Every year for decades I have wondered whether the coming New Year’s Eve celebration could top the one I experienced in 1976. So far, nothing’s come close. So, in honor of that long ago evening, I will share the story again.

Forty-seven years ago, I faced a young man I had just met.

“Come with me,” he said.

I had arrived in Luxembourg, that wee country squeezed by Germany, France and Belgium, just two days earlier, the beginning of a six-month stint abroad at my university’s branch campus. I had been placed with Kurt and Margareta Schroeder: Swedes, two of the loveliest people I have ever met. Lennart was their son.

“She’s an old friend,” he explained about the woman who owned the castle. “Every New Year’s Eve we go there and celebrate.”

I did not, at that point, sense there was something he wasn’t telling me. Sweet Margareta, who would, over the course of my stay, squeeze me orange juice and provide fresh-baked bread with honey and jam each morning, assured me that the short drive into France would be fun and that her blond, blue-eyed boy with the mass of unruly curls would take good care of me.

“Sure, I’ll go. What should I wear?”

“It’s a drafty, dirty old castle,” Lennart said. “Just wear jeans.”

Later, we drove past open fields and woodlands where trees stood naked and lacy, having long ago shed their leaves. Pewter clouds pressed from above. The chill made me glad to be wrapped in a turtleneck, heavy sweater, and ski jacket. My straight-legged Levi’s topped rugged hiking boots. As the countryside raced by, I wondered what a “dirty, old castle” might look like. I’d spent my life in New Jersey, a place pretty much devoid of castles of any kind.

Lennart turned onto a narrow road, like the rest, a quaint blend of forest and rolling pastures.

“This is part of the estate,” he said. “She inherited two thousand acres from her grandfather.”

When he pulled onto the circular drive, I stared at the massive, two-story stone structure that was maybe four-hundred years old. As we mounted a wide, white stairway, I considered the odd placement of a sculpture that appeared to be George Washington and his men on their fabled crossing of the Delaware. The piece rested halfway up the staircase. I would soon learn that the statue’s haphazard placement was a remnant of the castle’s World War II occupation by Nazi officers who were caught amidst their attempts to steal artwork. The sculpture was left on the stairs as the soldiers fled an attack by local French citizens and there it remained.

“The castle has sixty-four rooms,” Lennart said. “But we only use a few of them. It costs too much to keep the heat on.”

Marie greeted us in French and with two kisses, one on each check for Lennart. She eyed me quizzically. I couldn’t help but notice her modelesque frame squeezed into impossibly tight jeans. A scarlet, long-sleeved shirt similarly hugged her curves, revealing a hint of cleavage, and perfectly matching red lipstick highlighted her lips. Raven hair hung loose down her back. High, black heels clacked with each step.

My hiking boots suddenly felt heavy. My cuffed Levi’s a bit too rustic.

Marie chattered on with Lennart in French, one of five languages he conversed in fluently. “She doesn’t speak English,” he whispered.

My French was pathetic. I could read menus and road signs and order wine, if I had to. But I didn’t need to understand the language to see there was something between them.

Marie led us into a dining room where a long table was set with linens and crystal. A chandelier sparkled above, throwing shadowed light on 16^th century oil paintings. Over the course of the evening, eight other Parisians would join us, not one of whom spoke English.

Multiple bottles of wine and champagne were uncorked. When we were all seated, a silver tray appeared from the kitchen bearing a massive fish. I wondered if poisson was the traditional New Year’s Eve repast, as I requested another serving. I didn’t notice I was the only one asking for seconds.

I was surprised when the next platter appeared. And even more so when subsequent others arrived. I knew, without being told, that to decline an offering would be rude. As I needed a pause before the next course circled the table, I was greatly appreciative when we ran out of wine and Lennart explained we would have to trek to the cellar for more. One dark-haired, animated man—who I was told was a popular French comedian—led us through the castle’s murky halls and stairways. He started singing Gregorian chants, which seemed both fitting and a bit sacrilegious when we arrived at the family chapel, replete with alter and pews and cross. More than a bit tipsy, we joined him, our voices echoing off ancient stone walls.

We retrieved myriad dusty bottles of wine, some over 100 years old. As you might expect, much of the rest of the evening is a bit of a blur. But sometime later, I woke in a bedroom shrouded in shadow. I could hear the ticking of a grandfather clock and loud stomping. Boots hitting the floor over and over. But my wine-addled brain and warm covers precluded me from investigating.

The next morning, I asked Lennart if I could see the clock. He translated my request. Marie, tilted her head.

“The clock was removed from that room many years ago,” Lennart said.

I wondered if the Nazis were to blame, but I didn’t ask.

“And the stomping?” I waited while Lennart spoke with Marie.

“That is the German soldier,” he translated. “He was caught in the courtyard when the Nazis were fleeing. He was killed there. Later, Marie’s grandfather took the man’s skull and placed it in his library. The soldier has been marching around the castle at night ever since.”

I stared at Marie. Her shrug told me a stomping Nazi ghost was no big deal in an old French castle.

On the drive back to Luxembourg, Lennart would confess that he and Marie had dated for years. This was the first New Year’s Eve celebration they weren’t a couple. He knew she was seeing someone and didn’t want to go to the castle alone. He did not disuuade the others when they inquired if we were dating.

Over four-and-a-half decades of New Year’s Eve celebrations have passed since my trip into the French countryside, an evening filled with subterfuge, fabulous food, old wine, a stomping ghost, and an invisble grandfather clock.

I’m pretty sure nothing will ever top that.

The past and present collide when a tenacious reporter seeks information on an eleventh century magician…and uncovers more than she bargained for.

WOLF CATCHER

Anne Montgomery

Historical Fiction/Suspense

TouchPoint Press

February 2, 2022

In 1939, archeologists uncovered a tomb at the Northern Arizona site called Ridge Ruin. The man, bedecked in fine turquoise jewelry and intricate bead work, was surrounded by wooden swords with handles carved into animal hooves and human hands. The Hopi workers stepped back from the grave, knowing what the Moochiwimi sticks meant. This man, buried nine hundred years earlier, was a magician.

Former television journalist Kate Butler hangs on to her investigative reporting career by writing freelance magazine articles. Her research on The Magician shows he bore some European facial characteristics and physical qualities that made him different from the people who buried him. Her quest to discover The Magician’s origin carries her back to a time when the high desert world was shattered by the birth of a volcano and into the present-day dangers of archeological looting where black market sales of antiquities can lead to murder.

REVIEW COPIES OF WOLF CATCHER AVAILABLE UPON REQUEST

Contact: Chelsea Pieper, Publicity Manager, Media Liaison

Review/interview requests: media@touchpointpress.com

Pre-orders available here.

The other day, as I was lolling in the early-morning comfort of my bed, my smoke alarm went off. This was surprising not for the obvious reason, but for the fact that it actually worked. I’ve had a bad habit over the years of removing the batteries, because the thing always decides to beep its displeasure around three in the morning when the juice gets low.

In any case, I sprang—in my mind I sprang, more than likely I crawled—out of bed to see what was amiss and was assaulted by an odor reminiscent of jet fuel. I met my son in the living room.

“What’s that smell?” he said over the blaring of the alarm.

“I don’t know!”

There was no visible smoke in the house, but when I opened the front door to see if the pungent odor was coming from somewhere else, I realized the problem was in my home. We switched off the alarm, opened the doors and windows, popped the cats into a carrier—they were not amused—and went outside.

A short time later, my sweetie pie called the air conditioner repair guys, convinced my ancient unit had finally succumbed to old age and had spontaneously combusted.

As we waited, I noticed my blue-eyed cattle dog was gone. Bella is almost 12 and has been acting oddly the past year or so. According to the vet, doggy dementia may be at work, a condition that sometimes causes her to stare at walls and ignore us when we call her. Since we brought her home from the shelter over a decade ago, she had never run away and walks with us happily without a leash, when it’s appropriate. Then, about a month ago, she slipped away while I was gardening. Luckily, a young neighbor recognized her and brought her home. But this time, despite searching all over, we couldn’t find her.

As anyone who’s ever had a pet go missing can attest, the not knowing is brutal. Happily, in our case, the panic was short lived. Neighbors who we don’t know took Bella in and called the animal control folks, using the number on her license. They texted me, but since I was looking for my dear dog, I didn’t see the message. Instead, they heard my son calling for her in the street and there was a happy reunion.

Later, after the AC man announced that it would cost a bit over eight thousand dollars to replace my burned out air conditioner—the fire had completely fried the interior and nothing could be saved—I winced, but didn’t whine.

You know why? I got my sweet dog back. Later, I delivered some cupcakes to my neighbors, because they were kind enough to care about an old lost dog.

The moral of the story? Always keep fresh batteries in the smoke detector and never, ever give up on humanity.

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The big dive was coming up—number 100—so my sweetie pie and I were trying to sort out the specifics, because scuba tradition dictates that this dive is different.

To backtrack a bit, note that scuba diving requires a lot of learning. Afterall, when underwater, one is on life support, so getting things right is imperative. With that in mind, divers keep a logbook where they reflect on their first 100 trips below the surface. What were the conditions: water temperature, visibility, dive profile, and depth? What creatures did they encounter? What did they do well? What do they need to improve upon, with special focus on things that might have put them in danger. As a former teacher, I think the log process a great idea and a fabulous learning tool that culminates in that centennial dive.

But as Ryan and I approached the 100-dive benchmark, we realized it also comes with a caveat. You see, at that point, custom dictates that divers descend…um…naked.

Long before we arrived at our little place in St. Croix in the US Virgin Islands we discussed diving au naturel. We always claimed we would perform the ritual, but the closer we got to the moment, the more we started to quibble.

“I don’t think I’m going to do it, Ryan said, as we stared at the sea.

“You always said you would,” I answered wondering about his apprehension. I considered my own concern, which was mostly getting arrested for public indecency, but a scuba boat captain insisted that once underwater, rules about nakedness don’t apply. I’m not sure if that’s true, but I wanted to believe him. I stared at Ryan. “So, Mr. Tough Guy, what are you so afraid of?”

He let out a breath. “Dangling.”

I burst out laughing, but when I looked into it, it seems that, yes, men who dangle in the water, do sometimes lure passing fish into taking a nibble. It’s the same with fingers, if one isn’t careful.

We were on-island for ten days and had planned on doing our 99^th and 100^th dives, so the question of naked diving splayed before us. The plan was to walk in near the Frederiksted Pier, a place where people were always nearby, so my concern was the logistics of getting into my gear with a bathing suit and then having to remove it all and, upon exiting, putting it back on. It’s not a simple as it sounds. And, while there’d be no dangling, in my case, the thought of placidly swimming past a nice young family with my 67-year-old butt prominently displayed was a bit daunting.

A friend recommended that I just slip into a thong, which she felt, despite the flippers, would be easier to remove. I paused, considering whether she actually believed I might own such a garment. I was tempted to lead her to my top dresser drawer where my mundane undies resided in a heap, but I demurred.

As we considered the logistics of our 100^th dive, weather intervened. A strange trough of cold wind rotated north of the island, churning up the biggest waves we’d ever seen in the Caribbean. Ten-to-12-foot swells pounded the shore on the cliff beneath us, sounding like a jet engine. The National Weather Service issued flooding and riptide warnings, explaining that even the most seasoned swimmers would be in danger if they headed into the water.  We waited for the surf to calm, but the entire time we were there, the conditions persisted, as if the sea was warning us off.

In the end, we opted to save our dives for a later date. Still, while we’d been given a reprieve in regard to diving in our birthday suits, the issue of our 100^th dive remains.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

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As a former reporter, I’ve always been capable of writing about anything. My assignments included just about every kind of sport, but I was also tasked with writing about how potato chips are made, the wonders of dairy farming, and archeological looting, to name a few. On top of that, I’ve written nine books.

Now, for the first time ever, I find myself stuck. The problem is…a love scene.

I’m not sure why I’m struggling. No one has ever labeled me a prude. (Stop giggling! I know who you are.) And still, every time I try to write the words, I get halfway through a sentence and stop.

Most of my novels have elements of romance, but that has never been the main theme. Scenes of that sort have always been mostly kiss and fade to black. But now I find myself needing a real love scene.

Because I was struggling, I contacted some of my author friends who specialize in romance and boy did they have a lot of suggestions.

“Refer to small things,” said author E. J. Lane. “(The) touch of their hands, he breathes in her hair, as he watches her drop her robe. She takes a quick breath in excitement at the expression on his face, as if he is seeing something precious.” 

That’s good!

“I concentrate on feelings and emotions rather than continuation of the physical process,” said author Stella May. “All my love scenes were dictated by my lovebirds. The temperature of that ‘steam’ defined by the characters and their relationships.  I just need to pay close attention, and find out if the whole scene will be more like a black-and-white sketch, or heavy on details (like an) oil painting, or a blurry surrealistic picture.”

You can probably guess I’m leaning toward blurry.

Author Tina Ruiz compared a love scene to a football game, a lovely analogy for me, since I spent forty years officiating the game.

“Remember when you were on the grass during a game? There were tensions between players while spectators cheered or booed,” she said. “This moves the story forward.  A hand touches a breast and she doesn’t pull away, he scores a point.  She leans her body closer to his, he scores another point. His breathing changes and she now knows that this is going to go all the way.”

I now want to cue Chris Berman. I know some of you are now thinking about all those sports/sex analogies. Get your head back in the game!

Author Eris Perese made me feel a bit better when she admitted that she also struggles with love scenes. “I don’t exactly pull the blinds when I write love scenes, but I do have trouble. You have to give yourself permission to feel hot love again to write it.”

Hot love. Got it!

“One might assume that they have each been in love with someone in their earlier years.  It might have been glorious, embarrassing, hurtful, or even degrading,” Perese said. “And so the love scene now might be more encompassing: their dreams, values, hurts, and willingness to try again. But because of that past experience, they may be tentative at first and then able to enjoy the freedom of being in love. Close the drapes, put on some music, and let the power of love flow.”

Why do I hear Barry White singing “Can’t Get Enough of Your Love, Babe?”

“My best advice is…action,” said author Vonnie Hughes. “Just don’t do a list of what they did, how they felt, what the room was like, etc. Some people like to write laundry lists, but I doubt the readers bother about all that. They want ACTION interpreted through emotion.”

Now, after all this advice, you’re probably wondering how my love scene turned out. I’m embarrassed to admit that I…um…skipped it. I wrote in big, red, capital letters Finish Later!

I’ll let you know how it goes.

The past and present collide when a tenacious reporter seeks information on an eleventh century magician…and uncovers more than she bargained for.

WOLF CATCHER

Anne Montgomery

Historical Fiction/Suspense

TouchPoint Press

February 2, 2022

In 1939, archeologists uncovered a tomb at the Northern Arizona site called Ridge Ruin. The man, bedecked in fine turquoise jewelry and intricate bead work, was surrounded by wooden swords with handles carved into animal hooves and human hands. The Hopi workers stepped back from the grave, knowing what the Moochiwimi sticks meant. This man, buried nine hundred years earlier, was a magician.

Former television journalist Kate Butler hangs on to her investigative reporting career by writing freelance magazine articles. Her research on The Magician shows he bore some European facial characteristics and physical qualities that made him different from the people who buried him. Her quest to discover The Magician’s origin carries her back to a time when the high desert world was shattered by the birth of a volcano and into the present-day dangers of archeological looting where black market sales of antiquities can lead to murder.

REVIEW COPIES OF WOLF CATCHER AVAILABLE UPON REQUEST

Review/interview requests: media@touchpointpress.com

Available where you buy books

I was a high school teacher for 20 years, so I had a front-row seat as trends shifted in K12 education. I watched as general college prep curriculum gave way to science, technology, engineering and math—STEM—and Career Technical Education, with its focus on hands-on, certificate-based learning.

Now these are fine programs. However, because there are only so many hours in the school day and so much funding to go around, other courses, sadly, have been replaced. You’ve probably read about the disappearing classes in music, drama, art, and physical education. Sad, yes, but these losses don’t generally affect most of us day-to-day. There is, however, one course that’s disappeared that has a major impact on all of us: driving class!

I remember learning to drive at school, an actual class with a simulation program and a teacher who braved the roads with kids who sometimes didn’t know a gas pedal from a gas tank. I was told that if I didn’t pass drivers education, I wouldn’t graduate. But none of us argued because we all wanted to pass. A drivers license was a ticket to freedom.

Today, however, many young people eschew getting a drivers license. Some say they are happy to rely on ride sharing, others believe driving is too stressful. I’m guessing the latter has to do with being uncomfortable behind the wheel, because they’ve never learned to control a vehicle properly. Without a certified instructor, young people are forced to drive with Dad, or an older sibling, or some other random adult, people often not prepared to tutor someone in the delicate art of driving.

Of course the outcome of learning driving skills freeform is that many people don’t know how to drive properly. You know who they are. Those who think a red light is just a suggestion. People who are seemingly unaware that there’s a device called a directional signal. Others who have no idea what those lines on the road mean. And the many who believe that they are perfectly capable of playing a videogame and eating a Big Mac while behind the wheel.

Here’s the thing. If you don’t want to learn to drive, that’s fine, as long as you can get where you want to be without coercing others to help out. And those who want to drive need to take a proper course, because when you get in the driver’s seat without the appropriate training, bad things can occur.

Note that some of the main causes of accidents are distracted driving, speeding, red-light running, and impaired driving, which means that approximately 80% of traffic accidents are said to be avoidable and preventable and are caused by human error. Approximately 46,000 people in the U.S. die annually in traffic accidents and over one-and-a-half million suffer injuries, some of whom wind up with life-long disabilities.

I know we can do better, even if we can’t get high schools to put drivers education back in the curriculum. It’s time we took driving seriously, because our lives literally depend on it.

Careful out there!

Find Anne Montgomery’s novels wherever you buy books.

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