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By Leslie Carroll

40 is extraordinary for Tessa Craig. Heck, she has it all—a glamorous task as a political speechwriter, a new york duplex, and a good-looking boyfriend, Congressman David Weyburn, whose integrity, aura, and beauty have made him his party's emerging celebrity. yet her fabulosity fizzles while scandal moves, and Tessa watches helplessly as her doubtless satisfied love existence and profitable profession cave in like a home of playing cards. Tessa realizes it is time to embark on a brand new trip, one she must have made decades in the past. it is a journey that takes her to the Emerald Isle and again, major her center in unimagined instructions. She makes new neighbors, all of sudden adopts a brand new family members (or do they undertake her?), and discovers unanticipated love with silver-tongued, green-eyed, aspiring pub proprietor, Jamie Doyle. And, most significantly, Tessa makes that uphill climb over the rainbow to discover the last word pot of gold: Herself.

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They’re like a starving dog with a bone, aren’t they? ” “It’s obscene,” Gus agrees, removing his baseball cap and mopping his perspiring pate with a blue bandanna. He dabs at his brown brush mustache as well. “But just because the media 38 Leslie Carroll is inviting you to mud wrestle, it don’t mean you should climb down into the pit with them. We’ve got to stay on message and stay above this are-you-gay bullshit. But we’ve also got to be careful about trashing the media to their dirty little faces— even when they deserve it—because then they’ll start gunning for you on their own.

Though I still think it could use some tweaking. I’d like to rehearse a Q&A as well, even if we have to do it in the car on the way to the pier. ” “Perfect. The very fact that something’s being bleeped will grab people’s attention. It’s also a funny first line. ” There’s a knock on the door. “Don’t get up, I’ll get it,” I joke. I open the door a crack. ” A nurse is standing there holding a little plastic cup. ” She goes over to David’s bed, takes his temperature, and notates the readouts on each of the machines to which he is attached.

If you want some space . . ” I wonder if I even mean this. ” And I know I wouldn’t mean that. “It’s not a matter of space . . or time . . something temporary . . I mean, I just don’t want to be . . I don’t . . I want to be on my own, Tess. ” The words aren’t much more than a gargle in my throat. “You are . . ” A Pinteresque pause follows. “Oh, God” escapes my lips as a strangled sob. He might as well have sucker-punched me. “There’s so much going on right now . . ” He pats the sofa beside him and I perch.

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