maggiedove.net

 She walks on a lonely city sidewalk. It is five o’clock in the morning on a cold and windy day. The streets and sidewalks have been recently washed; they glow with the reflection of the city lights. She hears the sounds of a city rapidly waking up. There is a smell of freshly perked coffee in the air. A truck from the Sanitation Department passes by collecting garbage. Several men arrange the morning newspapers on the corner stands. Her bent and crooked form prevents her from walking too fast. Her lingering steps slowly take her to her destination—a magnificent and grand hotel. She walks with a mixture of resignation and excitement. Will they turn her away?

Her arthritic form finally arrives at the hotel. She evades the exasperated looks from the morning porter at the entrance. He has seen her many times in the past. His forehead cringes as he debates whether to throw her out once again. She smiles at him and his heart seems to warm for an instant. He pretends that he has not seen her and lets her go by.

Entering the lobby, she immediately looks up to the ceiling. She loves the hotel chandelier and stares at the thousands of tiny crystals glistening like flames. The lobby is furnished with beautiful antique furniture, shiny gold-rimmed mirrors, and a plush red and gold carpet. Freshly arranged flowers grace the exquisite rosewood coffee tables. A grand marbled staircase leads up to the mezzanine. The lobby is deserted at this time except for the front desk clerk, busy sorting out the new arrivals. She listens to the shuffling of reservation cards and sways to the soothing music as she finally enters her haven.

Decorated with a pink floral print, a lovely green carpet, a radiant gold oval-shaped mirror, the ladies room never fails to amaze her. The washbowls are made of shiny white marble adorned with sparkling brass faucets. Searching through her bag of treasures, she begins her awkward routine. She rubs her old, bristled toothbrush against a brand new bar of soap and proceeds to brush her teeth. She clumsily grabs one of her most valued possessions: an Avon make-up kit that she found two years ago. Carefully scraping the dried-out rouge from the container, she makes an effort to rub it on to her wrinkled lips and cheeks. She uses worn-out eyeliner to make exaggerated very dark eyebrows over her creased and tired eyes and appraises her image in the mirror. Smiling with proud satisfaction, she does not see an odd, disheveled appearance. Instead, her white dirty hair appears golden and silky. She feels young and carefree, if only for an instant as she sees past her scrubby black coat, her soiled black dress, her smelly gray socks, and her hole-infested Throw Mama From The Train brown hefty shoes.

“Mrs. Alvarez…Mrs. Ramona Alvarez!”

Ramona Alvarez hears the receptionist call her name from across the room and is instantly brought out of her reverie. She rises and walks to the reception desk as the smiling receptionist returns her insurance card and hands her a form to sign.

“You seemed preoccupied earlier. Deep in thought,” the young girl comments behind the counter. “Please sign below.”

“Yes, I was plotting my next story. It is about a bag lady. No one loves her. Her daughter deserted her,” Ramona replies as her shaky fingers sign on the line indicated. “I’ve written many novels you know. Usually I write romances, caliente romances, but this time I was thinking of writing a drama.”

Ramona notices the slight twitch of laughter and the incredulous look on the receptionist’s face. The girl seems taken aback for a second, probably thinking that Ramona is off her rocker, not believing that a little old lady of eighty-six, who has buried three husbands and has one foot in the grave, can actually think about romance much less write hot ones.

She is dying for the receptionist to ask her about the books she wrote under the nom de plume of Rosalinda Beauvoir, but the foolish girl is too occupied with incoming calls, paperwork, and lack of interest. Oh rudeness—thy name is an office receptionist!

Quickly dismissing her, the girl turns to her computer and calls out another patient’s name. Next time, Ramona will bring proof, she vows silently. She has plenty of paperbacks at home. Maybe her much acclaimed Besos de Amor Trilogy consisting of Amor Dulce, Amor Ardiente, and Amor Sensual, all translated into English as Mornings Of Lust, Afternoons Of Love and Nights Of Desire, will teach this discourteous pup a thing or two!

Ramona reclaims her seat which she had stacked with a variety of old shopping bags holding her essentials—essentials that one needs in order to keep entertained in a doctor’s waiting room.

Opening up her Sears & Roebuck shopping bag, she takes out her sweater and her Hola magazine. She does not appreciate the boring reading material in Dr. Blanco’s office and always comes prepared. Turning the pages of the magazine, Ramona enjoys the photographs of the King and Queen of Spain as she tries not to think of her own family.

This morning was a bad one. She argued with her middle-aged daughter once again about her weekly doctor visits. Poor Angela! She belonged to the “The Sandwich Generation”—sandwiched between the elderly and the problems of her grown-up children. Ramona knows that her daughter is a busy woman. She works real estate and has grandchildren to take care of. Her only daughter doesn’t have the time to waste sitting hours in a doctor’s office—especially when Ramona is in perfect health. Angela dropped her off and will pick her up in three hours. Three hours! Si, this is the usual time that it takes Dr. Blanco to see her.

Turning to the elderly couple sitting beside her, Ramona exclaims, “I think that there is abuse of Medicare in this office! Since the government pays for it…this Dr. Blanco wants to see me once a month to check my heart. I have so many doctors I can’t count. Dr. Blanco for the heart, Dr. Ruiz for the bones, Dr. Aragon for the skin. And I have nothing! I have buried two husbands…no…three husbands…I forgot about Reynaldo and I am in perfect health.”

Putting aside her Hola, Ramona searches through another bag and finds the large, three-window, wooden picture frame holding the pictures of her late husbands. “The glass broke. I’m hoping my daughter, Angela, takes me later to the frame shop to get it fixed. No doubt she will get exasperated, but what are daughters for?”

“Three husbands?” the woman sitting beside her asks with distaste as she unwraps a guava pastry from a brown paper bag and takes a bite. She turns to the decrepit man at her side. “You want one, Manuel?”

“No, Estela. You know the doctor say this is bad for us.”

“Que nonsense,” Estela scoffs. “You only live once.”

Manuel coughs. “I have been married for sixty years to this woman. I could never walk down the aisle with anyone else. Never again. One marriage is enough suffering for one lifetime.”

“Manuel, portate bien!” Estela objects. “Behave yourself! What will our doctor’s office friends think? Remember, we have to see them once a month.” She opens another brown paper bag and takes out a large foam container and begins to pour hot coffee into tiny plastic cups. “Does anyone want Café Cubano? It is still hot.”

A fat old woman sitting across the room put down her magazine and walks over to them. Taking the miniature cup, she gulps it down with one swig. “My husband was a saint. He could never be replaced. Never again.”

Ramona laughs. Returning the broken frame to her bag, she searches through another, smaller bag and finds her tuna sandwich. “Si, never again,” she says, taking a few bites.

“The sandwich looks good,” Manuel says in a flirtatious tone. “Delicious like the lovely woman who bites it.”

“Manuel!” Estela huffs.

“Don’t worry, Estela,” Ramona says between bites. “There are many still who want to court me, but I no longer have the strength or the appetite to engage. I have croquettas. Is anyone interested? My friend at La Carreta Restaurante told me they are chicken. I love the chicken ones. The ham ones are bad for my stomach.”

A dapper white-haired gentleman enters the office and walks to the reception area. Ramona quickly puts the food away. How distinguished—how handsome! Must be in his late eighties like myself, she thinks. She breaths lightly between her parted lips as she tries to discreetly change her Throw Mama From The Train bulky shoes for her dainty, white slippers, which she brought in an elegant Ann Taylor shopping bag. They’ll have to do.

The man sits across from her and she shifts positions, pretending to pick up some nondescript article from the floor, all the while, her keen eyes checking him out.

Que bueno! She happily thinks as she reclines against her chair. He is not wearing a wedding ring. Smiling coquettishly at him, she adjusts her skirts over her knees, glad that La Divorcida—that saucy divorcée, Violeta Gomez, is not here today to steal her man.

“Mr. Bustamante—Pedro. You left your keys on the counter,” the receptionist called out and the handsome man stood to retrieve them.

Mr. Pedro Bustamante! Ramona knew that he looked familiar. She had not seen him in years. Pedro, wonderful, Pedro—that hot third grader she’d had a crush on when she attended the Ave Maria School in Pinal Del Rios way back when in Cuba!

“Pedro,” she purrs. “Do you not remember me? Ramona from the Ave Maria School? You used to pull my pigtails, you Diablo!”

The man of her dreams smiles back at her. “Señora, I am sorry, but I don’t recall.”

“Ramona Alvarez,” the receptionist calls out her name. “Dr. Blanco will see you in Room Two.”

Not Ramona Alvarez! Mrs. Bustamante to you, little fool! Ramona corrects silently as her heart skips a beat. “You will be here when I get out, Pedro. Let’s have lunch. We will catch up then. Are you married?”

Before Pedro can answer, the receptionist calls her name again and she stands to go. “Lunch it is. I’m starved,” she lies, to the disbelief of all the others in the room who saw her wolf down her tuna sandwich.

“Si, Ramona. I remember now. We go to Versailles Restaurante to reminisce.”

Estela gushes. “He is not married. He wears no wedding ring. Hurry, I will keep a vigil on your bags while you are in with the doctor.”

Smiling slyly, Ramona passes the receptionist desk and enters Room Two with the nurse. Quickly undressing, she puts on a white, paper robe as she waits for Dr. Blanco to enter the compartment. Sitting on top of the leather examining couch, she feels cold, very cold. No matter! She hopes that her bags are safe with Estela and that the doctor will give her a clean bill of health. She is going to need it. After lunch with Pedro, Angela will take her to the photo frame store. She will not bother to fix her frame. Instead she will pick out a new one with four windows instead of three.

It was never too late for love!

I have just been given The Best Liar Award. Per the rules, I will:

1: Thank the person who gave you the award and link to them.

2: Add the award to your blog.

3: Tell six outrageous lies about yourself and One Truth.

4: Nominate six creative liars... I mean writers and post links to them.

5: Let your nominees know that they have been nominated.

Okay. First, Thanks to Cate Masters!

The award appears on my blog.

Next, the seven statements, one of which is truthful. If you think you know which is the truth, leave a comment. If any guess correctly, I'll give a pdf copy of Angel of Windword.

1. I speak fluent German.

2. I trained tigers in the circus.

3. I spent a year in Romania.

4. I went out with Warren Beatty.

5. I shared a two-stall, tiny bathroom with Lauren Bacall and Lily Tomlin.

6. I recorded a song.

7. I worked as a makeup artist in California.

Ahem. The dubious distinction, I mean honor, I now pass along to:

M.C. Halliday

Tabitha Shay 

Angela Daniels

J.A. Saare

Trent Kinsey

Mary Corales

Congrats guys! As Cate noted, these awards may make for an extra workload, but anything we do to get our name out on search engines helps promote our work. And like the commercial says, we're worth it!

FOR THOSE WHO ARE WONDERING, #5 --  I  SHARED A TWO-STALL, TINY  BATHROOM WITH LAUREN BACALL AND LILY TOMLIN IS THE ONLY TRUE COMMENT ON THE LIST!

Dirty Laundry & New Beginnings, My Life As A Marine Corps. Wife

by Maggie Dove

     In the spring of 1981, my husband, a Captain in the Marine Corps, decided to leave the Marines to practice law in Florida. We met soon afterwards on a blind date in June and married six months later. During our first year of marriage, we lived in a condo by the beach and he worked as a lawyer for the State Attorney’s office. I was a very happy newlywed living in the same town that I had grown up in surrounded by family and friends.

     Eight months into our marriage, my husband received a letter from The United States Marine Corps., offering him the opportunity to come back for three years of active duty to practice law and live in the base at Quantico, Virginia. My husband told me that he missed the Marine Corps., and that he would love to return to service. I was horrified. I pictured myself as Private Benjamin, leaving my beautiful loft apartment near the beach and trading it in, as well as my family and friends, for a marine barracks in the cold with strangers.

     I really did not want to go, but my husband uttered the magic words. “Everything is paid for…you don’t have to work.” I had been working for ten straight years in a beautiful Florida hotel and was a bit exhausted. The idea of becoming a stay home wife was a very convincing notion. I was even looking forward to watching soaps and having coffee with newfound friends ala 1950’s sitcoms where housewives were just that and Lucy and Ethel had nothing better to do than relax and think up ways to drive their husbands nuts! I longed for peace and quiet. Without further hesitation, I packed my bags and three months later, we said goodbye to our loved ones and headed off for Quantico, Virginia.

     It took about 2 days for me to fall completely in love with the base. My “barracks” was a beautiful 3 story brownstone with French doors and polished wooden floors located on the top of a gorgeous hill near the General’s quarters and the Officer’s Club. The building, surrounded by luscious woods, was part of a group of redbrick brownstones called the Letter Apartments. Each building consisted of 3 floors occupied by 6 couples (2 couples to a floor.) My husband and I lived on the first floor. My building was Building A. I spoke with my mother-in-law my first week at Quantico and she asked me how I was doing my laundry. I told her that my husband was right and that everything on the base was, indeed, free! Apart from food and clothing, there were no bills to pay. Unlike my apartment in Florida where coins were needed to use the machines in the laundry room, I was thrilled to tell her that the basement of my Quantico brownstone was filled with washers and dryers and it did not cost a penny to do laundry.

     After living in Quantico for two months, Building A had its first “Building Good Neighbor’s Meeting.” My husband and I were invited for coffee and doughnuts at our neighbors’ apartment upstairs where we discussed pertinent issues and the distribution of duties such as the raking of the leaves, shoveling snow, cleaning the stairwells, etc. Everything was going well until I decided to be a “good neighbor” and ask very politely about the protocol for doing laundry. Raising my hand, I said, “I hope that you all don’t mind, but I really do not have all day and when I go down to the basement, I find that you have taken all the machines. Sometimes I have to go down more than once to check and see if you have finished your laundry. Some of you leave the clothes in there all day. Again, I hope that you don’t mind, but I find myself having to take your clothes out (sometimes wet) so that I can use the machines.” I left out that this was taking time out of my soap opera watching and that, although, I actually did have all day to do laundry, I thought this was extremely rude and discourteous of them!

     The couples stared at me funny and looked amongst themselves as though they did not comprehend a word I had said. “Are you talking about the laundry machines in the basement?” asked a neighbor. Smiling politely, I repeated, “Yes. I hope that you don’t mind but since you leave your clothes in the machines all day long, I find myself having to remove them in order to do my laundry.”

     Judy, who later became my best friend on base, finally spoke. “Maggie, we own our machines, but you are more than welcome to use them.”

     “Yes,” they all agreed. “Use them whenever and for as long as you need.”

Those were the most embarrassing 2 seconds of my life, sitting on the sofa with all eyes on me…the fool who, for two whole months, had been using their washers and dryers, taking their clothes out to use the machines, and on top of that having the nerve to complain to them that they were taking too long to do laundry!

     Needless to say, the very next day, my mortified husband and I paid a visit to the appliance department at Sears! My three years at Quantico were one of the most enjoyable of my life. I met so many friends and to this date, I keep in contact with them. We laugh recalling the many zany episodes I shared with them as a Marine Corps. wife. Lucille Ball could have taken pointers!

     I remember the night when I was taking a writing class on base and I got snowed in and had to abandon my car at the school. I slid down a huge hill, and, to my husband’s horror, four hours later came home with the military police! And the day when I went to visit a friend (next door) and while watching a movie, there was an ice storm. Living in Florida, I had no idea how to handle the Quantico weather. It was 11 o’clock at night and I couldn’t get home because I kept slipping on the pavement. Kneeling on all fours, I crawled back to my neighbor’s house and I called my husband and told him that I had to stay at my neighbor’s for the night because I had tried and tried, but there was no way I could make it home. I didn’t want to fall and crack my scull. Ten minutes later, my husband (dressed in a coat that hid his pajamas) had to come drag me home…by taking my hand and simply walking me from the pavement on to the grass…which was right there! There was also the time when instead of walking to the Officers’ Club three buildings away, I forced my husband to take me in our car because there was also a lot of ice. After he parked the car, it slid down the hill! And there was the time….

Maggie Dove

&

   I was born in Cuba in 1954, five years before Fidel Castro's communist regime took over the island. In 1960, my family was forced to flee to the United States. Although I was brought up in Miami, it took me twenty years and a trip to Spain to realize that I was a "true American." During the first year of exile, my family lived in a vacation-like atmosphere. All of us believed that we would be returning to Cuba in a matter of months. We were certain that communism would not be allowed to exist only ninety miles from the United States. However, after the Bay Of Pigs invasion, we knew that we were here to stay.

     When I was growing up, I was welcomed and treated as an equal by all of my American friends. I was raised on hamburgers and rice and beans. I spoke Spanish at home and English in school. I memorized the Star Spangled Banner and learned all about the Mayflower. I dressed up for Halloween and celebrated Thanksgiving. I even became a U.S. citizen; however when someone asked about my nationality, I always answered "Cuban."

     In 1974, on my twentieth birthday, my sister and brother-in-law invited me to spend a year with them in Spain. My brother-in-law was the manager of an American company in Madrid. They had been living there for two years. I was thrilled. I would never return to Cuba, but here was my opportunity to see the land from where my ancestors had come. I decided not to spend my time studying in Spain. I wanted to travel all over the country and learn about its people. I spent time in San Sebastian and Barcelona. I went to Marbella during the summer and visited Pamplona (the town that Ernest Hemingway wrote about in The Sun Also Rises).I saw dozens of bullfights and enjoyed clapping the beat to the flamenco dances. I went to El Greco's home in Toledo, the El prado museum in Madrid and beautiful Aranquez. I was amazed by the Escorial, the exquisite monastery and palace built by Phillip II.

          I realized the differences between the United States and Spain. In the United States, a person is judged by what one accomplishes and is respected for one's merits. In 1974, a person in Spain was judged by whether or not they carried a title.

During my last month in Spain, I had a very enlightening experience. I was late for a luncheon appointment and decided to take a taxicab to save time. The driver, noticing my Cuban-American accent, asked me where I was from. I told him that I came from the United States. "Oh, the imperialistic U.S.A.," he said flatly.

     It took me awhile to answer him. I was so furious that I could not see straight. How dare this man insult my country? How ignorant of him to say such a thing!

I had never felt more American in my life. I looked at him and said, "Yes, how about those Yankees? How imperialistic of them to provide food and help to many countries that cannot appreciate it and are ungrateful enough to resent it!"

He immediately apologized and I was actually grateful to him. For the first time in my life, I knew who I was. I was a Spanish-speaking, Cuban-born, American-Yankee! A month later when I arrived at Miami International Airport, I knew I was really home.

     It has been many years since my eventful trip to Spain. I know that there is a part of me that will always remain Cuban. It is a part that I hold very dear. It consists of my Spanish upbringing, my passion for "arroz con pollo," and my parents' memories of their stolen paradise. However, I also love pizza, burritos, bagels, sweet and sour pork and frankfurters. It is wonderful to live in a country where one can eat all this and still think one is consuming and American meal!

     (I have returned to Spain since and have found it to be a much more open and congenial society than the one I encountered in 1974.)

My historical romance with a mystery - released by Eternal Press on October 7th, 2009!

Today, I feel as though I've just won the Oscars and I am standing in front of a room full of beautiful people, but instead of holding the little statue of the much-coveted, bald, golden man! I'm proudly holding a copy of my novel, ANGEL OF WINDWORD, in my hand.

This is wonderful! The best part is that I can speak all I want and not have the sound of music interrupting me in the background when they feel I've been talking too long. Also, here in cyber space, Kanye West is not around to interrupt me! And Joan Rivers and her daughter are not ruining my evening with their snide remarks about my appearance. Not that I have to worry.

Ofcourse, I look marvelous darling in my Carolina Herrera gown and having lost those stubborn 20 pounds which I've been trying to lose for the past 10 years, I've never looked better. After I thank my grandmother, who is now in Heaven and was an avid reader of romance, my mother, my sisters, my brother, my brothers-in-law, my nieces, my cousins, my friends, my two invaluable critique partners, Diana Flori and Vicky Cocco, and dedicate the night to my husband and two children, who are sitting in the crowd and staring at me with wonder and love in their eyes, I acknowledge the presence of my wonderful colleagues, who are sharing the spotlight today: Mary Corrales, Roxanne Rhoads, Teel James Glenn, Shelley Dayton, Graeme S. Houston, Heather Kuehl and A.J. Ryan!

After much applause, I continue, "I want to thank the authors and readers of Eternal Press, the loveliest people I've ever encountered. I feel proud to be amongst you guys! I would like to thank Ally Robertson for making all this possible. I would like to thank Candace Clayton for being such a great mediator; Dianna Rubino for being such a great editor; Adrienne Morris, the wonderful copyeditor, for all her hard work on Angel of Windword, and  Sheryl for all of her promotional work on my behalf! I would especially like to thank Amanda Kelsey for the most beautiful cover art I've ever seen! I couldn't be happier with my cover. Last but certainly not least, I would like to thank Lisa Logan. Lisa, I'll be eternally grateful to you for making me a published author!

After enjoying the standing ovation, I walk away with Sean Connery. (This may date me a little, but I still think that he is the sexiest man alive!)

Maggie Dove

www.maggiedove.net

E-book available at www.eternalpress.ca

Paperback available at www.amazon.com

              Writing, CALL ME DUCHESS, the second book of the WINDWORD TRILOGY, is proving to be just as exciting as when I wrote my first book. I feel that one's books are like one's children. I never thought that I would love another book as much as I loved ANGEL OF WINDWORD...my first baby, but guess what, CALL ME DUCHESS, my middle child, is just as lovable to me! Hopefully, it will be finished by December, 2009. My third child, THE ENGLISH MARQUESSA, is still in gestation! 

               I have a wonderful critique group. It consists of two highschool friends of mine. We really enjoy our meetings and they are invaluable to me. I started my first romance novel, ANGEL OF WINDWORD, as a dare. My friend, Diana Flori, also a writer, dared me to write one and so I did. Diana saw how excited I was while writing my book, and jumped on the bandwagon...she wrote one too.

               I was busy raising my children, so I put it away for many years. Did not have the time to deal with submissions and rejections. I took it out last year, revamped it and I am getting it published! Diana did the same thing and is now waiting to get  hers published. I'm sure that she will, too. Her book, THE THORN AT HIS SIDE is wonderful. She writes about Key West in the 1870's. She is now writing her second novel, THE HOMECOMING, with many of the lovable characters from Thorn! It is a blast to read!

               The other friend in my critique group is Vicky Cocco, who has published four books under the name of Victoria Marquez, and is now writing, GRILL ME BABY, a hot, spicy story of two delicious cooks in competition for a television show!

              Thanks girls, I wouldn't have been able to do it without you...and if by any chance I would have been able to write these books without the two of you....it wouldn't have been so fun!