The Parent’s Launch Code Virtual Book Tour

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Loving and Letting Go of Our Adult Children

 

Nonfiction

Date Published: September 17, 2024

Publisher: MindStir Media

 

 

Is your child ready to launch into adulthood, or are they stuck on the
runway?

 

Today, more young adults than ever are struggling to achieve independence.
Over fifty percent of 18-29-year-olds are still living at home, and an
alarming number leave home and cut ties with their parents. But what if
there was a way to help your child become self-sufficient and independent
while maintaining a strong, loving bond with you?

In this book, the author, a seasoned expert in the field, provides a
comprehensive guide to achieving a successful launch. You’ll learn the
importance of practicing unconditional love to secure the relationship, even
when fear, anxiety, guilt, or resentment threaten to block it. Through love
and five other powerful practices-strengthening your relationship,
apologizing, forgiving, showing backbone, and saying goodbye-you’ll gain the
tools and insights to support your child’s journey to responsible
independence.

Empower yourself with the knowledge to let go while sustaining a caring
connection with your adult child. It’s time to prepare for a launch that
truly soars.

 

Launch Code is a beacon of wisdom and compassion for parents navigating the
complexities of supporting grown-up children. With its reassuring tone and
practical guidance, this book offers invaluable strategies for fostering
open communication, setting healthy boundaries, and navigating the delicate
balance between support and independence. Each chapter is packed with
actionable advice and exercises, ensuring readers can apply the insights
gained to their situations. With its blend of empathy and practicality,
Launch Code is an indispensable companion for any parent seeking guidance
and reassurance in supporting their adult children, offering a comforting
hand through the ups and downs of this transformative journey.

Joshua Coleman, Ph.D. Author, Rules of Estrangement: Why Adult Children Cut
Ties and How to Heal the Conflict

 

I have had the pleasure of following Jack Stoltzfus and his books on
parenting over the years. Jack’s latest book, the Parents Launch Code:
Loving and Letting Go of Our Adult Children, addresses the precarious period
when children prepare to launchinto adulthood. His approach – the
combination of unconditional love with “backbone” — captures the
meaning behind “tough love,” a phrase I used to describe what I
learned in the ’60s working with young people on the streets of Harlem. Love
and backbone are the formula for the difficult and necessary balance between
compassion and resolve that parenting with integrity requires. This is an
essential book for parents whose children are entering adulthood.

Bill Milliken

Founder and Vice Chair, Communities in Schools

Author of Tough Love, The Last Drop Out, and From the Rearview Mirror

 

The Parent's Launch Code tablet

EXCERPT

FOREWARD

 

As a leadership and coaching expert, I’ve had the privilege of guiding

many through the various stages of personal and professional development.

Yet there’s a pivotal phase that’s often overlooked: the transition

young adults make from the family home into the wider world. Dr. Jack

Stoltzfus’s The Parent’s Launch Code is a pivotal work that provides an

invaluable road map for this journey. Having raised two adult children

myself, I understand the delicate balance required in this critical phase.

The process of releasing our kids into the world equipped for success

and resilience is a task that, while daunting, is deeply rewarding. Dr.

Stoltzfus’s work is a vital companion for this task, offering sage advice

that I wish had been available during my own parenting years.

In my career and life, I’ve seen firsthand the challenges of letting

go and the importance of doing it right. This book is a testament to the

delicate art of parenting young adults—a stage where conventional parenting

books often fall silent. Dr. Stoltzfus offers not just his profound

insights but also his heart as he shares real-life experiences from his

practice and personal life. It’s this blend of professional expertise and

personal vulnerability that makes The Parent’s Launch Code resonate

with such authenticity and authority. Having experienced the complex

emotions of watching my children venture out, I can attest to the need

for a guide that embraces both the joy and trepidation of this period.

Dr. Stoltzfus steps into this role with grace and wisdom, offering a light

to navigate by.

What strikes me most about this book is its unflinching honesty.

Dr. Stoltzfus doesn’t shy away from the complexities of the parent-young

adult relationship. Instead, he faces them head-on, acknowledging the

emotional turmoil while steering clear of empty guarantees. This honest

approach sets a solid foundation for the six practices he outlines, each

a stepping stone towards successful independence for our children and

peace of mind for us as parents. The realism in these pages speaks to those

of us who have lain awake at night wondering if we’ve done enough, if our

children are truly prepared for the challenges ahead, and how our relationship

with them will evolve. It assures us that while perfection in parenting

is unattainable, continuous improvement is always within reach.

I am particularly moved by the way Dr. Stoltzfus addresses the

duality of parenting: the profound love we have for our children and

the inherent sadness in acknowledging they will one day leave the nest.

This book provides a compassionate and practical approach to managing

this bittersweet reality, ensuring that the bonds we cherish remain

strong, even as we encourage our children to forge their own paths. As

parents, we aspire not just to raise competent individuals but also to lay

the groundwork for lasting, meaningful relationships that endure the

test of time and distance.

The Parent’s Launch Code is an essential read for any parent at

the cusp of this transformative stage. As our young adults prepare to

launch into a world that we’ve helped them navigate from a distance, Dr.

Stoltzfus’s book is a powerful reminder that our roles as parents evolve

but never truly end. We are forever coaches, cheerleaders, and safe harbors

in the ever-changing tides of our children’s lives. The launch may

be theirs, but the journey is a shared one, with each successful step forward

a testament to the love and effort we’ve poured into their upbringing.

As my own children have embarked on their independent paths, the

lessons echoed in this book have reinforced the importance of trust, the

wisdom of restraint, and the value of unwavering support. Dr. Stoltzfus’s

words are not just guidance; they are a celebration of one of life’s most

significant milestones.

—Dr. Marshall Goldsmith is the Thinkers50 #1 Executive Coach

and New York Times bestselling author of The Earned Life,

Triggers, and What Got You Here Won’t Get You There.

 

About the Author

Dr. Jack Stoltzfus

Dr. Jack Stoltzfus, a unique blend of author, clinical psychologist, and
America’s Launch Coach®, has a mission to guide parents through
the challenging process of launching their young adult children. His
writings reflect his experiences with young adult challenges, his current
role as a parent of three adult children, and his extensive work with
parents in the delicate balance of love and backbone during the letting-go
process. Dr. Stoltzfus is a trusted resource for parents with a PhD from the
University of Wisconsin and over thirty-five years of experience in various
mental health and substance abuse settings. His popular website is
parentslettinggo.com.

 

Contact Links

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Freedom’s Ghost Virtual Book Tour

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Historical Fiction

Date Published: 10-25-2024

Publisher: Counterpoint Press

 

 

As the drumbeat of the American Revolution grows ever closer,
Scotsman-turned-American-patriot Duncan McCallum must navigate treacherous
cultural and political waters if he’s to secure a fighting chance for
the fledgling nation in this gripping installment of the acclaimed Bone
Rattler series.

 

Freedom's Ghost tablet

EXCERPT

      Chapter 1

 

 

                                 Late February 1770 Marblehead, Massachusetts Colony

 

“Dear Lord no, not the grinders!” yelled the elegantly dressed man at Duncan McCallum’s side. “Veer away, for the love of God, or all is lost!” Duncan could not recall if he had ever heard his companion so frantic, but the blood was rising among all the spectators of the race, and John Hancock’s desperate cries could be forgiven. It was his cherished personal yacht that was about to lose its keel to the notorious bed of submerged rocks and sandbars at the edge of Marblehead Harbor. “Too close, I say! Too close!”

 

Duncan, not sharing Hancock’s anxiety, watched through his pocket tele- scope as the women on board scurried on the deck and in the rigging, tightening one line, loosening another, while Sarah Ramsey kept her steady hand on the wheel of the sloop. Sailing had become a passion for Sarah ever since the day Hancock had taken them for an afternoon cruise months earlier. Duncan had commanded Hancock’s commercial ships on short runs to Bermuda and Newfoundland, and as their friendship blossomed the Boston merchant had generously offered the yacht with its crewmen for Duncan and Sarah to use on their own rare days of leisure. Knowing his fiancée’s questing ways, Duncan had not been surprised when she had asked if she might take the helm on their first such day, then asked him to name for her the sails and each element of the rigging. “A fair return,” she had quipped, reminding him of how she had once taught him the Iroquois words of her youth. Since that day she had become an adept sailor, and on the last harbor cruise with Hancock she had astounded Boston’s merchant prince by taking the yacht’s helm to thread a course through the outer islands.

 

No one, however, had expected Sarah to speak up days later at a dinner at Hancock’s regal Beacon Hill home to challenge the commander of the local revenue cutter to a competition. Duncan had often revisited that conversation, trying to navigate its many subcurrents. Sarah had no love for the British navy, especially the patrol vessels that enforced Britain’s onerous trade laws. Until that point she had adroitly guided the discussion among Hancock’s guests, avoiding the traps that seemed inevitable in Boston when the dinner company included both officers of the occupation troops and leaders of the Sons of Liberty.

 

Duncan did not recollect how, but the discussion had veered from the weather to the advantages of American-built ships in being able to sail closer to the wind than those from British shipyards. When the officers, at first surprised, then amused, that a woman could hold her own in such a conversation, had good-naturedly defended their shipwrights, Sarah had offered to prove her point.

 

“We must have a competition!” she ebulliently declared. “A match between boats of similar burden. Say the navy’s fast revenue cutter and one of the sloops crafted in Marblehead, ending of course in Marblehead Harbor.” The officers and Hancock had laughed but then leaned forward as she persisted. Sarah had turned to the youngest officer, who was well known and largely reviled in Marblehead. “Why, come to think of it, Lieutenant Oakes, isn’t that vessel under your command? Named for some archaic god, I recollect.” She knew perfectly well the name of the boat.

 

The lieutenant’s cool smile was close to a sneer. “I indeed have the honor to command the king’s revenue cutter Neptune. Bristol-built, and she can outsail any vessel she meets. But surely no captain of a comparable vessel would meet me, Miss Ramsey, since my nimble Neptune has already overtaken so many of them as they sought to evade the king’s customs duties.”

 

Duncan had suspected that Sarah had some hidden motive in openly taunting the arrogant Oakes, and her next words had removed all doubt. “Why, doesn’t Mr. Hancock have just such a Marblehead boat? Suppose we Americans give you an advantage. I will take the helm of the Hancock yacht myself and crew her with the doddering females of Marblehead. Shall we say Sunday, a week?” She fixed Hancock with a pointed gaze, and then the merchant’s face lit with understanding. Sarah wasn’t taunting the navy; she was trying to calm troubled waters. The tension be- tween the occupation troops and civilians was near the breaking point, and they desperately needed to find common ground, if only for an afternoon’s distraction.

 

Several of the officers had been aghast, but when Hancock had vigorously exclaimed “Brava! Brava!” and raised his glass to Sarah, they had joined in his gleeful toast, their vigor growing when he proposed to host one of his famous teas at the race’s end.

Captain Lawford, commodore of the navy’s inshore fleet, likewise embraced Sarah’s apparent intentions. “Why, that would be capital!” he exclaimed. “What say you, Oakes? I’ve no doubt we can arrange to have your cutter in those waters for a Sunday frolic with our American friends. What better way to celebrate the approach of spring!”

Sarah had shot a victorious glance at Duncan before raising her own glass. The women, he knew, would be from what she called her Nightingale Club, all from Marblehead sailing families. They would have cut their teeth on backstays, and all were secretly dedicated to Sarah’s increasingly bold efforts in support of the nonimportation cause, aimed at cutting off trade with Britain.

 

“But sir,” Oakes had protested, “we’ve had fresh intelligence that somewhere in the bay the traitor is at last going to—”

 

“Lieutenant! Have a care!” Lawford interrupted, then put on a more genteel expression. “Of course we shall defend the honor of His Majesty’s navy.” The commander of the inshore fleet raised his glass. “And fear not, Lieutenant. Surely you know the navy relies on the Heart of Oakes, eh?” he added, laughing at his word- play with the familiar maritime fighting song.

 

Now, as Sarah guided Hancock’s boat through the maze of rocky shoals and sandbars, Duncan began to worry not about her motive but whether her rash decision was going to destroy Hancock’s elegant vessel.

 

“Thank God!” Hancock shouted with glee a moment later. “She’s cleared it!” Oakes’s Neptune was close behind, the lieutenant having decided to preempt Sarah’s advantage by following her into the narrow passage between rocks and shore for the final sprint to the end of the harbor.

 

“It is not over, sir!” Lawford crowed. “My man has decided that two can play at this game! I shall soon have your guinea in my pocket, John!”

 

“Damnation, Duncan,” Hancock quietly muttered. “He’s right. Look at how the cutter’s sails fill with the breeze. That foolhardy Oakes has laid on extra canvas.” “But the Neptune’s keel—” Duncan began. He had no need to finish his sentence as groans shot through the group of gathered officers. The sound of shuddering masts echoed across the harbor. The yard of the added topsail Oakes had hoisted snapped, tumbling to the deck in a tangle of lines. The cutter had cleared the rocks only to have one of the sandbars seize her keel. She lost all headway, and the furious shouts of her commander could be heard above the chaos. For a moment Duncan thought she would move no more until the tide came in; then, long seconds later she inched forward. But as she finally cleared the bar, the signal gun at the finish line fired. A cheer broke farther down the harbor, where townspeople had gathered in dinghies and on the town wharf. Sarah was victorious. With a gleeful laugh Hancock extended his palm toward the captain. Lawford good-naturedly dropped a heavy coin into it and looked over the assembly of officers. “Our redcoat has missed all the fun,” he added, referring to Lieutenant Hicks, head of the small army contingent temporarily stationed in Marblehead. “I fear I owe him as well, for the scoundrel had the nerve to wager against the navy.”

 

Lawford grinned as Hancock hurried down the dock to congratulate the crew of his mooring sloop. “The Boston papers will love this story. I will get no end of ribbing, I am sure. Oh my,” the commodore added as the winning crew assembled on the dock. Two of the women had stripped to their petticoats during the competition and the others, including Sarah, wore sailor’s breeches. All had been saturated by the bow spray.

Sarah was shaking the water from her auburn curls as Duncan reached her. “I’m soaked!” she protested as he spread his arms to embrace her, then laughed as he ignored her warning.

 

“You laid a trap for Oakes,” he whispered as he held her close. “You knew he would scrape.”

“I seem to recall the very first advice I received from my sailing master,” she said with an impish smile, “was to always know the lay of my keel. Can I help it if the lieutenant doesn’t know the cut of his own boat?” Then “That’s good of John,” she added after a moment.

 

Duncan pulled away to watch as Hancock distributed coins to each of her crew members. The jubilant merchant then led them toward the long brick build- ing that was his Marblehead warehouse. At the far end, men stood at trestle tables, serving ale, fresh loaves, and boiled mussels to the townspeople who had gathered for the finish of the race. In the yard paved with crushed oyster shell at the near end of the building were other tables, draped with linens, where more robust offerings of lobster, oysters, pies, cakes, and wine awaited Hancock’s invited guests.

 

“Where is that scrub Hicks?” Lawford asked one of his subordinates as he heaped oysters onto his plate. “Not like him to miss a taste of the famous Hancock larder.” The aide leaned into the commodore’s ear with an apparent explanation. “Oh that,” Lawford said with a wince. “Damn the deserters,” he groused. “They should swing just for keeping a zealous officer from our frolic.”

 

Duncan caught the anxious glance Sarah aimed at the ridge that jutted into the harbor entrance. She had been so insistent on the place and time of her little competition that he could not shake the suspicion that she had other reasons in mind. But if she had intended to distract all the officers in the town to divert them from one of her smuggling operations, her plan had not been entirely successful. She turned to the captain. “I must beg your leave,” she announced to Lawford. “Allow us a few moments in the sloop’s privacy before we catch our death,” she said, indicating her wet clothing. The sun had begun its descent, and what had been a providentially mild day was cooling.

“Of course, my dear,” Lawford replied. “But make haste, for we can hardly celebrate these heroics without our heroine.”

 

Hancock’s guests energetically attacked the stacks of food. Only Hancock and Duncan noticed that Sarah paused at the foot of the wharf to speak with one of her crew, sending the woman up the street at a run. Hancock’s gaze shifted to the town’s two magistrates sitting farther down the table, and then he cast a worried glance at Duncan, who shrugged. Sarah did not share all her secrets with Duncan and fewer still with Hancock, who engaged in the delicate balancing act of maintaining close relations with the government despite being a leader in the Sons of Liberty.

 

The secret that most troubled Hancock, Duncan knew, was not one of Sarah’s but that of the dead infantry officer they had found floating off Marblehead ten days earlier, killed by a stab wound in the back. He and Duncan knew the presence of so many high-ranking officers from Castle William, the island headquarters of the military, was unprecedented. They, too, he suspected, had come for more than the sailing match. There had been no official reaction to or even notice of the officer’s murder, which made Duncan all the more uneasy. If they had kept the killing secret, so too might they conceal their retribution.

 

Hancock collected himself and turned to the table. “Gentlemen,” he announced as he reached into a case of wine and extracted a dusty bottle, “I give you the claret of sixty-four, I daresay the first case to arrive on American shores. Best of the decade, I’ve been told.”

 

“Have you the duty slip?” the port commissioner asked playfully. Hancock, who had had a ship seized by the government for failure to pay duties less than two years earlier, winced but then pushed a smile onto his face.

 

The guests enthusiastically gathered around the case as Hancock filled and distributed glasses, not looking up until Sarah reappeared, wearing a hunter green dress that set off her auburn hair. That at least two of the officers reacted coolly toward her did not surprise Duncan, though he could not tell if it was because she had bested the navy’s cutter or simply because they resented a woman who presumed to command a sailing vessel. But the others at the table cheerfully joined in when Captain Lawford raised his glass for a toast to “Miss Ramsey and the distaff navy of Marblehead!”

 

They ate with a camaraderie unusual for such an assembly of officials and citizens, and although the good humor of Lawford and his officers was sometimes forced, Duncan concluded it was because of Oakes’s defeat. Halfway through the meal, however, Hancock came up behind Duncan and gripped his arm, directing his gaze to Lawford. The commodore had gone silent and was staring at one of the larger fishing boats anchored across the harbor. The boat was painted a distinctive mustard with green trim, her net raised to dry along her backstays.

 

Hancock bent low to top off Duncan’s glass. “Good God!” he whispered. “He recognizes it!”

“Marblehead has the colony’s largest fishing fleet,” Duncan murmured. “It should come as no surprise that the boat would be here. It just triggered an un- pleasant memory.”

“Unpleasant?” Hancock rejoined. “A nightmare!”

 

Duncan saw now that the color had drained from Lawford’s face. He wasn’t seeing a fishing boat; he was seeing a ghost. Only the week before, that vessel had arrived at Castle William with the waterlogged, bloodless body of a British officer hanging in that very net.

 

Ten days earlier Hancock had invited Duncan and John Glover, one of the town’s leading shipowners and an able mariner, to join him on his coastal packet boat to help inspect the decrepit channel markers leading into the harbors of Lynn, Marblehead, and Salem. The governor was not shy about asking Hancock, as a prominent member of the legislature, to perform such duties, knowing his appetite for asserting authority and his willingness to personally pay for improvements to public property. It had been mere coincidence that they had spied the desperate waving of the crew of the mustard-colored boat. They had eased the packet close and accepted the line tossed to bring the boats alongside each other.

 

The fishermen’s net had been pulled to the opposite side of the boat. At first Duncan saw only the densely packed herring, but then a crew member shook the net and the silver flickers began to alternate with snatches of scarlet. The mate in command of the boat called for the crew to pull the net higher, and the body surfaced, shedding the crabs and eels that had been nibbling at its flesh.

 

They had laid the pale soldier out on the deck. He had been dead only a few hours, his flesh largely intact, not yet found by the larger predators of the bay. No one spoke, no one moved, aghast not simply at the gruesome death but also at who, or rather what, the man was. Judging by his once elegant uniform, he was a captain in the Twenty-Ninth Regiment of Foot, one of the hated regiments occupying Boston.

 

“Toss him back in, I say,” the mate suggested. “No one the wiser. Marblehead don’t need it.”

 

Hancock stared at the dead man, clearly confused, and then his eyes went round. “Captain Mallory! Dear God, he has dined at my own table! A most genteel officer! He and his fiancée were expected at the governor’s ball and never made an appearance.” Duncan took a deep breath and knelt beside the corpse. The officer had been a handsome, fit man in his forties and had been wearing his dress uni- form as if planning to attend an official function. Duncan quickly examined the limbs, then unbuttoned the tunic. Finding nothing suspicious, and fervently hoping he could declare the death a drowning accident, he straightened, then shook his head, knowing he had not completed the task. He bent and pressed down on the dead man’s abdomen. Only air escaped from his lungs. “Help me turn him over,” he asked with foreboding.

No one stepped forward until finally Glover bent and lifted the man’s feet. The compact, muscular mariner helped Duncan twist the man onto his stomach, then muttered a low curse. The back of the officer’s waistcoat had a slit in it, just to the left of his spine and over his heart. The blood had not been entirely washed away.

“Murder?” Hancock gasped. “My God, a senior officer murdered? No, Dun- can, we can’t . . .” His voice trailed off.

 

Glover wore a grim but more collected expression. “If he was out of Marble- head we’ll feel the wrath of the governor. He already lends an ear to those who say our town has become a den of murderers and thieves since last year. This will be their excuse to square accounts with us.”

 

“Marblehead don’t need it,” the mate repeated. Now Hancock understood his words.

The people of Marblehead hated the customs duties and other trade restrictions imposed by London but reserved a special loathing for the navy’s press gangs, which often detained their vessels at sea to seize men for involuntary service on their warships. The year before, a Marblehead man had been charged with harpooning the officer leading a gang that had cornered him on his own ship with drawn weapons. Although the court had ultimately ruled the killing justified as self-defense, rancor over the incident still simmered on both sides. Since then, when a naval vessel sailed close to a Marblehead boat, crew members usually taunted it with raised harpoons.

 

“No,” Duncan said as he contemplated the body. “The senior officer in Marblehead is a lieutenant. And he was going to the ball in Boston. The tide will have brought him from the inner harbor.” He looked up at the merchant. “Meaning they will think the Boston radicals are behind it.” Duncan glanced at Glover, and the men gathered around the body with new worry. He knew Glover was fiercely committed to the Sons of Liberty but did not know the political leanings of the others.

Glover instantly understood. “Committed patriots to the man here,” he said of the fishing crew.

 

“As are my lads,” Hancock murmured.

Duncan surveyed the men standing around him, then gazed at the steeples of Boston, just visible across the bay. “He goes back in the water,” he said, “back in the net. And the boat goes to Castle William.”

“Like hell!” the mate growled. “I’m not offering myself up to some mob of angry lobsterbacks!”

 

“I’ll go,” Glover said and turned to the mate. “Duncan’s got the measure of it. I’ll tell them it’s my boat, that as soon as we snagged the poor soldier we knew we had to take him to his comrades at the Castle. We never touched him, never raised him out of the water. They’ll identify him and know that he was from Boston. As a top officer he will have been missed by now. We’ll just be doing our duty to the king, ye see,” he said to the crew, who answered with mocking grins.

 

Duncan saw that Hancock was not convinced. “Otherwise, John, they’ll be turning Boston inside out to find him. The magistrates will give the army leave to search the house of every radical. Especially the leaders of the Sons,” he added. “They wouldn’t dare!” Hancock exclaimed. “There’s such things as bonds of

honor!”

 

“In Boston?” Duncan rejoined. “Where there’s an angry soldier for every four citizens, half of whom are equally on edge? I daresay we are beyond bonds and honor. Massachusetts is an uncharted land these days. And there are those on both sides who would be happy to transform it into a bloody battlefield. We can’t give them an excuse for doing so. You never saw the body, know only that Mallory missed the ball.”

Hancock grimaced, then slowly nodded.

 

Duncan turned to Glover. “Fix this as the position of the discovery, mark your chart, note the time. The navy well understands the flow of the tides here, knows that if he had been killed on the north shore he would have been swept far out to sea. Meanwhile,” he added to the crew, “bring in the herring. And this is a fishing boat. She’s too tidy. Cut up some fish and scatter the remains. Let some seagulls follow you in to soil the Castle’s wharf. Do what you can to make her stink so the Castle won’t want you to linger.”

 

The crew looked to their mate for direction. After several heartbeats he nodded, then kicked over a basket of fish. “Stink it up, boys.”

 

As the crew worked to fill the oversized baskets on deck with their catch,Duncan more fully examined the dead officer, finding no other signs of injury but also no sign of a purse or personal effects. Glover and the mate then restored the dead man’s tunic, placed him back into the now-empty net, and lowered him into the sea. As the boats drifted apart, Hancock stood at Duncan’s side. “Once again, Duncan, we may need you to protect us.”

 

Duncan gave no voice to the question on his tongue. Was Hancock referring to Duncan’s skills as a physician or as, in words Hancock sometimes whispered, the “master of secrets” for the Sons of Liberty?

 

While Sarah’s freshly attired crew mingled with the officers, Hancock lived up to his repute as a generous and attentive host. Duncan suspected his other guests would ascribe his nervousness to his compulsion to keep every cup filled and every empty platter quickly replenished. The merchant prince had warned all in advance that given the exceptional weather the tea was to be alfresco, in North Shore picnic style, meaning he had brought only one servant and, at Sarah’s urging, had attired the man in simple brown waistcoat and breeches instead of his usual brocaded livery.

 

The company was turning its attention to the stack of cakes and pastries at the end of the table when the gaze of the port’s senior customs official fixed on the point of rock Sarah had been watching.

 

“The infernal savage is lighting up again,” the commissioner muttered.

Heads turned toward the solitary figure who tended a smoky fire on the tongue of land that jutted into the mouth of the harbor. They were not close enough for Duncan to make out details, but he recognized the man’s slow, methodical dance and shoulder-length gray hair.

 

“Every few days we must suffer the aged fool, sir,” the customs man explained to Lawford. “One of those pathetic old natives, no doubt reliving some memory conjured from his barbaric youth.”

 

Duncan noticed the smile that flickered on Sarah’s face. The figure was their close friend Conawago, and the fire, Duncan knew, was a signal.

 

“Not at all,” Duncan quickly countered. “He is performing a blessing for the harbor and the town. The fishing fleet leaves soon for the Grand Banks on its first sailing of the year, what they call First Fare. He asks the favors of his gods for the First Fare mariners.”

 

“His gods?” one of the younger officers snorted. “Surely they are all deaf and dumb by now!”

As the words brought a round of guffaws, Duncan shot a worried glance at Sarah, who stared down into her plate without expression and, he suspected, was biting her tongue.

 

The commodore stifled the laughter with a raised hand. “You can recognize this as a tribal blessing?” Lawford observed with a lift of inquiry in his voice, then contemplated Duncan a moment. “Ah, I forgot. You and Miss Ramsey have a settlement adjoining the native lands, in the New York wilderness. That must breed certain”—the captain searched for a polite word—“certain awareness.”

“The Iroquois,” Sarah replied in a careful voice, “have generously accepted us as neighbors, yes. And you may be surprised, Captain, at how many natives live in this very town. Responsible citizens, mostly employed on the sailing vessels. Valued seaman, every one.”

 

“I have several on my own ships,” Hancock confirmed. “Fearless fellows. Always the first to scramble up the shrouds in a storm. I’m surprised the navy hasn’t—” Hancock caught himself, glancing awkwardly at the naval officers who sat across from him, many of whom would have commanded impressment parties. “Surprised they haven’t fully recognized the skills of such men,” he awkwardly amended.

 

One of the officers, well known for commanding bullying impressment squads, responded with a bitter expression. “Our coppery friends may hate what the Americans have done to their people,” he haughtily observed, “but put them in earshot of one of my press gangs and they become the most loyal of colonial residents, damn their eyes.”

 

Impressment had become such a source of friction that the navy had agreed not to seize any man who could prove an established Massachusetts residence. That proof could be hard to come by for the native mariners, many of whom lived wandering lives, but Marbleheaders were quick to support the natives, if just to spite the navy.

 

Out of the corner of his eye Duncan caught movement on the hill above the warehouses. A man was walking at a fast, determined pace toward the harbor. Sarah, too, took notice, studying him for a moment, then glancing uneasily at Conawago, who raised and lowered his arms through the thick, fragrant smoke of the burning juniper.

 

“One of your tidesmen, I believe,” Hancock observed to the customs commissioner as the port inspector approached their table. Sarah cast a nervous glance at the approaching tidesman. She had made a point of inviting all the local customs officers to the tea, but apparently at least one had declined. The commissioner rose and turned to receive a whispered report. Hancock offered the man a glass of claret, which he gulped down before departing. It was, Duncan knew, the mer- chant’s ploy to pry loose the news delivered by the man. “I daresay one of yours, Mr. Hancock,” was all the tidesman offered before leaving.

 

The commissioner, however, was all too happy to share the report. “Brig from the West Indies has dropped anchor,” he announced to the table. “Sugar and mo- lasses. In the outer harbor beyond the Neck. A bit odd given that we have ample berthing closer to shore.”

 

Hancock did a creditable job of hiding his surprise, but Duncan could see he had not expected the ship, at least not at Marblehead. His larger ships all ended their ocean voyages at Hancock Wharf in Boston. “Her captain is a God-fearing man who no doubt does not wish to disturb the Sabbath,” the merchant offered.

 

“But is he a king-fearing man?” the customs commissioner shot back with a thin, needling smile. “We shall see at first light tomorrow.” He would reap a rich bounty if he could prove another Hancock ship was engaged in smuggling.

 

Sarah, sensing the tension between the two men, lifted her glass. “Our noble competition arrives!” she announced, indicating the sullen file of sailors who had finally cleared the wreckage from the cutter’s deck and were now approaching their table. The face of Lieutenant Oakes reflected the ignominy of his defeat, but then he spotted Sarah and her crew and halted. He collected himself, straightening his uniform and ordering his men into a less ragged line. They advanced at a jaunty pace and upon reaching Sarah, the young lieutenant removed his hat and bowed to her.

“’Tis far better to have raced you and lost, Miss Ramsey,” the lieutenant declared, “than to have never raced you at all.”

 

“Hear, hear! Well done!” Lawford exclaimed. “A noble sentiment!”

The cutter’s men did not entirely share their skipper’s graciousness, for Dun- can heard one mutter something about “the vixen leading us into a trap,” but the tension melted as Sarah’s crew approached the sailors, holding mugs of ale. Fifty paces down the waterfront, where the townspeople were gathered, someone started playing a fiddle.

 

Duncan grinned as the women stepped into the open yard and began dancing a jig to the distant tune, pulling the chagrined sailors out of their line to join them. He felt Sarah tug at his arm and turned, thinking she was inviting him to dance, then followed her gaze toward a man stumbling down one of the side streets, running at a gasping, uneven pace in the direction of their table. His face was so pale, his long hair so disheveled, that Duncan did not recognize him at first. The man staggered to Hancock’s chair, bracing himself on its back as he struggled to catch his breath.

 

It was Simon Pollard, a retired schoolteacher who watched over Hancock’s operations in the port. His mouth opened and shut, but only a stuttering groan came out. Hancock hastily poured his deputy a glass of water. Pollard’s hand shook so badly that half the glass’s contents were lost before reaching his mouth.

 

“The belfry, sir! It’s . . . it’s . . .” Pollard glanced at the military men who lined the table and lowered his voice. “That lieutenant who runs the army patrols, he . . . Oh dear God . . .” His voice trailed away, and his head slumped. One more word escaped his lips, in a frantic whisper. “Crucifixion!”

 

Hancock leapt to his feet. Duncan was out of his chair an instant later and followed Hancock toward the long building that was fronted by the belfry, the name given to the tall structure at the end of the long rope walk Hancock had built to supply his merchant fleet. The tower’s latticework of timbers was used to suspend shrouds and special rigging in their finishing stages. Duncan last visited the belfry just three days earlier. He had watched in admiration as workers scrambled over the scaffolding, twisting and knotting fibers into a heavy backstay for a ship that was being refitted in the harbor.

 

As they reached the building’s door, Hancock halted Duncan. “There is trickery afoot, Duncan! They somehow know we were with that dead officer, I swear it! Did you not see the knowing gazes, the slippery glances? And now they surprise me with one of my own ships! They weren’t here for the race; they were here to beat down the leaders of the Sons of Liberty! It’s a plot to seize another of my ships! I’ll be ruined!”

 

“Steady on, John,” Duncan cautioned. “Something is afoot, but it’s still unfolding. Don’t indulge them by overreacting.” Duncan looked over Hancock’s shoulder. Lawford was bent over Pollard, and as Duncan watched, the captain spun about and hurried up the hill, followed by several of his officers. He took a deep breath and put a hand on the door, which was ajar. “Let us see what new trouble Lieutenant Hicks has brewed for us.” He stepped inside and froze. The timber scaffolding had not been used for its usual maritime magic this day.

 

“Blessed Jesus!” Hancock gasped as he entered the chamber, then retreated a step, stricken by the sight before them. Moments later Lawford and his companions arrived. One of the young officers made a croaking sound and doubled over, staggering to a corner as he retched onto the stone flags.

 

Duncan had taken Pollard’s muttered Crucifixion! to be just the expletive of a pious man, but now he saw the terrible truth.

 

Ropes had been tied to Hicks’s wrists, then strung through the pulley blocks fastened eight feet high on the side walls and fed through the overhead center block used to raise heavy rigging. The lieutenant had been hoisted six feet into the air, his arms stretched tight toward the opposite walls so that he was splayed against the scaffold. His face was drained of blood, his open eyes unseeing. His mouth and nostrils were sewn shut.

 

About the Author

ELIOT PATTISON

ELIOT PATTISON is the author of the Inspector Shan series, which includes
The Skull Mantra, winner of an Edgar Award and finalist for the Gold Dagger.
Pattison’s Bone Rattler series follows Scotsman Duncan McCallum on the
road to revolution as he fights to protect the cause of freedom. Pattison
resides in rural Pennsylvania.

 

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Wildcard Blitz

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Sci-Fi Romance, BDSM

Date Published: November 22, 2024

 


 

 

Passion’s the pot when Rowan Kerr draws the Wildcard.

 

Though she lives in a world of Beyonce and iPhones, Indra Fox thinks she
may be an alien. She’s too strong, too fast, and heals too quickly to
be merely human. But she doesn’t know for sure, because her parents
refused to tell her. Nor would they explain why she — and her equally
superhuman best friend, Diana Newman — were raised to be warriors.

When their families are murdered, Indra and Diana seek revenge on their
killers, Satan’s Horsemen. Then Diana is kidnapped, and Indra goes
undercover at a strip club the gang owns to discover where her friend has
been taken.

But when Rowan Kerr walks into the club, Indra realizes he’s even
more powerful than she is. Rowan says he knows who she really is and what
she was created to do, but she must go with him to learn the truth.

Indra will do anything to save Diana. Including embracing her destiny as
something more than human.

Rowan thinks Indra could be the teammate — and lover — he dreams of. But
she’s mad as hell about being kept in ignorance, and she’s
convinced that she’s been betrayed by the woman he works for.
What’s worse, she’s not wrong. Can he convince her to take a
chance on him? And can Indra and Rowan defeat the very real aliens who are
behind Diana’s abduction?

 

They’d better, or humanity will pay the price for their
failure.

 

 

Wildcard tablet
 

EXCERPT

Rowan

I eyed the long, low stucco building as I got out of the car.

Pink neon depicted the outline of a writhing nude woman with a tail and cat
ears wrapped around a purple neon stripper pole. More neon read “Pole
Katz Gentleman’s Club,” in red.

You sure this is the right address? I asked my computer implant.

Qubit’s silky female voice replied, Her nanos ping from this
location, and have been doing so for five hours a night for thirty-eight
days. There’s a 93.8 percent chance she’s working here.

Why? She sure doesn’t need the money. I frowned at the neon stripper.
Has to be hunting.

Odds are running at 87.6, Qubit agreed.

Indra Fox was going to be about as happy to see me as a serial killer
finding cops at the door. And for the same reason.

I headed for the purple awning over the club’s entrance. Even without
enhanced senses, I’d have been able to hear the music — Beyonce
purring about getting frisky in a limo.

Qubit displayed results from sensor scans and web searches along the
periphery of my visual field, flashing the club’s layout and the
number of people inside — one hundred and fifty-three patrons and staff. Of
those, one hundred and fifty-two were Nats — natural humans. There was only
one who wasn’t. Indra Fox.

Double doors led into a narrow, black-walled foyer vibrating with music
just short of deafening. To my left stood a cashier’s window where a
bored-looking woman in a bare-midriff Pole Katz T manned a Square station. A
sign over the window informed me of the twenty-dollar cover charge.

“Hi, there,” the cashier purred, giving me an approving
once-over.

Pulling out my wallet, I peeled off a twenty and handed it over.

“Thanks,” she said. “Enjoy.”

“I’m sure I will.” I turned to find a narrow-eyed bouncer
glowering by the curtained entry to the main room. He wore black chinos and
a black T that said SECURITY in all caps. He looked the part, too —
six-foot-three, 232.8 pounds, per Qubit’s sensors — with skin the
color of teak, a shaved head, and full-sleeve tats on massive arms. Judging
from his expression, he didn’t like the looks of me. Probably because
big as he was, I was bigger. I suspected he was also trying to figure out if
I was a cop. Or worse, if I’d get drunk and disorderly, and if he
could handle me if I did.

Dude, you wouldn’t have a prayer.

“Don’t touch the girls,” he warned. “Be a
gentleman.”

“I’m never anything but.”

He looked dubious, but I gave him a twenty-dollar tip, and he relaxed as if
reassured. Which might be a bit premature, depending on what happened with
Fox.

I stepped past him through the curtained doorway into an eye-searing storm
of thumping music and colored light. The club’s dark walls were
covered with neon silhouettes of women in erotic poses, and the floor was
scuffed dark wood. A curving translucent bar glowed to the right, edged in
yet more neon.

You need to buy a drink first, Qubit told me. There’s an etiquette to
patronizing these places, and you don’t want to draw attention.

Yeah, I’d hate to be conspicuous. I was six and a half feet tall.
Conspicuous was pretty much baked into the cake. Snorting, I headed to the
bar to collect an overpriced Scotch, then turned to work my way through the
crowd as Qubit scanned for our target.

The focus of the room was an oval stage with a pair of sturdy chrome poles,
a set of four steps at one end. A ring of plump chairs in red velvet
surrounded it, occupied by rapt patrons. Additional groupings of chairs and
tables clustered around that, mostly men, with a few couples scattered here
and there.

A blonde Nat girl worked one of the poles to the cheers and hoots of the
customers. I headed for the chairs around the stage.

If you sit there, you’ll be expected to tip every dancer, Qubit
warned as I dropped into the sole unoccupied seat.

Money not being a problem — one of the perks of working for Mama — I
shrugged. Fine. If Fox is dancing, I want to make eye contact. According to
her file, the only one of us Indra had ever met was Diana Newman. I wanted
to see how she’d react to me.

The blonde dancer bounced upward, grabbed the pole hand over hand and swung
her way around it, arching her leanly muscled body into a seductive curve.
She was down to a G-string and pasties, so she must be most of the way
through her act.

I would have been interested, but I could smell her. Not that she smelled
bad — fresh sweat, some kind of floral shampoo and citrus body wash, a hint
of mint from her mouthwash. But underneath that, she smelled Nat. So no, not
my type, though she had the kind of lean grace you get from swinging around
a pole for hours a day.

Frowning, I watched her spin and grind. Why hadn’t Mama ordered Indra
Fox and Diana Newman picked up when their parents were murdered? Or if not
then, once it became clear they were stalking the killers?

Instead, Mama had let the two run. Now Newman was offline too, and Fox was
still killing assholes.

The blonde finished her routine. Absently, I held up a ten. The Nat
sauntered over and knelt so I could tuck it into her G-string. Giving me a
dazzling smile, she winked. “Want a lap dance?”

I smiled and shook my head. Looking disappointed, she stood and headed for
the next bill. The guy who waved it looked a lot more enthusiastic.

This whole fucking thing is weird. Fox has capped four men in the past
year. Why not pick her up before now? Mama doesn’t approve of merking
people, even actual mercs.

It was a rhetorical question, but Qubit answered anyway. She didn’t
share her reasoning.

There’s a shock.

Not that I was shedding any tears for Fox’s victims. According to the
police files Qubit had hacked, they’d been members of Satan’s
Horsemen, a mercenary gang suspected in a slew of illegal shit — drug
trafficking, prostitution, gun running, murder for hire. No wonder the cops
didn’t care they’d ended up room temperature. Though judging by
the crime scene pics, Fox’s temper was almost as nasty as mine.

The local po-po also suspected Pole Katz was run by the Horsemen, though a
couple of raids had turned up jack in the way of evidence. All they’d
managed to do was charge two girls with allowing a little too much groping
during lap dances.

Any of the gang present?

 

 

About the Author

New York Times best-selling author Angela Knight has written and published
more than sixty novels, novellas, and ebooks, including the Mageverse and
Merlin’s Legacy series. With a career spanning more than two decades,
Romantic Times Bookclub Magazine has awarded her their Career Achievement
award in Paranormal Romance, as well as two Reviewers’ Choice awards
for Best Erotic Romance and Best Werewolf Romance.

Angela is currently a writer, editor, and cover artist for Changeling Press
LLC. She also teaches online writing courses. Besides her fiction work,
Angela’s writing career includes a decade as an award-winning South
Carolina newspaper reporter. She lives in South Carolina with her husband,
Michael, a thirty-year police veteran and detective with a local police
department.

 

Author Links

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 Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok: @changelingpress

 

Pre-Order Today

 

 

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EngAIged Virtual Book Tour

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Fearless Teaching in the Age of Bots

 

Nonfiction / Education / AI

Date Published: July 19, 2024

Publisher: MindStir Media

 

 

Venture into a world where AI acts as a catalyst for teachers, amplifying
the everyday wonders that educators bring to life in their classrooms.
Engage transformative innovations that elevate learning, liberating you to
concentrate on your true passion: teaching. Discover that even in the age of
teaching bots, the heart and soul of teaching can shine brighter than
ever.

 

“In a world increasingly interconnected with artificial intelligence,
the role of educators has never been more pivotal. EngAIged: Fearless
Teaching in the Age of Bots is not just a guide; it’s a clarion call to
teachers everywhere to harness the power of AI while preserving the essence
of education.” -ChatGPT

 

“EngAIged is a must-read book for K12 educators. The book provides
practical prompts and ideas that you can use in your classroom every day and
is a comprehensive guide that will help you unlock the full potential of AI
in the classroom and transform the way you teach.” – Copilot
 

 

“Learn how to harness the power of AI to transform your teaching and
learning with EngAIged, a must-read for all K-12 educators. This
comprehensive guide provides actionable strategies for integrating AI to
personalize learning, boost engagement, and empower you to teach with more
passion and creativity.”  – Gemini

 EngAIged tablet

EXCERPT

Miss Ada – The Ultimate Classroom Aide

 

Once upon a time, in the heart of Turing Elementary School, word spread through the corridors—a whisper about a class aide like no other. Her name was Miss Ada, an aide to Mr. Keating, and every morning, as the sun peaked through the classroom windows, Miss Ada would promptly enter Mr. Keating’s classroom. With a smile that radiated warmth, she effortlessly assumed her role as the teacher’s trusted companion, ready to embark on another day of wondrous adventures.

First, she took attendance in what seemed like a second, then her voice calmed the room as she greeted each student with familiarity and enthusiasm. No name went unspoken, no absent student went unnoticed. Miss Ada had an uncanny ability to remember her students and make each feel seen and acknowledged, right from the start of the day.

But her talents did not stop there. With lightning speed, she corrected papers, analyzing each response with a keen eye for detail. No error escaped her notice, and she provided instant feedback, guiding students toward mastery. Grateful for her assistance, Mr. Keating basked in his newfound hours, which he could now devote to deepening his students’ understanding of the subject matter.

Miss Ada was also a lesson-planning genius. With her helpful insights, she supported Mr. Keating, creating dynamic lesson plans tailored to the specific needs and learning styles of each student. He no longer had to toil through hours of research and preparation. With a simple request, Miss Ada would present a treasure trove of resources, activities, and engaging materials, transforming the classroom into a center of exploration and discovery.

But Miss Ada’s true superpower was her ability to prepare personalized learning plans for Mr. Keating to give each student. Equipped with access to a vast database of educational materials and a deep understanding of each student’s progress, she crafted assignments that targeted specific areas for improvement. With her precision and insight, she ensured that no student’s potential went untapped. Students eagerly awaited each assignment with its focus on their special interests, and parents celebrated each student’s growth under Mr. Keating’s tutoring.

As days turned into weeks, Mr. Keating’s trust in Miss Ada grew exponentially. She effortlessly juggled the administrative burdens that had once consumed his time, freeing him to focus on what truly mattered – teaching.

As Mr. Keating and Miss Ada’s class became their favorite, suspicions students whispered that there was something quite unusual about Miss Ada. Rumors started to sweep through the corridors about this mysterious marvel and how she came to be Mr. Keating’s aide.

And then, one momentous day, Mr. Keating decided the day had come to address the swirling controversy.

 

About the Author

Jim Bowler

Jim Bowler’s lifelong passion for teaching is the cornerstone of his
distinguished career. With almost two decades as a high school teacher and
principal in the heart of Silicon Valley, he has an intimate understanding
of classroom dynamics. Today, Jim stands as a driving force in the field of
educational technology, advancing innovative technologies and AI solutions
for educators.

 

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Airmail & Chocolate Pie Virtual Book Tour

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Back to Boonetown

Memoir

 

 

Airmail and Chocolate Pie: Back to Boonetown is a heartwarming and
nostalgic journey of unexpected discovery. One moment, Bobby Evers had no
plans to write another book; the next, a phone call and an old duffle bag
changed everything. The bag, belonging to his father, contained letters from
his mother during his father’s military service. These letters rekindled
Bobby’s passion for storytelling and sparked a deeply emotional
connection with his late parents.

Through these letters, Bobby found himself transported to another time,
filling the pages with stories rooted in love, family, and history. This
compelling book is not just a collection of memories, but a testament to how
life’s surprises can lead us back to our passions. With each letter,
Bobby connects to the past, shaping a narrative that’s as personal as
it is universal.

Join Bobby on this touching adventure, where past and present intertwine,
and see how the discovery of his parents’ letters inspired him to create
something truly special. Whether you’re a fan of heartfelt stories or
historical reflections, Airmail and Chocolate Pie: Back to Boonetown will
resonate deeply with anyone who cherishes the power of family and the
written word.

Airmail & Chocolate Pie tablet

EXCERPT

Introduction

 

Things change. 

One day you think you are settled in for a while, with plans to write a new play. People occasionally asked me if a new book was in the works, and I’d say, “No, not anytime soon.” I’d written a few stories that I liked, but I just wasn’t feeling the desire to work on another book. I wanted to try something different. At least that’s what I was thinking. 

Then, out of the blue, my nephew got a phone call, and picked up a bag someone found in an old shed: a seventy-year-old duffle bag of my dad’s. You wouldn’t think that would change any of my immediate plans, but it did. 

Suddenly, I was reading letters. Lots of letters. Letters sent from my mom to my dad when he was in the military. And a story was forming in my head as quickly as I could digest the words on the pages. 

Suddenly, I was writing stories I felt a strong emotional connection to, stories I wanted to publish. 

It felt very much as if I were getting a kick in the pants from my parents, urging me to keep writing. 

They both died long before I wrote anything, so I always wondered what they might think about my books. Would they be proud? Offended? Shocked? 

That very unexpected discovery sent me on a writing journey, with renewed enthusiasm for the practice of storytelling. It fueled my desire to publish this book, and it re-connected me with my mom and dad in a new way.

 So, yes, things do change. Sometimes in the most unexpected way. And then your mind changes, your focus changes and, suddenly, you have a new book to share.

 It’s a book I am proud to share. I hope you enjoy.

 

 

About the Author

Bobby Evers

Bobby Evers is a life-long Tennessean, a theater enthusiast, and avid
traveler. Being a keen people-watcher, he has always been a storyteller, and
now he brings those stories to the page in his first book. He has worked in
the construction business, and as an interior designer and architectural
consultant for over thirty-five years.

 

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