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Well, actually, a re-release.

Today, THERE’S NO PLACE LIKE HOME, the 4th book in the MacQuire Women series released into the book reading world. With everything going on – the death of our beloved POPE, Easter, and the collapse of democracy ( just to mention a few things!) I forgot about the release until Amazon sent me a “your book is available today” email.

So…

If you’ve been reading along with the series, THERE’S NO PLACE LIKE HOME is the 4th book in the series and tells the tale of Quentin Stapelton, Veterinarian, and Moira Cleary, concert pianist and their road to an HEA that is so deserving, my heart sings just thinking about it.

Oh, and there are animals galore in this one ( Veterinarian – right??! LOL) and a set of adorable twin puppies.

Symphony pianist Moira Cleary comes home after four years of touring, exhausted, sick, and spiritually broken. Emotional and psychological abuse at the hands of someone she trusted has left her gaunt, anxious, and at a crossroads both professionally and personally and she longs for the peace and love of her family around her.

Moira’s best friend, veterinarian Quentin Stapleton, wants nothing more than to help Moira get back to her old self. Can his natural healing skills make it possible for her to open her heart again?

And can he convince her she’s meant to stay home now with the family that loves her – and with him – forever?

Available in Amazon/print/kindle/KU

Happy reading, Kids!

So recently, I was interviewed by CanvasRebel magazine. Here’s the text. Have a gander…

CanvasRebelInterview

Here’s a little one from March 2019 ( Pre-covid!!!)

Last Friday I exhausted all my books’ first lines, so I thought I’d try something new: #1stkissfriday.

I’m going to take an excerpt of the first kiss from all my characters and each week spotlight one.

Today, of course it has to be the kiss from my first book SKATER’S WALTZ which recently had its 4th book birthday.

When he removed one hand from her arm, she reached up to trace the outline of one of his eyes. Her finger moved from the outer canthus to his cheek, smoothing the skin she touched. “You didn’t have these little lines when you left.”

Cole stared down at her face.

Her finger roamed down to the corners of his mouth, outlining them, then on to the small dent in the middle of his chin. An impish grin fanned across her face. “I remember being little and wondering if I smoothed this line away would I be able to see inside you, like it was a door or some kind of opening to your insides. Dumb, huh?”

“Sweet,” he said, softly. “Little girl sweet. Never dumb.”

Her eyes traveled up to his and locked there.

“When I got older I wondered what it would be like to kiss it.”

His breath hitched.

“Would it taste like soap, left over from shaving, or would it be all spiky and nubby because you missed a few hairs. Or would it taste uniquely like you do. I still wonder about that.”

“Tiffany.”

Knowing what he was about to do, and to whom, should have sent him jumping off the couch, running in the other direction. Instead, when his head came down to hers all Cole could think about was how much he wanted to taste her again, how he wanted to lose himself in her, and how both those feelings somehow seemed right, even though he knew they shouldn’t.

Her body tensed as he inched closer. When his lips finally captured hers, she turned fluid under his hands.

Her smooth, small body slackened beneath him as his lips gently moved across hers, tasting them, savoring them. Releasing his grip on her arms, he leaned on his elbows and ran his fingers into her hair, cupping her face while holding fistfuls of the glorious mane.

New, strange emotions jumped about in his body, heightening the sensation of every touch, every caress. She had a mouth made for kissing, for being pleasured and for giving pleasure in return. When he parted her lips with his tongue and edged into the inner treasures of her mouth, taking every inch of it captive, Cole felt as if he was falling to an abyss of pure and total joy.

A moan escaped from somewhere within her, so raw, so seductively feminine, it made Cole’s heart jump, thrilling him with the knowledge that he was the cause.

Tiffany’s hands fisted in his hair, moved down to his neck, his shoulders, massaging, kneading the tight muscles.

His lips traced down over her perfect jaw to the small hollow just behind her ear, and she shivered against his mouth.

A hot burst of sanity blew through his mind.

With a suddenness that left him breathless, Cole pulled back and gazed down into green eyes that were cloudy and drowsy and utterly sexual.

“Tiffany—”

“If you say you’re sorry, I’ll kill you.”

Taken aback, he flinched.

“I mean it,” she said, eyes now wide open and glaring straight at him.

“Tiff, I, I don’t know what to say.”

“The truth would be a good place to start,” she told him.
Cole pulled back to a sitting position and avoided her eyes.
When he hung his head into his hands, and swiped his hair behind his ears, Tiffany sat up.
“I don’t know what’s going on here, with the two of us,” Cole said. “I can’t seem to keep my hands off you. All I think about is—God, I’m sorry.”

“You’re a dead man,” she said flatly.

Intrigued? If you want to read Tiffany and Cole’s story, SKATER’S WALTZ is available in print and ebook, here:

Read a preview of SKATER’S WALTZ

Goodreads Reviews

Looking for me? I’m usually here:

Here’s the link to my TELL ME ABOUT YOUR DAMN BOOK podcast interview, just in case you missed it: TMAYDB

and the link to my recent interview on NewHampshirePublicRadio

So, I had my three-month dermatology check this week. Now, if you don’t know me, you’re probably asking, “Why does she have to see her derm every three months? Isn’t that a little excessive?”

Here’s the Cliff notes: I’ve had many instances of melanoma in the past 6 years, necessitating surgical removals of tumors/spots from my face, shoulders, back, stomach, and thighs. Going every 3 months helps keep my derm guy on the watch for changes.

And I had some this visit.

A biopsy of a spot on my shoulder that he is 99% positive is another cancer, probably melanoma because, apparently, my body likes that type of skin cancer. He also did a cryogenic freezing removal of a precancerous spot on my nose.

A two-fer. I haven’t had a two-fer in a year.

Lucky me. (Did you detect the sarcasm here?)

I haven’t been a sun worshiper in over 35 years. I’m gonna be 65 next month so that means when I hit 30 I stopped dousing myself in lotion and laying out in the sun.

Too little, too late, it turns out. Before I hit 15 I had 2-3 bad sunburns every summer because I am the very definition of pale-skinned. All the Irish heritage has played against me. I got the light eyes, light eyebrows, and light skin and the predisposition for skin cancer. When I was a kid, my mother used to slather me in baby oil and iodine and tell me to go lie out on the roof to get some color.

Boy, did I get color. The wrong kind.

As a teenager, my skin had toughened up a bit, and I was now responsible for the products I used to tan. Remember Ban de Soleil? It was basically baby oil in a spray can. There were no SPFs, nothing to block the rays. In fact, the oil attracted them—right onto my pale skin.

I stopped worshipping the sun when I turned 30, not for any health benefit. I just didn’t have the time anymore. I had a family to take care of and a career. Hours of sunbathing was a thing of the past.

It’s too bad I didn’t make that decision in my teens. It would have saved my 50s and 60s-year-old life a lot of money in surgical fees for skin removal and repair.

When I go out in public now, I have to wear a lot of makeup to hide the scars—of which I have five very prominent ones on both cheeks, forehead, chin, and under jawline.

I was never pretty. Now? I shudder to think what runs through people’s minds when they meet me without makeup.

ANyway. This was a long-winded way of saying a few things:

~ get a yearly dermatology check if you can

~wear a hat when you’re out in the sun, and sunglasses

~wear sunscreen EVERY SINGLE DAY.

~avoid harsh chemicals on your face and body like rock salt body scrubs.

Take care of your biggest organ, kids. Be kind to it. It’s the only one you get!

This little ditty is from over 10 years ago…

I get asked this question a lot. A LOT.

I think it’s because I work outside the home, then I take care of my family, plus I have hobbies such as painting and cooking.

Writing requires a great deal of time and commitment to get it to come out just right. But so does painting, cooking, taking care of loved ones, and working outside the home.

It’s all about time management.

When I worked as nurse, I had fifteen patients every day to care for. Bathing, feeding, administering medications, in addition to interacting with the doctors about the patient’s care, the families, the ancillary services and departments, all were required on a daily basis, and hundreds more I can’t even begin to remember. Back then, overtime was frowned upon and if you couldn’t get all your care and tasks done in your 8-hour shift, you were looked at by the powers that be to see if you needed to be retrained, demoted or fired.

Luckily, I was never any of those because from the get-go I learned how to manage my day accordingly. The most important tasks were done first. Sometimes, this changed daily, or even hourly, but I always started with the most time sensitive and important tasks. Then I went down the line to the ones that required less immediate responses.

This always worked for me and the only time I ever had overtime was when every one else did too: during Code Blue emergencies.

I write in exactly the same mindset.

If you’ve read any of my past posts, you know I’m a plotter, not a panst-er. First thing I do is come up with an idea, then the characters, then I set the plot out in a very detailed synopsis. Once that prep work is done, I start writing the story, but just like when I worked in nursing, I prepare for emergencies: in this case, plot turns and twists. Sometimes during writing I come up with a better idea or situation and I go with it.

Now, to the time I spend writing. I find time EVERY DAY and yes, I mean EVERY DAY, to write. Something. It doesn’t have to be an entire scene. On the days I still work outside my home at my paying job, I tend to write snippets of dialogue or scene descriptions. But I do it everyday, usually before I head to work for a half hour in the morning. No one else is up, I have the entire house to myself and I don’t have to worry about anything else but typing a few lines or paragraphs or pages.

At night, after dinner, dishes, prep for the next day, I write again.

On the days I don’t work outside my home, I can usually devote 6-8 hours at a clip or in divided doses to pound out what I want. Now, of course, there are those off days that I need to do other things, such a doctor appointments, hair dressers, grocery shop etc. so that cuts in to the time.

But the moral of this story is that I write everyday. Every single day. Something.

So the answer to the question of where do I find the time to write is, simply, I just do it whenever and wherever I can, every day.

I love influencers.

I know that sounds weird considering my age ( advanced! lol), but I truly love content creators who are killing it, and I follow a few. One of my faves are/is the Sebrero Sisters on Instagram.

They post, daily, newly released books in the Romance genre. I’ve had several listed over the past few years and whenever I see one on their page, I am just tickled pink. It may sound odd, but when I see a posting with my book listed I feel a little more like I MADE IT!!!

This is a screenshot of today’s post over on Instagram:

SKATER’S WALTZ was currently re-released under my own publishing brand, with a new cover and some updates in the text. Now, this was the first book I was ever lucky enough to have published. It was done so by the WILD ROSE PRESS back in 2015. For the tenth anniversary of the book’s birthday, I obtained the copyright back from the publisher and rebranded and re-issued it.

Now, is it the best book I ever wrote. Nol But it was the first one and you always have a fond memory of your first in the publishing game.

How?

How is it two years since you left us? Left me? Left me motherless? Emotionally adrift? Bereft? I don’t know how I’ve managed to survive without you as a touchstone. You, the person who knew me better than I knew myself. The person who knew me before I was born.

The person who loved me unconditionally.

I have dreams of that day. Nightmares, really. The calls from the doctor informing me that your status was at first, guarded. Then declining. And at last…grave. There’s a description for you. As a noun, it’s a burial place. As an adjective, a description of serious concern or imminent death. Funny how our language can take a word and give it two meanings, and yet, tie those meanings together.

From hospitalization to death…hours. Mere hours.

Those days right after, when I had to deal with your funeral arrangments, Jack’s second fall and subsequent transfer to a trauma hospital 125 miles away with a second major surgery in two weeks; selling your house; dealing with the bills; the forms. The endless forms. Those days are a blur. I think my body shut off the emotional part of my brain so I could get through those days without falling apart. It, my mind, knew I would fall apart eventually, but it saved me from doing it when the grief was so profound and so new. So fresh.

So devastating.

How is it two years?

Two birthdays that were never celebrated. Two Christmas’s without you. The birth of your second great grandchild; seeing your daughter attain publishing success.

How? How is it two years?

Some days it feels like a thousand years; some, just yesterday.

I miss you every day. Every second of every day.

I miss you.

People said the pain would ebb with time; the sadness would lessen; the memories would dissolve.

They lied.

The pain is as sharp now as it was that day I lost you; the sadness? Just as vast. The memories? As vivid as ever.

I miss you.

I…miss…you.

I don’t make any secret about my age. I was born in 1960. That will make me 65 years old this year when my birthday rolls around. Retirement age ( although I did that at 55!), Medicare eligible ( if it’s even still around this May!), Social Security age ( not betting on that one sticking around for me to get.)

At my age, I have a lot of life experience, a little wisdom, a lot less life-angst, and some not-so-popular opinions about things – opinions that were forged in my Gen X/Babyboomer-cusp growing years.

My references, idioms, and colloquialisms about things are mostly from the 60s, 70s, 80s and 90s. A few 2000s are thrown in there, but not many, and those are mostly references about movies, celebrity, and TV shows.

I tell you all this so you realize something. When I write a romance book, I am drawing on all my life experiences to pen the story. I have 64 years of life that go into each main character, story plotline, and character arc.

Since I am not 20, I don’t write about 20-year-olds. I couldn’t. I don’t have their experience or references. 20-year-olds are very different these days than they were in the 1980s when I was in my 20s. Very different. If I went back in time and wrote a love story about 2 people in 1985, I would be okay because that time period is familiar to me, as is how people in their 20s were thinking and acting back then.

I write some 30-year-olds, but they are usually on the south side of 35 and approaching their 40s.

I am comfortable writing love interests that range from 35+ up and until my present age because their experiences, life references, social media testimonials, and lifestyles are more in sync with my own.

Now, I know someone who reads this will think, isn’t she writing fiction? Can’t she imagine what it would be like to be a different age? The answer is yes, of course. But me writing a YA book or a 20s-something coming-of-age book for this time period we are currently in wouldn’t be authentic to the character. It would be like me writing a Viking love story set in 1425. I know nothing about the time period, Vikings, or anything else pertaining to the topic. I don’t write historical romance for the same reasons, plus, people who do read Viking romance, or historical, or omniverse are rabid fans and catch mistakes or missteps in the storyline without blinking an eye. I don’t want people reading my work and having it not be authentic, accurate, and open for ridicule.

I have enough stress in my life. I don’t need that stressor added to it.

So, when you pick up a book penned by me, you know what you are getting. Well-rounded characters with backstories you can understand and empathize with; usually smalltown, but some city stories as well ( my NYC Socialites series is about female billionaires), some romcom, some medical romance, second chances, and life stories about death, divorce, and mental health issues. All wrapped up in a love story you can relate to or escape to for a few hours.

So…if all that sounds good to you, check out my books. They are on Amazon, B&N, Kobo, Apple, plus you can get them from me, personally, through my website store, where the books are cheaper than the online places.

Happy reading, kids. ~ Peg

I’ve thought about this quote often in my life…

When I was bullied in grade school because my last name was different from my mother’s. The 60s were a difficult time for the children of divorce because it was such a new phenomenon and people fear what isn’t familiar.

But even as a child, I rose above the bullying.

When I missed prom, senior day, and all the fun festivities of high school life because no one asked me to attend.

When I was told I was fat and ugly and everyone hated me because I thought I was smart and teacher’s pet. ( P.S. I was smart.)

When I was called difficult and overstepping by a doctor because I challenged him on a patient’s status. (P.S. I was right, in the end, and the doctor never wanted to work with me again.)

And I rose to a position of authority within the nursing department, forcing the doctor to work with me or move his patients. He didn’t move his patients.

When I was told the hospital/clinic wouldn’t give me the raise I deserved because I wasn’t worth the money. (P.S. I got the raise after I threatened to walk off the job and they had no one to replace me. Plus I proved to them, through income stats, that I made them money.)

When I was rejected over 500 times by agents/publishers/editors who told me my work wasn’t good enough for them, or that it didn’t fit the kind of books they wanted or needed. That my words wouldn’t sell and just weren’t…marketable.

And still, I rose by winning contest after contest and garnering a reader following.

From every soul-killing, tormented, and tortured event in my life, where I was kicked down, mortified and made to feel less than, I rose.

Why?

Why was I able to do this, to feel this powerful sense of self when I should have cowered in a corner and faded away into an emotional dustbunny?

When I should have been defeated, dejected, and despondent?

When I should have given up, given in, and let gloom invade my soul?

The answer lies in my DNA.

I’m a woman.

When we fall, we get up.

When we are punched down, we lift and strike back.

When we are made to feel less than, we prove we are more than enough.

Because we rise; we always rise.

Like air, we rise.

And always will…

Strange title for a post, but read on, and you’ll see why.

My mother was born in 1936. Yup. She would have been 89 years old today if she had lived.

This is her high school graduation picture. She never graduated, though. She had to leave high school with just six months left to graduate to take care of her ailing mother and younger sister.

At 17, she had to go to work full-time. Back in the 1950’s there weren’t many jobs an uneducated woman could get that would actually help support a family. She wound up in a bank as a junior teller.

For the rest of her life, that missed high school diploma followed her from menial job to menial job. Did we live in poverty? By today’s definition, yeah. In the 1960’s and 70’s, we were considered lower middle class. A two-income household that barely paid its bills each month and had a lot of debt. We didn’t have extras, sometimes had just a sandwich for dinner.

But my mother persevered. She tried to get her GED twice, but the work didn’t compute in her brain and she couldn’t pass the test.

She died suddenly two years ago. She’d just turned 87 a week before her death.

Today, I honor her life, so hard lived. She never lost her capacity to love, though. She had her issues, mental and physical. But she was my mother, and even though our relationship was tortured at times, I loved, and love her, with everything in me.

Happy Heavenly Birthday, Mommie. If I can’t have you here with me, I’m glad you’re one of my guardian angels in Heaven now.