First Chapter: She Forgot She Was Free by Giselle Mascarenhas

Title: She Forgot She Was Free

Author: Giselle Mascarenhas

Publisher: Mija Media House

Publication Date: June 23, 2026

Pages: 132

Genre: Self-Help

Amazon: https://a.co/d/04aiKYWO

She Forgot She Was Free is an invitation to remember the woman you were before fear, expectations, achievement, disappointment, and survival convinced you to forget.

In this deeply personal and transformational book, two-time best-selling author and founder of The BECOME Method™, Giselle Mascarenhas, shares the lessons, questions, and revelations that led her back to her truest self. Rather than offering quick fixes or another self-help checklist, she invites readers into a journey of honest reflection, identity, healing, and intentional growth. Through compelling stories and practical insights, readers are challenged to release limiting beliefs, reconnect with their authentic voice, and rediscover the freedom that has been within them all along.

Rooted in the principles of The BECOME Method™, She Forgot She Was Free equips readers with a powerful way to move beyond simply surviving and begin living with clarity, courage, and purpose. Whether you’re navigating a season of transition, rebuilding after loss, or simply sensing there is more waiting for you, this book will remind you that the life you long for doesn’t begin by becoming someone new, it begins by remembering who you have always been.

Because the person you are searching for has never been lost.

She has simply been waiting for you to remember her.

First Chapter:

The Girl Who Played

She is still in there.

That is the first thing I need you to know before we go any further. Before the story. Before the lessons. Before any of it.

The girl you were before the world told you who to be , she didn’t leave. She just got quiet.

And this book is her invitation to come back.

I Remember Her

I was maybe two years old.

Pink leggings. A leotard. Little ballet shoes that I was probably too young to understand but wore like they were the most important thing I had ever put on my body. Which, at two, they were.

What I remember most isn’t the outfit. It’s my dad’s face.

The way he looked at me.

If you have ever been looked at like that, like you are someone’s entire reason for being in the room, you know there are no words for it. You just felt it. In your chest. In your bones. In the way your little body stood up straighter without anyone telling it to.

I was his princess. Not because I performed for it. Not because I earned it. Not because I was the prettiest or the smartest or the most well-behaved.

Just because I was me. And that was enough. That was more than enough. That was everything.

That feeling, that specific, this-is-what-it-means-to-be-fully-loved feeling, is what I have spent most of my life chasing without realizing I was chasing it. Because I already had it. It was already mine.

I just forgot.

Little Gi

People talk about their childhood like it was simple. Mine wasn’t simple. But it was full.

My parents split when I was young. My mom moved us from Dallas to McAllen. My dad stayed. And yet, I never once felt his absence like a wound. I felt him like a constant. Every summer in Dallas. Every holiday. Every weekend that I can hold in my memory, he was there. Present. Unambiguous in his love for me.

I know now that not every little girl gets that. I didn’t know it then. I just lived inside it.

And my mom, she was her own kind of love. Fierce. Devoted. Hers flowed most visibly toward my brother, and I remember watching that and feeling something that surprises me even now when I say it out loud:

I was happy for him.

I loved how my mom loved my brother. I didn’t compete with it. I didn’t shrink from it. I just turned a quiet little switch inside myself and let it be what it was. He needed her in a way that I didn’t, or maybe in a way I had already learned not to show. Either way, I had enough. I was loved. I knew it.

That switch, the one that could just click off so someone else could have the light, I thought it was a gift.

I didn’t know yet that I would spend decades using it on myself.

The Eye. The Hospital. The Thing About Being Loved.

When I was five, my eye had been doing something that felt like an adventure to me and apparently looked alarming to everyone else. A little lazy eye that wandered when I chewed or ate. The kids at school had thoughts about it. Dr. Hamilton, and yes, I still remember his name, which tells you everything about how significant this moment was, was the surgeon who was going to fix it.

I did not want to go to that hospital.

I was stubborn about the needles in the way that only a five-year-old who has never been told no can be. I was vocal. I was dramatic. I was convinced that none of this was necessary.

But here is what I remember more than the fear:

The love.

My grandmother. My aunts and uncles. My cousins. My mom and my dad, together, in that room, around me. Love from every direction. Love so thick you could almost hold it.

I was five years old in a hospital scared out of my mind and I felt like the most important person in the world.

That is what unconditional love does to a child. It writes itself into her body like a first language. She may forget the words later. But some part of her will always recognize the feeling when it comes back.

The Plays

Kinder through fifth grade, I was known for one thing above everything else:

I made people feel alive.

Not because I performed. Not because I was the star. But because I was the one who looked at everyone around me and saw what they were made of, and then built something so they could step into it.

I curated plays. I choreographed dances. I cast everyone in the role that was theirs, not the role they asked for, but the role I could see was waiting inside them. I hand-picked every part. Not to show off. Not to be in charge. But because something in me, something I now understand was my actual purpose, could see the genius in people before they saw it in themselves.

And when they stepped into what I had created for them?

They came alive.

That was the pattern. That was always the pattern. I just didn’t have language for it yet. I was just little Gi, doing what felt natural. What felt free.

There was no performance in it. No strategy. No hustle.

Just a little girl creating magic for the people she loved, and watching them bloom inside it.

I see now that this is where my purpose was born. Right there. In the make shift practices. In the school hallway. In the casting of the play nobody asked me to produce.

I was always an experience architect. I just didn’t know that’s what it was called.

Beat It

If you grew up in the 80s, you understand what Michael Jackson meant.

Not as a celebrity. Not as a pop star. As a feeling.

My bedroom walls were covered in him. Floor to ceiling. Every page I could tear from every magazine that had his face on it, I put it up. I would climb on my dresser drawers and stand on chairs just to reach higher, just to fit one more. My brother John knew this. And because brothers are built to find the exact thing that will undo you, ripping one of those pictures was his most effective weapon. That was the deal, unspoken but understood, touch my Michael Jackson pictures and I stop raiding your Little Debbies and cereal. We had a whole economy built around it.

But Michael Jackson wasn’t just decoration on my walls.

He was proof that you could be fully, completely, unapologetically yourself, and the whole world would not just accept it, they would lose their minds over it.

Third grade. The school talent show.

I signed up to dance to Beat It. I borrowed a dress. Black tights that were slightly too small. I was not nervous. Not even a little. I was a great dancer and I loved Michael Jackson and the combination of those two facts felt like more than enough reason to get on a stage in front of the entire school.

When the music started, I stopped thinking.

I just danced.

I hit every move. I got lost in it, the way you only get lost in something when you are doing exactly what you were made to do. No performance. No awareness of being watched. Just a little girl and the music and the complete and total freedom of a body that knew what it was doing.

When it was over, the cafeteria stood up.

The whole cafeteria.

Elementary kids on their feet, cheering, for me, for little Gi who had just danced her whole heart out in slightly-too-small tights without a single moment of self-consciousness.

I remember that feeling. I want you to feel it with me for just a second before I tell you what happened next.

That feeling, of being fully yourself, fully alive, and being met with that kind of love, that is vitality. That is exactly what this book is about. Not the applause. The aliveness that came before it.

I signed up again the following year.

I was going to dance again. At this point I was certain, certain, that I was either going to be a ballroom dancer or a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader. It was not even a question in my mind. It was just a matter of which one.

Then I got called to the principal’s office.

Mrs. Champion sat across from me and told me that before I could perform in the talent show, I would need to audition privately for her. Because last year, she said, and I still remember her tone more clearly than her words, my dance moves had been vulgar. And I would not be allowed to perform if I did anything like that again.

I was in third grade.

I did not fully understand the word she used. But I understood her face. I understood the disgust in it. The way she looked at me like my aliveness, my joy, my freedom, the very thing that had made every child in that cafeteria rise to their feet, was something to be ashamed of. Something that needed to be contained. Auditioned. Approved before it was allowed to exist.

I went back to my homeroom teacher and told her I had decided not to perform.

She asked why.

I just don’t want to anymore, I said.

And I sat down.

I did not have the language for what had just happened to me. I did not know that a grown woman had just looked at a little girl on fire and made her feel like her flame was a problem. I did not know that the thing I did most naturally, the thing that made people come alive, had just been handed back to me with a note that said too much.

What I knew was the feeling in my body.

The same body that had been lost in the music, free and uncalculating, was now sending a different signal. A warning. A familiar click.

When the light shines too bright on you, move it.

Point it somewhere else before someone decides your brightness is the problem. Before they call it vulgar. Before your heart gets shattered by someone else’s discomfort with your aliveness.

I had already learned the light switch. Mrs. Champion just gave me the first real reason to use it.

The Light Switch

There is something I need to tell you about the guilt.

My dad loved me in a way he did not love my brother. Or my half-brothers. He showed up for me in a way he did not show up for them. I felt that. I saw that. And as a little girl who loved the people around her, I learned something that would follow me like a shadow for decades:

Turn off the light so others don’t feel the dark.

If my love, my attention, my gifts, my being chosen, was causing pain for someone else, the answer was to dim myself. To make myself smaller. To be grateful quietly instead of out loud. To receive love in private so no one else had to witness what they didn’t have.

I thought this was kindness.

And in some ways, it was.

But it was also the beginning of a pattern I would repeat over and over again in my life, in friendships, in relationships, in business, in rooms full of people who needed something from me. The pattern of making myself the environment for everyone else while forgetting to live inside my own life.

The light switch. Click. Gone.

I didn’t know yet what it would cost me.

The Last Free Morning

The summer before sixth grade, something happened to my body that I was completely unprepared for.

I grew up.

Not in the way I mean now when I talk about growth, the intentional, God-led, identity-rooted kind. I mean physically. Literally. The ugly duckling became something else entirely over the course of one summer, and I walked into the first day of sixth grade as a different-looking person than the one who had walked out of fifth grade.

I didn’t know it yet. And then I did.

The boys did a double take. The girls scowled. Something shifted in the air.

And then my best friend, J.V., my best friend since we were five years old, threw her gym bag on the ground and looked at me with a fire I had never seen in her before.

“Giselle. Pick it up.”

I remember the pause. The way my body took a second to catch up with what was happening. And then something moved through me that I had never felt before in quite that way.

Power.

Not the warm, generous power of little Gi casting her friends in the perfect roles. Something different. Something that the world had just handed me without asking if I wanted it.

I said no. I walked away. J.V. and I didn’t speak for years.

And just like that, in a single morning, in a single moment, in the space between throwing a bag and walking away from it, I stopped being the girl who played.

I became the girl who performed.

What I Know Now

I am writing this for you.

Not the you who has it all together. Not the you who shows up polished and prepared and ready to be seen. I am writing this for the you who is exhausted, bone tired in the specific way that comes not from doing too much but from being someone other than yourself for too long.

I know that tired.

I lived in it for years while building beautiful things for other people. While turning myself into the environment so everyone else could feel at home. While clicking that light switch off again and again until I couldn’t quite remember where I’d put the ON.

But here is what I need you to hear before we go any further:

You are not broken. You are not lost. You are not too far gone.

You are just a woman who forgot she was free.

And the girl who knew, the one in the ballet shoes, the one casting the plays, the one who loved so openly and lived so fully before the world got loud,

She has been waiting this whole time.

Not to be rescued.

Just to be remembered.

A Note Before You Turn the Page

Somewhere in your life there is a version of you that existed before the performance began.

Before you learned that love had conditions. Before you discovered that being seen came with a cost. Before you picked up the gym bag.

She has a memory that is hers. A place. A smell. A feeling in her body that she has never been able to fully describe but has never fully forgotten either.

That is where we are going.

Not forward.

Back.

About the Author:

Giselle Mascarenhas is the founder of BECOME™, creator of the BECOME Methodology™, and author of She Forgot She Was Free. An entrepreneur, speaker, and transformational guide, she has dedicated her life’s work to helping people reconnect with who they were created to be so they can live with greater purpose, freedom, and intentionality.

After years of building businesses, leading organizations, and walking through seasons of personal growth, Giselle recognized that lasting transformation does not begin with external success, it begins with remembering one’s authentic identity. That realization became the foundation of the BECOME Method™, a proprietary methodology designed to guide individuals through a transformational process of self-awareness, healing, alignment, courageous action, and embodied growth. Unlike a framework that offers guidelines for achieving a specific outcome, The BECOME Method™ is a comprehensive method of personal advancement that can be applied across every area of life, leadership, and purpose.

Her debut book, She Forgot She Was Free, is both a deeply personal memoir and an invitation for readers to embark on their own journey of remembrance. Through honest storytelling, reflection, and faith, the book explores the universal experience of losing ourselves beneath expectations, fear, pain, and performance, and the courageous journey of rediscovering the freedom, identity, and purpose that have always existed within us. Rather than simply telling her story, Giselle invites readers to see themselves in its pages and begin writing the next chapter of their own lives.

The book became the catalyst for the broader BECOME movement, an expanding ecosystem of transformational experiences designed to help people move beyond inspiration into intentional action. Through immersive workshops, retreats, leadership development, educational programs, community experiences, publishing initiatives, and speaking engagements, Giselle equips individuals with practical tools to create meaningful and lasting transformation. Every experience is grounded in the belief that personal growth is not about becoming someone different but remembering and embodying the person God uniquely created each of us to be.

Known for her ability to blend heartfelt storytelling with practical application, Giselle creates spaces where people feel seen, challenged, and empowered to take meaningful action. Her presentations combine vulnerability, strategic thinking, and actionable guidance, allowing audiences to leave not only inspired but equipped with a clear path forward. Her work resonates with entrepreneurs, leaders, professionals, educators, faith-based communities, and individuals seeking deeper purpose and authentic fulfillment.

Beyond her work as an author and speaker, Giselle is passionate about developing leaders who create ripple effects within their families, businesses, organizations, and communities. She believes transformation is contagious, that when one person remembers who they are and chooses to live courageously, they give others permission to do the same. This philosophy continues to shape every initiative within the BECOME movement.

Through future books, collaborative publishing projects, leadership academies, retreats, and global speaking engagements, Giselle’s mission is to help millions of people reconnect with their God-given identity and become the fullest expression of who they were created to be. She envisions BECOME as a worldwide movement that empowers individuals to live intentionally, lead authentically, and create lasting impact for generations to come.

Giselle lives in Texas with her family and continues to write, teach, speak, and expand the global reach of the BECOME movement. Whether on stage, in the pages of a book, or through transformational experiences, her message remains the same: the person you are searching for has never been lost, you have simply forgotten who you are. Remember. Rise. BECOME.

Visit her website at www.thebecomemethod.com.

Connect with her on social media at:

╰┈➤Twitter: https://x.com/giselleempowers

╰┈➤ Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/giselleempowers

╰┈➤Instagram: https://instagram.com/giselleempowers

╰┈➤Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/21957760.Giselle_Mascarenhas

First Chapter: The Wars Between by Lee Mavin

 Title: The Wars Between

Author: Lee Mavin

Publisher: Tellwell Talent

Publication Date: June 2, 2026

Pages: 300

Genre: YA Fantasy

Formats: Hardcover, Paperback & Kindle

Amazon: https://a.co/d/0252DH0c

For centuries there had been an ongoing war between Asalandia, the proud monarchy of the east and Kastanair the progressive democracy of the west. However, the years of war would end with the most unlikely turn of events.

Outis Everrett, the disappointment of his family, a measly poet, is suddenly thrusted into an epic adventure across the sea, with the King’s blessing. His poem, the poem that somehow won the first annual Asalandian poetry competition, was meant to be taken across the seas, to the enemy island of Kastanair, there, it would be read by the President of Kastanair, the newly elected and very progressive, Penelope Chinwa and she was supposed stop the war after reading those so special words.

So Outis set sail aboard the Golden ship, guided and protected by the Knights of Sunrise and their adventures began. The Knights are led by Bartholemew Aries, the most famous soldier in Asalandia, though when their ship drifts off course to the mysterious island of Aquos Atalantious, the Princess of the island soon lures him to stay. So, the Knights of Sunrise become distracted by the beauties of this foreign island.  After failing to find the prince, who had been taken by a monstrous octopus, the Golden ship sails onto Kastanair, without its leader, who had fallen in love with the Princess. They then sail to Syanthia, where the worlds’ meat was produced. There they meet, the young Kastanairian, Gwenia Xiachung, an enthusiastic vegan on a mission to stop everyone eating meat. Outis is thrown into a pig saving mission with Gwenia and is intrigued by the young girl. After saving the pigs and convincing the head of meat production to change his ways with a beautiful poem about animal empathy, Gwenia falls in love with Outis. She joins him and the Knights of Sunrise on the voyage to back to her country, Kastanair. Once they finally reach the shores of Kastanair, they are attacked on the shores by a small army, led by Caslian Jesper, the tough captain who worked his soldiers to exhaustion. The Knights, Outis and Gwenia are rescued by Nastab and his band of terrorists who take them on horseback through Kastanair to Mount Xian. Nastab and his men come from a rebel group who had been dwelling on the plateau of Mount Xian, plotting to overthrow the government of Kastanair. However, their leader, who had driven their group to crimes and violence, was hoarding their food and treasure.

Caslian Jesper follows the terrorists to Mount Xian, in pursuit of two of his enemies at once, the terrorists and the Asalandians. Outis and Gwenia are suddenly taken off their horses by huge hawks, who fly them up Mount Xian, to a cave opening. There Gwenia and Outis meet The Tall Man, a strange man with huge black eyes who has no name. He takes them into the cave, and they fall more tall people. There they learn that the tall people had been in the caves for hundreds of years and they care not for treasures of war. The tall man collects water from an underground stream and fruits from the cave roofs and they take Outis and Gwenia up to the top of the mountain. There they find Caslian’s army had managed to climb to the top of the mountain in attempt to attack but they were too drained to fight so the tall man shared his fruit with them. Both sides rested as Outis read a poem to the leader of the terrorists.

Outis and Gwenia are then taken to the capital, by an eclectic group including Nastab, The Tall Man and the Knights of Sunrise, they journey through the planes of Kastanair where they are attacked by wolves. The Knights and Nastab fight the wolves off valiantly and they continue. When they finally reach the capital Outis reads his poem to the President, but it is not the words of his poem alone that convince her to stop the war, it is the group he brings with him, a group of once enemies, who had come together with the same goal. 

First Chapter:

He Was No Warrior

Outis Everrett was an overthinker. Every night, he would toss and turn in his tiny chamber, going over and over the things he had to do the next day. He would plan his tasks and rehearse what he would say, looping it all in his mind until he slowly became too tired to think—and finally fell asleep. He had been like this for a while now, and try as he might, he couldn’t break the habit. The constant worrying made him sleepy, and it became difficult to handle his day-to-day tasks. During the day, he would mope about with his head down, of little use to anyone. To most people around him, he was a nobody—a useless man, easy to forget. But Outis Everrett was much more than that. Outis Everrett was a poet. He loved poetry and wrote a great deal, though he didn’t consider himself a real poet at the time. He simply thought very little of himself. One thing he knew for certain: he wasn’t a strong man. He wasn’t a sailor, a guard, or a soldier—and he never wanted to become one.

He sighed and thought of his father’s words: “We come from a long line of warriors. Long have we held our swords high and defended our lands with pride. It is your destiny, my son, to take up arms and keep fighting.”

But he was no warrior. He was as thin as a limegoat and had been cursed with his mother’s short stature. He was shorter than the average Asalandian—and much 10

weaker. He spoke with a soft, unsure voice and often didn’t speak at all. He rarely exercised, and even his hair was unusually dark for an Asalandian—it was light brown; most Asalandians were blonde.

He had avoided conflict his whole life, running from the bullies who called him Tiny in Sword School. As a child, he often hid in his room and read. He loved adventure stories about long journeys and was especially drawn to the poets of the old world. He loved imagining—dreaming of far-off lands, tales of monsters and horror. He was intrigued by the idea of destiny and longed for love.

He was lonely and kept his thoughts hidden from everyone. He believed no one would understand him and was afraid to appear vulnerable. So he read constantly, alone—and sometimes, he wrote. He was an amazing poet, but poets weren’t talked about much in Asalandia. In fact, poetry was hardly read at all.

To be shunned was rare and rarely spoken of. Most children—so long as they were able-bodied—trained hard before the test, and if they failed, they tried again. Outis was shunned from the warriorship because he failed to take the final test. The reason was simple: he was too scared and couldn’t swing a sword hard enough to even make a sound.

He had always been a quiet young man, troubled by the weight of a society that pressured boys to fight and molded them to be battle-ready. Everyone was constantly hearing about the threat of the enemy. Every day brought news: the Kastanarians were getting closer, the Kastanarians were preparing for war. The King announced it relentlessly, proclamations echoing from the palace. 11

During these frequent declarations, everyone was expected to stand and listen. It was an unspoken rule—and most people wanted to hear what the King had to say. Outis was not one of them. He had stopped listening long ago, choosing instead to focus on other things. One of those things was poetry. 

About the Author:

Lee J Mavin is the author of 11 books. He is also a teacher and father. He has a Masters in Creative Writing and am solely focused on writing fiction (fantasy and horror) and poetry. He is now in collaboration the illustrator Karolina Piotrowski, a Polish artist who has brought many stories to life. He has worked and studied in China and Japan and studied with Dr Xiaohuan Zhao (a master of Chinese poetry) to complete his book Li Bai’s Shadow, at the University of Sydney. He has two children who are both avid readers, so he is always in the loop with trends in children’s fiction. He is married and lives in Sydney, where he teaches English.

His latest book is the YA fantasy, The Wars Between.

Visit his website at leejmavin.com. 

Connect with him on social media at:

╰┈➤ Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/lee.mavin.925/ 

╰┈➤ Instagram: http://www.instagram.com/mavin798 

╰┈➤ Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5103759.Lee_J_Mavin

╰┈➤ TikTok ➜ https://www.tiktok.com/@leemavin4  

First Chapter: A Change in Plans by Mike Martin

Title: A Change in Plans

Author: Mike Martin

Publisher: Ottawa Press and Publishing

Publication Date: April 20, 2026

Pages: 278

Genre: Mystery

Formats: Paperback, Kindle, Free with Kindle Unlimited for a limited time

Amazon: https://a.co/d/01rA7RaR  

RCMP officer Winston Windflower’s rare afternoon off gets interrupted when a hit and run turns into murder and he must pull together a team of Mounties from Newfoundland to resolve the crime. Following the money and fentanyl— and bodies—Windflower and his team join forces with police officers in southern Ontario to take down an international drug-smuggling ring.

Windflower must face personal doubts and fears when fellow Mountie Fil Romano is kidnapped. While the higher-ups at HQ make plans to give safe passage to the drug lords in return for Romano’s life, Windflower worries Romano will get caught in the crossfire. Windflower again looks to his friends and allies for help in the difficult hours and days ahead. 

First Chapter:

Summer was nearing its end in the small town of Grand Bank on the eastern shore of Canada. Winston Windflower, husband, father and RCMP officer, was enjoying some quiet time while his wife, Sheila Hillier, and their two girls, Amelia Louise and Stella, were in St. John’s for their annual back-to-school shopping spree. He was alone except for his four-legged friends. Lady, an eight-year-old collie, was still frisky and ready to go for a walk as always. Molly, the cat, was ageless and just about lifeless as she sat in her bed waiting for the next treat to fall in front of her.

It was a fine, sunny day as Windflower looked out of their home onto the Atlantic Ocean. Because it was so nice, he had taken the afternoon off for picking berries. The summer had been unusually hot and sticky, and that meant the berries were out a little earlier than usual. His fervent hope was that his special picking spot had not been disturbed by early pickers trampling down bushes and limiting the harvest.

If things went well, he could pick a gallon of berries in a couple of hours, and if he was super lucky, Sheila would make something fabulous with the blueberries when she got back. Maybe a pie or even one of her blueberry specialties. Windflower salivated when he imagined all of that deliciousness. He grabbed a couple of Tupperware containers and a bottle of water and then headed for his favourite spot.

There was a congregation of berry pickers at the closest picking location, just past the clinic. Bent over, they paid him little attention. He didn’t mind being ignored. The area was too busy and crowded for him. He took the trail down by the brook and then up the hill to the lookout. He paused for a moment to take in the majestic view of Grand Bank. Windflower glanced over the brook to the town and the wharf, all the way to the craggy outcrop that the locals called the Cape. Then he continued on up over the hill and towards the other side.

He veered off the path about halfway down and was very pleased to find his desired location calm and untouched. He said a silent prayer of thanks to Creator and began his task. Some people would have thought of this as work, but Windflower found berry picking both meditative and spiritual. It reconnected him to the land and made him think of his early days growing up on the reserve in Pink Lake, Alberta. His Cree family would all go berry picking for the day, bringing a lunch and a kettle to make tea.

He soon had one container filled and was working on the second when his pocket buzzed. He checked the number on his phone. It was Corporal Samira Gupta, his right-hand assistant, calling from the bigger community of Marystown. He had made arrangements with his boss, Superintendent Ron Quigley, that he would take the job as acting inspector for the region as long as he could stay in Grand Bank and have an assistant in Marystown. Gupta filled her role perfectly.

“What’s up, Corporal?” asked Windflower.

“Sorry to bother you,” said Gupta. “Betsy said you were off. But I thought you should know. We had a hit and run in Marystown. Over near Walmart. A woman in her forties is in hospital. Sergeant Tizzard is on the scene.” Eddie Tizzard was one of Windflower’s long-time friends and co-workers. They’d been working together for the last 10 years in one way or another.

“That’s a dangerous area,” said Windflower. “How is the woman?”

“She was unconscious when they brought her to the hospital in Burin,” said Gupta. “But no other information so far.”

“And the driver?”

“We’re working on it. Tizzard has a team doing interviews from the scene.”

“It’s busy around there. Somebody would have seen something.”

“That was our thinking, too,” Gupta agreed. “If we don’t get anything back soon from the canvass, we’ll do a media hit.”

“Perfect. Keep me posted.”

Now that his reverie had been disrupted, Windflower packed up his stuff and headed back down to his car. He was driving towards home when he noticed the driver of a passing car flashing their headlights at him. He slowed down and pulled over and then went to see if they were okay. As he got closer, he squinted to see Moira Stoodley, co-owner of the Mug-Up Café, the best and only diner in Grand Bank, in the driver’s seat. She was also the wife of his best friend, Herb Stoodley, who was tutoring him in two very diverse subjects—classical music, about which Windflower knew next to nothing before he met Herb, and trout and salmon fishing, which he thought he had mastered but now realized he was only a beginner.

He assumed Moira had stopped him to say hello or to pass along a message from her husband. But it was much more serious.

“I saw Mike Winger, that crazy-looking guy, back on the road,” said Moira. “It looked like his wheelchair had tipped over. A few young fellers were helping him get back up. But he looked in bad shape. Had a cut over his forehead. I asked him if he was okay. He told me to mind my business and went on home. You might want to check in on him.”

It wasn’t exactly his job to look after wandering locals, but it had become expected of the lone police officer in the community. He may have the high and mighty title of acting inspector, but his day job consisted of part-time social worker, youth counsellor and senior companion when he wasn’t solving crimes or directing the limited amount of traffic that Grand Bank produced.

Helping citizens in distress certainly fell into his ‘other related duties’, and Mike Winger seemed to be in constant need of assistance of one kind or another. Mostly of his own doing.

Windflower knew a little about the man from his many interactions with him. Winger was an American and a veteran of the Gulf Wars. After he left the military, he got certified as a refrigeration mechanic and started wandering around, first in the United States and then into Canada. He ended up in the Grand Bank area working for fish plants and discovered a place where nobody really knew him but welcomed him anyway.

Mike Winger finally felt at home. He bought a house and found a girl who eventually moved in.

His life seemed perfect until… the crash that changed his life. His girlfriend was killed instantly as his car slid off the highway to avoid a moose one late spring morning. He was left with one leg paralyzed and the other badly damaged. Stuck with his feeling of loss and grief, he turned to alcohol and then drugs. Then he became mean and isolated. His scooter was his only escape, but even that turned out to be another source of problems.

Windflower had rescued him and the scooter more times than he could remember. From ditches by the side of the road. From a farmer’s field. From the pub, more than once, when he had been asked to leave, none too politely. One time from the cemetery, although Windflower wasn’t exactly sure how that happened. Mike Winger was certainly one of Windflower’s pet irritants in Grand Bank. But since neither of them were going anywhere soon, they had figured out how to survive, if not get along, together.

The biggest issue that Windflower had with Winger these days wasn’t that he smoked weed. Heck, that was so legal that Windflower could imbibe if he chose to. He didn’t, of course, and didn’t really care who did, as long as they were at least 19. That’s where he and Winger had an issue. Winger always had some young people hanging around to do his errands, and in return they could often get a beer and a joint. And they were often under Newfoundland’s legal age for drinking alcohol or possessing cannabis. Windflower had warned Winger several times about this and had even fined him, but nothing seemed to change.

That was a problem. For Windflower. For the parents of these young people. Even the town council got involved. But like many problems in small towns, the solution was not an easy one. There were only so many options for the RCMP to explore, and Windflower had tried nearly all of them. The next step was jail, and while Winger had told him several times that he didn’t care if he got locked up, Windflower was trying to avoid that. He knew it wouldn’t be good for anyone involved, including him.

Windflower hoped he wouldn’t have to jail Winger today. He waved goodbye to Moira Stoodley and swung his vehicle around. It didn’t take him long to find Mike Winger. He was stopped on his scooter by the side of the road, smoking a cigarette and yelling at some youngsters across the street.

About the Author:

Mike Martin was born in St. John’s, NL on the east coast of Canada and now lives and works in Ottawa, Ontario. He is a long-time freelance writer and his articles and essays have appeared in newspapers, magazines and online across Canada as well as in the United States and New Zealand.

He is the award-winning author of the best-selling Sgt. Windflower Mystery series, set in beautiful Grand Bank. There are now 17 books in this light mystery series with the publication of A Change in Plans. 

A Tangled Web was shortlisted in 2017 for the best light mystery of the year, and Darkest Before the Dawnwon the 2019 Bony Blithe Light Mystery Award. All That Glitters was shortlisted for the LOLA 2024 Must Read Book of the year award.

Some Sgt. Windflower Mysteries are now available as audiobooks and the latest Darkest Before the Dawn was released as an audiobook in 2024. All audiobooks are available from Audible in Canada and around the world.

Mike is Past Chair of the Board of Crime Writers of Canada, a national organization promoting Canadian crime and mystery writers and a member of the Newfoundland Writers’ Guild and Capital Crime Writers.

Visit Mike’s website at https://sgtwindflowermysteries.com. 

Connect with him on social media at:

╰┈➤ Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/TheWalkerOnTheCapeReviewsAndMore 

╰┈➤ Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/mike54martin 

First Chapter: The Welcome Sign by Barbara Jean Weber

 

Title: The Welcome Sign

Author: Barbara Jean Weber

Publisher: BookBaby

Publication Date: July 1, 2024

Pages: 218

Genre: Fantasy/Middle Grade/YA

Formats: Paperback, Kindle

When 10-year-old Molly Parnell’s grandmother mysteriously disappears she and her mother travel to Cape Cod to take ownership of the house they inherited and find out answers about the sudden disappearance. But what they discover could be more dangerous and life changing than they ever imaged. Molly and her mother find a beautiful mermaid welcome sign in the attic and place it on the front door. Unusual things start to happen and they are flooded with visitors who claim they knew the grandmother.  The true powers behind the mysterious sign are revealed as Molly learns her grandmother was part of a secret organization working to keep balance between the magical realm and the real world. The magical realms placed an invisible veil of secrecy over the world to hide their true identities from the human world but allowing them to live among them  in secret. An angry rebel group of magical beings, tired of living in hiding is tearing down and destroying the magical cloaking fabric between the two worlds. If they are not stopped the magical realm will no longer be safe from the world.  As Molly and her mom embark on a dangerous and magical adventure throughout the magical realms to help stop  the rebels, she learns of her own magical powers and her strong family heritage connected to the welcome sign. Along the way, she teams up with new magical friends helping to keep the realm of magic safe from the eyes of the world and discovers that her grandmother was right all along. The world she thought she knew no longer exists, but an amazing world of magic woven into their world has always been hiding  in plain sight.

The Welcome Sign is available at Amazon.

First Chapter:

Popular Bluff

NINE-YEAR-OLD MOLLY PARMELL, THE ADVENTUROUS, BROWN haired girl, sat quietly on her bed as her cat, Cuddles, sat purring in her lap. Molly adjusted her braids, shivered, and pulled her cozy pink sweater closer around her shoulders. She looked lovingly down at her orange tabby cat and scratched his head. The roof creaked and groaned loudly from the gusty winds of the storm, and Molly cringed, thinking the roof might actually blow off the house. A low rumble of thunder boomed in the distance, and Molly glanced up as a continuous “drip, drip, drip” noise splashed into a half-full pan of water in the corner of her room. Huge flashes of lightning lit up the room, creating odd shadows over the walls. The falling rain created thunderous pounding sounds on the roof as it poured relentlessly from the sky. The creaky old house was cold and drafty, and the chill in Molly’s room hovered in the air like a thick smoke. Molly rubbed her arms and shivered again. She hated this creepy old house and couldn’t wait until they could move into one of their own.

It was a cold and stormy October day in the town of Popular Bluff, Missouri. Popular Bluff was set among the majestic foothills of the Ozark mountains, which were replete with spring-fed streams and breathtaking lakes. It was a great place for fun outdoor activities; however, there wasn’t much to do there on cold rainy days. Molly didn’t particularly enjoy these chilly fall days when the sky was dark and cloudy and the trees were losing leaves. The house was dark, eerie, and very creepy. Molly looked thoughtfully out the window at the constant downpour. The few leaves that still clung to their branches were covered in the bright, fiery shades of yellow, orange, and red. Fall at the Parmell house meant that the fireplace was ablaze with the warm glow of firewood, and Molly and her mom would devour large mugs of hot chocolate with extra-big

marshmallows. In front of the fireplace was the only real warm spot in the house on dreary days like this. Molly sat back with a sigh, glanced around her bedroom, and frowned at her nippy surroundings.

Molly and her mother rented the rundown modern style, two-story house with a large front porch. It needed a fair bit of work, but it had been available and cheap. It had been almost five years since the horrible car accident that had taken Molly’s dad, Michael Parmell.

He’d been on a business trip when the fateful accident claimed his life. Molly and her mom missed him terribly but thought of him often. There were photos of them as a family throughout the house.

After the funeral expenses had been paid, this leaky old house was all they’d been able to afford. It was very drafty and needed a new paint job inside and out, new carpeting throughout, mending on the porch railings, multiple patches in the ancient roof, and a real fence with a working gate. The fence right now consisted of five rickety and warped old stakes attached with two cross stakes that leaned over so far that any day now they’d be resting comfortably on the ground. The railing on the staircase was loose, and the stairs were warped and weak. The roof leaked everywhere, and the house was falling apart from corner to corner. On rainy days like this, buckets, pans, and anything that could hold water littered the floor throughout the house, catching the cascading water as it dripped off the ceiling.

Their landlord, Mr. Garreth Simmons, was a nice man in his mid sixties and had been a stable and solid part of their lives for the past four-and-a-half years. Molly had lost her real dad when she was only five years old. Mr. Simmons was more like a father figure to her than a landlord, really. He would spend lots of time telling her wonderful

stories of his adventurous youth and teaching her all sorts of new things, explaining how and why certain gizmos worked, and answering lots of life’s little questions. The three of them were a real family, and Molly knew she’d miss seeing Mr. Simmons regularly if they moved, but the house was driving her crazy.

Due to the extensive repairs that were needed, Mr. Simmons had shown leniency and charged Angela and Molly an exceptionally generous and affordable rent each month. In fact, it was hardly any money at all. Angela had insisted that he take more, but he’d refused. The best she could do was offer him hearty home-cooked meals several times a week. Mr. Simmons gladly accepted that offer at least three nights a week. He had planned on tearing down the old structure but recognized a family in need. He wasn’t a good repairman, however, so the damages to the house were slow to get repaired. Although the house needed a great deal of help, it was home for Molly, at least until they could afford to buy a home of their own. She’d miss sweet Mr. Simmons but just couldn’t wait to move out of this dreary, shabby place.

Whenever Molly got frustrated with her decrepit surroundings, she’d think back to the fun-filled summers she and her mom had spent with her grandmother on Cape Cod. Every spring, Molly would get excited as she thought about the long trip they’d be making in a few months over to the Cape. Early in the summer, Molly and her mom would drive two hours to the nearest airport in Memphis, Tennessee, and board the airplane for the seven-hour flight to the Barnstable Muniboardman/Polando Field Airport in Hyannis, Maine.

They would spend several weeks with her grandmother in the beautiful town of Barnstable, soaking in the salty sea air and having endless adventures. There were always wonderful new things to do and see when she went to visit her grandmother.

Grammas’ house was heaven for Molly. It was a large, white, two story, Victorian-style house with a dark-green trim all around the windows and doors. There was always something new to discover and explore in that huge house; new nooks and crannies she’d never found before. A long, covered porch wrapped all around the house, lending itself to a fabulous view of the ocean in the distance.

On the second level was Molly’s bedroom, with a door that opened onto a smaller covered porch. The room was decorated with delicate little seashell patterns on the wall trim just above the chair railing two feet off the floor. The smoky-white curtains had sandy-colored, embroidered shell patterns scattered here and there on the fabric. Several glass bowls sat on the old dresser by the wall, filled with brightly colored seashells. Over the dresser hung a large mirror with a crooked tilt to one side.

There was a large seashell-shaped lamp by the bed, the paint chipping off on both sides. Her mom’s room was right next door and was filled with dashes of blues and greens. A large lighthouse lamp sat on the bedside table. Molly loved turning it on and off and watching the lighthouse light up at night. Her mom’s room had several lighthouse-shaped candles and a big ship’s steering wheel on the wall above the bed.

Gramma’s room was downstairs, next to the staircase, and opened up onto a small deck overlooking the ocean. Her room was decorated in purples and pinks. Several elegantly painted fish and sea creature wall hangings covered the walls. A few large and

impressive-looking shells were also showcased in this room. From every window in the house there was a spectacular view of the ocean. The peaceful, melodious music of the waves crashing on the shore was soothing and relaxing. Molly always looked forward to

hours of staring out at the sea with her mom and grandmother.

Molly’s favorite thing about her grandmother’s house was the alluring mermaid/merman statue that sat on a side table in the living room. The elaborate statue featured an exotic mermaid with long, brown, flowing hair. She was draped in different shades and shapes of green seaweed. Pearls and shells were set elegantly in her hair. A

handsome young merman swam next to her. He was powerfully built and had long, brown hair that was carved to look like it was suspended in the ocean. The aquatic beings were glancing happily at each other. Both had a hand placed on an intricately carved, purple colored trident. The whole statue stood about two feet tall and was

painted to look realistic. Every line, every detail, was perfectly crafted, shaped, and painted. The tails were a shiny blue-green color, inlayed here and there with mother of pearl, and each shiny scale was carved to look like the real thing. The whole statue

seemed to be covered in a light pearlesque coating and shimmered as you passed it. At the base of the statue were several large, colorful, coral-covered rocks made to look as if they had come right from the bottom of the ocean. Molly had half expected to see real

fish swimming up from the reef. A small hole was cut into the head of the trident, about the size of a large marble. Molly remembered her grandmother saying that she had lost the marble some years before but had decided to keep the statue anyway. Molly had been

truly mesmerized and intrigued by the sculpture because it was so realistic and appeared to be a miniature version of real merfolk. Molly loved daydreaming about the undersea world and imagined  these two merfolk as her guides to the watery realm.

The view of the ocean from Molly’s porch was breathtaking, and she loved keeping the windows of the guestroom open so she could hear the gentle splashing of the waves on the shore and feel the cool ocean breezes on her face. A beautiful rocky area just off to one side held massive pillars of rock formations. Molly imagined merfolk from the depths of the sea coming to play there in the crashing waves at night when the shoreline was dark and the land dwellers slumbered.

Gramma had sand and sea glass in pretty containers; fishing floaters arranged on the table; dried, woven seaweed baskets filled with seashells; and a fishing net hung delicately on the wall surrounded by all kinds of hand-painted sea-creature decorations.

She had several giant clamshells, delicate corals, and other shells of enormous size displayed in a cabinet. There were sea objects everywhere you looked; there were even sea-creature-shaped soaps in the bathrooms. Gramma loved everything about the sea and proudly displayed that love in every corner of her house. Molly swore that the old sea chest in the living room was a real pirate treasure chest brought up from the bottom of the sea.

Barnstable was a magical place, and every summer Molly enjoyed beachcombing with her gramma and mom while listening to her gramma’s fanciful stories about the sea. Molly never fully understood why her mom had moved away from Cape Cod. Her mom didn’t like talking about her move from the Cape, but Molly hoped that one day they could live much closer to her gramma. Molly sighed happily at the thought that her gramma would be coming for Christmas in a few months and then it wouldn’t be long before summer was here again and they’d be off to the cape.

Molly was jolted out of her dreamy state as another flash of lightning streaked through the room. She had just finished her homework and was getting ready take her sleepy cat downstairs to curl up by the fire and persuade her mom to make more of that special drink. It was Saturday afternoon and most of her friends were off doing things with their families, but she was content to spend a lazy day with her mom, wrapped in a warm blanket in front of the fire, listening to the pelting tink of the rain on the roof. Tink!

Tink! Tink!

Angela Parmell, her long dark hair pulled back into a long ponytail, sat in the den, writing and addressing the bills. When she’d finished the stack of bills, she set the envelopes on the corner of the desk, sat back, and sighed thoughtfully. Angela glanced out the window at the torrential downpour. Lightning flashed throughout the room, and the thunder shook the windows. The sound of the rain on the roof was almost deafening by this time. She stared for several moments at the pans on the floor filling up with water and shook her head. “We really need to find a better place.” She exhaled. Angela wondered if she should venture out into that pouring rain to the mailbox and mail the bills right away or wait until later.

“Hmmmm,” she thought. She’d have to go check the fireplace in the living room and add more wood in a few minutes. Angela looked outside again, tugged on the neck of her turtleneck sweater, and decided to mail them when the rain slowed down a bit. “Molly will be coming down soon for a refill on hot chocolate,” she thought and walked to the kitchen. She heard a faint “meow” from the base of the stairs as she put water in the teapot and set it on the stove.

“Come here, Cuddles,” she called. “Where is that Molly girl of mine?” she asked, reaching down to pet the cat as it entered the kitchen sleepily. “She’ll be wanting more hot chocolate, I s’pose.” She smiled and sighed deeply. Angela bent down and picked up a full bucket of water from the kitchen floor and dumped it out in the sink, replacing it under the drips from the ceiling.

The telephone rang from the den. Angela reached down to pet the cat one more time as she brushed past her on her way to answer the phone. “Yes, hello. Oh, thank you. Yes, we’re both doing fine. There’s an awful lot of water, but we’re using pans and buckets, and that seems to be working. The power is still on, thankfully. You are so nice for checking up on us. Okay. Yeah, sure. You have a good day, too. We’ll call if we need anything. Thanks so much.” Angela smiled and set the phone back on the receiver. It was nice Mr. Simmons, checking in during the storm to see if they were okay. He was such a kind and generous man with a heart of gold. He always came by or called to make sure they were doing okay or if they needed anything. They had had a break-in just a few nights before.

Nothing was missing, and it seemed unusual that the criminals hadn’t taken anything. The police speculated that they’d been looking for something specific and had left when they couldn’t find it. The house was a mess, but they had restored order in a short time. Mr. Simmons had been there to help. Everyone was still a little on edge, and it was comforting to know Mr. Simmons was close by, watching out for them. He’d be coming for dinner tomorrow night, and they always enjoyed their evenings with him around. Angela knew it would be hard on all of them when they left. Mr. Simmons had become such an important part of their lives. It would be hard to leave.

Molly came bounding down the stairs with a huge mug in her hand. “Mom? Mom, who called? Where are you? Can I have more hot chocolate, Mom? With lots of extra marshmallows?”

“Sure, honey! I’m here in the kitchen,” Angela replied, still petting Cuddles. “That was Mr. Simmons on the phone, just checking in on us. He wanted to make sure we were both doing okay during this storm. Well, I see that Cuddles beat you down here this time. Molly, do ya think she’d like some hot chocolate, too?” They both laughed.

“Cats don’t drink hot chocolate, Mom! You’re being silly!”

“Well maybe they don’t, but she might eat some of those marshmallow,” Angela remarked. Angela fixed two hot chocolates with the hot water from the teapot and handed one to Molly.

“Careful, honey. It’s hot. Here come the marshmallows,” Angela said as she plopped several big, puffy marshmallows into Molly’s mug.

“Hey, Mom, let’s go sit by the fire and watch the storm!” she said as she headed for the living room. Molly picked up a full pan of water from the living room, emptied it in the kitchen sink, and replaced it. She led the way to the living room again and collapsed onto the couch, followed closely by her mom. They sat there for several minutes, just listening to the rain and sipping their drinks.

The lightning and thunder continued to distract them. Angela set her mug on the coffee table, stood up, and went to add more wood to the fire. It sparked and sputtered as she sat back down on the couch next to her daughter.

“Don’t you just hate days like this, Mom? All this water with this leaky roof. Pretty soon we’re gonna need a boat.” Molly sighed.

“There’s nothin’ ta do on days like this . . . I guess we just flop on

the couch and listen to the rain. I hope the house doesn’t float away.”

“Yeah.” Angela exhaled as she glanced out the window. “Me too … You know, I’m thinking that a boat wouldn’t be a bad investment right now.” She smiled. The rain was coming down harder than earlier in the day, and she wondered if the gutters would overflow with all the extra rainwater. Cuddles jumped on the couch and curled up between Molly and Angela.

“Mom, do you think the roof will blow off with all of this wind? I don’t think we have enough pans and buckets for all this water.”

“Don’t worry, honey. I don’t think the roof will blow off even in this storm, and we’ll just have to keep emptying the buckets and pans. We may have some water spillage, but it won’t be too bad.” Angela said, petting the cat. “It’s a little drafty in here, but with the fire going, we’ll be fine.” She smiled.

“I don’t like these big storms and this creepy house with the creaky roof. Listen to that howling wind, Mom.” Molly frowned at her mom. “I don’t like it.”

Angela put her arm around her daughter, pulling her in close. “It’s just wind and rain, honey. We might want to think about getting a boat, though.” She chuckled.

“Mom!” Molly giggled. “We’re both good swimmers, but Cuddles might need a raft or something.” Angela hugged her daughter tightly and then got up to empty another full pan of water. She emptied it in the kitchen and then came back in to the living room. “Hey, Mom.”

Molly turned toward her mom as she entered the room. The wind was howling and whistling around the porch. “Please don’t get mad,” she said, petting the cat as it purred loudly, “but why can’t we go live with Gramma in her big house? There’s tons of room there, and then we can see her all the time.”

“Honey, your grandmother has better things to do than to have us hanging around all the time. Don’t worry, we’ll get a place of our own soon.”

“Mom, why don’t you like living at Cape Cod anyway?” Molly glanced back at her mom.

Angela sighed loudly and shook her head. “It’s complicated. It’s not that I don’t like living at the Cape.”

“But you moved away really early on—when you were old enough. . . that’s what Gramma said,” Molly retorted accusingly.

“Honey, you have to understand something.” She exhaled noisily.

“Your grandmother and I didn’t always see eye to eye on things. I just needed to get away, have my own life. Get away from that area and live on my own. That’s all.”

“Hmmmm.” Molly didn’t seem convinced that her mom was telling her the whole story and stared back at the fireplace. “Was it because you and Gramma kept fighting?”

“Well, that did put a strain on our relationship, but I just needed time away. Time on my own,” Angela responded without hesitation.

“What did you fight about?

“Honey, why all these questions? We’ve had this talk before. Those are grown up things. Okay, just between me and your grandmother. It’s nothing for you to worry about.” Angela got up and stoked the fire, pushing a piece of half-burned wood farther into it.

“Okay, okay. I just hate to see you and Gramma angry at each other. I want this Christmas to be a time when you two get along the whole time.” Molly got up, picked up a full pan of water from the floor, and walked into the kitchen with it. As she poured it out in the sink, she glanced back in to the living room.

“Tell ya what. I’ll make you a deal,” Angela raised her voice so that Molly could hear her from the kitchen. “You don’t worry about any of it, and I’ll do my best not to fight with Gramma . . . but just for you, okay?” Angela hugged her daughter as she came back into the room.

“Okay . . . but some day I’m going to make sure you tell me all about it.” Molly responded flippantly. “Mom, will you PLEEEASE please- please-PLEEEEASE tell me one of the stories that Gramma used to tell you when you were my age? One of the true ones?”

Molly asked, looking hopefully over at her mom. She strolled over to the corner of the living room and placed the pan back on the floor under the drip.

“Molly!” Angela gasped in a frustrated tone. “Gramma’s stories?

OOOOH, I thought we talked about this! Those stories are just . . . ,”

Angela paused with a big sigh, “. . . just kooky, made up things that your loony old grandma wasted her time on. None of those crazy tales are true! None of them! I didn’t believe the stories back then, and I don’t believe them now . . . and you shouldn’t either. I want your feet planted firmly on the ground and not up in the clouds with your Gramma. Her stories are just make believe. Just make believe! Got it?”

“But Moooom,” Molly whined. “They sound so real . . . don’t worry, I know they are make believe, but I still want to hear one,” she pleaded. Angela sighed, breathed deeply, and shook her head slowly.

“Besides, what if they are real?” Angela threw Molly a disgusted glare.

“Well, okay. This is against my better judgment,” Angela whispered, “but have I ever told you about the legend?” Angela raised her eyebrows in a playful manner.

“Legend?” Molly sat up excitedly. “You never mentioned anything about a legend! What is it? Come on, Mom, tell me!” Molly’s eyes sparkled as she squealed her delight at hearing a new tale.

“Well,” Angela started, looking around the room. “Shhhh, we can’t say any of this too loudly. You never know who might be listening.” She giggled and hugged her daughter.

“Mom, come on! I can’t stand the waiting! JUST TELL ME THE STORY!”

“Okay. Okay. Here goes. The legend goes something like this . . . apparently a long, long time ago, an alliance was created between the human world and the water world. A magical portal was created for true believers to cross between the two realms. It was said that as a gift, a perfectly rounded black pearl was presented to the chosen true believer. It was believed that this special gift came directly from the ruler of the ocean. This incredible pearl was said to be the key to opening the doorway between the two worlds. Without the magical pearl, the door would remain closed forever. Spooky stuff, huh, honey?”

“WOW! Mom, that was great! What else do you know about the legend?”

“Nothing, really. Just that only a true believer could open the doorway and cross into the other realm. Hey, it’s all silly nonsense, anyway . . . Everyone in town searched endlessly for the doorway and the pearl. Nothing was ever found . . . it was just a silly story to get tourists interested in coming to the Cape. That’s all. Our town did end up selling a ton of pearls to tourists, though.” Angela shrugged.

“Did you ever look for the REAL pearl, Mom?” Molly asked in a high-pitched tone.

“Yes, a bunch of us did . . .” She nodded. “Come to think of it . . . I was just about your age. We never found anything though.” She frowned. “Like I said, kiddo . . . it was just a fun story to tell kids and tourists.”

Molly sighed thoughtfully. “I don’t know, Mom . . . there’s a lot of stuff about that town, and the stories Gramma told about that don’t seem so silly.”

Changing the subject quickly, Angela stated, “Hey, when I talked to your grandma a couple of days ago, she said that she was really looking forward to seeing us for Christmas. Not long now, just a few months!” Angela grinned at Molly.

“She didn’t sound kooky on the phone, did she? I’m glad that we’ll be seeing her for Christmas even though you two always seem to be fighting about stuff.” Molly folded her arms and frowned. “I don’t like it when you fight. But happily, it’s only two months away, and I can’t wait to see her. YEAH!” Molly jumped off the couch and threw her arms in the air with an excited cheer. “Mom, when I talked with her, she said that she had something really important to tell us over Christmas. What do you think it is?”

Angela tilted her head thoughtfully to one side, took hold of her daughter’s hand, and shrugged. “I don’t know what the important thing is that Gramma wants to tell us, honey. But if she says it’s important, you KNOW it’s got to be really good. We’ll just have to wait until we see her to find out. Hey kiddo, I know your grandma and I argue a lot, but we are STILL family, and we STILL love each other. That will never change. I’m glad we’ll be seeing her for Christmas, too.”

“Mom, do you think Gramma will have some more stories for me? About those magical creatures again?” Angela sighed happily.

“Yes, honey, if I know your grandma, she’s sure to have plenty of outlandish tales to tell you.” She sighed loudly.

“Sometimes I think that they ARE real, Mom, and that Gramma really HAS done those things she talks about. How come she talks like she’s really done them and really knows all about those magical creatures? Did she ever tell you these stories? Did you ever believe them?”

“Oh, honey,” Angela glanced at the fire and sighed deeply. “Your grandma.” She sighed. “Uh, your grandma has a very vivid imagination. When I was growing up, your grandma told me all kinds of fanciful and wondrous stories of powerful magic, magical creatures, and enchantments. She wove fascinating tales and told them just like they were real. She was a real believer. I believed her, too; for a while at least.” Angela turned toward Molly and rested her hands on Molly’s. “Her stories were fun and full of magic. It was fun to believe in them. Grandma made the mundane world around me seem magical.” Angela snickered. “She was a bit kooky, I think, but she had a way of taking a normal, ordinary day and turning it into something exciting. It was never dull growing up with her as a mom.” She sighed, looking up at her daughter. “I believed her for a while; in fact, I believed her for quite a long time. You should have fun listening to her stories. I don’t ever want to take that away from you, but don’t think for ONE minute that they are real. I learned the hard way that it was all make believe. All of it, and I was crushed.”

Angela sighed deeply and stood up. She walked over to the fireplace and leaned against the mantel. She turned slowly toward Molly, who was intently staring at her mom, fixated on her every word.

“Was that when you and Gramma started fighting? Because you stopped believing?” Molly asked softly.

“Yeah, I think it was. Molly, I tried to believe. I wanted to believe. I wanted so badly to see the things she did, so I imaged that I could. It was wonderful for a while, but then one day, when I was about your age, I realized I had grown up and just didn’t see them anymore.” Angela placed another log on the fire and prodded it with the fire poker. “Where she saw vast herds of unicorns and centaurs, I only saw horses and cows. Where she saw flying dragons and fairies, I saw ordinary birds and butterflies. Molly, I don’t know if your grandma is crazy or not, but she can tell stories very well. I always thought that, with all of her tales of magic, she should havewritten children stories.” Angela chuckled and lowered her head.

“Enjoy her stories, but remember that they are just make believe, okay?” Molly nodded quickly. “Honey, if you know and understand this, then you will never be disappointed, never! Don’t make my mistake by thinking magic is real. It’s ALL make believe. Horses REALLY are JUST horses, and butterflies REALLY are JUST butterflies.”

“Mom, what about the merfolk?” Molly stood up and hugged her mom. “Living on Cape Cod, you must’ve seen some of them for sure! Grandma talks mostly of them . . . did you see any living that close to the ocean?” Angela chuckled again and hugged her daughter tightly. She put one knee on the floor and hugged her daughter again.

“Ah, yes, Gramma’s famous mermaids and merfolk. I had almost forgotten about them,” she mumbled with another heavy sigh. “She believed in mermaids so much that she even had a special welcome sign that she hung on the front door. It had a beautiful swimming mermaid on it. She said it guarded the house from evil magic. Don’t think for one minute that I didn’t search for mermaids. I spent hours and hours staring out at the sea, hoping to catch sight of a fin or tail or something. Some tiny sign that merfolk were real. Oh, I wanted to believe that Cape Cod was full of merfolk, but sadly, like the others, they were made up, too. Just more dreamed-up creatures from your grandma’s wild imagination. They aren’t real either. Trust me, I searched and searched. All I saw were fish, dolphins, whales, seals. Just normal sea animals of all kinds but never any merfolk.”

Angela let out a long sigh and lowered herself back down on the couch.

“Mom,” Molly was holding Cuddles on her lap and now pulled the cat in close for a hug. “Do I have to stop listening to Gramma’s stories?”

“No, honey, of course not. Just remember they are all make believe, okay?” She sighed loudly. “I don’t want you believing in something so strongly and then getting crushed when you find out that none of it is true.”

“Okay, but I’m still going to enjoy them.” Molly tilted her head toward Cuddles with a dreamy look on her face. She smiled as she imagined some of the wonderful creatures her grandma had described.

“All I ask is that you understand that it’s all make believe.” Angela stood up and headed for the kitchen. “Do you want some more hot chocolate, honey?” She turned back toward Molly still sitting on the couch. Molly turned and leaned on the back of the couch.

“Yeah, here’s my mug.” She held out her cup until her mom walked back and took it from her.

The distant jingle of the telephone from the den jolted Molly out of her dreamy daze. “MOM! I’ll get the phone!” Molly shouted as she set Cuddles on the floor and leapt off the couch. She skipped off to the den with her head full of happy thoughts of her grandmother.

“Hello? Huh? Okay . . . just a sec.’ MOOOOOOM? IT’S FOR YOU—SOMETHING ABOUT GRAMMA!” she hollered, setting the phone down on the desk. Angela handed the two hot chocolates to Molly.

“Who is it, sweety?” Angela asked as she picked up the phone.

“Don’t know.” Molly shrugged as she walked toward the door of the den.

“Hello! Yes, this is Angela Parmell. What is this about?” Angela’s face suddenly turned white, and she went weak in the knees. Her eyes were wide with shock as she listened intently to the phone. “Yes, of course. I understand.” After a short while she slowly set the receiver down.

“Mom? Mom? What’s wrong?!” Molly wrinkled her brow. “What’s wrong?!” Molly squealed and ran over to her mom, grabbing her arm. Angela’s face was pale white, and she touched her daughter’s arm gently.

“Something bad . . . something very . . .” She looked up at Molly. “Honey, something bad . . . has happened . . . to Gramma,” she stammered and stared down at the floor, momentarily frozen from the shock. Angela’s voice was slow and soft, and she spoke as if in a daze.

“What happened?! MOM? WHAT HAPPENED TO GRAMMA?” Molly started to cry.

“I UH, honey . . . I don’t . . . Uh . . . I don’t really know . . . I mean . . . THEY don’t really know . . . the police . . . don’t know exactly what happened . . . but Gramma is . . . Uh . . .” Angela paused, stabilizing herself with the table. She was clearly in a state of shock.

“Mom? What is it? What happened?” Molly stood up and reached out for her mom. Molly led Angela back to the living room in silence.

Angela flopped on the couch and stared blankly into the fire.

“Mom, what is it? What happened?”

“Honey . . . your grandmother . . . is . . . .dead.” She turned toward Molly.

“What? Gramma is . . . dead? Are you sure? That can’t be . . . I just talked to her a few days ago on the phone . . . she sounded fine. What happened? Did the police say what happened?” Tears streamed down Molly’s face.

“Uh,” Angela phased back in for a second and focused her attention on Molly. “Uh, no . . . they’re still investigating. They’re not sure yet if it was an accident or not—but they suspect that it wasn’t an accident.” Angela pulled Molly in close and hugged her. Tears welled up in her eyes, and she cried as she held her daughter tightly.

Though neither knew it, this was the fateful phone call that would change their lives forever. From this moment on, nothing would ever be the same again for Molly and Angela.

About the Author:

Barbara Jean Weber lives in Skagit County with her husband and two daughters, where she works as a speech and language therapist. Her novel, The Welcome Sign, was inspired when she was gifted a mermaid welcome sign. The more she studied the sign, the more her story evolved. She is currently an active member of the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators.

Visit her website at https://www.barbarajeanweber.com/.