Memories in December Calendar Girls Book 4 by Gina Ardito Genre: Sweet Contemporary Romance Publication Date: November 7, 2019
Siobhan Bendlow is struggling with her recovery from an eating disorder and the financial downturn of her photography business. The last thing she needs is to become the sole caretaker of her wacky grandmother. Especially since the man of her teenaged dreams, Jimmy Vais, has moved back to town, newly single and available. So has his pesky younger brother, Justin. One Vais is fun, but juggling two is a problem. Althea Bendlow may be in her seventies now, but she still craves all the things she wanted in youth: joy, comfort, laughter, and happiness for her loved ones. If gaining the latter means performing some matchmaking magic for her only granddaughter, she’s up to the task. As long as her own past doesn’t keep distracting her, in the form of Captain Lou Rugerman, a man who meant the world to her for one night only. Welcome back to Snug Harbor, where the memories of a lifetime can become the dreams of tomorrow… **easily read as a standalone!!** Add to GoodreadsAmazon * Apple * B&N * Kobo
I kill houseplants. There. Now you know one of my greatest shames. I’m not boasting. I just figure that if you’re reading this, you’re looking for more than how wonderful life is as a writer. You get enough of that elsewhere. Ditto for political rants, how to lose thirty pounds in a week, and creating gorgeous crafts with nothing more than twine and soup cans. My goal is to connect with you, dear reader, even if you’re not a writer, not a New Yorker, not a mother, not a female. We’re human (unless one of us is a spambot), and what we have in common is flaws. So here are a few more of mine: I sing all the time. I sing songs most people don’t know–jingles from television, crazy stuff I used to listen to on Dr. Demento, Broadway and movie soundtracks, and I can even bum-bum-bum through instrumental music. I sing in the car. In the shower. While I’m grocery shopping. And I headbop while I sing. When I’m not singing, I talk to myself. Just ignore me and move on. You get used to it after a while. I don’t eat my vegetables. Seriously. I only started eating salad about ten years ago, but I’d still rather have a cookie. Given the option, I would live in a mall where I would never have to worry about freezing temperatures or too much sun. I’m extremely fair-skinned and could burn under a 60-watt light bulb. I can’t sleep without background noise so the television’s on all night. If it’s too dark and too quiet, all I have are my thoughts. And even *I* don’t want to be alone with my thoughts. Don’t ask me to Zumba, line dance, or march in the parade. I have absolutely no rhythm. I color outside the lines. Not because I’m a rebel, but because I suck as an artist. My artistic ability is limited to being able to draw Snoopy sleeping on his doghouse. And I don’t even draw that well. Regrets. I have more than a few. My favorite activity is sleep, and I’m pretty good at it. I don’t clock a lot of hours, but I can powernap like a Persian cat and rejuvenate within ten minutes. I consider shopping and dining out excellent therapy for anything wrong in my life. My feet are always cold. Always. My husband of more than a quarter century claims it’s because I’m an alien sent to Earth to destroy him. (He might be right about that.) Coming to my house for a visit? Unless you’ve given me plenty of advance notice, be prepared. My floor will not be vacuumed, there will be dishes in my sink, and I only make my bed when I change the sheets once a week (I’m climbing back into it ASAP. Why make it?) Housecleaning is not high on my priority list. Okay, to be totally honest, it’s not on the list at all. I can resist anything…except ice cream. Since this is our first date, I figure I’ve revealed enough secrets for now. But if you’ve read this bio and think I might be the author for you, pick up one of my books or stalk my website: www.ginaardito.com. Website * Facebook * Twitter * Instagram * Bookbub * Amazon * Goodreads Two $15 Amazon gift cards
Jimmy’s black sedan still sat in the driveway, but the front door was closed, the
vertical blinds in the bay window drawn so tight not a sliver of the meager afternoon
light slipped through. Clearly, he had no intention of entertaining visitors today.
Luckily, I considered myself family. I’d known the Vaises for decades and Jimmy
himself since he was three days old. I’d changed his diapers on occasion. And as far as I
was concerned, since I’d seen his winkie, we were family. Or, at least, close enough to it
that he couldn’t ignore me while I stood on the doorstep ringing the bell.
I don’t know if he used the same argument, but he did come to the same conclusion
because he opened the door and offered a tired smile. “Mrs. Bendlow, hi. Sorry, but
now’s not a good time—”
“I baked a blueberry buckle cake,” I rushed out before he could finish his statement
and slam the door in my face. I held the platter up toward his nose, hoping the wind
would whip some flavor-filled air toward him and weaken his resolve. “Then I
remembered Bon—I mean, Siobhan—wouldn’t be home ‘til late. It’s supposed to be
enjoyed while it’s still warm.”
“You could nuke it.”
I grimaced. “Sacrilege. You nuke a mass-produced box of chemicals that resembles a
cake you buy at the supermarket. This beauty was made from scratch, with blueberries
picked from my own garden.” Yes, they’d been picked by someone other than me,
probably sometime in July, and frozen since the summer, but still, they were hand-
grown in the garden I’d cultivated in the backyard since the seventies.
On a deep sigh, he slapped the handle to the storm door, and I knew I had him right
where I wanted him. “I hope you’re okay eating off paper towels. I haven’t finished
unpacking and I’m too tired to look for the box with dishes in it.”
“Paper towels are fine. Is your coffeepot set up?”
“First thing I plugged in. But I don’t have milk or sugar yet.”
“I drink it black.” I didn’t, but like I said, I wasn’t going to give him an opportunity
to lock me out, leaving him imprisoned in whatever fortress of solitude he planned for
himself right now.
“You’re not going away, are you?” Despite the animosity in his tone, he held the
door open for me. “You’re still the ‘stubborn pain in the ass’ my father used to call you.”
Whoops. With one careless remark, the ogre had returned to remind me I was an
unwelcome guest. He could bark all he wanted. I wouldn’t surrender that easy.
“Honey, your dad wasn’t as clever as you think. Everybody in this neighborhood
called me that. And worse. It’s nice to be remembered for my good qualities.”
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Looks romantic.