Lighthouse on Tortola

A debut novel filled with suspense as Photojournalist Andra seeks to clear an innocent person’s name and find evidence against a wealthy adversary. But she isn’t isn’t expecting the biggest twist of all… falling in love.

When Andra goes to the British Virgin Island of Tortola on a magazine assignment, she never expects to become involved with a tour guide bent on revenge. Pulled into his world of intrigue, she must learn who she can and cannot trust while striving to prove the truth concerning the Ahoskie Diamond Necklace.

Review

With her first novel, Lighthouse on Tortola, Dale S. Rogers has created a piece of work that succeeds in mingling delightful descriptions of nature and food with a riveting life-or-death subplot. Set on lush Tortola, one of the British-owned Virgin Islands in the Caribbean, the novel proves to be informative and entertaining, in addition to holding an appeal for both adults and teenagers, somewhat of a rarity these days.

We first meet Andra Phillips, a young photojournalist from Virginia on as-signment from a travel magazine, as she arrives by plane on St. Thomas in a pelting rain. As she is taken by boat over to Tortola, where a taxi takes her to a small inn, she is overwhelmed by the beauty she encounters, even in the rain. However, she also begins to detect an undercurrent of  desperation amid the lush yellow hibiscus  blossoms and pink bourgainvillea as she passes by workers on a ship “glancing over their shoulders from time to time.”

In this way, the blend of breathtaking natural surroundings with possible criminal activity makes the story even more intriguing. At her hotel pool a little later, Andra meets Michael Lambert, who has been visiting Tortola for years with his parents. A young man from Maryland, he has bought a boat, hoping to start a touring business. However, is this the real reason he has come to the island?

Amid the evolving mystery, the book’s breathtaking descriptions of the island such as: a flock of seagulls “floating in a blanket of white,” and an angelfish with “a yellow tail, blue mouth and muted orange shading,” make you want to rush out and buy a ticket to Tortola. But, believe me, this book is the next best thing. -Dottie Ashley, freelance writer and former performing arts writer for South Carolina’s two leading newspapers, the STATE in Columbia, S.C. and The Post & Courier in Charleston, S.C.

  Dale S. Rogers  From the author, Dale Rogers

Lighthouse on Tortola is the second book I’ve written about the Caribbean. I’ve been there twice with my husband and absolutely loved it. I knew I had to use it as the setting for my lighthouse drama. The small amount of research I did to add little tidbits of knowledge was a pleasure, and I hope it helped to make it an enjoyable read. Thanks so much for your interest in my book!

Available at https://www.amazon.com/Lighthouse-Tortola-Dale-S-Rogers-ebook/dp/B085DPW8BH/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=Dale+S.+Rogers%2C+Lighthouse+on+Tortola&qid=1584490485&sr=8-1

Soon available on Barnes&Noble and itunes

 

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Does Everybody have a Twin?

Maine coons kittens

Photo by John Nyberg, Free Images.

I used to hear that everybody has a twin somewhere in the world. Whether or not it’s true, my husband, Rick, and I have both seen ours. For me, it was on a barrier island in South Carolina when I was about ten or eleven. My family was staying there, and we’d pulled our car off the road for a few minutes. Before we took off again, a girl on a bike rode right past my window, and we  glanced, then stared at each other. I’d never seen anyone I thought looked like me, but I almost felt like I was looking in a mirror!

And I wasn’t the only one who felt that way. Everyone in the car was amazed at the resemblance, and later on they talked about how the girl was looking at me. I’ve often wondered about my “twin.” Did she live at the beach, or was she on vacation? Does she still look like me, now that we’re grown? Does she tell people she’s seen her twin? I wish I knew.

Now on to Rick’s twin. After we’d been married about ten years, we were watching the Olympics on television when we noticed a man helping someone get ready    for the ski jump. When he turned so we could see his face, he looked just like Rick! Even his mannerisms and the way he moved were extremely similar to my husband’s. I hope the skier never realized the man was shaking  was head, which wouldn’t inspire confidence in anyone,  but that seemed like Rick too! We believe the man is German or Austrian, and I wonder about him, too.  I guess both instances were a part of the interesting things in life one never forgets.

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Grove Park Inn: A Great Place, Summer or Winter

Grove Park Inn

My husband and I discovered Grove Park Inn in Asheville, North Carolina many years ago.  Built entirely of stone, it was once a playground for presidents and celebrities. (Their portraits are displayed in the hotel’s hallways.)

Although we first visited the famed inn when a relative recommended it for their after Christmas buffet, we discovered there was so much more. From the lobby with its polished stone floors and enormous, six-foot high fireplaces, to endless hallways and hidden  sitting areas, we were blown away. It’s easy to get lost, even on the first floor, but it’s a great place in which to disappear. It’s also a good way to find gems such as a small waterfall isolated in a quiet spot.

christmas-grove-park-inn-001.jpg

After our initial trip there, we returned several times. One year we opted for an historic room. Instead of using the regular elevators, we were sent to a small one set into the stone wall and guarded by a steward. The old-timey compartment took us to the top floor, under the eaves. The whole room seemed to be carved from oak, and the thick furniture made me think a giant once lived there. We didn’t have the amount of space we were used to, but we did have a magnificent view of the mountains and part of Asheville through our tiny window. And, although it was interesting, we thought we’d rather stay   in one of their modern rooms during subsequent trips, complete with floor-to-ceiling windows and all    of the updated amenities.

Something unique about Grove Park Inn is the Gingerbread Contest. It wasn’t well-known as the time, but a few years later I spied it on television, and it had become a really important national competition. Perhaps that’s one reason so many people started showing up during the Christmas holidays–and now it’s      the place to be.

Grove Park Fireplace 001

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Ski Trip or Comedy of Errors?

Ski Trip or Comedy of Errors?

I’d wanted to go skiing ever since I saw “I Love Lucy” set at a ski resort, and I finally had my chance after Rick and I had been married several years. It was a five-hour drive from our home in South Carolina to Beech Mountain, North Carolina, and we could tell we were in unfamiliar territory as the terrain became hilly and patches of snow covered cow pastures.

When we finally reached our destination, car sick and exhausted, we discovered that our hotel was set in a curve of the main road running up the mountain, which meant traffic passed the lodge on both sides, practically encompassing it. We tried not to focus on this as we settled into our room, which included a sitting area and a kitchenette. With a treated log in the fireplace and heat strips running around the entire suite to make it extra warm, another perk of the establishment was free hot chocolate.

Needless to say, our first evening was cozy, sitting before the fire and tasting the best hot chocolate of our lives.  The electric heat was tremendous. I’m cold natured, but even I thought it was a little overwhelming, so we turned it down. The buildings in the area were well-heated in general, which surprised me. I guess everyone wants to warm up after a long day on the slopes.

The next day, we started preparations for our first ski adventure, not knowing it would take hours.  Snow fell at an alarming rate, and we heard that chains were required for anyone driving up Beech Mountain. We stopped at a ski shop to buy some, and they offered to put them on our tires. Thinking we could get our ski gear while we waited, we agreed, not realizing how long it would take, or that the woman at the shop couldn’t help us with our skis and other paraphernalia. By the time we purchased goggles and rented skis and all the clothing deemed necessary for our lesson, we’d spent a small fortune.    (We had coupons we could have used at a nicer shop farther up the mountain, but we needed chains to get there.)

Armed with everything a skier could possibly need, we started up Beech Mountain. The road hadn’t been cleared, so we slipped and slid, hoping we wouldn’t plunge to the bottom as we rounded unprotected curves.  When we finally made it to the ski area, trudging through the snow to sign up for a lesson, I was amazed at how comfortable I felt, despite the twelve degree reading on a thermometer.  (Those ski clothes really work!)

The snow still fell incessantly as we joined our instructors and other would-be skiers, so I wore goggles as I listened attentively to advice concerning turning around, slowing down, and stopping. The goggles seemed to throw off my balance as I struggled to maneuver brand new, slippery skis, and I suddenly slid to the ground without warning. At least it was a comfortable fall, since there was about  a foot of snow on the ground.

Next, we were told to follow our leaders down, then up a small incline to mechanical arms flying by, conveyor-belt style, waiting for each of us to grab one and be pulled up the hill. I was doing okay, but the young lady in front of me was barely moving. I didn’t want to seem rude by passing her, so I was forced to slow down, which made it difficult for me to get up the hill. By the time I reached the arms, I felt rushed, so I grabbed one before I was ready. (I should have paid attention to my instincts.) The monster flung me part of the way down the hill, wrenching my knee in the process. I didn’t want to go through that again, so one of the instructors, let’s call him Mike, walked with me to the top, and I prepared for the descent.

When my turn arrived, I took off, zooming down the hill like a pro. Maybe I should’ve been in a race, because I found it impossible to slow down as I approached an orange barrier. Plowing didn’t help. Nothing helped. Delving into the far reaches of my mind, I remembered the way Olympic skiers stop, so I tried their method, turning my skis to the side, hoping for an easy, complete stop. It worked, and Mike called out, “Good!”

I felt pleased with myself until I fell directly into a snowy drift. I tried to release my skis, but sprained my left thumb instead. Mike came to my rescue, but he had trouble with the lever too. He commented on how slick my skis were. These revelations made me feel better about having so many problems, but it’s frustrating that I didn’t have the equipment I needed in order to ski properly. I informed Mike that I’d had enough. With two injuries and a stinging sensation starting in my thumbs because of the frigid air, I just wanted to get warm and dry. I received my wish after Rick took his plunge down the hill, stopping the same way I did.

Arctic air continued to move into the area, and by the time we went to bed that night, the wind chill was well below zero.  The log we burned the night before hadn’t been replaced, and our free hot chocolate seemed lower in the cups the longer we stayed at the resort. We made the mistake of not turning the heat back up, and it really made a difference. About midnight, with windows to the parking lot just above my head, I was freezing in bed. I heard cars pulling in, then the screams of young girls  as they hurried to the building with sub-zero wind whipping around them.

All in all, it was an interesting trip to what seemed like another planet at times, or at least the top of the world. We had grown so accustomed to the snow, it seemed odd when we drove toward home and it disappeared. We hope to try another resort someday and use those goggles we bought.

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Home For Christmas

Home for Christmas: A Clean Romance (Shores of Indian Lake Book 12) by [Lanigan, Catherine]

Catherine Lanigan’s lovely romance, Home for Christmas, brings to mind decisions and regrets, as well as tragedy and second chances. And as we follow  the journey Joy Boston makes back to her hometown after the death of her grandfather, we get a sense of how difficult second-chance decisions can be.

Taking temporary leave of her career and fiance in New York and being reunited with her high school boyfriend, Adam Masterson, Joy is already experiencing mixed emotions, and striving to revive the old greenhouse her grandfather left her rekindles feelings, not only for Adam, but for other relationships in the community. As they work together to bring the greenhouse back to life, we’re given a good idea of how much work goes into preparing a business, and of how many varieties of poinsettias there are.

Lanigan always gets to the heart of the matter in her Indian Lake novels, and Home for Christmas is no exception as Joy and Adam consider their past, present, and future. It’s     a perfect read for the holidays, since it encompasses both Thanksgiving and Christmas.

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What Does Thanksgiving Mean to You?

Thanksgiving Table

We all know what Thanksgiving is really about: Giving thanks. It’s easy to forget that as we make our plans to be with family and friends, eat a lot of turkey, and watch football. Some have even started calling it “Turkey Day.” But as we strive to remember what the day is for and how it began, we also focus on what it has become and the traditions that have been carried throughout the years.

When I was growing up, my whole family usually went to my grandmother’s house, and      I visited with aunts, uncles, cousins, second cousins, etc. And while many of my cousins are several years older than I am, I do have two who are close to my age: Beth and Anne.     A study in personality differences, they are four and six years younger than I am, respectively.

My brothers and I played with them in the back of the house, never knowing what Beth would come up with.  She’s one of the most energetic, ebullient people I’ve ever known. From bending a spoon while fighting with my younger brother over who picked it up first in a card game called “Spoons,” to announcing that the kids would put on a show for the others, then dancing about gleefully while the rest of us skulked in the background, she was far from shy, and always up to something. Her sister, Anne, however, is the polar opposite:  Sweet and quiet, never talking much or saying anything bad about anyone.

So many of my holiday memories center around them, since my older cousins weren’t that interested in “the children,” and a couple of them lived 1000 miles away in New York State.  (They were more personable, but I didn’t see them often).  My high school and college-age boy cousins always had a football game on, and during halftime the rest of us gathered around the television to watch the band and majorettes.

It seemed like we were there all day, and even though I had fun with Beth and Anne, and the food was good (I never did graduate from the breakfast room to the dining room), I felt restless at times. And while I don’t miss being held captive in that house  until everyone was exhausted and full, I do miss being with my extended family, and they’ll always have a special place in my heart.

What does Thanksgiving mean to you? Are there traditions and memories you hold dear?

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November

November, November,                                                                                                                             I’ll always remember                                                                                                                               Your brown leaves down                                                                                                                       All over the ground.

Your overcast skies                                                                                                                             With the hawk that cries.                                                                                                                   Squirrels all a twirl,                                                                                                                          Their nuts soon to burrow.

November, November,                                                                                                                        So far from September,                                                                                                                     With short days spun                                                                                                                         For a long run.

With twilight near                                                                                                                               And holidays to cheer.                                                                                                                         Soon snowflakes fall                                                                                                                              To the wonder of all.

November, November,                                                                                                                        So close to December.                                                                                                                        With all that’s dear                                                                                                                              That time of the year.

With frosty air                                                                                                                                     And more to share.                                                                                                                                The end is near                                                                                                                                    For the old year.

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