Driven Press is very excited to announce the hardcover release of
A Keeper's Truth
by Dee Willson on March 1, 2016.
A Keeper's Truth
by Dee Willson on March 1, 2016.
Book Details:
Hardcover Novel
Genre: Literary
Romance
Blurb
Every one of us has a
soul.
Some are new, some
old, and a few, the dangerous, are lost.
But only twelve know
why we have a soul at all.
Only twelve remember
mankind’s forbidden past.
Tess thinks
she’s going crazy when only she sees the naked man in the crowded café,
comatose woman in his arms. The nightmares, the visions: something’s not right.
But Tess is entitled to moments of insanity. She’s the daughter of mental
illness, suicide, and her husband was just killed in a car accident, leaving
her an inept single mom at twenty-six.
Then Tess
meets Bryce, Carlisle’s illusive bachelor who spins tales from ancient
mythology with knowledge beyond his years. His truths intrigue Tess, pull her
from the depths, and might just be what she needs to survive.
Compulsively
readable, A Keeper’s Truth is an emotionally charged tale of fate, belief, and
the power of the human mind. A story that will have you questioning everything
you know about the history of mankind, and wondering if somewhere, deep inside,
you knew the truth all along.
Praise for A
Keeper's Truth . . .
“With a
generous wit that readers should savor, Willson presents Tess as a damaged
woman desperate to heal. . . as Willson unfurls more of her world, her
series’ immense potential proves irresistible.” —Kirkus Reviews
“Dee
Willson is a born storyteller . . . her worlds are freshly invented,
meticulously considered and richly told." —Katherine Luttinger,
Agent, Darhansoff & Verrill, New York
Tess is a
highly credible and original lead character . . . that combined with a
surprising portrait of ancient lore, the novel really comes alive.” —D. J.
McIntosh, Author of The Witch of Babylon
"Dee
Willson’s characters cast shadows sharp enough to make even the most jaded
reader uneasy. She juxtaposes comfort with peril and the beautiful with the
grotesque until the simplest gestures are disquieting and the only way out is
forward." —Rob Brunet, Author of Stinking Rich
"I
love finding books that don't go the obvious path... books that keep you
guessing." —Jennifer Foxcroft, Author of Sanguine
Mountain
Excerpt
My name is Tess. I'm the daughter of a liar. And unhinged.
Tess is the name on the sticker stuck to my shirt above my right boob. I wonder why it says that, no one uses my name anymore. It should read: Oh, I’m sorry. Or the extended version: Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I’m greeted with pouty lips and sad eyes. Instant reminders . . . as if I need to be reminded my husband is dead. Meyer has been gone five months, two days, sixteen hours, and twenty-two minutes. The last two minutes only slightly better than the first.
Tess is the name on the sticker stuck to my shirt above my right boob. I wonder why it says that, no one uses my name anymore. It should read: Oh, I’m sorry. Or the extended version: Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I’m greeted with pouty lips and sad eyes. Instant reminders . . . as if I need to be reminded my husband is dead. Meyer has been gone five months, two days, sixteen hours, and twenty-two minutes. The last two minutes only slightly better than the first.
I’m
standing in my daughter’s classroom, waiting for my turn to meet her
kindergarten teacher, Ms. Bubbly. Actually, her name is Ms. Rainer, but since
she wears no sticker herself, I’ve taken the liberty to provide her with an
appropriate title, one with more verve. I hover in the back corner, pretending
to be enthralled with drawings of horses stapled to the bulletin board. Well, I
think they’re horses, or ponies, or some sort of animal with four legs; they
really aren’t all that easy to decipher. I’m grateful for the distraction. I’m
a shell, a remnant, a shadow of my former self.
I catch a
glimpse of affection, a naturally intimate gesture between lovers. His hand on
her waist, her leaning into his shoulder while whispering in his ear. I draw a
mouthful of air, the word widow encasing me like a tomb, and scan the crowd
again, hoping to see Thomas. He’s the only other single parent I know of. He’s
not here.
It must be
my turn to speak to Ms. Bubbly. She reaches out and with a strained voice says,
“So sorry to learn about your loss.”
Great,
just what I wanted to hear. I look at my nametag and tighten my arms into their
usual position, holding my insides, inside. I realize my lack of finesse a
moment too late, and Ms. Bubbly drops her hand.
“So . . .
Abby . . .” I can’t think of anything more to say. My mind is
mush.
Ms. Bubbly
briefs me on her first weeks with my daughter, nothing I don’t already know.
Abby is quiet. Abby’s working on her printing skills, her b’s and d’s are
backwards. Abby likes to play with Thomas’s daughter, Sofia, her best friend
from junior kindergarten. Ms. Bubbly ends with, “Abby seems to be coping,” and
I stare at my shoes, the word coping caught in my throat. “Yes, under the
circumstances, Abby is doing well,” Mrs. Bubbly says, her animation dwindling.
I realize
she’s striving for sincerity, but I can’t help but wonder which circumstance
she’s referring to: Abby being fatherless or my inability to raise her alone.
“Good,” I
say, because it’s Tuesday, opposite day according to the blackboard.
Ms.
Bubbly’s attention wanders, and I consider revoking her title as I mumble
goodbye, head for the door, and tear the name tag from my shirt. Head down, I
smack my forehead into something solid, then recoil, instinct requiring an
assessment of the battle wound.
It hurts
already. Life just won’t toss me a break.
“My
apologies, Tess,” says an unfamiliar voice. A rich, masculine voice.
My eyes
follow the six feet four inches of triple-threat black—boots, jeans, leather
jacket—to land on two-day stubble and a large hand rubbing the contours of a
chiseled chin. Apparently life can get worse. I’ve collided with Adonis, the
kind that stops your heart from beating just long enough to make you forget all
the ones who came before, offering nothing but hollow promises and seasoned
moves. Been there, done that, burned the shirt.
It dawns
on me he said my name, no condolences.
“Do I know
you?” I ask, my gaze rising from his chin to his eyes.
Wow. His
gray eyes and dark lashes are . . . mesmerizing.
“I doubt
we’ve met. Tess, it’s the name on your sticker,” he says, pointing to the name
tag now on the floor. His hair, dark and cropped, is windblown and off kilter.
I grab the
closest chair, attempting to overcome the strangest sensation, like I’m a
feather, floating.
“You all
right?” His European accent has an almost liquid quality, at odds with his
rugged appearance. “Allow me.”
Relocating
his motorcycle helmet from one hip to the other and balancing it under his
forearm, he bends to collect my sticker from the floor. Something shimmers, my
vision suddenly malfunctioning, and for a split second he’s draped in a
luxurious white fur, a blanket of sorts, reaching for a bright colored scarf at
his feet, big and bare. His movements are gentle and deliberate, but fast, as
if I am watching in fast-forward. With the conclusion of one blink he’s back to
normal, leather clad arm outstretched toward me.
I stand
stock-still, holding the chair for support, trying to bring my eyes into focus.
“You
okay?” He thrusts the sticker at me a second time, I think.
I survey
body parts, grateful gravity has kept me intact.
“I’ve been
better.” I squeeze my eyes tight, trying to recall what I’d seen, but it’s
gone, as if wiped from memory, leaving just a weird sense of déjà vu. Man, I’ve
fallen apart since Meyer’s been gone.
“You
have,” he says, and my eyes pop open to stare. He’s smiling, amused. “Too much
caffeine maybe.”
Have I met
this guy before? He doesn’t look like anyone I know, but there is something
about him, something familiar. It’s not a good feeling.
“Right,
caffeine,” I say, lying. I gave up caffeine when I was pregnant with Abby and
never looked back.
He grins
like a hyena. “Your eyes playing tricks?”
My mother,
in one of her moods, would’ve wiped that smirk away with a kiss. And he’d have
let her, stranger or not. She was intoxicating. But I’m not my mother, and my
brief lapse in sanity doesn’t require justification. I’m a twenty-six-year-old
widow with no idea how to pull it together, so I ignore his question and settle
for diversion.
“Are you a
teacher here?”
“Not
here,” he says. “I promised my niece I’d stop by to meet hers.” He takes my
hand. “Bryce, Bryce Waters,” he says, planting a soft kiss on the back of my
fingers.
Stunned, I
search his face for the slightest hint of perversion, a reason to club him, but
I see nothing but a gentleman in wolf’s clothing. Still, I pull my hand away.
“I’m not
the teacher.”
He tilts
his head. “You’re Tess.” My name drips from his lips like melted butter and
warning bells sound in my head, loud and clear. “You’ll need ice for that
bruise.” He points to my head. “Take care of yourself.”
A gritty
moan vibrates my teeth when I touch my forehead and discover a bump the size of
Mount St. Helens. It throbs, making me take note of the headache creeping in.
Somewhere under the surface I’m mortified I plowed into this guy without an
apology or concern for his chin. I can’t bring myself to grasp the emotion, so
I draw a deep breath and say, “Always do,” as I shuffle past and without
another word, walk straight out the door.
Buy Links
Barnes & Noble
Waterstones
Indiebound
Fishpond
The paperback and e-book are releasing on April 1, 2016 and are currently available to pre-order at all the major online sellers:
Driven Press: http://ow.ly/XCGff
Amazon US: http://ow.ly/WNB5f
Amazon CA: http://ow.ly/WNBG8
Amazon UK: http://ow.ly/WNC9m
iTunes: http://ow.ly/WTAE0
B&N: http://ow.ly/WTBju
Kobo: http://ow.ly/WTARu
GooglePlay: http://ow.ly/XCGbu
Indigo: http://ow.ly/WTC8Y
For more information:
Dee Willson felt the writer’s call at fifteen, when she penned her first novel and received her first rejection letter to go with it. Over twenty years later, with two successful businesses under her belt (both with Canada’s largest book retailer, Indigo Books), Dee Willson rekindled her passion for novels. She joined a hard-core book club, published short stories and interviews, contributed to blogs, and wrote the novel A Keeper’s Truth, followed by GOT (Gift of Travel). Dee is presently working on the second instalment in the Keeper’s series, and Meant 2 B, a crazy ghost story riddled with fate.
Dee and her husband currently reside in Burlington, Ontario. They are building their dream home on the shore of Lake Ontario, where they expect to watch their daughters frolic in the lake, and possibly grow four heads.
Visit her online at www.deewillson.com or on Twitter @denisewillson
I'm thrilled! And thank you, Driven Press, for all your hard work!
ReplyDeleteDee Willson
Author of A Keeper's Truth