February is a month devoted to love and in honor of it and Valentine’s Day, Crimson Romance is offering my novels on Amazon at only $1.99 per download. One of my favorites is Wishes and Tears, a time travel.
I have always been a history buff. Touring historic places, reading about how people lived and amassing books on different episodes of history, historic lifestyles, historic trivia and the like are a passion. When I found a volume written after the Great San Francisco Earthquake and Fire, I was hooked on the event. It led me to purchase several other historic accounts of this tragic moment in United States history.
Then, I had a dream. It was a dream about a handsome doctor practicing in San Francisco during that historic time period. The “what if?” that writers think of popped into my mind and wouldn’t leave. It led me to research medicine of the time period and lifestyles. My imagination took over and this novel was born.
Enjoy this excerpt:
Is this some sort of joke?” Faith set down the cup and saucer on the bed tray.
“Get me a telephone and we’ll clear this up,” Faith demanded. Her head was beginning to pound but she disregarded the pain. All she wanted were answers.
“Don’t look so perplexed. Just get me a phone.” She had to call Clarice, to call someone.
“The doctor’s telephone is downstairs in his office. You’re in no condition—”
Faith cut her off. “What kind of doctor is he? Doesn’t he have a cordless phone, a cellular phone? Something?”
The pain in her head was becoming excruciating. Being upset was making it unbearable. Faith cradled her aching head in her hands as tears of anguish swelled in her eyes. She couldn’t speak but softly moaned.
Bridget turned and rushed out of the room in a panic. Faith watched her leave, hoping that the maid was getting a phone. Home was only a phone call away.
When the door to the bedroom opened, a man instead of the maid entered. Faith glanced up at him through tears and splayed fingers. His height and attire made for a striking appearance. The black tuxedo with tails seemed a bit dated. The black cape thrown over his shoulder and the black silk top hat he held made him appear ready for a costume ball. Yet, the strange attire seemed to fit his arrogant demeanor and erect stance. Faith stared at him as he strode toward her. He returned her gaze with like curiosity.
“It seems I’ve returned home from the theater just in time. Bridget informed me of your being conscious and in some discomfort,” he said in a dusky voice. “I’m Doctor Ian Forrester.”
With the flair of a matador, he removed his cape and set it and the hat upon the nearby wicker chair. He came to her bedside and looked down at her, concern flickering gold in his dark chocolate eyes. He leaned over and placed his right hand on her forehead and moved it down to her cheeks and throat. His long fingers felt soft and gentle against her flesh, the fingers one expected from a facialist or masseur.
“You’re still burning with fever,” he said, removing his hands. “When the fever goes down your headache will be less pronounced. In the meantime, I can mix up some medicine to lessen the pain.”
“Don’t you have any Tylenol or Advil?” she asked.
“I don’t understand.”
“You are a doctor, aren’t you?” she asked, flustered.
“I assure you that I am and I’ve been told I’m a competent one.”
His gaze was intense as he analyzed her every word and movement. Faith squirmed under the quilt and sheets.
“You really must rest. Getting upset will only delay your recovery,” he said. “You should tell me your name and if there is someone I should inform about your condition and your whereabouts.”
“My name is Faith Donahue and I would like to call my friend.”
“Yes. Bridget said that you have one.”
“Since you cannot leave your bed, allow me to place your telephone call.”
“Okay.” She sighed. “The name is Clarice Thomas. She’s in SOMA and her number is five–five–eight–four–three–two–four.”
“Madame, I don’t understand.”
“What is there to understand?”
“I know of no such a place as SOMA and the exchange isn’t valid.”
Faith raised her hands. “Where am I, on another planet?”
“San Francisco can seem that way.” He chuckled. “Perhaps your illness has caused some confusion. You really should rest.”
“The only place I can rest is at home.”
“And where’s that?”
“92 Sacramento Street in Pacific Heights.”
He chuckled again. “Are you trying to humor me? This is 92 Sacramento Street and this is my home.”