I’m celebrating my Scottish-ness this St. Andrew’s Day, and to help you celebrate along with me, Muse It Up Publications is offering you the chance to download my contemporary short story, Edinburgh Fog, absolutely free!
Today, November 30, and tomorrow, December 1, go to the Muse It Up Bookstore HERE and click on the Edinburgh Fog banner at the top of the page to download it free, gratis and for nothing. I hope you’ll love this tale of love lost and regained, with its mix of dry Edinburgh humour, a few tears and a few more smiles. Here's what some reviewers have had to say-
Night Owl Reviews:- If you’re looking for a feel-good story that will fit into your busy schedules, then look no further because this is the perfect short-story for you!'
Book Wenches:- If you're craving something sweet and charming set against a beautiful European backdrop, pick up Edinburgh Fog; it will warm your heart on a cold night.
Christine London, Author:- Edinburgh Fog packs more emotional punch and deeper characterization in its thirty two pages than most books do in three hundred. Every phrase, every word so perfectly chosen, it engenders both the joy in, and painful regret of a relationship ended too soon.
Still not sure? Try this excerpt and decide for yourself:-
Greg Morton knew the day would go like this. Last night had been Tellers' `Happy Hour'—a polite euphemism for an evening of Edinburgh's junior accountants and giggling chain-store salesgirls knocking back all the expensive cocktails they could handle before they went out of fashion. The bar closed at one o'clock in the morning, but what with cashing up late and then sorting out a staff scheduling problem, Greg didn't get to bed till three. Next thing he knew, he'd overslept. Due back at work in less than an hour, he hit full panic overdrive.
That was Thing Number One.
Not the type to call on the perks of management and ring in late, he showered in three minutes flat and had a hasty shave, leaving the door wide open for Thing Number Two—a stinging shaving cut. Mildly cursing under his breath as he mopped his chin with a bud of toilet tissue, he flung on clothes and raced from flat to car. Negotiating the one-way traffic system through Edinburgh's misty lunchtime streets, he spied one of the few free parking spaces a minute away from the bar. Result! He wouldn't have to haul himself out in the rain every couple of hours to feed a meter with loose change. Cheered by the thought that he'd managed to hold off Thing Number Three, a record-breaking dash got him to work with a whole, smug minute to spare. He grinned at the heavy glass door of the former city bank building that now housed the best bar-bistro in the city—the one with `Tellers' etched in Times New Roman—pushed it open and went in.
Ben Hardie stared from behind the gleaming marble-topped bar, his enormous hand wielding a big glass coffee-pot.
"Hiya, boss. So where did you hide the body?" Ben's deep Edinburgh brogue lent itself
particularly well to sarcasm. Behind Ben, Chrissie Henderson, Greg's bar manager and secondin-command, gawped goggle-eyed around Ben's lofty shoulder.
"What body?" Greg looked down at his blood-spattered shirt front. "Aw, no, would you look at that! I cut myself shaving. I thought I'd staunched it."
Ben laughed as he tipped ground coffee into the pot and filled it with hot water. "Lucky there's a spare shirt hanging in the office."
Greg groaned. "But not so lucky, it's one of yours." The reason Ben could never do Saturday afternoon shifts was that he spent them propping up the back row of the Edinburgh Academicals' rugby third fifteen. Borrowing a shirt from a rugby player like Ben would be like draping himself in a beer tent.
"Maybe I can cover it," Greg suggested, adjusting his Tellers' staff tie. At three inches wide, it was still three inches too narrow to cover the stains.
"Aye, right." Ben grinned. "On the other hand, you could wear the clean shirt and just keep puffing out your chest for the rest of the day so it looks like it fits you."
Greg admitted defeat. "I'll go and put it on. Give me a minute." He eyed the pot of coffee. "Have you just made that for a customer?"
"Table six." Ben made to pick up the pot, and then caught the determined gleam in Greg's eye. He sighed heavily, and slammed the plunger down. "It's all yours, boss. I'll make them another." Five minutes later, ignoring Ben's hearty guffaws, Greg emerged back into the bar. He'd tucked the enormous shirt into his jeans as best he could, but it felt like wearing a bedspread. The sleeves bunched up underneath the arms of his waistcoat, no matter how many times he rolled back his shoulders to make it more comfortable. Ah, well. At least he could congratulate himself on his self-imposed and totally egalitarian uniform policy. Even though he was sole owner of Tellers', he still dressed the same as everyone else...even if he looked utterly ridiculous.
Lunchtime was the usual Friday affair, trainee lawyers and giggling office-girls from the Georgian-pillared businesses in Queen Street and Charlotte Square. The booze they knocked back made sure the most efficient thing they'd achieve that afternoon was a spectacular slump over a desk. Three o'clock came and went, bringing its throng of no-class-but-plenty-of-cash Edinburgh WAGS, all done in after hours of nail extensions, Brazilian waxes and clearing the designer concession rails in Jenners department store. They ordered sustenance in the form of Tellers' own coffee blend and plates of Danish pastries, which they prodded with forks but left
After they'd cleared out, Tellers' was at last blessed with a couple of hours' peace. The staff heaved a collective sigh and set to preparing the place for the Friday evening crowd. Nothing eventful happened except Chrissie tripping over Ben as he knelt behind the bar to re-stack the mixers shelf and tipping half a bottle of vermouth and a bowl of stuffed olives down the back of his neck. Ben took it in good part, commenting that while he smelled like a martini, he was only stirred and not at all shaken. Leaving them to clean up as he sliced lemons and limes for the bar, Greg mused on whether the olive incident counted as Thing Number Three, and was on the point of convincing himself that definitely, absolutely nothing else could possibly go wrong for the rest of the day, when she walked in.
Greg froze, hypnotized by the reflection shimmering in the long mirror behind the bar. It disappeared briefly, moving out of his line of vision and he stepped sideways, following the mirror along the wall, seeking her out if only to convince himself that it couldn't possibly be her —that Julia hadn't just walked back into his life four years after he'd walked out of hers.'
If you’re hooked enough to want to know more, go to LINK where you’ll find another excerpt to tickle your tastebuds as you treat yourself to a great big helping of helping of Edinburgh Fog. Enjoy!
Blurb: When Greg Morton returned to Edinburgh, it was to follow his dream of opening the smartest bar-bistro in town. Now Tellers’ is a huge success—but the truth is, deep inside, it means little without the love of his life. Four years ago, he left Julia Brady behind in London to realize his business ambitions in his Scottish home town. By the time he’d recognized his mistake and admitted to himself he wanted her back, the grapevine told him Julia had moved on—and Greg had to face the fact that he’d been a fool.When Julia appears out of the blue in Tellers’, he knows the only thing he should do is walk right up to her and say hello. But it looks like someone else has their sights set on her, and he’s a quick worker. Is Julia about to disappear from Greg's life a second time - this time, for good?
Find out more about Jane Richardson and her other published writing here at her blog, Home Is Where The Heart Is.