Like every novel writer, my goal is to get to the finish line with a manuscript I’m proud of—one I’ve spent weeks, perhaps months, carefully carving out before passing it along to my editor. There’s no greater feeling than clicking the blue send icon, depositing it into her capable, passionate, and at times over-the-top thorough hands (in a good way). It’s a rush of accomplishment.

Yet a nagging feeling slithers into the joyous moment. I should have spent more time on it—even though I’ve given it my all. That voice in my head. I try to push it away, assure myself it’s just my fatigue taking over. But absolute jubilation at what I’ve been able to complete is fleeting.

And there’s something about that time between when I turn my manuscript over to my editor and she delivers it back to me. That feeling it’s not enough hangs around like a mismatched dirty sock that fell off the pile on the way to the laundry room and unknowingly kicked to a corner, leering at me behind my back.

For my most recent manuscript I pulled an all-nighter to make the deadline—something I hadn’t done since college. The problem is I have no concept of time, so I thought I’d allowed plenty. By Sunday evening one weekend it had become painfully clear I wasn’t close to getting through all my own edits and re-writes. I had a long way to go so I kept plowing ahead throughout the night, determined to get it done. At six o’clock the next morning, I took a deep breath, attached the manuscript to an email, sent it off, and then went to bed for a couple of hours.

That was when the doubt started to creep in. The more time that passed without hearing back from her, the more my imagination took over, composing disturbing scenarios of possibilities:

Penny, what were you thinking? This needs a complete rewrite. This is not your best work. Your main character needs to be further developed. This chapter doesn’t make sense. I’m not following your themes. The timeline isn’t conceivable.

The possibilities were endless.

Would I be able to handle the crushing blow she was sure to deliver with her pages and pages of comments, questions, and redirects? Could I bear to look at the manuscript itself with red lines crisscrossing through it in Track Changes?

The daily pages on the calendar kept flipping, still without a word from my editor. Then I recalled she’d mentioned she was going to be away for a time. Hopefully that was the reason for the delay. But the days turned into a couple weeks with no word. I reasoned she was probably trying to figure out how to break it to me gently: This manuscript was going to take a lot more work.

Then one afternoon, the email arrived—the one with the sizable attachment. My gasp was so clearly audible, my furry writing companion lifted her head to gauge the situation. And the opening line was not what I’d been expecting. Instead of Penny, I’m sorry. I don’t know where to begin, it was:

“ . . . this is a great story, very tight and well written. It moved right along and your characters are well fleshed out. I felt like I knew them. Love the scenery and world building. . . .”

Excuse me, what? Really? I had to read it a second time. Then I could smile.

Yeah, this one will get a title and a cool front cover after all.

My husband seems to be used to it by now. After 37 years of marriage, I suppose it’s not surprising to him anymore that I seek out adventures for us to go on when we travel. Nothing too crazy. But there’s always an element of risk, for sure.

Recently we had the pleasure of returning to the U. S. Virgin Island of St. Thomas. Due to Covid it had been nearly three years since our last visit. It was a short stay but we were thrilled to be back.

We sought out some of our favorite places like mile-long, heart-shaped Magens Bay with its crystal-clear turquoise water and a dinner at Iggies Beach Bar (the original Iggies—pre-2017 hurricanes Irma and Maria—made an appearance in THE EMPTY CHAIR as Izzies). We also dined at Old Stone Farmhouse and took an historical tour of downtown Charlotte Amalie (pronounced uh-mall-yuh), the capital of St. Thomas and the territory.

After my book signing at Fish Face Boutique, I did some shopping—after all there was plenty of room in our suitcases after emptying out all the copies of THE EMPTY CHAIR and OVER THE EDGE we brought. (Wink!)

Our adventure came on our last day there. We headed out in our rental Jeep to the west side of the island in search of the illusive Mermaid’s Chair that occurs and is only accessible at low tide. The half an hour or so ride out took us along the edge of the mountain, a winding and undulating route with spectacular (and distracting) views to the ocean.

Did I mention you drive on the left in the USVI and I always do the driving? It’s better that way. I love the challenge and it allows my husband to be the navigator which he is infinitely better at than me.

Mermaid’s Chair is the kind of place you have to hear about from someone else. You’re not going to find it on an online list of top ten things to do on St. Thomas and you’re certainly not going to stumble upon it. And you’ll need directions on how to reach the Chair from someone who’s been there. (It had the feel of a secret location. Only the fully indoctrinated are allowed entry.) It was old school, but I printed out a blog post from someone who’d included photos and specific instructions on getting there. What could go wrong. Right?

Access to Mermaid’s Chair is via a private gated residential community so the first challenge was finding somewhere to ditch our car along the road. Once all four tires were off the pavement, we made our way to the guardhouse to check in. By law in the USVI, all beaches are accessible to the public so access must be granted.

We had our photos taken and pertinent information gathered from us. Not quite like a booking with fingerprints but it had the feel of a mug shot. If we didn’t make it back, at least they’d know who’d gone missing. 😉

Once we had a map in hand, water bottles in my backpack, we were off to find the Chair.

Starting out from the guardhouse, the walk is uphill for a while. Then it’s mostly downhill and mostly paved. The walk back, as expected, would be all uphill—in the hot Caribbean sun.

Our first mistake was for me to take hold of the map. I have a history of taking a more circuitous path to my destinations. You know, the scenic route?

As per the map, I had us heading down the first left fork. It took us a while to get to the end of the road, but when we reached the bottom of the hill, there was nothing that resembled a path to the water. Just thick vegetation. Earlier in the day a local had warned me the paths were overgrown and had not been cleared since before the 2017 hurricanes, so this seemed to prove him right.

To say I was disappointed was an understatement. I felt like we’d come so far, only to walk headlong into a wall of jungle. I tried several inroads to see if I could forge a trail through the brush—my husband coaxed me out a couple times—but I finally had to agree with him it wasn’t feasible, and we started the trek back up the hill.

By the time we got to the top where we’d made our initial turn, we were already parched from the hot sun and plowing through our water at an alarming rate. Nonetheless we decided to follow the sign for the beaches—after all, we were there. Why not see the beaches?

Soon we spotted a sign pointing to Mermaid’s Chair—the first one since we’d set out. We were elated. “We” might be overreaching. My husband might have thought the adventure was nearly over until we discovered the sign. But in my mind, we were back on track on our way to finding it. We were there! Let’s do this!

The road went on forever and was nearly deserted. Even though we were in a gated residential community, there weren’t many homes. The first we noticed was off in the distance on a hill looking out to sea, surrounded by scaffolding, clearly in the process of a major renovation. A couple of other driveways were visible, but it wasn’t the congested community I’d been expecting. Mostly just paved road with vegetation on the sides. It felt eerily deserted—like a planned development that had never got off the ground.

We kept walking and trying to ration our water along the way, quickly realizing we hadn’t brought enough. Needless to say, when I discovered my water bottle was leaking inside my backpack, I was concerned. But it didn’t deter me from forging ahead, trudging down the hill. (There was a little voice in my head asking what would happen if I ran out of water. After all, I would need more for the hike back up the hill in the hot afternoon sun. Did I listen? NO.)

The sound of the surf told us we were getting close. And soon the deep blue water came into view, so we picked up our pace and hurried to the bottom of the hill. We couldn’t quite get our first glimpse of Mermaid’s Chair yet but crashing waves and the accompanying roar were a spectacular display of nature—evidence of and support for a high surf advisory in the area.

After snapping a few photos and videos, we scurried down the wooden steps that brought us to the beach on one side of the chair. Colorful pieces of fan coral in pastel yellows and purples, gathered from the beach by previous visitors, adorned the steps as a warm welcome.

Once our weary feet hit the tiny beach, scattered with pieces of brain coral, we froze. The Mermaid’s Chair lay in front of us: waves converging and crashing on either side of it, meeting in the middle and revealing the chair when the waves receded. I walked to the end of the beach to take this photo of the chair below. Essentially it’s a spit of land between two rock formations (one of which was behind me) that appears at low tide. The other side of the chair is across the water in front me.

We stood in awe, filled our phones’ photo apps, and tried to take it all in. (As they say, the photos don’t do it justice. The videos either.) We were the only ones there and it felt surreal. Since it wasn’t low tide yet and due to the usually high surf, it was too dangerous to attempt to go out onto the chair. (I honestly considered it, and my husband knew what I was thinking, so he shot me a “don’t even think about it” look—one that has saved me, I hate to admit it, on more than one occasion in the past.)

I was absolutely tickled we had found Mermaid’s Chair.

As the sun slipped closer to the horizon, and we acknowledged we had a dinner reservation in our near future, we took in a last look at Mother Nature’s spectacular display and reluctantly began our trek back up the hill, starting with the wooden steps up from the beach.

It was long and arduous. I couldn’t bring myself to look up the hill as I trudged. It seemed so overwhelming. Instead, I kept my eyes on my feet, plopping them one in front of the other, stopping frequently for a breather in the sun, and sipping even less frequently on the last few drops of my precious water, my husband encouraging me along the way.

Not that I doubted we’d make it back, but the relief when we caught sight of the guard house in the distance when we crested the last hill was palpable. My feet willingly picked up the pace. We were almost there!

After checking out with the guard, we returned to our Jeep on the side of the road and headed back to town, looking forward to a special dinner on our last night there. Hot, tired, thirsty, and sweaty from our adventure, we were content to have created a new memory together—and survived. No search party necessary. 😊

Waking to a fogged-in harbor, I feared our plans for a seafaring excursion would be scrapped, but by the time we’d finished the hearty breakfast quiche at our B&B, the heavy cover seemed to be slowly lifting.

I’d had to do some digging online and make a few calls, but I finally tracked down a boat captain willing to take us out to Seguin Island, a remote spit of land measuring only 64 acres, about two and a half miles out to sea, and this was the morning for our adventure. (When I contacted the captain who’d previously taken brave souls out to Seguin to ask for a recommendation, he laughed and said no one would be crazy enough to do it. Gasp!)

Captain Cal and his partner Katrina (pictured in the last photo) picked us up promptly as promised at the public pier in Boothbay Harbor, Maine. The vessel was a rudimentary lobster boat, not designed with passengers in mind. Instead of rows of bench seats, a couple of folding lawn chairs with a small table in between had been set out for us where the lobster pots would have been stacked up. This arrangement was more than adequate—and surprisingly comfortable.

Ribbons of fog lingered in the harbor, but if the captain was willing, I wasn’t going to be deterred from my quest to get out to Seguin. I’d heard so much about it, I needed to see it for myself. The paranormal stories alone were too enticing not to make the trek.

My husband, the trouper that he is, always goes along for whatever adventure I commit us to—cheerfully I might add. Perhaps he feels it’s his duty to escort me in case I get myself into a predicament I can’t get myself out of. (There’s a history that justifies his willingness to be at the ready.)

Although the fog seemed to be lifting in the harbor, it was still thick out on the open ocean. There wasn’t much to see during the ride out, except the dingy we were towing behind us, bobbing in our wake. At one point, a fishing boat emerged from the mist with an eeriness that didn’t take much to imagine there was no one aboard and was drifting aimlessly. However, I seemed to be the only one on our vessel whose thoughts went in that direction.

Nearly an hour into the ride, Katrina announced if it wasn’t so foggy, we would have been able to see Seguin by that point. Now I was even more intrigued by the island. What secrets was it guarding?

We finally got close enough to see the island enshrouded in mist, making it look like a mountain top in the clouds. Remarkably, as we approached, the wisps of white seemed to disintegrate to reveal the revered Seguin. Our able captain navigated through the waters, made treacherous at times by cross currents, and secured the boat at one of the few moorings available in the cove. It was oddly quiet and the fog lended a sense there was something seclusive about the island. Only those brave enough to get there would be rewarded with a peek.

Once moored, our captain reeled in the dinghy, hopped in, guided us safely into the vessel, and then rowed us to shore. The closer we got, the more surreal it felt. Was I really getting to see the island?

After the captain dragged the dinghy with us in it onto shore, we climbed out onto a small patch of rocky beach that all but disappears at high tide. I couldn’t scramble fast enough to the wooden steps to begin my ascent up from the cove. (My husband was behind me. I could sense it, but I have to admit I didn’t look back until both feet were planted firmly at the top of the steps.) A rugged hike up the hill with the framework from an old tramway running alongside, brought us to where the lighthouse and keeper’s quarters came into view—familiar from countless photos and paintings I’d gazed upon over the years.

It didn’t take long before the volunteer keepers discovered we’d arrived and welcomed us like they’d been expecting company. A brave new couple arrives each April to get the light and island trails ready for visitors starting Memorial Day Weekend and stays into October to maintain the island and give tours to sporadic visitors who show up unannounced. Steve (pictured below with us on the catwalk of the lighthouse) spent two hours showing us the grounds, taking us into the keepers’ quarters and up into the light, talking about their work, and answering all our questions. The third hour on the island we ate the lunch we’d packed and then explored the trails.

Of course, I asked about paranormal activity they may have experienced but was disappointed he only had one story to share involving his ear plugs that seemed to find their way to the floor by morning no matter how far away from the edge of the bedside table he placed them. He wasn’t convinced it was paranormal activity, but I got the sense it was.

The most common Seguin Island paranormal story I’ve heard involved a lighthouse keeper and his wife many years earlier. As the tale goes, she was bored spending so much time on a remote island, so her husband had a piano brought out to please her. The only issue was that it came with a single page of sheet music, and she played it over and over again until it drove him mad. He took an axe, chopped up the piano and then turned the weapon on his wife. Once he saw what he had done, the distraught keeper threw himself over the railing of the lighthouse catwalk. They say to this day, the strains of piano music can be heard on the wind.

I was disappointed not to witness this auditory haunting, but in all fairness the keepers’ house was abuzz with workers re-shingling the roof. It may have been too noisy for any spirits who usually hang out there. I did learn while I was there that two rooms are available for rent so an overnight stay on the island is a possibility. If I can’t talk my husband into volunteering to be lighthouse keepers for a summer, perhaps I can convince him to spend a night on our next trip to Maine. 😉

As I mentioned in my previous post, I’m always looking for something new, unusual, or at least different to add to our Thanksgiving table. This year, I’ve decided to try the New England taste treat called Brown Bread, but I wanted to do a trial run with the recipe.

As a young girl, whose mother grew up in Maine where it’s a staple, I was offered brown bread on occasion. It came in a can manufactured by B&M (located in Portland, Maine) and often served with hot dogs and baked beans. If you look in the right store, on a particular shelf, you can still find canned Brown Bread. I honestly don’t know if I ever tried it or just decided by the aroma and the look of it that I wasn’t going to like it, but I have this fuzzy memory of not liking it.

But there have plenty of food items over the years I’ve decided to try after writing them off as a child and have ultimately decided I love them—Brussels sprouts, yellow turnip, whole cranberry sauce, fried onions, most seafood, Caesar salad—you get the idea. So, I decided to give Brown Bread a solid try as an adult.

The interesting part about making Brown Bread is that you don’t bake it. You steam it—either in an old coffee can in a large pot on the stove or in a loaf pan inserted in another pan in the oven. Water inserted into the cooking container accomplishes the steaming.

I went with the oven method. Besides the fact the method is similar to how I usually make sweet bread, I also did not have an old coffee can—I don’t drink coffee—required to use the stove method.

Among other typical bread components, the recipe listed buttermilk, molasses, allspice, cornmeal, and raisins. How could I go wrong with such savory ingredients? I jumped in and tackled the two-and-a-half-hour process (most of it was baking—or rather, steaming—at 325 degrees).

The pungent aroma soon filled the kitchen, and I found it hard to wait to taste the fruit of my labor—literally.

My husband and I both enjoyed the Brown Bread straight out of the pan, still warm. Then, as recommended in the recipe, I tried sauteing a couple pieces, slathered in butter. (What’s not to love there??) It was yummy that way as well.

When I try a recipe for the first time, I tend to follow the directions explicitly. I don’t tweak it until the second go-round. This time was no exception. In the future, I’ll try a gluten free version and perhaps substitute golden raisins for the regular raisins. But all in all, I rate this attempt a success and look forward to making it again for Thanksgiving.

But now I know why this was not pleasing to my palette as a child. Brown Bread is more of an acquired taste. A heavy molasses cookie/gingerbread man flavor with some raisins thrown in for good measure.

Have you every tried Brown Bread? If so, do you like it and how do you eat it? If not, would you like to try it? Let me know in the comments.

Happy Thanksgiving to you and all those who are near and dear to your heart!!

Now that the calendar says November, I want to skip ahead and think about Thanksgiving. It’s always been a special day in our family, all about getting together and enjoying great food—sometimes a little too much wine—and catching up with each other’s lives. And now that our three children are grown and have significant others, it carries even more meaning as they introduce our family’s traditions to those they love.

One glance at the date and I want to grab a pad of paper to start jotting down a menu. (Even though it really doesn’t change much from year to year, but it’s never too early to start putting together a shopping list. Right?)

No matter how often I’ve tried to steer us toward some alternative menu choices that don’t resemble what the pilgrims would have served (including tapping into the cuisine we’ve enjoyed during our Caribbean travels), we still end up with the staples—roasted turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, cranberry sauce, and a few typical desserts like pumpkin pie (not my thing, but I go along with it. After all, how un-American would it be to not like pumpkin pie on Thanksgiving?), pecan pie, and apple crisp.

But pumpkin pie aversion aside, let’s look at the other dishes I tend to serve that you might not have found on a table at Jamestown. Well, let’s narrow it down and look at my favorite dish. You undoubtedly have yours. This is mine.

Oyster stuffing. To be accurate, it would be called dressing since my husband, who is in charge of preparing the turkey, and everyone who doesn’t particularly care for oysters, won’t let the slippery bivalve mollusks anywhere near the inside of the turkey. But I’m okay with that. Cooking it in a casserole dish allows the dressing to get a little crispy on the top.

I learned to love oyster dressing from my father—which is interesting because he was from the Midwest, hundreds of miles from the nearest briny shore. The original recipe called for canned oysters, which would undoubtedly elicit a gag from oyster connoisseurs, but surprisingly, it works.

Maybe making the oyster dressing is my way of connecting with my father after all these years that he’s been gone—and if that’s what it is, so be it—but I keep making it year after year. Depending upon who shows up for the feast, I’m either sharing it with someone who is trying it for the first time—and often politely tells me how delicious it is—or I’m the only one who is scooping the steaming sage-infused lumps of bread chunks, onions, and oysters. And I’m okay with the latter. You know . . . as they say . . . more for me. (Wink!) And it seems to be even tastier heated up for leftovers.

Do you have something unusual that you include in your Thanksgiving menu? Is there a story behind why it’s important to you? Leave me a note in the comments. I’d love to hear about it.

Next blog post I will explore Brown Bread—a New England tradition that may actually have found its way to the table at the original Thanksgiving.