Young love. The memories.

The nostalgia of that cute, tanned boy with the fast boat that summer at the lake… Or the sweet boy at camp with the science kit, the nerdy glasses and the endearing smile… Or the smoking hot boy across the tracks with the motorcycle, the fake ID and the Dean Winchester grin…

Sometimes nostalgia is blissful in a sigh-worthy, “ahhhhhh…” kind of way. And sometimes it slices and cuts with recrimination over the one who got away.

For The Earl’s Pleasure is the latter sort of book. A story where a decade in the past everything went horribly wrong for two people on the verge of adulthood and they’ve been trying to recover (and forget their other half) ever since. When extreme circumstances occur, a narrow chance at reconciliation, redemption and a love that has always blazed hotly is set into motion. Of course, sometimes that means skirting the angel of death…some people just can’t get a break…

Any nostalgia for something fun in your youth? During your coming of age? Hailing Judy Blume? Thinking about a summer fling or a fun flirtation?

For The Earl’s Pleasure releases into the world today! I’ll pick one commenter (at random!) and send a $10 Amazon gift certificate your way in celebration.

*Partial cross posting from the Avon Romance blog

I have a book to finish by tomorrow, and I’ve been working lots of hours to get there. Many of them in the kitchen, where I keep the dog food and cat food. And I realized something … my pets have some interesting habits. I have two Labrador Retrievers, pictured below with my two sons. The dogs are Ranger (yellow) and Nick (black).

We keep two large bowls full of water for these guys (the dogs, not my sons) and I noticed that when one goes for a drink, the other one does, too. Every time. And they’ll stand there for several minutes, emptying one of the 2-liter bowls.

They get a little dab of canned food with their dry food for their evening feeding, and so they’ll often skip their morning meal and wait for the good stuff. (Hey, if they were hungry enough, they’d eat it, right?) If they hear the word “walk,” they make a mad dash for the back door, practically knocking down anyone in their path. They leave the cats alone for the most part, but if one of the cats moves suddenly, or runs, both dogs pounce. Not viciously at all – they just can’t resist a smaller critter that’s moving fast.

Nick is a thug, but Ranger is a little bit shy, sometimes nervous. He’s wary of visitors to the house. He’ll bark at them for maybe 3-4 minutes (really annoying!) but then warm up to them. Totally. Like he will lick their hands (or their legs if they’re wearing shorts, which is really popular!) But Ranger is also nervous about the toaster. I don’t have a lot of counter space, so we keep the toaster in a cupboard. When it comes out, Ranger heads for the basement. He has connected the toaster with the smoke alarm (long story and we have a new toaster now, anyway). Ranger doesn’t care about that. It scared him once when he was a puppy, and he refuses to be anywhere near a toaster any more.

The cats have just as many foibles. They hang out outside, but only one of them on our porch. The other will sit on the next-door neighbor’s because they don’t really like to be together. When I pull up in the car – even if I’m parking across the street – they start “talking” to me and rolling around on the ground to… I guess, to welcome me home. But do they recognize my car? Do they know it’s me before I even get out? Or do they do this for every car that happens to pull up and park across the street? I’m going to have to check this out.

We have a cat door, but neither of the cats like to use it. I have no idea why – it gives them all the freedom they could possibly want. But as I write this blog, Bob is sitting in front of the door, staring at the door knob as though it might open itself and let him out. (This is, of course, right after Bob came up and draped himself over my keyboard. I think the only reason he left is because my laptop is too warm).

The cats each get a dollop of canned food at night. They know it, and they come in and start swarming around the refrigerator at about 8:00. I guess this is more an issue of training than habit, although it’s turned into a habit for them.

What habits have your pets developed? I would love to draw one of your replies and send the winner a copy of Wild, my January release. Anyone?

I’m a quote junkie. I admit it. I have inspiring words to the left of my computer. If I look to my right I have some more. What I like about quotes is in a few short words they motivate and inspire.

I think most of us strive to be the best we can be…but it doesn’t hurt to be reminded.

Here are a few favorites of mine:

We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence is not an act but a habit. Aristotle

This thing we call failure is not the falling down; it’s the staying down. Mary Pickford

Each of us makes a difference. It is from numberless acts of courage and belief that human history is shaped. John F. Kennedy

I’m asking for your favorite quote(s). Why?

Because I need more to add to my collection….AND because I’ll be picking a winner from everyone who comments. That person will win a copy of my July Silhouette Special Edition Your Ranch or Mine? which will be out on the shelves next week!

Anyone else been watching Top Chef Masters? 

We have, because, well, we would watch Top Chefs Pour Cereal. And also because it’s summer and there’s not much else on the air. If you haven’t watched it, it’s four master chefs (usually chef/restauranteurs) competing for a donation to the charity of their choice. There’s usually at least one “young gun”  and at least one seasoned professional. 

Not only is it just good fun watching the cooking and crazy challenges, but I like the dynamics of the competition. So far, its been the older, more experienced chefs that are taking home the prize money. I’ve got to admit, I can appreciate a field where youth and beauty aren’t everything. I like to think that writing is like that too. Sure, it never hurts if you’re a former beauty contestant like Lisa Kleypas. But with a a few exceptions, we don’t have many author child stars. (Yeah, yeah, there’s that guy who wrote Eragon, but we’re not going to count him.)

Many authors improve with age. Earnest Hemmingway wrote Old Man and the Sea when he was fifty-two. (Okay, so I didn’t love it, but apparently those Pulitzer people did.) One of my favorite writers is Elizabeth Peters is eighty-two and still going strong. After thirty-one years she decided to end the brilliant Amelia Peabody mystery series because the characters were getting too old. She herself is still going strong. 

I love that writers get better with age. That no one cares if we look old. (Though bio pics that our clearly our high school yearbook picture from 1989 will open us up to ridicule.) And thank goodness I can work in my stained, nine-year-old t-shirt from Target. I may be humiliated to open the door for the UPS guy, but at least none of you see me looking like that. 

So do you have any favorite older authors? 

Every June my husband attends a work-related conference at the Four Seasons Hotel in Palm Beach, Florida. It’s a family-friendly affair, so that means our daughter and I get to tag along and pretend to be ladies of leisure in one of the wealthiest cities in the world.

Sure, June is considered “off season.” The privileged have flown their winter mansions for cooler digs up north or in Europe… or wherever people with deep pockets go when the heat index is 110. But for us, it’s a little vacation from reality where we can soak up the Palm Beach sun and have a nibble of the good life.

Since we just returned yesterday and I’m still buzzing from the trip, I thought I’d give you my own personal tour of what I love most about Palm Beach.

This is Royal Palm Way, the gateway to Palm Beach. Such a majestic entry into the beautiful city.

I never tire of gawking at the mansions that line Ocean Boulevard (which is also known as “Billionaire’s Row”). Good thing, because the hotel is located at the end of South Ocean Boulevard, just north of the city of Lake Worth. To get to Worth Ave, you must travel a six-mile stretch that is bordered on the east by the Atlantic Ocean — and mansions– and on the west by the Intracostal Waterway (separating Palm Beach from West Palm Beach) — and mansions. Six miles of the most unfathomable real estate. Every time we drive it, one of us utters, “Who lives in these houses?!”

Well, to name a few: Marjorie Merriweather Post – Post Cereal heiress, socialite, philanthropist and wife of E.F. Hutton; Donald Trump; and the Kennedys have all lived there at one time or another.

This is a photo of the infamous Palm Beach Kennedy compound, which was known as the “Winter White House” in the 1960s. It’s located at 1095 North Ocean Boulevard and is reportedly worth around $16 million.

This is Mar-a-Lago (located 1100 South Ocean Boulevard). It was built by Marjorie Merriweather Post and recently sold by Donald Trump for $100 million dollars.

Personally, I love this house.

Also, I love the color of the water. It’s so blue. This is a shot of the beach off Ocean Boulevard.

This is Worth Avenue. The east coast Rodeo Drive.

This is my favorite restaurant, Ta-boo. It’s located on Worth Avenue. Ta-boo offers delicious food and the most gracious, welcoming service. The warm people and promise of a great meal keep us coming back year after year. That’s my car reflected in the door. I shot this photo as I was driving away after lunch.

More of the gorgeous coconut palms that epitomize south Florida.

And then there is the amazing hotel. Staying at any Four Seasons is an event (the day we arrived there was a wedding and the flowers alone were like something from a fantasy – the most voluptuous pink, lavender and white roses I’ve ever seen… wish I could’ve snapped a photo, but my camera wasn’t handy). There’s a fabulous pool and newly renovated spa, and the beach. Even if we chose to never venture outside the hotel, it would be a wonderful vacation… Alas, we can’t resist the allure of Palm Beach…

Now, we’re back to real life and counting the days until next year’s get away. What’s your favorite escape?

The Coffee House
A Histori-Skit by Sarah Parr
(The following piece and characters are entirely fictional, only the issue was real. Enjoy.)

London, Medford Hall
A lecture hall with two podiums before an audience of about a hundred there stand a man and a woman.

Introduction: Since the public fiasco last month, coffee houses have been under increased scrutiny. This afternoon, Elizabeth Haverstrom and Marcus Northingfrom will debate the issue. ~ Mr. Harold Tutherton, Esq

Elizabeth: Ladies and gentlemen of the London Well Being Society. London is being destroying at its foundation by the permeation of the coffee house throughout the city. Currently there are well over 2,000 of the odious structures. Rather than taking a meal with family, their lure keeps men out late, returning too exhausted for even the slightest conversation. It has even been reported that consumption of the’ nasty puddle water’ turns men impotent!

Marcus: (Shaking head.) Poor ignorant Elizabeth. This uproar is a pointless din. No medical evidences have arisen to show coffee dries properties of the spirit. In fact, according to numerous sources, there has been an increase in the number of births and a rise in the population. As for staying out late, the majority of coffee establishments offer meals for only a few pence. Is it any wonder after a day of hard labor a man would choose a meal that is readily available? This is no crime.

Elizabeth: You are a poor judge, sir. Living the sad and lonely bachelor life, you would be uninformed of the trials of marriage. Coffee houses are filled with debauchery and scandal. Even the most exclusive establishments have become disreputable.

Marcus: And yet they are used as penny posts, where anyone except turned-nose-snobbists like yourself, might have a letter delivered conveniently. Coffee houses are necessary for male interaction. It is there newspapers are read and discussed, not to mention business transpired.

Elizabeth: Business of a foul and disgusting nature, not that you would know the difference.

Marcus: (Turns from the audience to face her fully) Edward Llyod’s coffee house on the corner of Abchurch Lane has become a fixture in the shipping business. Many are used for the auction of goods, as evident in any newspaper. You must admit, coffee houses are a far better refuge than alehouses or taverns.

Elizabeth: (Ignoring him.) You can still get drunk at a coffee house. Then there is the issue of gambling, a plague, destroying lives and crippling the economy of the Empire.

Marcus: If you are referring to my loss of the one thousand pounds last year…

Elizabeth: (Whirls, squares across from him.) It would have secured our future. You promised both father and me to keep that money safe.

Marcus: Elizabeth, I’m sorry. I had hoped to make it back double fold, to buy you the home you wanted.

Elizabeth: That can’t happen now.

Marcus: You never opened my letters. I recovered the money and bought the house. I still want to marry you.

Elizabeth: (Stares at him for a long breath.) We are here to debate the future of the coffee house.

Marcus: (Crosses to her and takes her hands, kissing them). By the end of the millennium you’ll find a coffee house on every corner. Diversity in drink will be offered. People will drive up and order directly from their coach windows. Empires will be grown from the coffee plant.

Elizabeth: (Narrows her eyes, tightens her grip and nods). But not by us.

Marcus: (Searches her face and also nods). Agreed.

True to his word, Marcus prospered without frequenting another coffee house, becoming a successful masthead salesman. He and Elizabeth married and raised three children, living comfortably all their years. The popularity of the coffee house died off towards the end of the Georgian period. It lingered throughout Europe until near the end of the millennium where it was again popularized in Pike Place Market by Starbucks. Today three of Marcus and Elizabeth’s descendants are baristas.

Sarah Parr writes Georgian Historical Romance Adventure for Kensington. Check out her debut, Renegade at www.SarahParr.com

Anne (a reader not the JQ) is the winner of Tera Lynn Childs’s books Oh. My. Gods. and Goodess Bootcamp!

Anne, email Tera at tlc@teralynnchilds.com with your mailing address and how you’d like the books signed. Congrats!

Last time I guest blogged for the Jaunties I talked about adapting historical romance novels into teen stories (and had a blast doing it, by the way). This time, since I’m here to celebrate the release of my second book, Goddess Boot Camp, I want to talk about the story after the story.

When I wrote Oh. My. Gods. (my—squee!—double-RITA-nominated first book) I was coming right out of the romance tradition. I grew up in RWA, so to speak. Oh. My. Gods. told the story of Phoebe Castro adjusting to her new life in Greece among the descendants of the Greek gods and a big part of that adjusting was snagging her own personal Greek god, Griffin. The girl got the boy. End of story, right? It was … until my editor asked for a sequel.

My first thought was, But Phoebe’s story is finished. She and Griffin are happily ever after. What else is there to say?

Apparently, a lot.

I’m a big fan of epilogues. I love to see little snippets of the hero and heroine’s lives after the story finishes. Partly because I want to see whether their relationship is going strong in the future and partly because I like getting one more peek at the characters I’ve fallen in love with. Writing a sequel is kind of like writing a book-length epilogue. Only with conflict and tension and things maybe not going as smoothly as you’d hope.

In the Oh. My. Gods. extended epilogue (aka Goddess Boot Camp), Phoebe and Griffin have some rocky romance hurdles to get through—like him spending a little too much time with his descendant-of-Aphrodite-head-cheerleader ex-girlfriend.

To make matters worse, Phoebe his having trouble (warning: Oh. My. Gods. spoiler) managing the godly superpowers that go along with learning that she’s a descendant of the goddess Nike. Her stepdad enrolls her in a summer training program so she can get control before the gods themselves decide to smote her for accidental misuse of powers. And that program just happens to be populated by ten-year-old girls, Phoebe’s evil harpy of a stepsister, and the aforementioned descendant-of-Aphrodite-head-cheerleader ex-girlfriend.

Throw in anonymous messages hinting at a mystery surrounding the death of Phoebe’s dad and trying to train for the Pythian Games, and suddenly Phoebe has a pretty tough summer ahead of her.

Clearly Phoebe’s story didn’t really end on the last page of Oh. My. Gods. The fact that so much could still happen after the happily ever after got me wondering about other literary happy endings. Is it really likely that Lizzie and Mr. Darcy, after despising each other for most of Pride and Prejudice, would really be on a life-long honeymoon after the wedding? Or will there still be moments when he acts like an arrogant jerk and she totally calls him on it? Probably.

And, admit it, you’d love to peek through the drapes as it happened.

What other literary happy endings do you think might be just the beginning? Share your idea of a juice after-story and one lucky commenter will get a copy of both the prologue (Oh. My. Gods.) and epilogue (Goddess Boot Camp) in this series.

While I certainly adore being a romance writer, I have to confess that there are times when the job can be stressful…facing deadlines, worrying that your new book isn’t as good as the last book, reading a negative review or two. It got me to thinking about some of the jobs that seem, well, blissful, so I hit good old Google and found a list of the least stressful jobs. It’s a subjective list, of course, so bear with me.

Forester. Quite. Does anyone actually know a forester? What do they do all day? When I picture it, I imagine a person in a Smokey the Bear hat, wandering around Yellowstone, gazing at the trees. Obviously, there’s a lot more involved, but I bet there’s a fair amount of tree-gazing, too.

Toolmaker. I know McIrish would probably have a ball doing this. Personally, I’d probably doze off and cut off my thumb, which would be pretty stressful…

Florist. I have my doubts about how stress-free this job would be, but the up side is all those flowers. When stressed, a person could just bury her nose in a bouquet of roses and not emerge till the blood pressure had come down.

Dog walker. I’d think the personality of dog/walker/owner would be key, but it sure looks like fun, especially to those of us who prefer canine company to human. Whenever I see a pack of dogs coming my way in NYC, the walker always seems quite cheery.

House sitter. Oh, definitely! I wouldn’t mind doing this for a summer in some fabulous house on the coast of Oregon or Washington. Anyone looking?

Janitor. As someone who relaxes as she vacuums (all the little problems, sucked right up!), I can relate to the bliss of being a janitor. The janitors in my schools (and my kids’ schools) seem to be among the happiest people I’ve ever met.

Fishing guide. Again, wicked fun…in theory. Until you encounter giant mosquitoes or realize that you’re most likely to catch fish before 5 a.m.

Mathematician. I don’t know a lot of mathematicians, but I’m guessing that they’re people who find the certainty and reliability of numbers soothing. I often say to my kids when they’re stumped on their math homework, “Relax. There’s an answer, and we’ll find it.” As the saying goes, the numbers don’t lie.

In case you’re wondering, there was also a list of the most stressful jobs. In the top ten on the list was my own dear husband’s profession — firefighter; also taxi driver; NFL football player; and surgeon. The number one most stressful job? President of the United States. Maybe when Mr. Obama leaves office, he’ll take up forestry.

Have you ever had a job that was a pleasure to go to, so relaxing that it hardly felt like work? What would you like to try someday?

 The winner of Thursday’s Mommy Bag contest is Kathryn. Congratulations!

Kathryn, email me privately at emilybmckay at gmail.com with your snail mail address and I’ll send you a copy of Tempted into the Tycoon’s Trap.