BLog Tour Stop of Trust in the Wind and Author Vickie M. Taylor

Today is the blog tour stop of Vickie M. Taylor and her book, Trust in the Wind to my blog.

Book Description: When pregnant teen, Joanne, chooses single motherhood, she loses everything, including her family. Four years later, she's fiercely independent, trusts no one and is barely keeping her head above water. Roy is a Hillsborough County Sheriff, and a widower who lost his wife and child during a burglary gone terribly wrong. Six years later, he still refuses to love for fear of losing it again. Together, these two just might get a second chance to learn about trust and love. When you can't count on people, Trust in the Wind.

Here is where you can buy Trust in thje Wind: AMAZON You can learn more about Vickie by visiting her website and her other sites.

http://www.vickimtaylor.com http://www.vickimtaylor.com/blogs/ http://www.vickimtaylor.com/forums/index.php? http://www.myspace.com/vickimtaylor

Enjoy this short story she wrote especially for this tour stop:

Just The Way You Like It

"What the hell is the bucket and mop doing in front of the door?"

Sue cringed. "Hank? Is that you?"

"Who were you expecting, the Pope?" Hank stomped through the small laundry room that separated the garage from the kitchen. White dusty flecks of drywall compound scattered over the spotless linoleum.

Sue pressed her lips tight. In silence she followed behind her husband with the dust mop making his tracks disappear. "How was your day?"

Hank sank into his recliner and punched the remote control. Loud laughter from the audience of a talk show filled the room. "Damn, woman. You messing with my clicker again?"

Sue said nothing but hurried to change the TV to Hank's favorite fishing program.

Leaning back, he kicked off one boot and then other in the general direction of the coffee table. Thick, sticky globs of still soft drywall compound ground into the carpet beneath his heavy boots. "When's dinner?"

Scrubbing the carpet with a wet rag, Sue looked up. "In about an hour, Hank." In a lower tone she added, “just like it always is."

Shoving a sweat-soaked foot in Sue's face, Hank ordered her to take off his socks while she was down there.

Sue peeled the thick material from Hank's feet. Cold white, wrinkled flesh dotted with bright red angry sores appeared. Sue swallowed hard to keep herself from gagging. From years of working heavy construction, Hank's feet had paid the price.

Without waiting to be told, Sue squeezed a quarter-sized dollop of gray paste from the half-used tube of generic zinc oxide. Closing her eyes to the sight, she smoothed the thick substance over each foot, covering the rashes.

"Get me a beer, will ya?" Hank asked as he leaned back in his chair and propped his greasy feet on the ottoman.

Before getting up, Sue lifted Hank's feet and put a newspaper underneath to keep the zinc oxide from getting on the heavy material.

Irate, Hank kicked the paper onto the floor. "Whatcha doing? I don't want no paper under my feet. That white crap gets all over the paper and leaves black prints on my feet."

Sue folded the discarded newspaper and placed it back on the coffee table in easy reach for Hank in case he wanted to read it.

After taking Hank his beer, Sue hurried to finish dinner. Thick red sauce bubbled in an open pot on the stove. Fascinated, Sue watched as the bubbles popped, making a sucking, slurping "plop" noise then leaving splatters of red on the white stovetop. She automatically wiped away each splatter then stared at the pot again, waiting for the next "plop." Sue dipped a wooden spoon into the bubbling mixture for a small taste. She grimaced at the bland, acidic flavor of crushed tomatoes.

Standing on a chair, Sue searched the top cupboard above the stove for the small jar of whole bay leaves. It had been a long time since she made fresh spaghetti sauce or used any of her Italian seasonings. A small shaker of oregano fell onto the stove barely missing the pot of bubbling sauce.

“Quit making so much noise, will ya?” Hank bellowed from the living room.

“Sorry, Hank.”

“Get me another beer.”

“Yes, dear.” Sue pulled her hands from the back of the cupboard, knocking over several boxes and small jars. Weary, she climbed down from the chair to survey the mess.

Half-open boxes spilled their contents over the stove and countertop. Sue grabbed her wet dishrag and mopped up most of the mess. Righting the toppled boxes, she jumped back, startled by the front of one yellow box. A large black rat. She spilled some of the tiny granules into her hand. She ran a finger through the pale specks and watched how the fluorescent light overhead made them sparkle.

“Hey, where’s my beer?”

Sue jumped.

Her fist closed tightly over the contents in her hand. “Coming right up, Hank,” she called out.

Sue rushed to get Hank his beer before he yelled again.

“Whatcha got in your hand?”

“What?” Sue tightened her clench. “Oh, nothing. Just some seasonings. I’m making spaghetti.” She flashed Hank a quick smile. “Your favorite.”

“Yeah. Just don’t make it too spicy. You know how my stomach gets.” He rubbed the ample subject with one large hand while the other held his cold brew.

Sue hurried to the kitchen, a small, desperate plan forming in her mind.

“Don’t worry. I’ll make it just the way you like it.”