Blurb:
Science teacher Gina
Thompson is as pragmatic and level headed as the next person except for the
perpetual TV announcer that lives in her head and comments on everything she
thinks. Her large family drives her
crazy by getting her the worst blind dates on the planet. Ken Armstrong is an astrophysicist working at
NASA. He is alone except for his grouchy
old cat and his grouchy old uncle, Ken’s only family, and he likes it fine that
way. Uncle Johann meets Gina and decides
‘she is the one’. Through a series of
planned mishaps and an icy visit from Mother Nature these two seriously logical
people discover that indeed, there is scientific proof of love at first sight.
Author:
This past year an
article I wrote about my father was published in Flight Journal Magazine as
well as several short stories in other magazines. I have just written a small book on the
history of the Methodist Church in North Carolina that will be in a collection
for libraries and historical societies to be released this year. I just move recently to Birmingham, AL. from
central NC with my husband. I taught
English in secondary schools and at the college level but now write full time.
Excerpt:
Chapter One
If my nose ran any
more, it would be in a marathon, mumbled Gina, rolling her eyes at her own
silly comment. She groped around in the pocket of her ski jacket for a tissue,
and found gum wrappers, scraps of paper, a pen, and at last a piece of tissue
that looked like it was used during the Crimean War. With a great sigh, she
dabbed at her nose while she waited for her turn to use the ATM.
The icy wind blew
through Gina’s down-filled parka and she stamped her feet trying to stay warm.
She shivered as she stepped through the glass-doored ATM booth, where she was
at least out of the wind. Out of the corner of her eye she glimpsed an ad taped
to the inside wall:
For Sale:
Kerosene heater.
Brand-new. Never used.
$35
Call 555-2793
Ask for Mr. Glibmann.
Gina stared at the bit
of paper as she blew on her cold fingertips. She rubbed her hands against her
backside, trying to get some feeling back into the frozen digits as she re-read
the ad.
Her little bungalow on
the south side of Huntsville, Alabama, was her pride and joy. She had purchased
the house during the summer and had worked on the interior as far as her
teacher’s salary would stretch. She'd found out, much to her abject misery, that
her 40-year-old plus house leaked like a sieve, and the heating system was
beyond inadequate. No matter where she sat herself down in the little house,
she felt a chilling, never ending draft. Hmm, a kerosene heater… it might just
be what she needed. It was Saturday. Maybe this Mr. Glibmann was at home.
Completely forgetting
about the money she meant to withdraw, Gina left the glass ATM booth, pulled
her cell phone from her pocket, and punched in the number from the notice.
“Hello?”
“Hello, are you Mr.
Glibmann?”
“And who wants to know
if this is Mr. Glibmann?” The voice that answered the phone shook with age and
a heavy German accent.
“I’m Gina Thompson,
and I’d like to know if the kerosene heater is still for sale?”
“Yes, the heater. You
want to look? You can look if you want to. My nephew will be here. I better go
to the grocery. If you come now, he’ll be here. So, you want to come now?”
Gina pulled the phone
away from her ear and looked at it quizzically. Was this guy for real? He
sounded like a bad imitation of those old Jewish guys in 1930s movies. Oh well,
it takes all kinds.
“Oh, yes sir. Tell me
where you are and I’ll be right over. I’m at the mall near University Drive. Is
that far from you?”
“At the mall? At the
mall? Always the girls are at the mall.”
“Mr. Glibmann, I’m
hardly a girl and…” Who was this old guy? Had he missed all the lectures about
the modern woman and how they all hated being called girls?
“Is all right, all
right. You can come down the University Drive and turn on… “The old man gave a
quick set of directions and Gina decided in the middle of the droning voice
that she was glad she had her GPS in her glove box. She would just enter the
old fellow’s address and let Stephen Fry, the voice she’d chosen from the many
the GPS had to offer, give her directions. Mr. Fry’s lovely English accent
intoned, not said, but intoned things like, “There’s an exit on the right and
that’s the very one we want.” Or, “To the left if you’d be so lovely.” Or, “On
to the motorway we go; fabulous.” Sometimes, she left the GPS on when she was
going to work just so the round dulcet tones of Stephen would make her feel a
little less lonely.
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