Carpe Bead *Em.

a novel.

Tonya Kappes.

For my Eddy.

The man who always has my back, and my heart.

Acknowledgments.

Even though writing is a journey writers take alone, there are people along the way that make it an enjoyable one.

First and foremost, I'd like to thank the three reasons I get up in the morning-my boys, Jack, Austin, and Brady. They encourage me with their strength, positive attitude, and unconditional love.

Much gratitude to my writing buddies who help me brainstorm, help me through my growing pains as a writer, and encourages me to keep going: Cathy Liggett, Heather Webber, Hilda Lindner Knepp, Shelley Shepard Gray, and Renee Vincent.

To my dear friends at The Naked Hero grog, Dee Dee Scott, Lee Lopez, Heather Webber, and Misa Ramirez for hanging out with me each week. Keeping this career real.

Jane Porter, thank you for being a great role model and strength of inspiration.

Without my family, Linda and John Lowry, Tracy, David, Ben and Maddie Darlington, Ann and Don Bedson, I wouldn't be the person I am today with the drive I have.

This book wouldn't have gotten completed if it weren't for Doctor Alyssa Wood, who took special care of my sick pup, Charlie, and fixing him. I have to have Scooter and Charlie at my feet during the writing process.

Lisa Mediate Dare, my dearest friend who has been with me through thick and thin. I love you, girl.

Also a big shout out to Cincinnati news anchor, Sheila Gray, for letting me use her cool jewelry for inspiration.

Finally, to my dear Aunt Grace, who made my life full of amusement and special memories. I hope everyone has an Aunt Grace in their family.

Week One.

Families are like fudge, mostly sweet with a few nuts.

Author Unknown.

Chapter One.

Groaning, I squeeze the pillow over my ears. Please...even that doesn't muffle the ringing phone. Blinking into the darkness, I heave the pillow across the room and grab my clock.

What the hell?

I shake it to make sure I'm seeing the real time.

Two-fifteen. In the morning.

Are you kidding me?

The ringing stops for a few seconds and I think, pray, that it's over. But then it starts again.

Argh...no. I squint trying to focus on the Caller ID without messing up my cocoon of blankets.

Aunt Grace.

Enough said.

I reach for the phone, but stop. Does she really need me this time? My fingers stretch closer. What if it is an emergency? My fingers retract. No. What...what if it's just like every other time? All the times she called to shoot the breeze in the middle of the night?

One more ring and the answering machine picks up. I can't do it. I can't ignore her call. I close my eyes, pick up and press on.

"Hello, Aunt Grace." Three words in, and I am already exhausted with this conversation.

"You are psychic just like your mother. I swear you even sound like her." Aunt Grace said.

Well, Great Aunt Grace, really. Ninety-two years old. I swear she's going to outlive all her relatives-if I don't kill her first. Not that there are many of us left. After my parents died it was just me and her. I guess I owe her.

"I wanted to tell you about this fine young man I think you'll like." She acts like it's three in the afternoon. Doesn't she realize it is in the middle of the night? I can tell where this is going.

"Aunt Grace, can't this wait until the morning? Better yet, why don't I come visit?" I plead.

I try to see her every six or eight weeks. It's the least I can do. Well, the least I can do for myself. I live almost five hours from Cincinnati, in Chicago, and she still continues to call in the middle of the night. Distance and time are irrelevant when it strikes her fancy to call me. At least I can control my trips back to Cincinnati.

"It can't wait until tomorrow, and I don't want you to drive here this time of the night."

"That's good. At least you know what time it is. I'll call you tomorrow about this guy." I'm afraid her mind isn't as sharp as it used to be. Not that it was ever that sharp.

"Of course I know the time. I just finished playing cards with the girls down the hall."

"Down the hall?" Aunt Grace owns an apartment building in one of the seedier areas of downtown Cincinnati.

"You know. The girls who rent from me. Besides aren't you in Chicago?"

A calm but eerie feeling comes over me. Thank God she remembers where I live. Some nights she calls and thinks I'm dodging her when I try to explain how I can't just pop over to visit.

"Besides, aren't you in Chicago?" She repeats.

"Yes, Aunt Grace. I still live in Chicago. I have a long run in the morning. I need all the sleep I can get." Across the room, the door knob turns. My eyes bulge. With the phone cradled between my shoulder and ear, I clap my hands.

Nothing better than The Clapper for someone who is scared of the dark. Someone like me. If someone is going to rob me or kill me, I want to see them or at least be able to say, "Here Mr. Robber Killer, take whatever you want. I don't need it."

Aunt Grace is rambling on about Inas winning the first round of gin rummy. I hardly register it.

"Who's there?" I hiss towards my bedroom door.

"Hallie," she says to me, "we live on the fifty-first floor. Who do you think it is?"

I practically faint from relief. The intruder happens to be Lucy, my roommate and best friend. She claps after she opens the door, turning the lights off.

I groan. Lucy still looks good in the middle of the night with her ash blonde hair pulled back. Her turquoise eyes stand out even more without make-up on.

"Getting robbed is virtually impossible unless someone freaks out in our building." Lucy snickers.

"Clap them back on!" I scream into the dark.

I don't give a shit that it's Lucy and not Freddy Freaking Nightmare On Elm Street. If I lived in Fort Knox, I would still be afraid of the dark. Lucy and I continue to clap my lights on and off until the room feels like a disco.

Finally, her long lean legs carry her five foot nine frame out my bedroom, ending the clapping feud.

"What's going on, Hallie?" Aunt Grace croons through the phone.

My head spins in confusion. Aunt Grace is humming a tune from the musical Chicago.

Another one of her quirks. She just breaks out in tune. Not song, but tune.

"If Aunt Grace wakes me up with her calls, then I want to make sure you stay up." Lucy continues to clap.

"Hallie? What's going on? Do I need to kick some...?"

"No, no, Aunt Grace." I have to interrupt her because if she starts cursing, she doesn't stop. "It's only Lucy."

I put my pillow over my head.

"That crazy superstitious girl you met in college?"

"Yes, Aunt Grace. The same Lucy that was my college roommate and is still my roommate."

My patience is running thin. "Goodnight."

"Hallie, wait. I still haven't told you about the young man." There is pride in her voice. "He's Italian."

Here we go. I roll my eyes as she talks. She is always doing this to me. I admit that being single at twenty-eight isn't in my plan, but I don't need Aunt Grace playing Cupid.

"He lives in Chicago, and I gave him your number to look you up."

My heart pounds a mile a minute. I hate when she does this. I can just imagine it's one of her loony friend's cuckoo relative who's probably a loon like all the others.

"You what?" I sat straight up in bed. "Aunt Grace you can't do that in today's age. What if he's crazy and tries to track me down and kill me?"

Thank God I live in a building with a doorman that has to buzz up any visitors. And double Thank God I have The Clapper.

"Good Italian family," she says, ignoring me.

Here we go again.

"Don't you know most people my age are waiting well into their thirties to get married?" I inform her.

"Just keep an open mind. In my day if you weren't married by twenty, you were considered an old maid."

"Lucky for us we aren't in your day."

"Good Italian family," she repeats before she hangs up. Aunt Grace always gets the last word.

Needless to say, my nerves are shot, and it takes me over an hour to calm down. I must've turned my alarm off because I didn't wake up for my run.

Chapter Two.

My alarm! Not the physical alarm, but my internal alarm clock, propels me out of bed. I lunge for my real clock and shake the life out of it.

The damn thing.

I need to invest in a new clock because this happens several times a week. And Shaken Clock Syndrome has just about done the thing in. I own up to the fact it could be operator rather than mechanical error.

My hair hangs in front of my eyes like a dark waterfall. I try to blow it out of the way, but it's too heavy to move. Instinctively I take the rubber band from my wrist and pull my hair up in a high pony.

The entire apartment is extremely quiet. Obviously Lucy isn't awake, and I'm not about to flick her lights on and off to wake her up, like she did last night. Granted, she didn't wake me up-Aunt Grace did-but I could've lain there while Aunt Grace talked and slept through most of it. Lucy had to make drama out of it, just as she does with everything.

Seven o'clock.

I have two options. One, I can throw on some clothes and meet my running group, even if I'm late, as I do every morning. Or two, I can chuck training all together and stay in my comfortable bed.

But if I stay in bed I won't be able to see him. And seeing him is worth getting out of bed.

I throw on my light gray Adidas shirt and my light blue Nike running shorts, then lace up my kickers. And make sure my pony is staying put.