathless,
like he’d been kicked in the gut. “Was…was that my…son?”
No. His mother definitely hadn’t given him the letters Kara had written. She
lifted her shot, toasting him. “Congratulations, Harry. It’s a boy.”
Contest:
Sorry, but I do have to put in one
little rule here. International shipping is crazy expensive. If the winner is
not in the Continental US, you will receive an e-copy of The Road Leads Back and your choice of one of my backlist.
About Marci:
Marci
Boudreaux lives with her husband, two children and their numerous pets. Romance
is her preferred reading and writing genre because nothing feels better than
falling in love with someone new and her husband doesn't like when she does
that in real life.
As
well as writing erotica under her pen name Emilia Mancini, Marci is a content
editor for Lyrical Press, an imprint of Kensington Publishing. She earned her
MS in Publishing from University of Houston-Victoria in 2014 and worked with
Des Moines publishing company Big Green Umbrella Media, Inc. as a freelance
writer until she recently opted to focus on working in books.
