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May. 23rd, 2006 @ 11:58 pm Marsha...
Current Location: Oberon, California
Current Mood: exhaustedexhausted
Current Music: The Cranberries ~ Dreams




In Scent of the Roses, Marsha starts out in a repentant mood, eager to restablish her friendship with Scout, hoping to make up for the mistakes of her youth. But her inborn tendency to give people what they need, whether or not they want it, fouls her up more than once. And although she’s more laid back than either Scout or Lucy, she quickly emerges as a leader.

She's pragmatic, fatalistic, and far more stubborn than her mild demeanor might lead one to expect. There’s a wild, Celtic streak to Marsha’s makeup. She takes risks. She makes mistakes. But she shoulders the responsibilities for her actions and never shirks the blame.

The youngest of seven sisters, Marsha was clearly something of an after thought. The first five of her sisters have fairly typical Irish names. The sixth, Jamie, was named after her father—when that gentleman finally despaired of having a son. But even though she was the baby of the family, Marsha had to grow up quickly. A near fatal car accident when she was seventeen forced her to learn her own strengths. The birth of her daughter, Jasmine, less than two years later, and the resultant estrangement from her family, put her out on her own, a single mother at nineteen years old.

Next came her ill fated marriage to Alex and the birth of her twin sons, Frank aand Jesse. By the time Sam catches up with her in the second book of the series, she's just about given up on love and she's definitely given up on marriage.

I anticipated that her story would more or less 'end' with book two, instead, a subplot-gone-wild in book three, Sound of a Voice That Is Still, and a curious twist of fate at the end of book seven, Visions before Midnight, ensured that her character would see a lot of action, almost until the end.

Why, it was almost as if Sam had paid someone off, in order to give his angel a greater than average share of the spotlight. *grin*

In this excerpt from A Sight To Dream Of, it's the day after they'd met and Sam is making tea in the kitchen of Celeste's old cabin...

Sam busied himself in the kitchen, listening to the muffled sounds emanating from the living room, waiting for the silence that would tell him [Marsha] had recovered her composure.

He thought about going to her, holding her as he had last night when she’d cried. But somehow, he didn’t think she would appreciate the gesture. Things were different now between them. Changed, somehow. Complicated. The kiss had done that. And while he wasn’t exactly sorry for it, he had to admit it had not been one of his brighter ideas. Because the last thing he needed in his life right now were more complications.

He moved quietly and deliberately about the room, filling the kettle at the old white porcelain sink, placing cups and plates on a tray, adding a pitcher of milk, and a jar of honey when he could find no sugar. He’d picked blackberries that morning, from vines he discovered down near the creek, and now he added a bowl of them to the tray as well.

There were several canisters of tea to choose from, and he picked a dark, smoky brew--similar to a Lapsang Souchong. Something earthy, bracing and robust was what was called for, he thought. Something that would ground her and bring her back from sorrow. Maybe all the way back to that other place he sensed they’d been headed for a few minutes ago, out by the back steps.

A place as thick with complications as the blackberry vines had been thick with thorns.

The last place he should be thinking of going, right now.

He couldn’t wait.

He was amazed at the strength of his attraction for her. He tried once more to analyze it, while he waited for the water to boil, and for the sounds of her sobbing to subside.

It was this place. It had to be this place. Something about this weird little town was affecting him in the strangest ways. He had spent the better part of the last twenty-four hours thinking about this woman, staring at her, talking to her, even touching her. And he was not one bit closer to recognizing what it was in either her features or her expressions or her mind that he found so compelling, knowing only that it seemed to be everything at once.

Her lips alone, though--so soft and full and just hinting at an erogenous prehensibility he found irresistible--were enough, all by themselves, to almost make him lose his mind. He’d made sure of that last night.

And then there were her eyes, in whose fathomless green depths he’d swear he now and again caught glimpses of eternity. Of his own personal paradise, waiting to be discovered and explored.

He didn’t think it had anything to do with the clothes she wore. Although he had to admit, that there had been something unexpectedly appealing about the sight of her huddled in his jacket, last night. She was dressed today in a loose, floaty, peacock colored outfit. Green and bronze and navy blue, its loose lines only hinting at the lush body she had pressed so tightly against his on the ride back to the Marina.

As distracted as it had made him, he had enjoyed the feel of her, round and full and soft. So very soft. He smiled, thinking now about how she’d melted in his arms when he kissed her. But his smile faded fast when he recalled the stunning sense of loss that hit him afterwards, as he watched her drive away.

Complications. Major complications.

Maybe it had something to do with the way she moved? He had noticed it again, today--out there in the glade. She moved with an unconscious, graceful dignity. Not just as if she were at home in this place, but as if she were an integral part of everything around her.

Her hair, those heavy coils of bronze and copper commingled, were a near match for the bark of the cedar trees she had pointed out to him. And he could easily imagine that the freckles on her skin were an exotic form of camouflage she’d adapted to allow her to hide within the dappled woods.

He knew that if he never learned the answer, the question of whether those freckles extended over the whole of her body in equal profusion, would haunt him for the rest of his days.

For the rest, as he’d guessed from her picture, she was neither tall nor thin nor young. And she had none of the cool sophisticated veneer he’d always favored. There was no reason at all for him to feel the way he did. And yet, there was something about the woman that he found completely irresistible.


©PG Forte 2006, All Rights Reserved.





(By Blog Flux)





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