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Joyce McDonald Hoskins

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Ponderings - for those with failing eyesight
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Poor eyesight? Larger print of Poems, Short Stories a diary and an appeal for children in Court...  
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Books by Joyce McDonald Hoskins
By Joyce McDonald Hoskins
Wednesday, April 22, 2015

Rated "G" by the Author.

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I'm getting back to writing after a long dry spell that started after the death of my husband. This is a story about a young woman seeking her roots.

The Wildflower Cafe Early summer 2015 Young and idealistic I didn’t expect rejection, but I also didn’t expect to waltz right into her life. After all, I had never met my biological mother. With grad school under my belt and a nice inheritance from my grandmother, there is no hurry to launch my career. A broken engagement is my excuse to take some time to chill-out. So the day after I returned Wesley’s ring, I headed for the hills. Literally. I knew she owned The Wildflower Cafe in Dandelion, North Carolina. We didn’t know each other, but the details of my adoption were never a secret. Butterflies occasionally dance in my stomach as I drive the breathtakingly beautiful hills and curves into Dandelion. She is cleaning the coffee pot when I enter the café. Her eyes lift, she pales slightly, looks back at the sink, and carefully sets the glass container down, grabs a towel and dries her hands. Carefully. With a weak smile she comes to the counter. “I knew, one day you’d come. Curiosity always wins.” Not sure what she means by that, I let it go. I look into her eyes, my eyes, and try for a warm smile. My attempt fails. “Katie Jean.” I state in what boyfriends have called my flat voice. My hand shoots out, a little too quickly. She smiles as she takes my hand. This time the smile seems just a tad warmer. “I know; I named you. And as you probably know, I’m Kelly Jean.” We stare at each other a long moment. Probably both surprised at how similar we are in looks. She speaks first. “Not exactly an Oprah moment, but I guess we can work on it.” Somehow, that statement made in my so called flat voice is a keystone moment. Not only do we have our eyes, nose, and mouth in common, we both have the same sedated sense of humor. Not to mention the flat voice delivery. We can be friends, I thought as we lightly squeezed each other’s hand. “Take the little table over by the window. We can talk. It’s not likely anyone will come in this early. I’ll get us some drinks. What would you like? The lemonade is the real thing. Squeezed them a few minutes ago.” “Lemonade it is.” I lift my large hand bag onto my shoulder and head to the table. I take the phone from my purse, and check for messages even though I haven’t heard any come in. Doing something with my hands always steadies my nerves. She brings a tray, covered with a red checkered tea towel. A few wildflowers in a tiny vase, a small pitcher of lemonade with matching glasses, and a plate of gingerbread cookies complete the presentation. I hope she is happy to meet her daughter. As I study her appearance I notice we don’t have the same hair color. Mine is strawberry blond, hers is the color of wheat. I touch my hair. “This is my natural color. Yours is the same as your biological father’s. I’m sure you’re loaded with questions and he’s probably the first one on your list. I intend to answer them all to the best of my ability. I’ve spent many sleepless nights rehearsing. Are you passing through or do you intend to stay a while?” I like her directness. “I just finished school.” Wesley’s angry words echoed in my mind. He accused me of being spoiled and privileged. He thought I should get a job right away. “I’d like to stay and get all of those questions answered. I drove past a charming bed and breakfast; I’ll check it out.”

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Reviewed by Ronald Hull 4/23/2015
Great development of characters for your next novel. Your attention to detail about behavior is outstanding. It's not my kind of story, but I believe that many people would like to curl up and read the book about characters they may or may not identify with in this, very lifelike (except for the inheritance bit) story.


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