After my
usual restless night of sleep (caused by trite dings of growing older), I dare
myself to rise and meet the morning sunlight with a more invigorating outlook.
Combing my hair enough to accept my presence in my mirror, followed by the
designated time given for a clean handwash, I enter my kitchen. Time for
breakfast! And I am a happy camper, once again. Because…you ask? Because
breakfast is my favorite meal! It is a meal which can be enjoyed alone, and one
I never miss! Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, after all!
However, recently my endearment to breakfast
has gone beyond fuel for the body; it has become fuel for the soul. Let me
explain further:
Breakfast
begins when I grind the coffee beans and then drift into the aroma of that
first cup;…when the sunny-side-up eggs cook in my greaseless pan and I add the selected
cheeses or favorite garden vegetables to it;…when I slice the weekly farmer
market’s fruits, and then arrange them in colorful patterns on my plate. And
when all is ready, I eloquently drape my paper napkin across my lap and dive into
my wonderful breakfast, the food for the body and soul. Such scenarios were actually
constructed during decades of morning commutes to my job when I had little
preparation time for breakfast. Throughout those years, breakfast was wolfing down
still frozen gobbledygook or parched poppycock bars in my car. (Certainly not
good for digestion, or legal, for that matter, but justifiable enough to get me
through to lunchtime.)
I have
finally made it to retirement. One wonders how I did on such a notorious
breakfast diet throughout the years. Now I have time to prepare that healthy,
substantial meal and in a sitting position to allow better digestion. It has
also become a time not to just eat wiser, but a time to reflect more like a
sage rather than an extension of my stomach. It is now a time to give food more
thought.
The word
“homeless” is no longer a word heard casually on a news broadcast, or read impersonally
in the newspaper, or quickly scanned over on the Internet. Homelessness has a
face. Unfortunately, it has become a face, unresolved. Causes seem to be
determined in a revolving spin of blame.
I often have
heard…“Who is to blame?” Government bureaucracy? Deterioration of family?
Religious apathy? Uncontrollable Immigration? Personal Neglect? Bad luck? Whatever
the grounds, homelessness has become a face of hunger. And, nourishment
resolved in morsels. So, perhaps a more pertinent question should be, “Who is
my brother’s keeper?”
At a
local charitable organization, I had watched how breakfast was served to
individuals who came for the food, but left with other sustenance, as well.
There was a cup of juice, a heaping ladle of eggs, thoughtfully prepared for
taste with seasoning, cheese, and meat, fresh bagels, and of course strong coffee,
and even soup, imagine, a breakfast soup! Of course, a sweet treat finished the
meal, donuts, not just plain ones but those of a fancy variety. The breakfast
was dispersed in an orderly fashion, from a volunteer with a smile, a good
morning salutation, sometimes a small word or two, perhaps the only words to be
spoken to them for the rest of the day. Some who came were familiar, and names
remembered, some remained unknown; all were welcomed. Even those who seemed to
be wrestling with inner turmoil, confused, or even unruly, were guided to have
something to eat by compassionate handlers who drew in closer, conveying that
no one need be alone with their troubles. The nourishment given by this
organization came in the morsels of dignity from one human to another.
Yes,
breakfast is still my favorite meal. Fortunately, it has become a meal which no
longer need be enjoyed alone.
Karen Stary
Genre: contemporary fiction
Publisher: Can’t Put it Down Books
Date of Publication: May 15, 2019
ISBN: 978-0-9994623-4-8
ASIN: B07PMDPJ37
Number of pages: 278
Word Count: 127,455
Cover Artist: Eric Labacz
Book Description:
A mercenary, a gambler, and a warlord are drawn together for a high stakes poker game. The trophy: a woman, Christine. They are men of unquestionable wealth, indomitable power, and overwhelming guilt; each is enchanted by Christine’s alluring beauty and each relentlessly desires to have her for himself.
Life has left Christine unable to form meaningful emotional relationships. However, without the ability to appeal emotionally to her male captors she is not only jeopardizing her own fate, but also the fate of other women as well. Alone, with only the three men who have come to mean so much to her, Christine must use not only her wits but her compassion to extricate herself. Will she become one man’s prized possession, or can she regain her sense of self?
Stary’s complex plot keeps the reader guessing as she explores some of today’s most controversial issues for women.
Excerpt
He clears his
throat again. I look up. His head gives a slight tilt as if to suggest, “Why
not?” His eyes squint, inviting me to have faith in the unknown. Charmed by the
smile in those eyes, I relax and take a sip of coffee. He speaks. “So…let me,
at least, introduce myself…my name is Cameron Dawson…and your name is…?” His
pause leaves the question dangling over a precipice of foreboding. I retrieve
the answer before I plummet.
“Christine…Christine
Ledge.”
“Now, that
wasn’t so difficult, was it?”
He seems to know
me too well. I cannot release the shadow of familiarity about this Mr. Dawson.
I had this same sensation the moment I first pressed against his arm at the
concert. I had ignored that feeling because I had thought that I probably would
never see him again. But like a relentless itch, it is a thought that aches to
be scratched. So, I take a breath and scratch.
“Have we met
before?”
“Last night at
the concert and then later in the hall!” a bit too quick and a bit too tidy. I
am not satisfied.
“No, before last
night. I feel that we had met before last night.”
No response. He
sips his coffee. I sip my coffee and allow its warmth to appease his
evasiveness. Obviously, I had just trespassed over some line. Because there is
no need to ruin this moment, I allow his hesitancy to pass. After a moment he
stirs in his seat.
“Did you enjoy
the concert?” It is obvious that he wants to change the subject. But, I am a
female. And his abrupt shifting is troubling. I disconnect from my unfounded
hunches.
“Oh, the
concert…well…yes…of course, I enjoyed the concert.”
Last night’s
images block any coherent reply. Fractured conversations interfere…caressing
words serenaded by the music opened wounds as I recall pressing up against him.
And so, I stare at him now and think about how it would be to lie naked next to
this man, to physically be touched by him. I harangue myself over my intimate
urges. I flip my head back trying to shake off the irrational desire. However,
I cannot let go of last night’s encounter between this Mr. Dawson and some young
man in a questionable financial exchange to obtain the seat next to mine.
Suddenly, I am wary of how much I should trust this man seated across from me.
Watching me carefully, he tilts his head as if
to pardon any past indiscretions. He seems able to read my misgivings. This
veil of deception must dissipate to have more clarity. And for that to happen,
I must be more forthright, too.
“No, Mr. Dawson,
to be quite frank, I did not enjoy the concert last night. I really struggled
to sit through it.” Then to continue this openness, “Was that obvious?”
“I did sense you
were a bit uncomfortable.” His polite delivery seems sincere enough.
Trying to inject
some humor to lift the heavy tone: “You mean since each time I banged into your
arm, you got a new ‘black and blue’?”
“Actually, I
rather liked the banging in spite of all those black and blues.”
“You did, did
you?” There is a pause; I am more comfortable with this exchange. “I’m really
sorry; I didn’t mean to be so abusive.”
“No, no…no
apology needed. What I meant by the banging was not because of that… but, yes,
because of that, too…More because I found you quite intriguing as you squirmed
about like you had hemorrhoids or some serious itch in the seat of your pants.”
His humor releases any lingering veiled suppositions.
“Oh, I hope it
wasn’t that annoying…I should have gotten up and left so that you would have
enjoyed the show better.”
“No, no, really
don’t feel put off…because…to tell the truth… I rather enjoyed watching you
watching the singer.”
Author Karen Stary is a resident of San Diego, California, and a native of New Jersey who spent her summers on the Jersey Shore. She writes about the fragile relationships between women and men in today’s world. Stary asserts that women have yet to realize their true potential: to achieve something greater than any woman who came before them.
2 comments:
This book looks super interesting - will read this later!!
Thank you so much for your interest. Hope you enjoy the novel. Regards, Karen Stary
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