This past week I was invited to talk to a Book Club of 15 women whom I’d never met in a town 30 minutes away.

The 10-year-old group, which discusses a new book monthly with dinner and drinks, focused this night on my romantic suspense: The Right Wrong Man.

A real author.

 After I met the hostess of a large and lovely New England home and stood by the kitchen counter (where the appetizers, wine and soft drinks were served), I was introduced to all the club members. Each woman oohed and ahhed about meeting a “real author.”

I must admit, it was thrilling.

But my ego was diverted once in a while by a mysterious door located near the kitchen. Someone, or something, seemed to be kicking at the door from the inside, making a sad, lonesome, and frequent banging sound. Sometimes the eerie and alien-like noise emitting forth from the other side of the door gave  me a chilling sense that the door might explode open at any time. Continue reading →