Daring Chloe

By Laura Jensen Walker

(Zondervan, June 2008)

Chloe has led a safe, quiet life. Adventure? No thank you! But when her fiancé dumps her the night before their wedding, her book club friends convince her to take the vacation of a lifetime and timid Chloe blossoms into daring Chloe. A Chloe who just might be ready to face her biggest adventure of all.

Endorsements:

What could be better than adventures with your reading group based on the books you read? Walker's novel explores the outcome with Chloe, a woman afraid of many things. …Touching and inspirational, and even those who have no interest in France will be entranced by the exquisite descriptions when the book club travels there." 

—Romantic Times (4 Star Review)

" . . . Laura has created the most lively and life-like ensemble of women I've ever read. . . Her best novel to date...I'm voting it "Best Chick-Lit of 2008!"

—Deena Peterson, A Peek At My Bookshelf Reviews

Daring Chloe

(Modified excerpt from Chapter One)

At 1:33 a.m., nine hours and twenty-seven minutes before my wedding ceremony, my fiancé dumped me. By text message.

The "Going to the Chapel" ring-tone woke me, and I grabbed my phone off the guestroom nightstand before it woke my sister, Julia, asleep in the twin bed next to me. I opened one eye, fumbled for my glasses, and peered at the luminous green numbers on the digital clock radio.

Poor baby. Probably too keyed up over the excitement of the big day to sleep. I smiled and snuggled under the covers to enjoy a romantic text message. Chris had been a little stressed and distracted at the rehearsal dinner earlier, but that was to be expected. Wedding preparations were definitely stressful. Thankfully, tomorrow—today—it would all be over, and we could at last start our happily ever after.

I read his text, eager to see what sweet, tender things he had to say.

SORRY, CLO. CAN'T DO IT. TOO MUCH. GOTTA GET AWAY. PEACE.

"Ryan?" My fingers flew over my phone. NOT FUNNY. JUST A FEW HOURS AWAY, CHRIS. LOVE YOU!

Ryan Chandler was Chris's best man and roommate. This kind of stunt didn't seem like him, but it had to be. Right? But Chris didn't answer my text. His battery must be low. I called him on his landline and got his answering machine. "Hey, it's Chris O'Neil. I'm not around right now, but I'll return your call when I get back, so leave a message."

He'd changed his greeting. Gone were the sarcastic comments about picking out flowers and schmoozing extended family members. His voice sounded odd. Strained and strange. Not the excited tone of a man about to leave on his honeymoon. I shoved the covers off as I tried his cell. It went straight to voicemail. I texted again. WHAT'S GOING ON? YOU OK?

No reply.

Concerned, I pulled up Ryan's number and dialed. He picked it up on the first ring. "Hi Chloe." There was no reassuring laugh in his voice.

"What's going on?" I whispered, not wanting to wake Julia. "Where's Chris? Is he okay?"

"He's fine. Physically fine." Ryan gave a heavy sigh. "Look, Chloe, there's no easy way to say this. The wedding's off. Chris doesn't want to get married. I know the timing really sucks, but-

I dropped the phone. It slid off the comforter and clattered to the hardwood floor between the beds, waking my sister.

"Chloe? What's wrong?"

   I couldn't answer. I couldn't breathe.

In my daze, it dimly registered that Julia leaned down and picked up the phone. "Who is this?" she demanded. "Oh I see. Okay. Thank you."

Julia flipped the phone shut and looked at me, her gorgeous tawny eyes wet and filled with pity. "I'm so, so sorry." She flung the covers off and moved toward me, her silky nightgown swishing around her. She stopped when I raised my hand.

The hand with my engagement ring.

I let out a sob and sank back on the bed gasping as my eyes gushed and my nose ran, snot mixed with tears falling on my oversized T-shirt that was beginning to fray at the hem.

"What's going on?" My parents appeared in the doorway, my Dad's skimpy hair sticking up every which way.

I looked up at them through blurry eyes, unable to say the words.

"There's not going to be a wedding," Julia informed them.

"Not going to be a wedding?" My aunt Tess, champion and surrogate mother, strode into the room behind my parents and enfolded me in her wiry arms.

I laid my head against her chenille-robed chest and cried.

And cried.

And wondered if it was possible to text message a kick in the groin.

-----

As I approached the kitchen the next morning, I could hear my twin cousins, Timmy and Tommy, Tess's sixteen-year-old sons, plotting revenge.

"We'll give Chris something to think about."

"Oh yeah. And then some."

"Now boys-" my mother started, but broke off when she saw me in the doorway. "How are you feeling this morning, dear?" she asked.

"Just great. Especially for someone who just got dumped. It's not every day a girl gets left at the altar. We should celebrate."

Mom flushed and turned her attention back to frying bacon. Julia looked down at her lap.

   "Take it easy, Chloe." My dad squeezed my shoulder as he set down a cup of coffee in front of me. "Sniping at your mother won't make things any better."

   "You're right." I gulped the French Roast and scalded my tongue. "Sorry, Mom."

Mom, who is all sweetness and light, content to cook and clean for her family, sew costumes for church, do crafts, and volunteer in the nursery, is completely my opposite. I'm the undomestic, uncrafty daughter with perpetually bad hair who hates

sewing, cooking, cleaning, and especially, nursery work. Mom reads Better Homes and Gardens; I read John Grisham. Mom reads the Reader's Digest condensed version, and I read the unabridged, uncut version. And as such, our relationship is often about miscues and miscommunication.

Julia, the Perfect, is, of course, Mom's clone.

When I got engaged, though, Mom was suddenly in my world and in her element, helping clueless me pick out flowers, bridesmaid dresses, the cake, everything. Now, with one late-night text message, that was all gone.

   Tess sent me a speculative look from behind her red rectangle glasses. "Know what I think you should do?"

"What?"

"Go on that cruise to Mexico anyway."

Copyrighted Material; Do Not Reproduce without permission.

Please visit the author's Web site at www.laurajensenwalker.com

Daring Chloe (Zondervan) may be purchased at www.amazon.com, www.christianbook.com, www.barnesandnoble.com, and at fine bookstores everywhere.

From WIND RIVER

By Tom Morrisey

Desperate to forget what happened to him in Iraq, Tyler Perkins flees to the emptiness of Wyoming. He's here to escape and also to fulfill a long-ago promise by accompanying his 86-year-old friend Soren Andeman on a fly-fishing trip—once more for old time's sake.

But their trek to an idyllic trout lake soon becomes something more deeply harrowing—a journey that uncovers long-held lies, deadly crimes, and the buried secrets of the past. Ty barely has time to contemplate the question of what constitutes justice when nature unleashes her own revenge. Trapped in a race back to safety, he must face his own guilt-ridden past or risk being consumed.

In this excerpt, taken from Chapter One, the setting is the Wind River Mountain Range in Wyoming, 16 years ago, and Ty and Soren – identified at this point only as "the boy" and "the man," have taken a break from hiking so the boy can try fishing in an alpine creek. Soren, having told Ty that the trout in this particular stream are too wild to be caught, has taken a seat on a rock and settled in for some reading. Ty has rigged up his flyrod and is determined to prove his mentor wrong…. 

------------------------------------

The boy reached the bank and parted the grasses. Near the center of the water, a large trout rose, its brown back bowing the surface before it dipped back down and resettled to the gravel streambed. Tapping his fingertips against his thigh, one beat to each second, the boy watched, and when the big trout rose again he resumed his count: tapping, tapping, tapping.

Five times he watched the big fish rise and fall. When it sounded for the sixth time, he pointed the rod tip through the parted grasses, keeping his thumb on the reel and pulling the tiny fly back toward him with his other hand, the way a prankster might pull back a rubber band in school. The rod tip bowed upward from the pressure, and the boy's lips moved, silently forming the numbers one, two, three ...

Then, just as the fish was due to rise again, the boy released the tiny fly and its hook.

The fly shot out and up on its spider thread of tippet. Then the minuscule ruff of fur around the shank caught air and the dry fly slowed and settled toward the water.

In the creek, a brown shape began rising.

There was a swell of crystal water, a splash, and the fly was gone, the tippet pulling tight and yanking the bamboo rod tip downward.

The boy fed line off the reel, letting the fish pull until the tippet had completely cleared the guides and a foot or two of pale yellow fly line was clear as well, pointing this way and that as the trout raced to and fro in the pool.

Standing, the boy held the rod high, clear of the shrubs near the creek bank, and glanced back at the man, who was slapping his thighs and laughing with delight.

The boy straightened up and did his work, cupping the rim of the fly reel with his hand and letting it run a little. When the fish turned, he took line with it, keeping tension on the barbless hook. He did this three times. Then the fish seemed to tire and the boy stepped down the bank and into the water, gasping as it reached his knees.

He kept the rod high, turning and guiding the fish until it drew next to him. Still keeping tension on the line, he dipped his free hand beneath the surface, cupped the fish behind its pectoral fins and lifted it free of the water. The red mark behind the big trout's gill plate gleamed fiercely in the bright mountain sun.

"Whoo-eee!" The man was standing on the creek bank now, a black Vivitar camera in his hands. "That fella's two pounds if he's two ounces. Hold him up and turn a little this way, Tyler."

Tyler trapped the fly rod between his arm and body and held the fish out with both hands, displaying it like the prize that it was.

The man took one picture, then another. He glanced at the sun and said, "Breakfast was kind'a on the light side this morning. Want me to break out the stove and fry that fella up for you?"

The boy shook his head. "I just wanted to see if I could catch him. Let's let him go."

The man crooked an eyebrow. "That's no rainbow, you know. Cutthroat are smart. They remember. You won't be pullin' that prank on him twice."

Tyler laughed. "Then I'll just have to come up with a new prank."

He cocked his head. "Don't you think I should put him back?"

The man held up an index finger and then opened to the front of the little book he'd been studying. He leafed forward a few pages.

"'And God blessed them,'" he read, "'and God said unto them, Be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth, and subdue it: and have dominion over the fish of the sea.'"

He closed the book and looked at the boy. "'Have dominion.' You know what that means?"

Tyler shook his head.

"It means you get to decide. That may be a fish of the creek instead of a fish of the sea, but it's close enough. You still get to call the shots. Cook him or set him free, God says you're the boss. Sure you don't want him for lunch?"

The boy shook his head again. "I want to put him back."

"All right. Turn him loose, then."

The hook came free with one turn and a pull, and the boy lowered the fish belly-first into the stream, moving him back and forth in the cold clear water until the trout's brown body quivered and it swam from his hands and shot for an undercut on the far side of the stream.

The boy handed the fly rod up to the man and clambered out of the water. The man had put the camera away and held out a dry pair of boot socks. Tyler nodded and accepted them, sitting down on the warm, rough surface of the boulder to pull off his sodden boots. A soft breeze ruffled the hair above his forehead as a yellow butterfly flitted nearby among the heather.

"Is that really true what you told me? That nobody has ever caught one of those trout before?"

"Not in all the years I've been comin' here. And I've been comin' here since before the war. Seen folks try it. Lots of folks. You're the only one I've ever seen do it."

The boy beamed, and the man seemed to dim a little, his smile straightening, eyes moving back to the jagged edge of the distant ridgeline.

"What are you thinking?"

The man smiled at him. "About how much I love coming here. About how I like being here with you."

"Then why did you look sad there for a little bit?"

The man cocked his head and studied the boy a moment, then turned his attention toward the ridge again, tucking the Bible back into his bib pocket and buttoning the pocket shut.

"I've been coming into the Wind River Range for more than fifty years, Tyler. Started when I was barely shaving. And now ... well, now I'm old."

"You're not old."

The man took his cap off and his white hair shone in the sun.

"There's snow on the mountain," he said, laughing.

"But you're still strong."

"Am now." The man nodded. "But I won't be forever. And I was just thinkin' that there'll come a day when I won't be able to do this anymore. When I won't be able to just pack up and go."

The boy looked at the ridge as well.

"Then I'll bring you," he finally said.

"How's that?"

"When you can't come on your own. I'll come and I'll get you and I'll bring you. I'll come to your and Miss Edda's house, and I'll put you in my truck and I'll bring you."

"You have a truck now, do you?"

Tyler shook his head. "Not yet. But I will when I'm a man. And I'll come and I'll get you and I'll take you into the Winds, just like you take me now."

The man smiled, tan skin crinkling more deeply behind his glasses at the corners of his blue eyes.

"Well, I'd like that," he said. "You wouldn't have to do it all the time. Who knows? When you grow up, you might live somewhere way across the country. But maybe when I'm too old to come up here all by my lonesome ... maybe you can come get me sometime and bring me back up for one last trip. Could you do that?"

"I'll do that."

"You promise?"

The boy spat on his palm and held his hand out.

The man spat on his own and they shook. No laughter. No jokes.

"It's a promise," Tyler told him.

"All right then." The man looked around the valley and took the boy's wet socks, putting them under the straps that held the tent on his pack so they'd dry as they walked in the sun. "One last time. One last trip into the Winds."

"When you're too old."

"That's right. When I'm too old."

Excerpted from:

Wind River by Tom Morrisey

Copyright © 2008; ISBN 9780764203473

Published by Bethany House Publishers

Used by permission. Unauthorized duplication prohibited.