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Hope can rise from the smallest ember
After a devastating fire rages through Rob Monroe’s rural Georgia community, the prime suspect is the pretty local baker. The blaze started in Kari Hendrix’s shop—and she just confessed to being convicted of arson as a teenager.
Rob knows in his heart that Kari’s innocent. So what is she running from? Who’s she protecting? As he digs deeper, he uncovers the truth about an unresolved crime in his own family. Now he has to make a choice. Is he going to let the past destroy his chance for a future with Kari?
Kari roared with laughter.
Rob swung her wide, lifting her off the floor and twirling her. “Got another cake that needs decorating?”
“That’s the sugar high talking—I think you may have licked one too many bowls of buttercream,” Kari said. But her eyes were sparkling, and Rob knew it wasn’t the buttercream that made his heart do a triple beat.
“There’s sugar, and then...well...there’s sugar,” he whispered. He bent down to kiss her.
She tasted of sugar...vanilla buttercream, to be exact. She smelled of the stuff, which suited him just fine, because for that moment all he wanted to do was take in the scent of her, the taste and the feel of her. If he’d had to decorate a thousand more cakes, give him a kiss like this, and he was game.
Because it was plain and simple. He was addicted to the sugar high that was Kari Hendrix...regardless of whatever secret she might be keeping.
Until I had the privilege of working for the US House of Representatives, I had always thought a juvenile offense was no big deal. Wasn’t it sealed away, never to haunt the grown-up, much wiser version of that foolish teenage self?
The answer, I found, was no. Even a misdemeanor arrest as a juvenile can come back to haunt a person in her adult years. Men and women in their twenties and thirties, in search of college loans, job opportunities, security clearances and other things that might improve their career prospects all told me the same thing: an arrest is still an arrest, a conviction still a conviction, no matter how old you were when it happened. Even an expunged record, I found, wasn’t truly a clean slate. On a job application, you still had to check yes on that box that asked, “Have you ever been arrested or convicted of a crime?”
That’s what my character Kari faces in Out of the Ashes: one bad decision so many years before comes back to haunt her. She’s older, wiser and a good deal sadder for her bad decision, but it still impacts her present in ways she had no idea it would when she made it. And it has the power to destroy any chance of her future with Rob.
I hope you enjoy Kari and Rob’s story as much as I enjoyed writing it!
Cynthia
Out of the Ashes
Cynthia Reese
CYNTHIA REESE lives with her husband and their daughter in south Georgia, along with their two dogs, three cats and however many strays show up for morning muster. She has been scribbling since she was knee-high to a grasshopper and reading even before that. A former journalist, teacher and college English instructor, she also enjoys cooking, traveling and photography when she gets the chance.
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To my husband, my biggest fan.
This book, like the ones before it, owes a tremendous debt to the efforts of the best editors on the planet, Kathryn Lye and Victoria Curran. I am so thankful for their belief in my writing. Karen Rock has a huge part of this as well, as she helped me brainstorm the original story idea and the story arc for the Georgia Monroes.
Thanks, too, goes to Sgt. Tommy Windham and all the firefighters at the City of Dublin, Georgia’s, Fire Department, to John Lentini of Scientific Fire Analysis, to Judge Sherri McDonald, and to Blake Tillery for their patient answers to my dumb questions. All mistakes are mine.
No man is an island, and no woman can truly write a book on her own: thanks to my critique partner Tawna Fenske, my beta reader Jessica Brown, my cheering squad and inspiration for big happy families, Leslie and the gang, and, last but not least, to those who have had to talk me down from the ledges—my sister, my daughter and my husband. Thank you for all the times you didn’t strangle me when I replied to any request, “Not now, I’m writing.”
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