Witch’s
Moonstone Locket
A
Coon Hollow Coven Tale
Book
One
Marsha
A. Moore
Genre: New Adult Paranormal Romance
Date of Publication: March 24, 2015
Word Count: 94,000
Book Description:
Twenty-three-year-old Jancie Sadler
was out of the room when her mother died, and her heart still longs for their
lost goodbye. Aching to ease her sorrow, Aunt Starla gives Jancie a diary that
changes her entire life. In entries from the 1930s, her great grandmother
revealed how she coped with her own painful loss by seeking out a witch from
nearby Coon Hollow Coven. The witch wore the griever’s moonstone locket, which
allowed whoever could unlock its enchantment to talk with the dead.
Determined to find that locket,
Jancie goes to the coven’s annual carnival held in her small southern Indiana
town of Bentbone. This opposes her father’s strict rule: stay away from
witches. But she’s an adult now and can make her own decisions. She meets Rowe
McCoy, the kind and handsome witch who wears the moonstone. He agrees to let her
try to open the locket, but they’re opposed by High Priestess Adara and her
jealous desire to possess him.
Desperate for closure with her
mother, Jancie persists and cannot turn away from a perilous path filled with
magic, romance, and danger.
Excerpt
from Chapter One: Great Aunt Starla’s Cornbread
Warm rain mixed
with Jancie’s tears, and she rose to stand beside her mother’s grave. Not ready
to let go, she bent at the waist and her fingers followed the arc of her
mother’s name—Faye Sadler—in the headstone. She knew the unyielding shape well.
The word goodbye stuck in her throat. She’d said it aloud many times since her
mother died almost a year ago, only to have the cemetery’s vast silence swallow
her farewells. Rain beaded on the polished granite. Her hand, bearing her
mother’s silver ring, slid down the stone and fell to her side.
If only she
could’ve said goodbye to her mother before. After years of caring for her mom
while she suffered with cancer, Jancie had missed the final parting moment
while getting a quick bite of dinner. The pain still cut like a knife in her
gut.
On foot, she
retraced the too-familiar path toward her work at the Federal Bank. Although
she’d landed a job as manager at the largest of the three banks in the small
town of Bentbone, the position was a dead end. Within the first six months,
she’d mastered all the necessary skills. Now, after a year, only the paycheck
kept her there.
Jancie turned onto
Maple Street. As usual, wind swept up the corridor, between old shade trees
protecting houses, and met her at the top of the tall hill. September rain
pelted her face and battled the Indian summer noontime temperatures. She zipped
the rain parka to keep her dress dry, pulled on the strings of the hood, and
corralled strands of ginger-colored hair that whipped into her eyes. Once able
to see, she gazed farther into the valley, where the view spanned almost a mile
out to the edge of town. Usually, farmers moved tractors across the road or
boys raced skateboards and bikes down Maple Street’s long slope.
Today, on the
deserted acreage just east of Bentbone, people moving in and out through a gate
of the tall wooden fence breathed life into the rundown carnival. Surprised,
Jancie crossed the street for a better view. She’d lost track of time since Mom
passed. The coming Labor Day weekend in Bentbone meant the valley coven’s
yearly carnival. She and her close group of girlfriends always looked forward
to the cute guys, fair food, and amazing magical rides and decorations…even if
her father didn’t approve of witches or magic. The residents of the sleepy town
awoke to welcome a host of tourists wanting to see the spectacle created by the
witches of Coon Hollow Coven.
Somehow, Jancie
had forgotten the big event this year. Last year, she didn’t go since Mom was
so sick and couldn’t be left. Jancie sighed and turned onto the main street
toward the bank. She’d lost so much since her mother passed. Really, since the
diagnosis of cancer.
At that time, four
years ago, Jancie withdrew as a sophomore from Hanover College, a select,
private school in southern Indiana near the Kentucky border—too far away.
Instead, she returned to stay with her mother and commuted to Indiana
University. Balancing hours with the home health care nurse, Jancie had few
choices of career paths. Not that it mattered, since her remarried father
expected her to find a job in Bentbone and continue taking care of her mother.
Despite the sacrifices, Jancie loved her mother, who’d always managed money for
a few special things for Jancie—a new bike, birthday parties, prom dresses—even
though their income was tight. Mom had paid for her tuition and listened to
every new and exciting college experience.
Jancie smiled at
the memory of Mom’s twinkling brown eyes, that mirrored her own, when she asked
about what happened during the day’s classes: if Jancie liked the professor; if
she’d made new friends.
When she rounded
the last corner, her thoughts returned to the work day. At the bleak, limestone
bank building, reality hit. Jancie pulled against the heavy glass door, and a
gust swept her inside. She peeled off the drenched jacket and hung it on the
coat rack of her small, plain office. At her desk again, she took her position.
Through the
afternoon’s doldrums, punctuated by only a handful of customers, her mind
wandered to the carnival. She’d gone dozens of times before and loved it. But
since Mom passed, nothing seemed fun anymore, like she couldn’t connect with
herself and had forgotten how to have a good time. She organized a stack of
notes, anything to put the concern out of her mind.
***
After work, Jancie
drove her old blue Camry the five miles to the other end of town where she
lived in her mother’s white frame house, the home where she grew up, now hers.
Glad to own her own place, unlike her friends who rented, she’d made a few easy
changes. In the living room, a new brown leather couch with a matching chair
and ottoman. She replaced the bedroom furniture with a new oak suite for
herself in what used to be her mother’s room. With pay saved from the bank,
Jancie could remodel or build on, but she didn’t know what she wanted yet. Her
great aunt Starla had told her to just wait and hold onto her money; she’d know
soon enough.
Pouring rain
soaked the hem of her dress as she darted between the garage shed and back
stoop of the small ranch house.
Glad she’d chosen
to get her run in this morning before work, she changed into cozy sweats,
pulled the long part of her tapered hair into a ponytail, and headed for the
kitchen.
Her phone alerted
her of a text, and she read the message from her friend Rachelle, always the
social director of their group: R we going to the carnival?
Jancie typed a
response. I guess. R Lizbeth and Willow going?
Yep whole gang.
What day?
Don’t know yet.
Get back to u. Jancie worried she’d spoil their fun. Even though they’d all
been her best friends since high school and would understand her moodiness, she
didn’t want to ruin one of the best times of the year for them. Since Mom
passed, they’d taken her out to movies and shopping in Bloomington, but this
was different. Could it ever match up to the fun of all the times before? “I
don’t know if I’m up to that,” she said into open door of the old Kenmore
refrigerator while rummaging for leftovers of fried chicken and corn.
The meal satisfied
and made her thankful she’d learned how to cook during those years with Mom.
Not enough dishes to bother with the dishwasher, one of the modern upgrades to
the original kitchen, Jancie washed the dishes by hand and then called Starla.
When she answered, Jancie asked, “Can I come over tonight? There’s something
I’m needing your opinion on.”
“Why sure, Jancie.
C’mon over,” the eighty-five-year-old replied with her usual warm drawl. “Are
you wantin’ dinner? I made me some soup beans with a big hambone just butchered
from Bob’s hog. My neighbor Ellie came over and had some. She said they were
the best she’s eaten.”
Jancie glanced at
the soggy rain parka and opted for an umbrella instead. “No, I just ate. Be
right over.” Keys and purse in hand, she hung up and darted for the shed.
Five minutes
later, she turned onto the drive of the eldercare apartments and parked under
the steel awning where Starla gave her a whole arm wave from her picture
window. Jancie made her way to number twelve on the first floor.
The door opened,
and Starla engulfed Jancie in a bear hug, pulling her into the pillow of a
large, sagging bosom. Starla smelled of her signature scent—rosewater and
liniment.
Jancie had loved
her great aunt’s hugs as long as she could remember. Stress and worry melted
away, and she hugged back. Her arm grazed Starla’s white curls along the collar
of her blue knit top embroidered with white stars—her great aunt’s favorite
emblem.
“It’s so good to
see you. Come sit a spell, while I get us some iced tea.” Starla pulled away
and gestured to the microsuede couch decorated with three crocheted afghans in
a rainbow of colors. “I thought we were done with this hot weather, but not
quite yet. That rain today’s been a gully washer but didn’t cool things off
much.” The large-boned woman scuffed her pink-house-slippered feet toward the
kitchen. “Would you rather have pound cake from the IGA or homemade cornbread?”
Jancie laughed and
followed her into the kitchen. She wouldn’t get through the visit without
eating. “You’re just fishin’ for a compliment. You know your homemade cornbread
is better.”
Starla arranged
plates with thick slices of warm cornbread and big pats of butter on top, while
Jancie transferred the refreshments to the aluminum dinette table.
“With your hair
pulled back like that, you’re a dead ringer for your Ma. So pretty with that
same sweetheart-shaped face.” Starla folded herself onto a chair beside Jancie.
“You look to be getting on well…considering what all you’ve been through.”
“I’m doing okay,”
Jancie said through a mouthful of the moist cornbread. She washed it down with
a swallow of brisk tea that tasted fresh-brewed. “But sometimes, lots of times,
I feel lost, like I can’t move on.” She ran a hand across her forehead. “I
didn’t get to say goodbye. I spent time with her through all those years, and
it shouldn’t matter, but it does every time I visit her grave and most every
night in my dreams.”
“Oh, honey. I know
it hurts.” Starla smoothed Jancie’s ponytail down the middle of her back and
spoke with a voice so slow and warm, it felt like a handmade quilt wrapping
around her. “You spent all that time and
gave so much. Just like when I cared for my husband some twenty years back. I
know. I never got the chance to tell Harry goodbye either. Time will heal all
hurts.”
Jancie looked down
at the marbleized tabletop to hide her teary eyes. “I don’t think I’m ever
going to heal, Aunt Starla. I don’t know if I can ever move on.”
“There is one
thing you can try. I’d have done it, if I’d have known before decades softened
my aching heart. Way back, I was desperate like you.”
Jancie looked into
Starla’s blue-gray eyes, set deep inside wrinkled lids.
Her aunt leaned
closer. “Not many know about this,” she whispered as if someone outside the
apartment door might hear. “There’s an old story about how a member of the Coon
Hollow Coven, one who’s recently lost a loved one, is made the teller of the
moonstone tale.”
Jancie rolled her
eyes. “That’s just a silly story, one of lots that Mom and Dad told to scare me
when I was little, so I’d stay away from the coven. When the moonstone locket
opens at the end of the tale, you’ll get your wish but also be cursed.”
“Oh no.” Starla
shook her head and pushed away from the table. “Let me get Aunt Maggie’s old diary.
I got this in a box of old family things when Cousin Dorothy passed. ” She
lumbered to her spare bedroom and returned with a worn, black-leather volume
only a little larger than her wide palm. Once seated, she thumbed through the
yellowed pages. “Here.” She pointed a finger and placed the book between them.
About
the Author:
Marsha A. Moore loves to write
fantasy and paranormal romance. Much of her life feeds the creative flow she
uses to weave highly imaginative tales.
The magic of art and nature often
spark life into her writing, as well as watercolor painting and drawing. She’s
been a yoga enthusiast for over a decade and is a registered yoga teacher.
After a move from Toledo to Tampa in 2008, she’s happily transformed into a
Floridian, in love with the outdoors. Marsha is crazy about cycling. She lives
with her husband on a large saltwater lagoon, where taking her kayak out for an
hour or more is a real treat. She never has enough days spent at the beach,
usually scribbling away at stories with toes wiggling in the sand.
Every day at the beach is magical!
Amazon author page:
amazon.com/author/marshaamoore
