Fangtastic Books: Ode to a Cat Guest Blog and Giveaway Remnants by Betty Bolté

Ode to a Cat

Felines have been part of my life since I was a baby. Currently, I am owned by a tortoise shell cat, Calliope. I say that as though she is all about me, but I’m not her favorite human. Nope. That would be my hubby. Whenever he sits down she comes from wherever she’s been holed up to sit on his lap, for as long as she permits him to hold her, of course. But when it’s just her and me, then she likes me well enough to do the occasional scritch or have her on my lap so I can reach her chest easily. She likes to lay nearby while I write, too. Then she’s off for a nap or a snack, perhaps watching out the sliding glass door at the birds perched on the feeder. Or more fun, even, chasing away from the back door our medium-sized Chow-cross dog!

Cats and their independence counterpoised with their dependence intrigues me. Think about how they only come when they want to. I have “trained” Calli to come when I call, but it doesn’t always work. You know what I mean? One thing that will summon her is opening the sliding glass door. She has to know who is entering or leaving her domain, after all! But she is dependent on us to provide her food, clean her cat box, etc. And believe me, she’s not shy about reminding us it’s time to eat! I did train her to stop when I snap my fingers, a handy way to interrupt her doing something she’s not allowed to do, like jumping on my triple dresser to watch the birds out the window.

The cat featured in Remnants (Book 2 in the Ghosts of Roseville series), as well as in the first book Traces, is my way of paying homage to my dear departed mother-in-law and her calico cat of the same name. Our love of cats was one of the many loves I shared with her (her son being the main one…). In fact, when she decided to adopt a kitty, I went with her. Now my father-in-law will always “blame” me (he’s joking; I think) for permitting her to bring home two cats – Grizabella and a silver tabby named Tabitha – instead of one. But she’d fallen in love with both and I simply couldn’t talk her out of them.

Grizabella had very unique coloring for a calico. She was mainly a dark gray with orange and white patches. Her personality was quixotic to say the least and don’t even try to hold her. However, she’d occasionally allow herself to sit on a person’s lap for a few minutes. But only a few minutes! She was lithe and fast and skittish. Although the Grizabella in Traces is not an exact replica of my mother-in-law’s cat, I still feel that Griz lives on in the pages of my books.

Have you ever been owned by a cat? Have you ever managed to train a cat? If so, what did you teach it to do?

Remnants

Ghosts of Roseville

Book 2

Betty Bolté

Genre: Paranormal Romance

Publisher: Liquid Silver Books

Date of Publication: October 27, 2014

Ebook: 978-1-62210-159-7

Paperback: 978-1-50248-107-8

ASIN:

Number of pages: 331

Word Count: 70,800

Cover Artist: Lyn Taylor

Book Description:

Paulette O’Connell is focused on building her costume and home decorating business in order to ensure a stable home for her unborn child. When she accidentally summons her grandfather’s ghost, he demands she needed him and must learn the reason before he’ll reveal how to banish him. Meanwhile, a sexy chemist desires her attention despite her refusal to act upon her heart’s desires. After all, following her heart only lands her in trouble.

Zak Markel journeys to Roseville in the desperate hunt for the missing ingredient for the Elixir of Life he hopes will save his brother’s eyesight and career. But he discovers more than he bargained for when his search turns up the gorgeous woman of his dreams, distracting him from his focus at the worst possible time, even though she staunchly refuses to allow him past her defenses.

Can he convince Paulette to open her mind to possibilities and follow her heart to true happiness before it’s too late?

Excerpt:

Paulette’s attention fixed upon a black, flat-topped trunk with silver hinges and hasp. It hunkered in front of the mannequin as though daring her to approach. She straightened her back, one hand automatically shielding her unborn baby, and made her way across the room until she stopped before the ebony container. She shook off her reluctance to touch it, since she needed to move it to reach the dummy. Grasping the handles, she pulled, but it didn’t budge. She tugged again but barely succeeded in shifting it an inch. What weighed so much in such a small trunk? Leaning down, she slowly raised the hasp and then the lid until the meager illumination in the room enabled her to peek inside.

She lifted a packet of newspapers tied together with a satin ribbon. Peering closer, she determined they dated from the 1940s. Not ancient, after all. Not like the letters and journals from the mid-1800s found in other trunks. Still, old enough. Beneath the papers, a large maroon leather book nestled among men’s suits and trousers. She spotted an aged white cravat and matching formal shirt, fingering the silky material with delight. Silks and satins speared delight through her soul. Their textures and sounds blended into a symphony of pleasure. She grabbed the heavy book and hauled it from its nesting place, intent on reaching the luxurious fabrics.

The leather warmed in her hands as she focused on the decadent silk cravat. Searching for a safe place to deposit the book among the dusty boxes and trunks, her fingers tingled then began to burn as though touching a flame. Ouch. She jerked her hands apart then tried to catch the book before it dropped from her hands. When it collided with the hardwood floor, it fell open, its pages fluttering before settling on an illuminated text. The ornate drawing of a great horned owl poised to strike, beak open, talons ready to snare its prey, curled around fancy script words. She peered at the sheet, reluctant to touch the page after the previous singeing of her fingers, but curious as to the mysterious message. She read the poem silently, and then sounded it out loud, pondering the meaning.

“Before the father came the father.

“Return the one gone before.

“Restore the bygone to the present.

“This I ask and nothing more.”

“How strange.” She gingerly reached to retrieve the book and restore it to its proper place.

With a roar of wind, the door banged shut behind her, startling a gasp from her compressed lips. The pages fluttered and whipped. The packet of newspapers soared into the air, its ribbon untying in the chaos, allowing the sheets to fly around like crazed paper airplanes. Her jaw dropped open, a gasp followed by a woman keening in fear. Her voice. Stop it. Get a grip. She swallowed the growing terror. She whirled around, practically spinning like a ceiling fan on high as she tried to determine what caused the wind careening about the room. An eerie whine preceded what sounded like a wolf howling to the moon. She gulped, alarm sizzling down her spine. Grizabella arched her back, and hissed at the commotion, ears flat, tail pointed to the ceiling. Paulette exhaled, her breath visible in the chilled room. She crossed her arms both to warm them and to protect her child.

Quiet fell along with the papers settling like oversized snowflakes. She blinked three times, trying to erase the sight before her. But blinking didn’t work. She gaped at the tall, gray-bearded man in his impeccable suit and angled fedora. Gray highlighted his close-cropped black hair and matched his friendly eyes. He seemed vaguely familiar, yet she had never met him. Of that, she was certain. She’d remember him.

“What a surprise.” He reached toward her, palms up. “How can I help you, my dear?”

“Stay there.” She held out a hand, palm facing him, and backed up until her legs bumped against the open trunk.

Trapped, she had no escape but to move past the man. Or apparition. Or whatever. She swallowed the fear threatening to make itself known. Perhaps she should yell for Meredith. She would know what to do with this specter. So much for the ghosts of Twin Oaks resting peacefully. If only she’d never realized she could interact with spirits.

“Paulette, my precious, you needn’t fear your own grandfather.” He moved toward her, reaching for her.

“No.” Shaking her head, she held up both hands indicating for him to stay back. Then motioned for him to leave, shooing him as if he could fly away. Or dissolve into thin air. Which, of course, he probably could. “Whoever you are, you don’t belong here. Go away.”

Grizabella growled and hissed from her spot near the wall. Hairs along her spine stood straight, revealing the depth of her dislike of the man’s presence.

“I was content where I was.”

“Then why did you come here? Wh-what do you want?” Paulette shivered and wrapped her arms about her waist to still their trembling. The move left her feeling more vulnerable by removing the sense of a barrier between her and the apparition.

He tilted his head and smiled, dropping one hand to his side. “More to the point, what do you want? You summoned me.”

“If I did, it was an accident.” He must understand she had not meant to bring him from wherever he’d come from. Why did crap like this happen to her? Nothing in her life ever transpired as she intended. “Please, you must leave. You don’t belong here.”

“Now, that’s not true. I belong here more than you do, even. So let’s get acquainted, shall we? Then you can tell me why you called for me.”

When he started toward her, she screamed, her hands shielding her baby.

About the Author:

Betty Bolté writes both historical and contemporary stories featuring strong, loving women and brave, compassionate men. No matter whether the stories are set in the past or the present, she loves to include a touch of the paranormal. In addition to her romantic fiction, she’s the author of several nonfiction books and earned a Master’s in English in 2008. She is a member of Romance Writers of America, the Historical Novel Society, the Women’s Fiction Writers Association, and the Authors Guild.

Get to know her at www.bettybolte.com

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