{"id":276,"date":"2008-07-31T08:16:01","date_gmt":"2008-07-31T13:16:01","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/\/?p=276"},"modified":"2008-07-31T08:16:01","modified_gmt":"2008-07-31T13:16:01","slug":"searching-for-spice-by-megan-dimaria","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/?p=276","title":{"rendered":"Searching for Spice by Megan Dimaria"},"content":{"rendered":"

<\/a>\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

It is time to play a Wild Card<\/span>!<\/strong> <\/span>Every now and then, a book that I have chosen to read is going to pop up as a FIRST Wild Card Tour<\/a>. Get dealt into the game! (Just click the button!) Wild Card Tours feature an author and his\/her book’s FIRST chapter!<\/p>\n

You never know when I might play a wild card on you!<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

Today’s Wild Card author is: <\/strong><\/div>\n
Megan DiMaria <\/a><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n

and her book:<\/strong><\/p>\n

Searching for Spice<\/a><\/span><\/strong><\/h2>\n

Tyndale House Publishers (March 5, 2008)<\/strong><\/p>\n

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:<\/h3>\n

\"\"<\/a>Megan DiMaria has fond memories of childhood trips to the public library where, amid the mural of Gulliver\u2019s Travels and stacks of books, she began a lifelong love of the written word.<\/p>\n

Searching for Spice is her debut novel. It was written as a response to a running joke she had with some girlfriends because despite being happily married, women still want romance in their lives. Her second novel, Out of Her Hands, will release in October 2008.<\/p>\n

Megan is a member of American Christian Fiction Writers, HIS Writers, and is assistant director of Words for the Journey Rocky Mountain Region. She received her B.A. degree in Communication from SUNY Plattsburgh. Megan has been a radio and television reporter, freelance writer, editor and marketing professional. She volunteers her talents to her church and local non-profit organizations and speaks to writer\u2019s and women\u2019s groups.<\/p>\n

Megan and her husband live in suburban Denver near their adult children. They often travel back to their roots in Long Island, NY to visit family and get their fill of delicious Italian food.<\/p>\n

Her next novel, Out of Her Hands<\/a>, goes on sale October 1, 2008.<\/p>\n

Visit the author’s website<\/a>.<\/p>\n

Product Details:<\/p>\n

List Price: $ 12.99<\/p>\n

Paperback: 384 pages<\/p>\n

Publisher: Tyndale House Publishers (March 5, 2008)<\/p>\n

Language: English<\/p>\n

ISBN-10: 1414318871<\/p>\n

ISBN-13: 978-1414318875<\/p>\n

AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER:<\/h3>\n

<\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>Chapter One<\/p>\n

Jerry looks at me as if my head has sprouted petunias. \u201cLinda, the half-and-half isn\u2019t cold.\u201d<\/p>\n

I regard him through bleary eyes and swallow a yawn. His silhouette appears soft and gauzy, framed by the daylight pouring through the kitchen window, glowing like a Thomas Kinkade painting. I should have given myself an extra dose of eyedrops when I got up this morning. Ever since my LASIK surgery, I\u2019ve applied a thick, Vaseline-like ointment to my dry eyes at night before dropping into bed. \u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n

He\u2019s standing in the middle of the kitchen, the questionable carton of half-and-half in one hand and a mug of steaming coffee in the other. His plaid robe hangs partway open, the belt loosely tied over wrinkled pajamas. A look of perplexity transforms his intelligent features into a caricature of a hapless sad sack. But truly nothing could be further from the truth. My husband is a PhD chemist. So who is this clueless schmo standing before me?<\/p>\n

Jerry raises the hand holding the half-and-half. \u201cWarm.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIs the refrigerator broken?\u201d I launch from my seat and open the door of our five-year-old GE side-by-side fridge that I just had to have and, by the way, got at a fabulous discount at the scratch-and-dent sale at Sears.<\/p>\n

The interior of the appliance is dark, the first clue that something is amiss. And come to think of it, the refrigerator\u2019s typical hum of electrical activity was absent from my morning symphony of appliances that serenades me while the coffee brews and the microwave heats my favorite tall latte mug.<\/p>\n

I peer inside. Oh, rats. Condensation coats the exterior of a large jar of dill pickles on the top shelf. I put my hand on a glass casserole dish to confirm my diagnosis. \u201cIt\u2019s not working.\u201d<\/p>\n

My dear husband is still rooted to the floor. Some people are dependent on that caffeine jolt to get them going in the morning, and he\u2019s their poster boy.<\/p>\n

\u201cPour some half-and-half in your coffee, Jer. It\u2019s probably okay.\u201d<\/p>\n

He follows my instructions and takes a seat at the table. \u201cWell, I don\u2019t think I could stomach warm milk with my shredded wheat.\u201d<\/p>\n

I open the freezer door and root around until I find the Sara Lee pound cake I was saving for the weekend. This cake would have been so delicious with some fresh strawberries and whipped cream. I console myself with the knowledge that I really don\u2019t need the extra calories; I\u2019m fluffy enough. That\u2019s the loving word the Revere family uses to refer to those dreaded unwanted pounds. As in, \u201cDon\u2019t you love to hug Grandma? She\u2019s so fluffy.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThis will have to do for breakfast. Can you run down to the basement and get the picnic cooler? Maybe we can salvage some of the frozen meat.\u201d<\/p>\n

Jerry takes a deep swig of his legal stimulant and disappears into the basement. While I pour my tea and set the table, I hear him muttering amid the noise of boxes being shifted across the cement floor.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s Dad doing?\u201d Emma stands at the top of the basement stairs, her ear cocked to the sounds coming from below. At fifteen she\u2019s still my little girl on some days, but on others I see the lovely young woman who\u2019s emerging from within.<\/p>\n

I fill her in on the morning\u2019s tragedy.<\/p>\n

She flips a strand of light brown hair behind her shoulder and saunters to the table. \u201cWhatever.\u201d<\/p>\n

Okay, so today I see that snotty teenage brat who\u2019s hijacked my little darling. Obviously she doesn\u2019t feel my pain and is clueless about the cost or inconvenience of a busted refrigerator. Ah, the bliss of youthful ignorance.<\/p>\n

Em picks up the knife and slices a piece of cake. \u201cNo juice?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHelp yourself.\u201d<\/p>\n

She pushes to her feet, grabs a glass, and opens the freezer to retrieve three measly ice cubes.<\/p>\n

Just as Jerry\u2019s emerging from the basement with the dusty cooler, our son, Nick, joins us, wearing a pair of green sweatpants and a faded T-shirt. His eyelids are at half-mast, and he has a bad case of bed head. Emma\u2019s only too happy to give him our news.<\/p>\n

I begin to load the picnic cooler with frozen meat and toss the few anorexic ice cubes left in the freezer on top of our chicken breasts, pork tenderloin, ground beef, and frozen vegetables. \u201cWell, this won\u2019t do the trick.\u201d Too bad it\u2019s springtime. Otherwise I could toss my food in the snow.<\/p>\n

No one responds to my comment, so I turn to my college-age son. \u201cNicky, would you please run to the store and get a bag of ice?\u201d<\/p>\n

He grimaces, but he\u2019s maturing nicely and agrees to drive the few blocks to the store to run my errand. Emma plops herself down in front of the computer, no doubt relieved for once that she doesn\u2019t have her driver\u2019s license yet.<\/p>\n

I paw through our junk drawer in the kitchen for the stack of business cards to find a repairman. Mechanic. Insurance agent. Day spa. Where did that come from? My nerves begin to dance like a cat on hot pavement. I don\u2019t have time for this. \u201cJer, who should I call?\u201d<\/p>\n

My honey squeezes my shoulder. Ah, marital solidarity. He walks toward the desk that sits between the kitchen and family room. \u201cEm, may I use the computer?\u201d<\/p>\n

She glares at him but silently gives up her seat. In a moment, Jerry has the telephone number of the Sears repairmen. He passes the scrap of paper to me. \u201cHere ya go.\u201d<\/p>\n

Great. So much for marital solidarity.<\/p>\n

I dial the number, navigate the menu, and plead my case to the dispatch associate. \u201cTwo o\u2019clock? Um, okay. Thanks. Someone will be here to let him in.\u201d I disconnect the call and secure the handset back on the base. \u201cJer? What\u2019s your schedule today?\u201d<\/p>\n

He grunts out a reply with his back toward me while he pours another mug of coffee.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n

He turns and takes a careful sip of the hot liquid. \u201cSorry. Faculty meeting. No can do.\u201d<\/p>\n

Anxiety builds in my chest. Swell. As usual, I\u2019m the one who has to make the appointment and alter my schedule to accommodate this fiasco.<\/p>\n

I\u2019m loading the breakfast plates into the dishwasher when Nick walks in bearing a twenty-pound bag of ice. He opens the back door, then drops the bag onto the brick patio.<\/p>\n

\u201cNick?\u201d<\/p>\n

He retrieves the bag of crushed ice and beams his killer grin\u2014the one that made my sensibilities melt nearly twenty-six years ago when his father favored me with the same endearing smile at a gas station off the Pennsylvania Turnpike.<\/p>\n

I have to confess it\u2019s as though Jer saw my heart soar toward the heavens in that moment and caught it in his hand. And that\u2019s where it\u2019s been ever since. I had run out of gas, and he was fueling his 1973 Volkswagen Karmann Ghia. Both Jerry and his cute little red car were about the best thing I\u2019d seen in forever. He offered to drive me and my gallon of gasoline to my stranded car, and the rest of the story, as they say, is history.<\/p>\n

The grandfather clock chimes from the living room, reminding me that I\u2019m behind schedule. Being late for work at Dream Photography is a major transgression. My stomach knots to think that not only will I be late, but I\u2019ll have to leave early too. A hive of angry bees bounces off the inside of my skull, clamoring to escape, and a deep sigh drains from the bottom of my lungs.<\/p>\n

\u201cMom?\u201d Nick lays his hand on my shoulder. He is so like his father, bless him. \u201cChill. It\u2019s only a refrigerator.\u201d<\/p>\n

He makes me smile in spite of my poor attitude. \u201cI know. It\u2019s just that I\u2019ll have to leave work early, and\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat time is the repairman coming?\u201d<\/p>\n

Praise God\u2014we must have done something right to deserve this child. \u201cTwo o\u2019clock. Will you be home from school?\u201d<\/p>\n

He shakes his head. \u201cSorry. I need to buy a book for my history class.\u201d<\/p>\n

Are you kidding me? My hands ball and land on my hips. \u201cCan\u2019t you buy the book another day?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI really need to get going on my term paper. It\u2019s due in three weeks.\u201d<\/p>\n

My anxiety level rises again. \u201cWon\u2019t the bookstore be open tomorrow?\u201d<\/p>\n

Nick rolls his eyes. \u201cI won\u2019t have time to stand in that line at the bookstore tomorrow.\u201d He pours the ice cubes onto the meat, ending our discussion.<\/p>\n

I toss the lid on the cooler and scurry upstairs to get ready for work. So what\u2019s our new family slogan? Every man for himself?<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

I walk into the organized chaos that is Dream Photography\u2014one of the best-known portrait studios in metro Denver. The ringing telephone provides nerve-jarring background noise for the pandemonium playing itself out.<\/p>\n

A well-groomed toddler makes serious work of tossing neatly arranged brochures onto the floor, while his mother wipes baby spit from her infant daughter\u2019s dress. Another client is tapping her foot and checking her wristwatch. Add to that the family being escorted to the lobby to schedule their image presentation\u2014aka sales session\u2014by none other than Luke Vidal, my surly boss.<\/p>\n

My tardiness is noted by Luke with a raised eyebrow and a brief tic of his head, one that goes unnoticed by our clients but hits pay dirt in my always-too-willing-to-accept-guilt gut. \u201cLinda, can you schedule an image presentation for the Murrays?\u201d<\/p>\n

Sure, Luke would have to enlist me to wait on clients before I get the chance to clock in and get my bearings. That must be my punishment for coming in late. I hurry behind the reception desk and smile at the Murray clan\u2014the ones who think Luke is the greatest thing since the invention of the daguerreotype.<\/p>\n

Luke pumps the outstretched hand of Andy Murray. \u201cThe shoot went well. I think you\u2019ll love the images.\u201d He gives a peppermint-sweet grin to the rest of the family and struts from the beautifully appointed lobby of his home away from home.<\/p>\n

I take care of business and trot to the break room to clock in and catch my breath.<\/p>\n

My coworker Traci looks up from a pile of five by sevens. \u201cHey, girl. Where have you been?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t ask.\u201d<\/p>\n

She puts down a print of a gorgeous bride and waits for the information she knows I\u2019ll spill. I unburden my tale of woe, and she nods and gives me the expected platitudes.<\/p>\n

She smiles her Pepsodent grin and pats me on the back. \u201cIsn\u2019t life grand?\u201d<\/p>\n

I really love Traci, but sometimes she can lay it on too thick. She passes me the day\u2019s schedule, then exits the room.<\/p>\n

I glance at the list of appointments. Rats. I better get moving. The bees have begun to swarm in my brain again.<\/p>\n

After grabbing the necessary client files and slipping into a salesroom, I power up my Mac and access the network. Within moments I\u2019ve loaded my client\u2019s images and have chosen an appropriately sentimental song to accompany the slide show. I turn on the projector and dim the lights. Clients go gaga over our well-designed salesrooms\u2014I mean, image presentation rooms. They look more like an elegant home theater than a place of business.<\/p>\n

I race back to the lobby, discover that my 9:30 sale has arrived, and paste a smile on my face. \u201cHeidi, Ken, it\u2019s good to see you again. If you don\u2019t remember, my name\u2019s Linda.\u201d<\/p>\n

They greet me, and I escort them to the salesroom, chatting them up to break the ice.<\/p>\n

The freshly baked cookies placed on the coffee table make my mouth water and hopefully put our well-heeled clients in the mood to take an emotional journey while gazing at the incredible images produced in our high-end studio.<\/p>\n

\u201cCan I get anyone a bottle of water before we begin?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, I would love some water.\u201d Heidi claims a seat in one of the overstuffed chairs. She looks toward her husband, who is inspecting the frame on one of the portraits that adorn the walls. \u201cKen?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh yes. Please.\u201d<\/p>\n

I excuse myself and go to the fridge to get some of our private-label water bottles. From the first moment our customers call to schedule their appointment and until they have their portraits delivered, they\u2019re treated like royalty. Fortunately, most of them deserve such treatment.<\/p>\n

Heidi and Ken are clients from way back. They\u2019ve been through everything with us, from the old days of film to the current high-tech, all-digital studio we\u2019ve evolved into.<\/p>\n

When I return, I distribute the water and start the viewing program. The swell of sentimental music explodes from the speakers in the ceiling, and images of two adorable little girls move across the big screen. They sit in a wicker swing under a towering oak tree in a field of tall, natural grasses. The lighting illuminates the canopy of green branches above them, while they are perfectly shaded from the bright morning sun. The girls are wearing off-white linen dresses and holding lovely vintage rag dolls. The camera changes perspective, and the girls are in the foreground, framed by the leaves from the branch of a nearby tree. In the next scene they\u2019re sitting at a small, white bistro table enjoying a tea party with a rose-patterned porcelain tea set and a teddy bear for a guest.<\/p>\n

The music plays on as the girls pose by an antique baby carriage. They both gaze off into the distance, their expressions a paragon of youthful innocence.<\/p>\n

I\u2019m so sick of these types of saccharine images, I could puke. But day after day, they provide the all-natural, nitrate-free bacon I bring home to my family.<\/p>\n

Heidi sniffs and reaches for the box of tissues that sits on the table. The last image fades from the screen, and the music stops. Heidi grasps for her husband\u2019s hand. He nods and smiles.<\/p>\n

I hand a price list to Ken, and we get down to business.<\/p>\n

Heidi appears to suffer heart-wrenching torment as we narrow the number of images down from thirty-nine to fifteen. You\u2019d think I\u2019m dishonoring her cute little daughters by deleting some, but unless you\u2019ve got a huge bank account, you can\u2019t buy them all.<\/p>\n

She clutches a hand to her heart, and her husband says, \u201cI love that expression on Olyvia\u2019s face.\u201d<\/p>\n

I slip into sales mode. \u201cThat image is gorgeous, but look at the subjects. Your girls are beautiful.\u201d<\/p>\n

They smile in agreement. We continue to weed through the images to find their favorites. I\u2019m getting dizzy from comparing similar poses and going back and forth while Heidi hems and haws about the merits of each picture.<\/p>\n

\u201cAh, can you pull up number twenty-two?\u201d<\/p>\n

I maneuver the program to display an image of the girls sitting at the bistro table.<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd can you compare it to number twenty-four?\u201d<\/p>\n

Could this woman say please just once? Would it kill her to treat me with a modicum of respect?<\/p>\n

She turns to her husband. \u201cWhat do you think?\u201d<\/p>\n

Poor Ken looks as though he\u2019s pulling himself out of a stupor to respond. \u201cUh, I don\u2019t like the way Trynity\u2019s hand is curled on the table.\u201d<\/p>\n

Heidi stands and moves closer to the screen. \u201cReally? I think that\u2019s cute.\u201d<\/p>\n

He sighs. \u201cOkay, keep that one.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut Olyvia isn\u2019t looking in the right direction.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHeidi, sit down so I can see the screen.\u201d<\/p>\n

She flashes him a look that could take the merry out of Christmas. Uh-oh. This isn\u2019t good.<\/p>\n

I clear my throat and try to maneuver the sale in the right direction. \u201cWhat if we take Olyvia\u2019s head from image twenty-five and put it on this image?\u201d<\/p>\n

They both study the pictures that I put side by side on the screen.<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd, Ken, didn\u2019t you say you love that expression on Olyvia\u2019s face?\u201d<\/p>\n

He jerks in my direction, and I don\u2019t know if he\u2019s pleased that I\u2019m asking for his input or annoyed. \u201cWhat will this cost?\u201d<\/p>\n

Oh, so that\u2019s the way we\u2019re going to be, huh, Ken? \u201cWell, there will be an extra art fee to swap out that head, but if you both love the images and you\u2019re purchasing a wall portrait, it\u2019s well worth the charge.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHow much?\u201d Ken insists.<\/p>\n

Heidi shifts in her seat. \u201cOh, it will be perfect. We could hang it in the dining room across from the china cabinet.\u201d<\/p>\n

That Heidi, she\u2019s my kind of gal. Press on, full steam ahead.<\/p>\n

\u201cHow much will it cost?\u201d<\/p>\n

I wave my hand to minimize the bombshell. \u201cOh, only about fifty dollars.\u201d<\/p>\n

If the room were brighter, I\u2019m sure I\u2019d see steam floating from his ears. \u201cCan you show us what that would look like?\u201d<\/p>\n

I don\u2019t know why he\u2019s giving me a hard time. He\u2019s bought images with head swaps from us before. \u201cSure, this is down and dirty, but it will give you an idea.\u201d My artistry is crude at best, but I do a quick swap. \u201cOf course our imaging artists will make it look 100 percent natural. No one will know this isn\u2019t the original image.\u201d<\/p>\n

Ken leans back in his chair, a movement I take for acceptance.<\/p>\n

I go in for the close. \u201cNow what size portrait were you thinking of?\u201d<\/p>\n

Heidi clasps her hands. \u201cMaybe a sixteen by twenty.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay. What size is the wall it\u2019s going on?\u201d<\/p>\n

She looks confused, as if I\u2019m speaking in Mandarin.<\/p>\n

I stand and pick up a twenty-by-twenty-four-inch frame that holds a white piece of foam core. \u201cLet\u2019s look at this size, and tell me what you think.\u201d I step into the middle of the room and center the image on the blank canvas.<\/p>\n

They respond with the usual sigh of desire.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou may even want to see the next size up.\u201d No sense in not trying.<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay, let\u2019s see . . .\u201d<\/p>\n

Cha-ching. Looks like I\u2019m well on my way to exceeding my weekly goal. By the time they\u2019re ready to leave, I can tell Heidi wants nothing more than to go home and hug her little darlings. For the amount of money I collected from their mom and dad, I want to hug the girls too.<\/p>\n

If only the rest of my day goes as well. After the refrigerator crisis, I could use a break.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

It is time to play a Wild Card! Every now and then, a book that I have chosen to read is going to pop up as a FIRST Wild Card Tour. Get dealt into the game! (Just click the button!) Wild Card Tours feature an author and his\/her book’s FIRST chapter! You never know when […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[8],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-276","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-books"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/276","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=276"}],"version-history":[{"count":5,"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/276\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":283,"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/276\/revisions\/283"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=276"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=276"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=276"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}