Merrillee Whren is visiting the Blue Rose Writing Room today!
I’m tickled pink to have Merrillee Whren, author of, A Place To Call Home, with me today.
Merrillee, you write inspirational romance. Can you tell us how long you’ve been writing?
I’ve been writing novels since I was in high school, but my first novel was published in 2005 by Harlequin for their Steeple Hill imprint, which is now Love Inspired.
So you’re an old pro at this author business! Do you use a pen name name?
I write under my own name because I like seeing my name on the cover of a book. I didn’t know whether the publisher would suggest a pen name since my name is rather unusual and long, but when they said I could use my own name, I decided that was what I wanted.
I thought about using my own name, but it isn’t nearly as catchy as yours. What’s one thing you absolutely can’t tolerate during your writing?
I can’t write with a lot of external noise. I share an office with my husband who is on the phone a lot, so I do a lot of editing while he is there and save the new stuff for when he is gone. So I write a lot in the evenings when it’s quiet.
I’m with you. I have to have quiet to do my creative writing. What’s one place you absolutely want to visit before you die?
Australia and New Zealand
Both are on my list too, though Scotland’s at the top. Why did you choose to write in this genre?
I chose to write inspirational romance because it fits my voice. I love for my characters to be able to express their faith as well as their doubts.
My books have inspirational overtones, so I understand what you mean. Can you tell us one unusual, weird, or curious fact you discovered while researching this book.
I discovered that when a person is shot with a gun, as long as they aren’t killed instantly, they can keep moving. The impact of the gunshot doesn’t make them fall back.
Sounds like some interesting research! What are you most proud of about your writing?
That my stories touch readers’ lives.
There’s something about impacting readers with our stories that is very rewarding. What’s one new thing you’d like to try?
I liked to try to write a historical romance, but the necessary research always stops me. Maybe someday.
I’m chuckling. I write historical and just today, I was trying to find out the historically correct term for underthings because even words weren’t always used the same in the time period I write in. So, other than perhaps attempting a historical, what is something you are determined to do?
Put out more indie books
A fabulous goal and one that is becoming hugely popular. Tell us something unusual, quirky, or odd about yourself?
I don’t know whether this is unusual, but I have been to all fifty states.
Okay, now for the quickie questions: Answer in three words or less. Ready? Go!
Favorite Disney Character? Goofy
Favorite Fruit? Strawberries
Favorite Hero? Joseph from the Bible
Favorite Eye Color? Blue
Best Vacation Destination? The beach
Food you can’t stand? Canned peas Oh, my gosh, me too. Bleck!
What annoys you? Dishonesty
Coffee, tea, or something else? Wild Cherry Diet Pepsi
Nightgown or Jammies? Nightown
Prefer dogs or cats? Cats
Here’s a bit about Merrillee
Please visit her Web site at http://www.merrilleewhren.com or connect with her on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/MerrilleeWhren.Author
And here’s a bit about A Place To Call Home
STARTING OVER
Hiring a convicted wife-killer isn’t what kind-hearted Molly Finnerty bargains for as part of the prison ministry she supports. However, she begins to believe Kurt’s claim of innocence and gradually finds a great deal to like about him—perhaps more to like than she should.
Can they overcome the past and find forgiveness and love?
Now for the excerpt from A Place To Call Home
Chapter One
Kurt Jansen sat in his rusty, red pickup and stared at the Victorian house surrounded by tall pines and bare-branched hardwoods. Faded black shutters hanging cockeyed by a single hinge and peeling white paint on the clapboards testified to many years of neglect. The place didn’t look much better than the penitentiary where he’d spent the last six years, but it was better than staring at prison bars.
The structure resembled his life. A life in disrepair.
He stared at the photo in his hand. His heart twisted at the innocent faces of his two children. He vowed to put aside all the bitterness and anger from his unjust incarceration in order to get this restoration job. This was the first step to seeing his children again—the children he hadn’t seen since they were six months old. He put the photo back in his wallet.
Approaching the house, he wondered whether the inside looked as bad as the outside. Outward appearances didn’t always tell the whole story, in houses or in lives. Piles of melting, dirty snow lay alongside the lane, sidewalk, and in the shady parts of the surrounding acreage. Despite his vow, his heart felt like the snow—cold and corrupted. Resentment and despair still hovered in the dark corners, even though he’d prayed to God to take them away.
Stepping onto the wooden porch, he let the vision of an elderly lady with white hair, glasses, and sensible shoes flit through his mind. The image suited the proprietress of the future Hawthorne Valley Inn of Hawthorne, Massachusetts. Was she the answer to his prayers? Even though he prayed, he still wasn’t sure whether God answered prayers.
The floorboards creaked as Kurt stepped toward the door. He wanted to pray that the Lord would help him get this job, but he couldn’t bring himself to voice the words. Instead, he released a harsh sigh and rapped his knuckles on the weathered wood of the warped screen door. It rattled in the frame.
Moments later, the inside door opened. A tall, slender young woman, dressed in blue jeans and a gray sweatshirt spattered with several colors of paint, answered the door. She stared at him through the screen with wary, pearl-gray eyes. “May I help you?”
Her throaty voice reminded him of a female disc jockey who played love songs on the radio late at night. Curly strawberry-blonde hair framed her face and fell to her shoulders. A sprinkling of freckles across her nose made an attractive face strangely youthful, but he sensed she was older than she appeared. He figured she was only a little younger than his thirty-two years. Somehow she seemed familiar, but he didn’t know why.
“I’m Kurt Jansen. I’m here to see Molly Finnerty.”
“I’m Molly Finnerty.” She squinted as she continued to view him through the screen. “Are you the one Steve Barnett sent about the restoration work?”
“Yes.” Kurt tried to reconcile his mental image of Molly Finnerty and the woman standing before him. He had gotten it so wrong. What had Steve said to leave the impression that the woman he was meeting was someone’s grandmother rather than a beautiful young woman? This wasn’t what he’d expected or wanted. But he needed a better job. “You’re the Molly Finnerty who’s planning to make this house a bed-and-breakfast?”
“That’s me. Were you expecting someone else?” She raised her eyebrows.
“Just someone much older. That’s all.” Forcing himself to smile, he pulled an envelope from his pocket and held it out. “Steve sent this with me. Did he talk to you?”
“Yes, Steve mentioned that you’d be coming by.” She opened the screen door and stepped aside. Taking the envelope, she smiled in return. “Come in and get out of the cold. I suppose Steve’s been making me sound like an aging widow again.”
“He didn’t say you were aging, but I have to admit that his saying you’re a widow made me think I’d find you in your rocker with a cane nearby.” Kurt walked through the doorway. The smell of fresh paint permeated the room.
“I’m not in the geriatric crowd yet.” Closing the door behind them, she laughed.
The pleasant sound of her laughter echoed off the bare walls and floors of the empty rooms and drew Kurt’s thoughts away from her and toward the interior of the house. Plank hardwood flooring, in desperate need of refinishing, ran throughout all the rooms within his sight. A staircase rose along the foyer wall to a landing. A small round stained-glass window overlooked the landing where the staircase turned at a ninety-degree angle and continued to the second floor. The banister needed work as well. On his right, decorative columns separated the foyer from the living room, and a fireplace stood in the far wall.
“Well, what do you think?” Molly’s sultry voice brought his attention back to her.
He looked her directly in the eye. “I’d like the job.”
She stared back at him, her gray eyes not giving a clue as to what she was thinking. “And why should I hire you?”
He wanted to blurt out, Because I need this job. But he managed to conceal his desperation. “I’ve done several restorations of Victorian houses. I have some photos of my previous work. Would you like to see them?”
“Yes.”
“Great. They’re out in my pickup. I’ll get them.” As he moved toward the door, he let a sliver of hope settle in his heart.
“While you’re gone, I have a phone call to make.” She pointed to the deacon’s bench sitting near the front door. “You can wait here, if I’m not done when you get back.”
“Sure. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Kurt stepped outside. What had Steve told her? Even if she didn’t already know his recent history, she would certainly find out. He headed for his pickup and hoped the quality of his work would outweigh his past.
***
Molly stared after Kurt as he left the house. At five foot eleven, she stood eye-to-eye with most of the men she knew, but she’d had to look up at Kurt with his handsome face and sandy blond hair. His startling blue eyes held a haunted expression when he’d gazed down at her as if she were some kind of apparition. Was it because he’d expected someone much older?
She smiled to herself, thinking that she’d expected the same. A man with decades of woodworking experience. Kurt couldn’t be much older than she was. Although she was only thirty, she sometimes felt like the aging widow he had expected. Her life had been filled with more than her share of tragedy.
Going into her office on the left side of the stairway, she closed the double doors. Her oak roll-top desk sat between the two windows with a view of the side porch. She plopped into the chair, ripped open the envelope, and pulled out a single sheet of paper. Steve’s scrawled handwriting covered the page. When she took in the meaning of his words, a lightheaded feeling came over her, and the note fell from her hand. She reached for the phone. This time Steve was asking too much.
She punched in Steve’s phone number then listened to the ring while she tapped the fingers of her free hand on the arm of the chair. As soon as he said hello, she launched into her speech. “Steve, what do you think you’re doing sending this Kurt Jansen over here? I can’t have him working for me or living in my carriage house apartment. I just can’t.”
“It’s nice to hear from you, too.” She heard the chuckle in Steve’s voice and imagined his plump round face sporting a smile.
“I’m sorry, but this note you sent with him doesn’t exactly inspire my confidence.”
“Moll, you wanted someone who could help you with that house. Kurt seemed like the answer to your prayers.”
“With you, everything’s an answer to prayer.”
“Personally, I think that’s a good way to live. Seeing everything that happens as though God’s hand is in it somewhere.”
“Don’t make me feel guilty.” Molly twisted a piece of hair around her index finger.
“If you feel guilty, it’s not my fault.” Steve’s voice still held a hint of amusement.
“You should feel guilty for not telling me he went to prison for manslaughter in the death of his wife.” Molly took a deep breath. “Please, don’t make me do this.”
“I’m not making you do anything. Kurt has the skills you need, and you have a job and a place for him to live—two things he needs.”
“You’re asking me to deal with a violent man—a man responsible for his wife’s death. I don’t need another one of those in my life.”
“I know. At first I hesitated to send him your way…” Steve sighed. “But he’ll be able to restore that old house so you can have your bed-and-breakfast, and he can also build your shelter for battered women.”
“Isn’t that a little ironic? A man with his background working on a shelter for battered women?”
“Maybe, but personally, I think he’s telling the truth when he says he’s innocent.”
“Aren’t they all?” Molly couldn’t keep the sarcasm from her voice.
“He’s served his time, and he deserves a break, just like a certain young woman who needed help not too long ago.”
Molly leaned her head back and stared at the ceiling. How could she say no when some of Steve’s friends had been her lifeline at the time of her own arrest? “This is different.”
“Yes, but a lot is the same.” Steve’s voice held a serious note. “Just think it over. Pray about it.”
“Okay, but I didn’t claim to be innocent.”
“But you did claim the same need for help.”
“That’s true.”
“When I found out about his restoration work, I thought you and he were a perfect match. The way I see it, you two need each other. I’m telling you again. I believe his story.”
“What makes you so sure?” Molly rubbed her fingers across her forehead in an effort to ward off the headache this conversation triggered.
“I met his mother while he was in prison. Talking with her convinced me his story’s true.”
“Why doesn’t he live with her?” Molly asked in frustration.
“She died early last year after a long battle with cancer and her house was sold to pay medical bills.”
“Oh.” Molly wasn’t sure what else she could say. Was Steve’s assessment correct? Over the past few years she had come to know him as a man with a great deal of wisdom and compassion. “I don’t know, Steve. Besides my own concerns, I’ve already heard a few comments in town about my employing parolees even when their crime was petty theft. What will people here say when they find out I have a man convicted of manslaughter working for me?”
Molly knew Steve would be rubbing a hand over his balding head as he contemplated her question. “If I thought he’d harm you or anyone in that town, I wouldn’t have sent him to talk with you.”
“I don’t know what to think.”
Steve cleared his throat. “Listen, Moll, if you ever have any trouble with folks in that town because you’re helping parolees and ex-convicts, send them my way. I’ll talk to them.”
Molly heard the front door open and close. Kurt had returned. “Steve, I’ve got to go. I’ll take everything into consideration before I make a decision. Say a prayer for me.”
“I always do.”
“Thanks.” Molly gently hung up the phone. Heading for the front hall, she prepared to deal with the giant of a man who might have the talent to make this her dream house but a past that alarmed her.
Contact Merrilee here: www.merrilleewhren.com
Thanks again for visiting today, Merrillee!
