"I could do better than this."
Call it hubris, because lord knows I have plenty, but I'm trying to "do better." I'm writing a book. I posted an excerpt on my personal blog which you can find by following the link here on Mrs. BG's, but after talking with Lesa, and the most objective of people, my loving sister and mother, I thought I'd throw it out there to see what readers who don't already love me think about it. They say the first few paragraphs are the most important anyway. Here goes:
What she held in her hands was closer to a catastrophic brain bleed than a headache because she was pretty sure it was an exact mirror to the jade dragon seal sitting in a nest of shredded paper beneath her bed. If Conner hadn’t already been dead, she’d have divorced him; in fact, she was wondering if she could have him exhumed for just that purpose. She wanted to throw the seal against a wall. Instead, she clenched it until the ache in her fingers worked its way up her arms then sat it gently at her feet. Individually, the seals were rare and ridiculously valuable. As a pair, they were priceless and fuel for an international fire-storm.
When resignation finally replaced rage, she took out her cell phone to call Jack Douglas, the FBI agent she’d been lying to all day.
Sean had offered to come to her, but Aubrey had declined. The hard angles of Oakland kept her more aware of her tenuous place in the world, but navigating them was a lot to ask of a man in a twelve hundred dollar sports jacket. Traffic was also easier for her than it would have been for him leaving San Francisco at this hour, particularly with the Bay Bridge in a perpetual state of construction, or deconstruction, depending on one’s point of view.
The view of the city, still orange-yellow from the last arcs of late autumn sunlight might have felt like karmic confirmation of a good deed had she not known her real motive was to keep him out of the firehouse. Conner and she had restored the crumbling hovel into a sleek home for their life together, and the last thing she wanted was his doppelganger sitting on the sofa in the softening effects of warm firelight and wine all night. The few evenings that happened soon after Conner’s death had all ended with a solitary climb up the stairs and sobbing. Among the things she’d figured out very early in life were: sobbing is useless and leads to occular bloating where as one foot in front of the other was and is always salvation.
Her cell phone ringtone and a number she recognized as belonging to Alan Mercer brought her back to the present. That had to be more down side than not because any call after hours meant something or someone broke bad and couldn’t wait until tomorrow morning but she was still grateful that whatever the topic of conversation would be, it was guaranteed to move away from reawakening sadness. She pressed “Accept.”