Introducing Rita Calabrese in The Secret Poison Garden
April 28, 2018 by marianne h donley in category Apples & Oranges by Marianne H. Donley tagged as Cozy mystery, Maureen Klovers
A Slice of Orange is please to introduce you to Rita Calabrese, the sleuth in Maureen Klovers’ new culinary cozy mystery The Secret Poison Garden. The mystery is available for pre-order and will be released on June 14, 2018. We have an excerpt from the book and Rita’s recipe for pasta all’arrabbiata, angry style sauce servered on strozzapreti—“strangle the priest” pasta.
Enjoy!
Rita Calabrese is the guardian angel of the bucolic Hudson Valley hamlet of Acorn Hollow—and of her lovable but exasperating famiglia. She’s always fortifying her down-on-their-luck neighbors with secret deliveries of home-grown vegetables and ravioli alla zucca, sneaking cannoli into her gruff husband’s lunch, and meddling in (or, as she would say, “improving”) the lives of her three grown children.
But now, on the eve of her sixty-sixth birthday, Rita’s looking for a meaningful second act—and finds as a reporter for the local paper. Her profiles of Acorn Hollow’s eccentric citizens, including the soft-spoken biology teacher with a secret poison garden, soon make her the toast of the town. But when the beloved football coach is murdered and Rita’s investigation uncovers not only a messy love triangle, but also rumors of her ne’er-do-well son Vinnie’s involvement, she finds her newfound journalistic zeal on a collision course with her fierce maternal instinct.
From
The Secret Poison Garden
Maureen Klovers
Rita has recently discovered that her oldest son, Marco, is having an affair and her youngest son, Vinnie, is a suspect in the death of the town’s beloved football coach, and she communicates her anger through her cooking….
Rita could not remember the last time she had been so furious with her children. Furious, and disappointed. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she chopped a large yellow onion. Each time her enormous knife hit the butcher block surface with a satisfying sharp, quick chop, she remembered yet another time her children had infuriated her.
Chop.
There was the time that Vinnie and Gina had repurposed the wise men and animals in nonna’s presepe—the one that had been lovingly carved by nonna’s nonno—for a Jurassic Park tableau. She shuddered to think of the dinosaur scales they had drawn on the camels in green permanent marker.
Chop.
There was the time that Vinnie had built a skateboard ramp off of the roof of the garage while she was at bridge club—and broken his ankle right before what was supposed to have been Rita’s first trip to Italy. Instead of traipsing through the vineyards of Tuscany, she’d spent the next two weeks waiting on him hand and foot.
Chop, chop, chop.
The onions were now reduced to little slivers. Her eyes no longer stung with their potency, but the tears kept coming nonetheless.
Rita scraped the onions into the frying pan, and the pan—a seething, searing-hot mixture of bacon fat and butter—crackled its angry response. “My thoughts exactly,” Rita murmured.
No, this time was different. All of the previous times had involved just Vinnie, or occasionally Gina and Vinnie. But never, ever Marco. About the worst thing he had ever done was to ruin his dinner with a few extra cookies.
Marco had never even cheated on a test, so it seemed completely out of character for him to cheat on Susan. Then again, the widow had warned her, hadn’t she? No one is ever who he or she seems.
Rita had initially thought to make a simple penne with marinara sauce for dinner, but such a meal was no match for her mood. Tonight, she thought grimly, is a night for pasta all’arrabbiata. Arrabbiata literally meant “angry.” Her mother and nonna had made pasta all’arrabbiata for two reasons: either to signal that they were angry—and the angrier they were, the longer they left the red chili pepper in the sauce—or to make their husbands come un leone so that they could fare un maschio. Rita still blushed when she recalled their words; she thought of her father and nonno as sweet, harmless old men—hardly “lions.”
Hopefully Sal would not misinterpret the meal, since she had no desire for a lion in her bed tonight. All she wanted was to make Vinnie sweat—literally. She dumped a palmful of blazing hot chili pepper flakes into the pan and gave Marco a call.
“I saw Courtney D’Agostino today,” she shouted over the roar of the food processor as she puréed the tomatoes.
“Oh?”
“Coming out of the Sunshine Café. She looked terrific. I wonder who she was meeting.”
“Huh.”
His nonchalance was maddening. If he was wracked by guilt, he certainly was hiding it well.
“Ma, I’ve got to go. I’ve got a patient.”
“Of course you do,” she huffed. “Say hello to Susan for me,” she added darkly. “She’s a sweet girl.”
Marco sounded baffled. “Yes, she is. Later, ma.”
Rita stabbed the “off” button and rooted around in the cupboard for some penne pasta, then changed her mind. She was more than arrabbiata today—she was arrabbiatissima.
And the only way to make pasta all’arrabbiata even more arrabbiata was to make it not with the traditional penne but with strozzapreti—“strangle the priest” pasta. Curly and slightly irregular, her nonna claimed that it was so dubbed because it was beloved by gluttonous priests who would eat so many that they would practically choke to death.
When Sal and Vinnie trooped through the door half an hour later, Rita served them plates piled high with steaming strozzapreti pasta and some very hot arrabbiata sauce—so hot that Sal nearly choked after his bite.
“Did you have a good day, cara?” he asked suspiciously as he reached for his water glass.
“No,” she said, glaring at Vinnie.
“Anything on your mind, ma?” he asked nervously, pushing the pasta around on his plate.
Without answering, she countered, “Anything on yours?”
“Uh, no. Just work, you know, the usual. Everything’s good.”
“I’m your mother, Vinnie.”
He shot a perplexed look at his father, who raised his eyes to the ceiling and shrugged.
“Yeah, I know, ma.”
“If you’re in trouble, Vin, I can help.”
“Ain’t got no trouble, ma. I swear.”
They ate the rest of the meal in silence.
All’arrabbiata
All’arrabbiata (“angry style”) sauce derives its heat from chili peppers. Italian grandmothers traditionally made this sauce by simmering a whole chili pepper in the pot, but using chili pepper flakes more evenly distributes the spice.
While this sauce is traditionally served with penne pasta, try it with strozzapreti (“strangle the priest” pasta). The name packs an angry punch just like the sauce…and the long, hearty strands are delicious!
¼ cup olive oil
1 yellow onion, chopped
½ carrot, diced
6 cloves garlic, minced
2 cups pancetta (Italian bacon), diced
6 anchovy fillets
4 lbs. very ripe San Marzano tomatoes, peeled, seeds removed, and chopped
1 tbsp. sugar
1 tbsp. balsamic vinegar
¼ cup fresh basil leaves, torn into small pieces
½ tbsp. dried oregano
2-3 teaspoons chili pepper flakes
In a medium saucepan, on low heat, combine olive oil, onion, carrot, pancetta, and anchovies. Cook until onions are translucent. Then add garlic for an additional 2 minutes, stirring occasionally. Pour this mixture into a slow cooker.
Boil water in your largest pot. Once water is at a rolling boil, turn off heat and immediately place all tomatoes into pot. After one minute, remove and wait until these are cool enough to handle. Peel tomatoes by hand (the hot water should have made the skins wrinkly and easy to remove). Discard skins. Cut tomatoes in half lengthwise and scoop out seeds. Purée half of the tomatoes in a blender and dice the other half. Then place both the diced and the puréed tomatoes in a slow cooker.
Add sugar, vinegar, basil, oregano, and chili flakes to the slow cooker. Turn on low heat and cook for eight hours.
Maureen Klovers has held numerous positions in government, including a stint as a U.S. intelligence officer, and was a political commentator on DC 101’s talk radio show “Neighborhood Stuff.” Ms. Klovers has traveled extensively in the United States, Europe, China, India, and Latin America. She’s hiked the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu, been escorted through a Bolivian prison by a German narco-trafficker, and fished for piranhas in Venezuela. She received a Bachelor of Arts in International Relations (with a focus on Latin American politics) from the College of William and Mary in 1999 and a Master’s of Public Policy and Master’s of Business Administration from Georgetown University in 2006. She lives with her husband, Kevin, in Arlington, Virginia.
For more information or to sign up for her newsletter, please visit www.maureenklovers.com
Tracy Reed, The Featured Author for April
April 21, 2018 by marianne h donley in category Apples & Oranges by Marianne H. Donley, Featured Author of the Month tagged as Featured author, Sophisticated Romance, Tracy Reed
Author: Tracy Reed
A California native, novelist Tracy Reed pushes the boundaries of her Christian foundation with her sometimes racy and often fiery tales.
After years of living in the Big Apple, this self proclaimed New Yorker draws from the city’s imagination, intrigue, and inspiration to cultivate characters and plot lines who breathe life to the words on every page.
Tracy’s passion for beautiful fashion and beautiful men direct her vivid creative power towards not only novels, but short stories, poetry, and podcasts. With something for every attention span.
Tracy Reed’s ability to capture an audience is unmatched. Her body of work has been described as a host of stimulating adventures and invigorating expression.
Find Tracy on Social media:
https://www.facebook.com/readtracyreed
https://www.bookbub.com/authors/tracy-reed
https://www.instagram.com/readtracyreed/
https://twitter.com/readtracyreed
https://www.pinterest.com/readtracyreed/
Tracy Reed, Featured Author of the Month
April 14, 2018 by marianne h donley in category Apples & Oranges by Marianne H. Donley, Featured Author of the Month tagged as Featured author, Sophisticated Romance, Tracy Reed
Author: Tracy Reed
A California native, novelist Tracy Reed pushes the boundaries of her Christian foundation with her sometimes racy and often fiery tales.
After years of living in the Big Apple, this self proclaimed New Yorker draws from the city’s imagination, intrigue, and inspiration to cultivate characters and plot lines who breathe life to the words on every page.
Tracy’s passion for beautiful fashion and beautiful men direct her vivid creative power towards not only novels, but short stories, poetry, and podcasts. With something for every attention span.
Tracy Reed’s ability to capture an audience is unmatched. Her body of work has been described as a host of stimulating adventures and invigorating expression.
Find Tracy on Social media:
https://www.facebook.com/readtracyreed
https://www.bookbub.com/authors/tracy-reed
https://www.instagram.com/readtracyreed/
https://twitter.com/readtracyreed
https://www.pinterest.com/readtracyreed/
Rescued by a Rancher by Mindy Neff
April 8, 2018 by marianne h donley in category Apples & Oranges by Marianne H. Donley, Guest Posts, Spotlight tagged as contemporary romance, Cowboys, Mindy Neff, Texas Sweethearts
Welcome to Hope, Texas home of the Texas Sweethearts—where gossip’s hotter than three-alarm chili and even the good guys wear black.
This month we are pleased to share an excerpt from Rescued by a Rancher , book three in the Texas Sweethearts series by Mindy Neff.
Rescued by a Rancher
Mindy Neff
Chapter One
Sometimes a woman had to take charge of her own destiny. Tracy Lynn Randolph was doing just that.
Above her, puffy clouds cast huge shadows over the Texas hills, the sky so blue it almost hurt to look at it. A brisk November wind ruffled the spiky seed pods on the sweet -gum tree, scattering little sticker balls over the lawn and onto the steps of the redbrick courthouse.
Even if it hadn’t been such a glorious afternoon, nothing could have dampened Tracy Lynn’s mood. Her smile far outshone any smile she’d perfected in the dozen or so beauty pageants she’d entered in her youth. She pressed a hand to her chest as if to contain her giddy excitement.
Pausing at the base of the Hope Valley courthouse steps, she closed her eyes and sent her thoughts heavenward.
Mama, are you watching? I’m finally starting on my dream. Our dream.
Her heart squeezed and her throat ached as she remembered the words her mother had uttered just hours before succumbing completely to the aggressive ovarian cancer that had been draining the life from her once-vibrant body for the past eight months.
“Give Daddy grandbabies,” Mama had said, her voice weak yet steady. “You were the only child I was able to have, and he so wanted a big family.”
“I will, Mama. Before I’m thirty.”
In those last few weeks they’d planned Tracy Lynn’s future—a future her mother, Chelsa, would never see, the fairy-tale wedding she would never attend. They’d even chosen names for the grandbabies, whose sweet, warm bodies her mother would never rock in her arms.
Those had been the very best weeks of Tracy Lynn’s life. And the very worst.
Ten years had gone by since her mom had died. Tracy Lynn had truly believed she’d be married long before she turned twenty-five—a reasonable assumption since she’d never lacked for dates.
But Prince Charming hadn’t arrived.
So she’d decided to go on without him.
Granted, she hadn’t actually met the deadline she’d so confidently promised her mother, but she was darn close. Next month, on Christmas Eve, she’d be turning thirty.
Before that auspicious day, though, she would be able to tell her dad that he was going to be a grandpa. The thought of Hope Valley Mayor Jerald Randolph bouncing his grandbaby on
his knee was enough to make Tracy Lynn laugh out loud.
She looked up as her dad pushed through the glass doors of the courthouse. He was a handsome man at fifty-nine, his dark hair graying at the temples, giving him a distinguished look. He was also still quite slim, due in part to his restless energy.
Jerald Randolph didn’t know how to relax; he had to be going somewhere or doing something all the time.
She waved and jogged up the half-dozen steps to meet him on the wide landing and give him a hug. “Hey, Daddy.”
His frown was both apologetic and confused as he pecked her on the cheek. “Did I forget an appointment, honey?”
“No. But I have some great news, and I couldn’t wait to share it.”
“Can you tell me in three minutes or less? You caught me on the way to a meeting.”
“I know. I called Alice and she itemized your schedule.” His secretary knew more about him than anyone else. Tracy Lynn had hoped to get her father alone so they could celebrate in private, but the man was a workaholic—had been all her life—and she’d learned to catch him when she could, often obliged to fall into step beside him as he rushed from one place to the next, conducting his mayoral duties or handling his commercial real estate investment business.
“That’s why I wanted to intercept you this afternoon, so you’d be the first to know. It’s all I can do not to climb the flagpole and shout it to the world.”
He gave her an indulgent smile. “In the interest of decorum, why don’t you just tell me and I’ll pass along whatever it is at the school-board meeting. That’d be a lot more effective. Those folks can spread news faster than a minnow can swim a dipper.”
Although he was smiling at her, she noticed that he looked pale, tired. But her fabulous announcement would perk him up for sure.
She took a breath, felt her eyes mist from happiness.
“You’re going to be a grandfather, Dad.”
He looked at her in confusion.
“I’m pregnant.”
Dead silence met her words. Instead of the awe and exuberant hug she’d expected, his smile faded and his facial muscles went rigid.
A sparrow hopped off a nearby brick planter, then darted away in a flutter of wings. Somewhere, a woodpecker hammered his beak into bark in search of supper, the staccato sound matching the rhythm of Tracy Lynn’s heart.
Dread began to gather beneath her sternum as she waited for him to respond. Although they were the only two standing on the steps, he glanced around as if checking to see if anyone might have overheard her announcement.
This wasn’t the proud reception she’d expected. He appeared…embarrassed. “Daddy?” she prompted. “Aren’t you excited?”
Gripping her upper arm, he pulled her to one side of the landing, next to the iron bench and metal ash can county employees used during smoke breaks.
“What do you mean, you’re pregnant?” The question was a harsh demand. His gaze darted to her stomach, then back to her face. “Did you think this was good news? You’re not even married, Tracy Lynn.”
“Oh, Daddy.” She smiled and shook her head. “That’s not an issue in this generation.” “You damned well better believe it is in my generation! It’s vitally important for our
family to keep up a good image. If I run for senator, you can be sure my opponent will dig deep in our backyard, searching for old bones we can’t bury. My God, girl, you know how gossip is in a small town.”
“But this is good gossip. There’s no need to hide my pregnancy or the existence of my child.” The sting of rejection swarmed in her stomach like angry bees. She was both bewildered and terrified.
For the first time in her life, she wasn’t Daddy’s perfect girl. And she didn’t know quite how to react.
Jerald reached for his handkerchief and mopped his brow. “Who’s the father?”
“No one…” The gray pallor of his skin worried her, cutting off her explanation. He was breathing heavily, and she’d never seen him sweat so profusely. “Daddy? What’s wrong?” “Nothing. I asked you a question, girl. I—” He opened his mouth to continue, but his face contorted in pain. To her everlasting horror, he clutched his chest, and before her brain could signal her to reach out and catch him, he collapsed at her feet, his back scraping against the iron bench as he went down.
“Oh, my God! Daddy! Somebody, help!” She wasn’t sure if she managed to yell loud enough for anyone inside the courthouse to hear. Her purse slid off her shoulder as she dropped to her knees beside him.
She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. She felt as though she was having a nightmare—this couldn’t be happening! Every bit of first-aid training she’d ever learned—she’d needed it to care for her mother and later to work at the senior center—flew right out of her head.
“Don’t do this to me, girl.” He wheezed and gasped for breath. “I can’t have my daughter pregnant and not married. Tell me. We’ll make everything right. I need to know who fathered this baby—”
“I did, sir.”
Tracy Lynn turned quickly to see who had spoken. Lincoln Slade—bad-boy-turned- rancher. She watched, heart in her throat, as Linc bent down, loosened Jerald’s shirt buttons, looked him straight in the eye and said, “Now, let’s calm down and leave this discussion until later.”
Tracy Lynn was so distraught she could hardly think past the fact that her strong, youthful father was lying at the top of the courthouse steps gasping for breath. In some rational part of her mind, she noted that Linc already had his cell phone against his ear.
Oh, God. Hers was in her purse. She hadn’t even thought—
“I need rescue in front of the courthouse,” Linc said into the phone. “Patients name is Jerald Randolph. Early sixties. Appears to be a heart attack. Tell the paramedics that if they look out their door, they’ll see us.”
She glanced down the street. It felt as though the fire station was ten miles away instead of a mere block.
“Do you have any aspirin, babe?”
“I have Tylenol.” She snatched up her purse, dumping the contents on the cement. “Will that work? Wait. Maybe I’ve got—“
Linc swore.
Her head jerked up, fear ripping at her insides.
Her father’s eyes had rolled back in his head.
His chest wasn’t moving.
Linc dropped the phone and went into action.
Paralyzed by shock, Tracy Lynn stared as he checked her father’s pulse, his breathing, then shook him and shouted his name. Only seconds passed before he tilted back her daddy’s head, breathed deeply into his mouth, then began CPR compressions.
“Breathe for him, Trace,” Linc said. “I’ll pause on ten. Come on, now. Get it together.” Her hands were shaking so hard she could barely position her father’s chin.
“And nine, and ten,” Linc counted. “Now!”
Tears streaming down her cheeks, she tried to blow air into her father’s mouth, but terror and anguish made her own breath shallow. She choked on a sob, didn’t even have enough air in her lungs to lift his chest.
“Damn it, Tracy Lynn. Snap out of it!” Linc resumed chest compressions, palms cupped, counting even as he shouted at her. “This isn’t about you. Princess. Now breathe for him or kiss him goodbye!”
Tears dripping onto her father’s face, she did as she was told, Linc’s forceful words finally penetrating her stupor. Between Linc’s compressions, she transferred her breath into her father’s lungs for what seemed like hours.
At last sirens screamed from half a block away. Tracy Lynn wondered why in heaven’s name the paramedics hadn’t just grabbed their gear and run the short distance.
As she bent to cover his mouth once more, Jerald took a breath. His eyes opened and he looked around wildly as though he had no idea how he’d ended up lying on the cold concrete.
Paramedics appeared at her elbow. One of them was Damian Stoltz. She’d dated him a couple of years ago, but things hadn’t worked out between them.
She felt Linc’s hands on her, urging her to her feet, shifting her out of the way so the medics would have room to work. Her body trembled and her teeth chattered, more from fear than the chilly afternoon air.
“You did just fine, babe,” Linc said, drawing her against his side, his hands chafing her arms, her back, bringing warmth to thaw the icy shock.
She shook her head, didn’t deserve his bolstering. She’d been worse than useless, frozen in blind terror when she should have acted. “He wasn’t breathing. His heart stopped. Linc, what if—“
“Shh. He’s in good hands now.”
The other paramedic was Mason Lowe, who she’d also dated. Thank heaven she remained friends with guys when the relationships didn’t work. She’d never seen Damian or Mason so serious and efficient.
Or Linc, either.
She leaned into his warmth. He’d only been back in Hope Valley for four months, showing up the day his brother, Jackson Slade, had married Sunny Carmichael—who happened to be the town’s veterinarian and one of Tracy Lynn’s best friends.
“I’m so glad you were here,” she said.
He didn’t respond. Lincoln Slade was one of those men who could be stingy with words. Just when she thought her nerves were about to get a reprieve, there was a scurry of
activity and a volley of words between Damian and Mason.
“V-fib,” Damian said. “Charging to two hundred joules.”
Daddy! Tracy Lynn automatically lunged forward, but Linc hooked his arm around her waist and held her back.
“What’s wrong? What are they doing?” She could hear the fear in her voice as she struggled against Linc’s hold. “Let me go. I need to see what’s happening.”
“Shh.” He pressed his mouth to her hair near her ear. “Let the professionals do their work, babe.”
Her fingernails dug into the sleeve of his brown suede jacket, his arm remaining as taut as a safety harness around her middle. One of the monitors on the ground emitted an escalating whine. A discarded wrapper, ripped open in haste, skipped away with the wind, tumbling across the courthouse lawn.
“Everybody stay back,” Mason said, quickly checking to ensure their compliance. “I’m clear,” he said. “You’re clear. Everybody’s clear. Shocking at two hundred joules.”
Tracy Lynn realized what was going on a bare instant before the defibrillator paddles sent an audible jolt through her father’s body, a jolt that lifted his upper body right off the ground. “Nothing!” Mason reported. “Charging again to three hundred.”
She couldn’t watch. Twisting in Linc’s arms, she rested her forehead against his chest and gripped the lapels of his sheepskin-lined suede jacket, horribly aware of her own moan as the second shock, then a third reverberated behind her.
Linc’s hand cupped the back of her head, applying firm and steady pressure, his other hand stroking the length of her back over her cashmere sweater. His hold was both comforting and protective, shielding her whether she wanted him to or not.
If she’d been capable of speech, she would have told him that there was no danger of her stealing a look.
She couldn’t bear to watch another parent die before her eyes.
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April’s Featured Author: Tracy Reed
April 7, 2018 by marianne h donley in category Apples & Oranges by Marianne H. Donley, Featured Author of the Month tagged as April Featured Author, Sophisticated Romance, Tracy Reed
Author: Tracy Reed
A California native, novelist Tracy Reed pushes the boundaries of her Christian foundation with her sometimes racy and often fiery tales.
After years of living in the Big Apple, this self proclaimed New Yorker draws from the city’s imagination, intrigue, and inspiration to cultivate characters and plot lines who breathe life to the words on every page.
Tracy’s passion for beautiful fashion and beautiful men direct her vivid creative power towards not only novels, but short stories, poetry, and podcasts. With something for every attention span.
Tracy Reed’s ability to capture an audience is unmatched. Her body of work has been described as a host of stimulating adventures and invigorating expression.
Find Tracy on Social media:
https://www.facebook.com/readtracyreed
https://www.bookbub.com/authors/tracy-reed
https://www.instagram.com/readtracyreed/
https://twitter.com/readtracyreed
https://www.pinterest.com/readtracyreed/
