Thursday, July 30, 2026

Goodbye Demons by JJ Harrigan ~ @RABTBookTours #RABTBookTours #GoodbyeDemons #JJHarrigan #HistoricalFiction


Goodbye Demons by JJ Harrigan


Suspense, Historical Fiction

Date Published: 04-24-2026

Publisher: Salty Books Publishing Company, LLC



About the Book:

When injuries cut short the figure skating career of Angie Fernandez Parnell, she joins the Peace Corps. She is assigned to Tunis where she finds her soulmate, U.S. diplomat James Whitcomb. At the conclusion of their tours of duty, they marry, and within weeks of the wedding, he is taken captive in the Iranian Hostage Crisis of 1979-81.

James, held hostage at the U.S. Embassy in Teheran, endures the same demons that afflicted the real-life hostages during the actual crisis 45 years ago. Deprivation, bad treatment, political manipulation, and above all the uncertainty of whether or when it would all end.

Angie, biting her nails at home, endures her own demons. How can she support him? Should she join efforts that pressure the president to negotiate a release? Or even a rescue? A take-charge person by nature, she follows a path that will reap huge benefits if it works. Or destroy her life if it fails.

Goodbye Demons is a visceral, emotionally charged exploration of resilience in the face of adversity. It is the story of a man and a woman struggling to overcome demons beyond their control.

 

Read an Excerpt:


This was the chance of a lifetime, and Angie swore she wouldn’t blow it. She did elaborate stretching exercises and weight training. She followed a dietician’s meal plan and skated five days a week under the guidance of her coach. Angie concocted a brilliant plan to capture the Gold at Nationals and guarantee her a slot on the Olympic team.

Her coach objected. “No woman has ever done a triple axel, and you’re not ready.”

“I did it in practice. You saw me.”

“You fell. A perfect double axel that you’re capable of doing trumps a triple axel that you screw up.”

Angie was determined to do the triple without falling. She doubled down on her training regime. Bruising falls came each day. It wasn’t until a week before the competitions that she completed a triple. She grinned triumphantly at her surprised coach. Then on the next try she took a nasty fall that left her limping when she rose from the ice. Her coach sped over to her. After making sure Angie had broken no bones, she again warned her to stop trying the triple axel.

“You’re not ready. It’s a riverboat gamble.”

“I have to take the gamble when I’ve got the chance.”

“You’ll have a chance next year. You’ll be stronger and more experienced. That’ll be the time to do it.”

“In the meantime, some other girl might do it first, and nobody will ever hear about me. Even if I do one the next day. Can you tell me who was the second woman to fly across the Atlantic?”


About the Author


Historical thriller author JJ Harrigan is a former US Service Officer and political science professor. He scribbles his tales of intrigue on the banks of the St. Croix River in Minnesota, where he lives with his wife, Sandy.


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You Are Not From Around Here Are You? by Clarissa Willis ~ @RABTBookTours #RABTBookTours #YouAreNotFromAroundHereAreYou #ClarissaWillis #ChildrensBook


You Are Not From Around Here Are You? by Clarissa Willis


Children's Book

Date Published: 06-13-2026

Publisher: Solander Press



About the Book:

Ever gazed at the twinkling night sky and wondered, what might be up there? Mack jets off from Texas to the stunning red rocks of Sedona, Arizona, ready for a camping adventure with his family. But when his furry sidekick bolts into the night, Mack sprints after him and stumbles upon a surprise guest.

This new buddy isn’t your run-of-the-mill earthling! Mack soon discovers the stellar delight of making a truly out-of-this-world friend.

In this galactic adventure, award-winning author Clarissa Willis introduces two characters who learn that no matter who you are, or where you are from, friendship is all about having a blast together.


 

About the Author:

Clarissa Willis is the author of 8 picture books and a captivating chapter book! Carrie Ingalls The Forgotten Sister won the Western Writers of America SPUR Award for best juvenile nonfiction and a Will Rogers Medallion Finalist (2026). Her tale, Bloomers on Pike’s Peak (2024), is the biography of the unstoppable Julia Archibald Holmes, the first woman to climb Pikes Peak. It won a Will Rogers Medallion and was the finalist for the Women Writing the West 2025 WILLA Literary Award. Fast as the Wind: The Story of Johnny Fry Pony Express Rider (2022) galloped away with a Will Rogers Medallion in 2023. Then, there's The Three Little Pigs and the Not So Big Bad Wolf, putting a fresh spin on a classic yarn. Get ready for her upcoming book, Not from Around Here, a whimsical picture book about sharing and quirky friendships set to take off in early summer 2026!


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Wednesday, July 29, 2026

Egyptian Lovers by Isabella Jordan ~ @RABTBookTours #RABTBookTours #EgyptianLovers #IsabellaJordan #ParanormalRomance #PNR


Egyptian Lovers by Isabella Jordan


Dark Paranormal Romance

Date Published: July 31, 2026

Publisher: Changeling Press



In the desert sands of Egypt, three lovers battle a maniacal curse. Only their love can save them.

 

Half vampire, half sphinx, Kahma roams the deserts of Egypt, praying for death -- until his lost love returns, reincarnated as archeologist Emma Bonham. But to fulfill the passion Kahma offers, Emma must part with her life.

Fascinated by the tale of Emma Bonham’s disappearance some eighty years ago, Carson Bonham comes to Egypt to unravel the mystery. But the bloody carnage of Karnak’s history has a way of repeating itself. The struggle to keep Carson alive will be a death defying act for the powerful vampire Sopdet.

Alexis Peters has no intention of returning to Egypt, until a mysterious dream lover promises endless pleasure if she will just return to him. Little does Alexis know she’s bound to her Egyptian savior, the legendary sphinx, Amenhotep…

 

Publisher's Note: Egyptian Lovers Box Set contains the previously released novellas Kahma, Sopdet, and Ardeth & Amenhotep.



 

Read on Excerpt from Kahma:

Abydos, Egypt
November 1926

Emma Bonham moaned and writhed with Corey Dunham's head between her thighs and his strong hands holding her against his busy mouth. His tongue speared deep into her moist opening, thrusting like a cock and she moaned again, but more for his benefit than from the pleasure she couldn't focus on. Slurping, wet noises filled Emma's small tent as she played along, trying to relax into a good fuck.

She just couldn't.

Emma closed her eyes and sighed blissfully at what she hoped were believable intervals as Corey's tongue fucked her. It was so hard to focus. Her mind had been spinning since they'd finally reached Abydos that evening, the most sacred site in all of Egypt.

Abydos. Emma had spent much of her life longing to see the ancient necropolis and the famous tombs there. Tombs of ancient kings, temples of ancient gods.

Her hips left the ground as Corey's fingers played with her half-swollen clit. Corey did have nice hands and fingers and he knew just what to do with them. He'd been her lover for several months now. They'd met when he'd joined the expedition that her Aunt Elspeth coordinated back in London. Corey had been on a few expeditions to Egypt before, though his experience wasn't vast. He had more than enough experience in bed for Emma, who'd had no experiences before Corey. Emma had been as curious about sex as everything else, perpetual student that she was and Corey more than satisfied her curiosity on a number of carnal acts. She was attracted to him, trusted him.

Emma wasn't in love with Corey by any means. She liked him immensely. Corey was an attentive, considerate lover and Emma enjoyed their lovemaking.

Normally.

"You taste so damn good, Emma." Corey slid a finger into her pussy to replace his darting tongue. "I want you to come for me."

The heavy canvas of the tent rippled as the strong winds whipped around it in the desert beyond. It was just one more thing to break Emma's concentration. She began to wonder if a sandstorm was coming. Emma also wondered if she'd ever see a sandstorm. Emma could play along and fake it but she didn't want to do that to Corey. Sighing, Emma pulled herself up, surprising Corey enough that he pulled his fingers from her sheath. Before she could say anything, a desperate cry ripped open the tranquility of the night.

"Aaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"

The frantic male cry had Corey, who was mostly dressed, on his feet and Emma scrambling to find her discarded robe. Pulling it on as fast as she could, Emma stayed right on Corey's heels as he sped out of the tent. Naked beneath the robe she held tightly to herself and with her hair flying wildly about her, Emma struggled to keep up with him as he raced toward the tent of Alan Burns, the expedition leader and her friend. The rest of their group had already gathered there.

Peering over the shoulder of Alice Henderson, one of the artists in their expedition, Emma spotted the group's writer kneeling over Alan's unmoving body in the sand. Frantically, Daniel Woods pressed his fingers to Alan's throat, searching for signs of life.

"He's dead," Daniel announced, his face stricken.

A bolt of shock and fear shot through Emma. Alan was dead? How could that be? Emma was as fond of the kind older gentleman as her Aunt Elspeth. If not for him, Emma's aunt would never have allowed her to go on the expedition. Her aunt's confidence in Alan Burns and his vast knowledge of Egypt and all its sites had won out in the end. That and the man's solemn promise to her aunt that he'd watch over Emma and keep her safe.

Tears stung the back of Emma's eyes. This is horrible.

Alice started to sob quietly in front of Emma while Corey pushed his way past the others and into the tent. Emma watched as Corey joined Daniel in searching the fallen man's body for any clues as to what had killed him. The wind ripped at Emma's robe and hair from where she stood just outside the tent as tears slid down her face. Holding her breath just like the others, she waited.

Corey's features turned hard and he pointed to the older man's ankle.

"What is it?" Emma called out to Corey.

Corey seemed not to hear her at first. He started searching the sand around him, his eyes round and filled with alarm.

"A snake bite." Corey's green eyes met Emma's. "It looks like an asp bite. What an asp is doing out here, I don't know. They usually stick to the shrubs and hillsides. They are not desert dwellers."

"Perhaps it got into Alan's bags in Cairo," Daniel suggested.

Corey nodded. "It's possible."

"Dear God in Heaven." Alice, with her stout little body, took a step back and bumped into Emma. "It could still be here."

All eyes flew to the ground, searching the sand in the dim light provided by the fires that burned inside the circle of their tents.

"Watch your step." Corey's voice took on a more authoritative tone as he met the eyes of each of the remaining members of the group in turn. "Be mindful of this. Check your blankets before you go to sleep and check your clothing before you put it on. Reach into your bags with caution."

Dashing out of the tent and to her side, Corey gently took Emma's arm. "I'll see you to your tent."

With Alan gone, Corey had to take charge now. Emma easily read the tension in the hard set of his face, felt it in the hand that lightly gripped her arm. Corey was older than her, but still young, only in his late twenties. He'd never led an expedition before. He'd told her that he'd never been to Abydos before either. All that considered, he still had more experience in exploring Egypt than anyone else in the group.

Corey gently turned her to face him when they reached her tent. With gentle fingers, he brushed at the tears on her face.

"I am sorry about Alan." Corey pulled her into his arms, holding her against his hard, warm body. "I wish I could stay here with you, but I can't. I, at least, want to know where you are and that you're safe. Emma, be careful and try to get some rest."

Emma was vaguely aware of his hands smoothing her hair, the warm kisses he dropped on her head. She didn't even care that he was holding her in such a familiar way in plain sight of the others. Surely, they had to know Corey was her lover by now.

Yet, so many emotions gripped her heart with a tightly closed fist. She'd just lost a dear friend. If that weren't bad enough, they'd also lost the one person in the expedition who'd been to Abydos before and knew how to get back. How to survive here...

What will become of us now?

Corey pulled back to gaze down into her face, his expression grave. "Go to your tent now, Emma. Try to rest."

Emma nodded, not envying Corey the position in which he now found himself. Now he was responsible for the remaining six expedition members: three artists, a writer, an organizer and Emma.

�"What will we do now?" Emma gently brushed a lock of his brown hair from his creased forehead.

"First we have to take care of Alan," Corey explained. "We'll talk about the rest in the morning."

Brushing her lips with the lightest of kisses, Corey turned and headed back to the dead man's tent. Emma watched him, her heart heavy in her chest.

An image of Alan Burns' gentle smile flashed in her mind. When he smiled he had always reminded her of her father who'd died when she was just a child. He had taken on the role of father figure to Emma as she'd gotten to know him over the years. She was going to miss Alan, and Aunt Elspeth would be devastated when she learned of his death.

Little chance she'd get any rest this night.

A strong wind blew Emma off balance before she could enter her tent, stinging her skin lightly with grains of sand. She stumbled but didn't fall as the air whistled around her body in the strangest way.

Being a native of London, Emma was used to cold winds that chilled a person to their bones and made them shiver for hours. This was something else entirely. This wind was hot and moved across her skin like a lover's hand, touching her. That was the only way to describe it. A warm rush of wind penetrated the thin fabric of her robe and blew between her thighs, causing her own intimate scent to rise up and fill the air around her. Emma gasped at the unexpected way her body responded as the wind moved all about her, the way her clit began to throb. Emma's nipples beaded hard and her skin tingled all over her body.

Then Emma heard a gentle voice on the wind as the air swirled around the sensitive flesh of her throat, blew through her hair. A deep male voice.

Senin.

As quickly as the wind had risen it was gone, leaving Emma standing there shaken and lost just outside of her tent. Had she just imagined that? Was her mind playing tricks on her in her grief?

Or had the wind really coveted her body like a lover?

Pulling the thin robe tightly about herself, Emma climbed into her tent and willed her limbs to stop shaking.

  

About the Author:

Isabella Jordan is the alter ego of an otherwise stressed out web designer, programmer, and internet junkie. When she's not trying to perfect her own personal caffeine IV drip, she enjoys spending time with her family, doing volunteer work, and writing. She loves creating new stories of all kinds and chatting with readers and friends.

Isabella would love to hear from her readers!

 

Author Website

 

Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok: @changelingpress

 

Pre-Order Today:

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STRINGS by Jan Merritt ~ @RABTBookTours #RABTBookTours #STRINGS #JanMerritt #Fiction


STRINGS by Jan Merritt


Contemporary Fiction

Date Published: 11-23-2025


 

 A pandemic is spreading across the globe. A national lockdown looms in the United States. A Southern journalist sees a chance to protect her health and jumpstart her career by escaping north to a Minnesota wilderness. Feisty and wary of entanglement, she piques the interest of a bored Native American rock star on his way home.


Robby Song’s career may be on hold, but Grace Wheeler is on a mission to build hers. To Robby, she’s an intriguing challenge. To Grace, he’s a distraction she’s not ready to handle. But the brutal Northwoods winter is coming. Grace flees back south . . . to soul-searching isolation and a puzzling middle-of-the-night call.



Read an Excerpt:


PART I – THE NORTHWOODS
 
Chapter 1 – Airports


          Empty. No sounds except flight announcements and Covid precautions over the PA as Grace trekked alone through the wide, carpeted corridors, stepped onto the moving walkways, and passed the shuttered kiosks, shops, and restaurants of the Minneapolis airport. The few people she saw, behind counters or scurrying past at safe distances, wore surgical masks, except for one or two who had creative, last-minute coverings . . . red bandannas or black gaiters. The antiseptic smell of hand sanitizer hung in the air, penetrating her mask. If she closed her eyes, she could think she was in a hospital. Her hair probably reeked of the stuff. Of course, her gate was the last one. She shrugged her old, green backpack off and sank into a seat against the wall, leaning her head back and closing her eyes, hoping the flight was still happening. Except for her, the gate area was deserted. Maybe she could drift off.
But it was no good. She couldn’t sleep. She was tired, and the adrenaline had worn off, but she was growing anxious. Maybe she wasn’t as brave or capable as she’d thought. She sat up, pulled the tablet out of her backpack, and began rereading her notes from the last interview she’d done, the one with the middle school English teacher about online classes. She needed to get it written up and into her editor. She could not lose this job, her only income. A seat creaked nearby. She looked up. She hadn’t heard him walk up, but good sign, another passenger. A man was sitting with his head leaned back against the window, eyes closed, long legs stretched in front of him, a guitar case leaning against the next seat with a tan jacket thrown over it. Before long, he sat up, glanced at her over his black mask with tiny gold stars, rose, and walked to the bank of windows at the end of the concourse. He stood there, looking out, a tall, thin man all in black, with a long braid. Quite the silhouette. She looked back at her notes.
“Cozy, huh? A whole airport and just the two of us.”
She jumped. The voice was unexpected . . . and hoarse. He was six feet in front of her. She stared up at him. “I guess that’s one way of looking at it.”
“Well, I try to look for the positive.” He paused and cleared his throat but didn’t turn away. “I’m going in search of coffee. If you’ll keep an eye on my things, I’ll bring you some.”  
“I’ll watch them.”
He moved the guitar and jacket to a seat in her row, then straightening, looked at her. “You want coffee or not? You didn’t actually say.”
They studied each other then, the way people do when they’re wearing masks — all eyes. His were dark, almost black, under barely arched eyebrows. They looked at her steadily . . . with a touch of amusement? Hers were brown, with the beginning of a worry wrinkle between her brows. She looked back with a serious expression.
“Sure. Black, one sugar.” She leaned over to get her wallet and noticed her toenails. She had meant to cover the chips with a fresh coat of blue polish. Oh, well.
“I’ll get it.” He walked off.
A red packet was on the carpet below his jacket. She put her tablet down on the little table between her and the next seat, walked over, and picked it up. D’Addario Guitar Strings. She placed it on the worn suede jacket, under the sleeve but visible, and went back to her notes.
                                                                                ************
          “I stopped at a hand sanitizer.”
She nearly dropped her tablet this time. “You need a bell!”
“Sorry.” He was in a seat, reaching across his guitar to place her coffee on the little table. “One of my nicknames growing up was Sneak. But you seem a little edgy.”  
          “Maybe.” She noticed his long, slender fingers and wondered if that was good for playing guitar. Her mother’d always said it helped with playing the piano. She picked up the cup and went to remove one side of her mask, but the loop was tangled in her hair. She put the cup back down. Masks were proving to be a challenge. She’d given up trying to control her hair long ago, but masks weren’t optional. Her hair was dark red, dark enough it was hard to see the red unless she was in the sun. The kind of red hair that’s big and ends up in long twirls unless you comb or brush it which only makes it a bigger, frizzy mess. She tried to free first one side of her mask, then the other, finally getting one, then a sip of coffee. She looked his way. He was watching her. “I hadn’t realized how much I needed this. Thanks.”
“You have a lot of hair.” He turned away, removed his mask with one hand, took a sip, and turned his face toward her, pausing, then going on, “I knew how much I needed it.” Leaning forward, he put his forearms on his thighs and held the coffee between his knees. He was not unattractive, in an angular, ascetic kind of way — prominent cheekbones, straight nose, full lips, and the dark eyes.
He’d bought her coffee, so she figured she should try to be sociable. “Have you come a long way?”
“Not today. Just from my apartment. But I’ve been traveling. Got in late. You?”
“This is my third airport since five this morning.”
“Sounds like you’ve come a long way. Got somebody in Duluth?” He sipped.
“I wish. I have no idea what I’m doing next.”
He raised his eyebrows and looked over at the clock. “I’d say you have about an hour and a half to figure something out.” Just then, an agent walked up to the check-in desk. 
 “Do you think they’ll take us, if it’s only us?”
“I don’t know. Probably depends on whether they need to get a plane to Duluth, for commuters. I guess we’ll see. I’ve never had this flight cancel.”
“You’ve done this before?”
He nodded, swallowing a sip of coffee. “Every four . . . six months or so. I’ve got family all around Duluth . . . and this time, I’m staying . . . a while. I figure I’m safer up there than most anywhere.”
“Me, too.”
The PA system came on. “Good afternoon passengers. This is the pre-boarding announcement for flight 2514 to Duluth. We are now inviting those passengers with small children, and any passengers requiring special assistance, to begin boarding at this time. Please have your boarding pass and identification ready. Regular boarding will begin in approximately ten minutes time. Thank you.” The agent looked in their direction and shrugged. “If you guys are ready, you can board.”
They gathered their belongings. He noticed the strings and looked over at her, but she was putting her tablet away. As she passed him, he said, “I’m Robby.”
She replied, “Oh . . . Grace.”
 

About the Author:


 

 Jan Merritt lives on the coast of South Carolina with strong ties to northern Minnesota where her dad was born. Her early life was filled with rich, but conflicting narratives. On the one hand, her dad regaled her with pioneering stories from Minnesota: Merritt boys tramping through tamarack swamps and the Northwoods, learning from their Ojibwe neighbors; surviving -60° winters; and the saga of her great-grandfather leading them to discover iron ore on the Mesabi Range only to lose that mining fortune to John D. Rockefeller in a New York City courtroom. But on the other hand, Jan’s education in an elite private girls’ school in downtown Charleston, South Carolina, led her into a privileged, old South social set she wasn’t born into, one with a different set of values. These opposing values simmered in Jan’s head.


She grew up passionate about teaching, both in the classroom and on horses. She married and had a family. Life was good, but it came to a halt when she discovered by accident that she had brain cancer. She has survived, but after the surgeries and treatments, her brain is not the same. She can’t ride or teach school, but her new brain is busy. It creates conversations. One night toward the end of Covid, Jan gave up trying to sleep and decided to write down what the people were saying … maybe if she got the chatter out of her head, she could sleep. It didn’t work but she hasn’t stopped writing. Jan has a new passion.


 
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Tuesday, July 28, 2026

The History We Carry ~ A Daughter's Memoir ~ by Margaret Whitford ~ Dysfunctional Families, Motherhood, Bereavement @partnersincr1me

The History We Carry by Margaret Whitford Banner

THE HISTORY WE CARRY

A Daughter's Memoir

by Margaret Whitford

July 27 - August 21, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

About the Book:

The History We Carry by Margaret Whitford

For fans of Jennette McCurdy’s I’m Glad My Mom Died, a memoir for daughters who recognize that to truly understand themselves and the patterns of their lives, they must first understand their mothers and the forces that shaped these women.

When Margaret Whitford’s mother was dying, she told those present that her daughter “had her history.” This was true; Margaret had conducted interviews with her mother during the last decade of her life. But this didn’t end their estrangement, and Margaret chose not to return to her mother’s side during her final days.

In this memoir, Margaret confronts this decision by unearthing in her mother’s traumatic history the roots of the emotional distance between them. She explores how a history marked by the devastation of World War II in Europe, a violent childhood home, and sexual assault accumulated into complex PTSD that shaped her mother and the way she parented Margaret as her firstborn and as a daughter—and, in turn, how Margaret carried her mother’s trauma forward in her sense of self, in her relationships to others, and in the ways she navigated her world. Indeed, Margaret not only had her mother’s history—she embodied it.

Ultimately, The History We Carry confronts the legacy of intergenerational trauma with wisdom and compassion, revealing how familial history shapes each of us but need not be wholly determinative of whom we become and how we choose to live.

Praise for The History We Carry:

"An unflinching, well-rendered memoir that generously encompasses love, trauma, and the fraught relationship between a mother and daughter."
~ Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

"Margaret Whitford’s compelling memoir—a reflection on her family history, her relationship with her mother, and trauma that spans generations—is clear-eyed, compassionate, and often startling in its insight and originality. I was engrossed from beginning to end."
~ Clifford Thompson, author of Jazz June: A Self-Portrait in Essays

"Rarely have I finished a memoir understanding how our histories, both personal and generational, live and breathe within us in the present. By unearthing the complicated and poignant relationship she has with her mother, Margaret Whitford also powerfully speaks to the collective soul-searching so vitally necessary during these trying times. Written in elegant, luminous prose, this is a memoir that will stay with you long after the story is told."
~ Ken Harvey, author of The Book of Casey Adair

"Despite Tolstoy’s famous quote—families are generally neither happy nor unhappy—they are complicated, like Whitford’s. This important memoir delves into sibling conflict, parental infidelity, and substance abuse. Overlying these familial tensions is geopolitical upheaval and the effects of successive world wars, almost unwanted family members themselves. The History We Carry seats them together at its literary table and gives each their due in courageous, precise, and ultimately both urgent and forgiving prose."
~ Sue William Silverman, author of Selected Misdemeanors: Essays at the Mercy of the Reader

"An exhilarating mix of memoir and deep personal research, The History We Carry explores a mother’s complex history and a daughter’s lifelong struggle to understand and connect with her mother. In clear prose that never presents simple answers but rather digs to discover unknown truths and questions even her own long-held narratives, Margaret Whitford has written a robust story of love and trauma."
~ Sheryl St. Germain, author of 50 Miles

"All our parents live lives before we arrive, lives that come to bear on our own. In this new memoir, Margaret Whitford bravely ventures into her mother’s past to better understand her own present and future. The History We Carry is a gorgeously written book about generational trauma and the intersections of love and grief. It’s a stunning debut."
~ Lee Martin, author of Pulitzer Prize finalist The Bright Forever

Book Details:

Genre: Dysfunctional Families, Motherhood, Bereavement
Published by: She Writes Press
Publication Date: June 2, 2026
Number of Pages: 256
ISBN: 9798896363224
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub | She Writes Press | Simon & Schuster

Read an Excerpt:

A World of Two

I picture my mother lying on her hospital bed, the same one she has occupied for the last twelve days. The space is in shadow, the only light coming from the hallway. The room smells empty. No flowers or scented candles—she wouldn’t have wanted those. The sound of retreating footfalls in the corridor or a muffled voice from another part of the hospital occasionally interrupts the silence. Her breathing is shallow, until the moment it stops altogether. It happens so quietly, no one notices at first.

When my mother died in Concord, I was an ocean away, in a Paris hotel. Another day had already started. That remove feels familiar—geography and time following an established pattern.

In the morning’s early hours, I lay next to my husband, Tom, on a king-sized bed in a room of marble-inlaid tables and still-life paintings in gilded frames, the walls covered in red-and-gold-striped paper. I heard only the sounds of the night, a faint breeze moving through the magnolia trees in the courtyard and an occasional car gliding along the boulevard. While Tom slept, I lay awake, thinking about my mother. I had started to understand that we wouldn’t make it back in time. My mother would either be dead or so unresponsive that there could be no last words between us.

Tom read my brother Billy’s email while I was taking a shower. I knew from the way he walked into the bathroom, but he still had to say the words: “Your mother is dead.” Years from now, I thought, I will be able to replay this moment in my mind. He stood there, naked, looking both vulnerable and strong, his hand on the shower wall ready to reach for me.

My brothers and sister wanted to touch our mother after she died because she had not welcomed that while living. She would allow a hug or a kiss in greeting or farewell but shrugged you off if you lingered in the embrace.

Henry would have stroked her sparse hair, cut short after she could no longer shape it into a twist. He might have teased her about finally being able to touch her hair, something she loathed. Lydia might have rubbed her feet, those odd feet, with such high arches her toes curled to reach the ground. Her feet shaped by childhood polio and old age, missing the little toe on one foot, removed because of frostbite suffered during the Second World War. She could never find comfortable shoes, so she wore Birkenstock sandals year-round, donning socks with them in winter.

Billy would have rested his hand on her shoulder, let his fingers travel the length of her arm. He might have held her hand, bent at strange angles by arthritis and with the bones loose under the skin. Had I been there, I would also have been drawn to her hands, so small that they reminded me of a child’s. She kept her nails short and immaculate, a habit she’d adopted in medical school, and one I try to emulate. I might have traced the line of her aquiline nose and the contour of her jaw, fondled her cheek and pressed my fingers to her high cheekbones, a sign of her Slavic heritage, she once told me.

Her sandals and the pair of socks she last wore with them are mine now, safeguarded in a box in the back of my closet. Those Birkenstocks, the insoles shaped over time by the pressure of her feet, her navy-blue socks. I wanted the last of her clothing, something that had touched her. I run my hands over the smooth cork, hold the socks to my cheek, the much-washed cotton soft. I thought the socks might retain the cool, dry scent of her.

Our plane to Massachusetts departed in the afternoon, so Tom and I filled the morning with small errands—the purchase of a journal of good paper with a red ribbon to mark my place—and one last view of Notre-Dame. Each gesture, every step I made, accompanied by a voice in my head repeating, Your mother is dead.

The air smelled of diesel fuel and wet earth. My left arm entwined with Tom’s right, I rested my hand on his steady forearm, eavesdropped on the conversations around me, catching only phrases. I thought how these strangers knew nothing of my grief and I nothing of theirs. A rare winter’s morning, fresh with rain-washed skies, and sunlight bathing the bone-colored stone of centuries-old buildings. I noticed the quality of the light, its unusual clarity. Tom and I had introduced my mother to Paris on a trip years before. She will never see it again, I thought, trying to absorb its beauty on her behalf.

***

Excerpt from THE HISTORY WE CARRY by Margaret Whitford. Copyright 2026 by Margaret Whitford. Reproduced with permission from Margaret Whitford. All rights reserved.

 

 

Meet the Author:

Margaret Whitford

Margaret Whitford served in leadership positions within the nonprofit world for twenty years, including ten years in the social justice field, before turning to writing. She is fascinated by the ways in which we all seek to create places of refuge for ourselves, both in a metaphorical and a physical sense. The History We Carry is her first memoir. An avid Francophile, Margaret, with her husband, divides her time between a small village in the South of France and her home in Concord, Massachusetts.

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