Genre: Fiction, Romance, Contemporary
Release Date: October 3, 2013
Digital ISBN 13:978-1-939217-77-6 ISBN 10: 1-939217-77-6
Print ISBN 13:978-1-939217-78-3 ISBN 10: 1-939217-78-4
Love Songs:
Warner Wright is looking for that big break into country
music, but the reputation of his ex-stepmother is getting doors slammed in his
face. But when he hears the angelic voice of Clara Keller—he knows she’ll be
his ticket.
When the talented Clara Keller and the sometimes awkward
Warner Wright get together there is a spark even bigger than Nashville.
Opportunity is going to knock on their door, but fame can be a tricky
bedfellow.
Making beautiful music will be the easy part. Facing Warner’s past might corrupt them both.
About Bernadette Marie:
Bernadette Marie has been an
avid writer since the early age of 13, when she’d fill notebook after notebook
with stories that she’d share with her friends. Her journey into novel writing
started the summer before eighth grade when her father gave her an old
typewriter. At all times of the day and night you would find her on the back
porch penning her first work, which she would continue to write for the next 22
years.
In 2007—after marriage, filling
her chronic entrepreneurial needs, and having five children—Bernadette began to
write seriously with the goal of being published. That year she wrote 12 books.
In 2009 she was contracted for her first trilogy and the published author was
born. In 2011 she (being the entrepreneur that she is) opened her own
publishing house, 5 Prince Publishing, and has released her own contemporary
titles. She also quickly began the process of taking on other authors in other
genres.
In 2012 Bernadette Marie began
to find herself on the bestsellers lists of iTunes, Amazon, and Barnes and
Noble to name a few. Her office wall is lined with colorful PostIt notes with
the titles of books she will be releasing in the very near future, with hope
that they too will grace the bestsellers lists.
Bernadette spends most of her
free time driving her kids to their many events—usually hockey. She is also an
accomplished martial artist with a second degree black belt in Tang Soo Do. An
avid reader, she enjoys contemporary romances with humor and happily ever
afters.
How to reach the author:
@writesromance on Twitter
Excerpt of Love Songs: Chapter 1
Could
the sun possibly be any hotter, or brighter, or…
Warner’s
brakes screeched as he came to a stop at the stoplight he’d nearly run though.
The glare from the hood of his Ford was blinding. The sweat on his neck was
annoying. And the fact that he’d just been told he had no talent, well that was
pissing him off.
He
had talent. He had a butt-load of talent. Warner Wright had performed on every
stage in Nashville. Oh, he’d performed with some of the biggest names when they
were begging for a job.
He
let out a breath. So why had he been passed up?
Oh
he knew why!
The
reputation of his family came long before he started trying to sell his songs.
One thing about being the ex-stepson of Patricia Little, was all of Nashville
knew she was trouble. And even if you were a thirty year old man, and you
hadn’t had the woman in your life since your own father committed suicide when
you were twelve, those things stick in the minds of some. It didn’t help that
after his father’s death, she married a little bigger—a little richer—and soon
she’d made it into the bed of The Ox, Harley Oxbury. The only problem was he
was Nashville royalty—and married to Nashville royalty. The legend was when
Christine Eaden found out about Harley and Patricia she put a shotgun to his
head and threatened to dis-“member” him.
Did
it matter to the world that his ex-stepmother took down one of Nashville’s
icons? Oh, yeah. The Ox lost his career. Record companies didn’t want him
anymore. The public didn’t want to see his shows. There wasn’t a product
willing to put his name out front. Patricia Little had ruined the icon and her
reputation, twenty years later, she was tarnishing his.
Perhaps
he needed to change his name.
That
was stupid. His name was fine. The woman was only his step mother for two
years. By now the town should have forgotten the men she left in her path. Well
they probably would have if she hadn’t gone on TV and done one of those reality
shows where Warner’s picture was prominently displayed on her mantel as some
kind of trophy of the husbands and “other’s” children she left in her wake. And
hadn’t he asked the producers to take that down? Only a million times.
Well,
some people were meant to be on stage and some in the behind the scenes. The
guitar on the passenger seat was a reminder that he was one of them.
Although
Jordan Farr, the head of Master Records, told him if he could get a voice to
back up his music, maybe the world would start to see past his relation to
Patricia Little. That had been the most positive feedback he’d received yet.
The
light turned green and Warner eased off the clutch and onto the gas. The truck
hiccupped and then picked up speed.
But
in Nashville afternoon traffic, he didn’t make it far. Warner eased to a stop
at the next light.
He
could hear the music which the city had been built on. It poured out of the
stores and the bars. But this music was closer and the voice wasn’t Carrie
Underwood’s or Miranda Lambert’s. No this was fresh, sweet, original, and very
close.
Warner
turned his head to the right and spotted a woman in a Jeep tapping her fingers
on the steering wheel. The song wasn’t one he’d heard on the radio. It wasn’t a
karaoke cut either. No, she was singing to someone’s music, and she was
magnificent.
She
turned her head as if she might have felt his stare. Her dark hair was pulled
back in a ponytail. The aviator glasses shielding her eyes reflected his
beat-up blue pickup truck.
She
stopped singing and smiled. And it wasn’t just any smile. It was the kind that
came with a wink, if he could have seen her eyes.
That
moment nearly stopped his heart, just as her voice had. If he had her by his
side then the doors of this town would open up to him.
The
woman eased through the intersection and turned right at the next light.
He
had to follow.
Warner
checked his mirrors and quickly changed lanes. It was a close call with a
Mustang, of all things, and the driver flipped him the middle finger. But he
had to keep her in his sight.
He
made a right, but her Jeep wasn’t on the street.
“Damn!”
He smacked the steering wheel.
But
just then he saw the Jeep. The woman was climbing out of it.
Warner
made a U-turn, again causing a car to blare its horn at him and a driver to
flip him off. The heat must be getting to everyone. They were all in such a
nasty mood.
She’d
parked in front of a theater and was jogging up the steps.
Warner
screeched to a halt in the middle of the street and pulled his brake. The woman
turned around on the steps of the theater and stopped.
He
climbed across the bench seat to the passenger door and hung his head out the
window.
“Hey,”
he yelled like some back woods yokel.
“Hey,
yourself.” She had an accent. She was native and that might be iffy. If she
grew up in Nashville then she knew all about the shame of his family. But he’d
let that find its own moment. This one was his.
“I’m
not stalking you. I swear.”
“If
you say so,” she said slowly, but she didn’t make a move toward the street and
he didn’t blame her.
“I
heard you singing. You’re freaking amazing.”
She
laughed and her ponytail waved behind her. “I appreciate that.”
“No,
really. I know what I’m talking about.” He tried to open the door, but it wasn’t
going so well.
She’d
taken another step toward the door. He was losing her.
“Wait.
I want to talk to you.” Finally he managed the handle and nearly fell out of
the truck, which he’d left running
The
woman had made it to the top of the steps and gripped the knob on the front
door of the theater.
“I’m
not crazy. Please hear me out,” he was begging, but at least common sense had
kicked in enough and he stopped moving toward her. “I’m a song writer. I’m
looking for a voice.”
The
woman nodded slowly, but she didn’t make any more moves to run away. That was a
positive sign, wasn’t it?
“What’s
your name?” she called down to him.
“Warner.
Warner Wright.”
“Warner
Wright the song writer? Cute.”
“No,
that’s really my name.” He took one step further toward the curb. “You have an
amazing voice.”
She
looked at the watch on her wrist then back up at him. “You gathered that from
hearing me in my truck?”
“Yes.”
Again,
she nodded slowly. “Listen, I’m going to be late. If you want to come in and
sit that’s fine. But I’m out of time for talking on the street.”
She
opened the door to the theater and walked inside.
Warner
started for the door and then the grumbling of his truck caught his attention.
God, was he this desperate?
He
hurried back to the truck, climbed in, and parked it down the street.
Clara
locked her purse up in her aunt’s office and headed for rehearsal. The man in
the street had scared the hell out of her at first, but she’d lived in
Nashville her whole life. Every song writer thought they had what it took to
make it big. Some of them got desperate enough to hunt down talent. But she’d
never heard of this approach.
He
hadn’t come inside. Perhaps he’d given up. All the same, she had her cell phone
in her pocket. The theater had once been gutted by fire because of a psycho
man. She didn’t care to see that repeated.
On
the stage was a small ensemble waiting for her arrival. Behind them, the set to
West Side Story was being repositioned for the weekend’s production.
“Thought
you gave up on us,” Duke shouted from the piano. “You only have four shows
left. Don’t give up now,” he laughed.
“The
only reason I wouldn’t show up is because it’s too damn hot in here,” she said
as she made it to the side of the stage. She walked up the stairs and joined
the others.
Duke
gave her a nod. “Let’s just take it from the top and work the songs. Arianna
wants these last four shows to be sharp.”
They
had only started the first song when the door opened and Warner walked into the
theater. Why she thought he might be a threat she didn’t know because looking
at him now she thought he looked like the biggest nerd she’d ever seen.
His
jeans were worn, his shirt was untucked, and his thick blond hair was messed up
something awful. More than likely he’d been driving all day with his windows down.
He’d
helped himself to a seat in the back and just listened as they practiced. Well,
she thought, if he liked what he heard in the car wait till he heard her sing
as Maria.
Warner
wondered how long he’d sat in that theater, alone. He was familiar with the
musical—very familiar. They’d just finished the number Somewhere. Damn, he’d listened to nearly the entire musical. But
that voice. She had the goods!
“She’s
something, huh?”
Warner
jumped in his seat and looked at the man next to him. Quickly he got to his
feet. “Um, yes. She’s amazing.”
“That’s
my niece.”
“She
has a fantastic voice.” Warner turned to the man and held out his hand. He
didn’t want this man to think he was crazy. “I’m Warner Wright. I’m a song
writer. I heard her sing in the street and wanted to talk to her.”
The
man nodded. “John Forrester.” He turned and looked at the woman he’d followed
into the theater. “She doesn’t know you?”
“No,
sir. But I’m not stalking her. I just wanted to talk to her about singing.”
John
nodded slowly again and pulled his hand back. “She’s trained with a gun.”
Warner
swallowed hard. “Most women in Tennessee are, sir.”
That
made John laugh. “True enough.” He patted Warner on the shoulder. “She’s almost
through.”
He
gave him a smile and then looked toward the stage and gave his niece a glance.
A million words were said between them in that moment, he wondered what they
were.
Warner
sat back down in his seat and listened as they finished the rest of the show.
To
say he was moved would be an understatement. A piano and a dozen voices could
do amazing things.
When
the group stood up they all began to talk. This was a family, a musical family.
One brought together by a common love and the current show they produced
together.
It
had been years since Warner was in musical theater, but you never forgot the
feeling.
The
woman he’d followed walked away from the group and was headed toward him. Her
thumbs were tucked into the front pockets of her cutoff jeans.
The
eyes that had hid behind the shiny aviators, which were now hung from the front
of her tank top, were dark brown.
Warner
quickly stood.
“You
followed me all the way in here and listened to rehearsal?” Her accent was
drawn out.
“Yes.
I have to say, you’re amazing.”
The
woman nodded slowly, just as her uncle had done. “You’ve said that, but thank
you.” She looked down at her bare toes in the sandals she wore and wiggled
them. The middle ones had rings on them. “Is that all you wanted to tell me?”
“Yes.
No. I—is there somewhere we can talk?”
She
looked around. “What’s wrong with here?”
“Right.
Listen, I’m a song writer and I’m looking for a voice to demo my work.”
“And
you’re looking for lessons?”
Warner
raked his fingers through his hair. It was getting much too long. He looked
down at his attire. God, she must think
I’m a hobo.
“No.
I’m not looking for lessons. I’m looking for someone to do the vocals.”
“And
you want me to do that?”
He
smiled. Finally they were on the same page. “Yes.”
“I
see. Mr. Wright, I’m very busy with the theater right now. I just don’t…”
“Would
you just look at them?” He was so desperate he was hunting down strangers to
sing his songs. This was embarrassing. “Please. Maybe just a few hours with me
and you could see what you think.”
“You
don’t even know my name.”
He
dropped his shoulders. He was desperate.
He
held out his hand to shake hers. “Again, I’m Warner Wright.”
She
smiled and took his hand. Her grip was firm. There was no messing around with
this one. “Clara Keller.”
“Ms.
Keller, I would appreciate a moment of your time to show you my work.”
She
pulled her hand back, tucked it into her back pocket and gave him a regarding
look.
“Do
you know where the Riverside Building is?”
He
raised his eyebrow. “Doesn’t everyone? This is Nashville.”
She
chuckled. “There is a Starbucks on the main floor. I’ll meet you there tomorrow
at ten.”
“Tomorrow
at ten. Starbucks. Riverside Building.”
“Will
that work?”
He
nodded. “Thank you. Can I take you out for a drink tonight? No business, just
get to know you?”
Clara
pulled her phone out of her back pocket. “Thanks, but I have one guilty
pleasure and its on TV tonight.”
A
bead of sweat rolled down the back of his neck. He forced a smile. “What might
that be?”
“Reality
TV at its worst. Every heard of Nashville Ex-wives Club?”
He
knew the blood had just drained out of his head. Damn if he fainted this would
be over.
“I’ve
heard of it.”
“Never
miss a one. That Little woman is such trash she makes me laugh. But I’ll see
you tomorrow. Ten.”
He
only nodded as Clara left the theater.
Well,
this was over. Once Clara found out about his connection with Patricia Little
she too would exit stage left.
Warner
left the theater just in time to see a tow truck drive away with his pickup.
It
was official—Nashville hated him.
Scott D. Southard is the author of A Jane Austen
Daydream, Maximilian Standforth and the Case of the Dangerous Dare, My Problem
With Doors, Megan, 3 Days in Rome and Me Stuff. His eclectic writing has also
found its way into radio, as Scott was the creator of the radio comedy series
The Dante Experience. The production was honored with the Golden Headset Award
for Best MultiCast Audio and the Silver Ogle Award for Best Fantasy Audio
Production. Scott received his Master's in writing from the University of
Southern California. Scott can be found on the internet via his writing blog
“The Musings & Artful Blunders of Scott D. Southard" where he writes
on topics ranging from writing, art, books, TV, writing, parenting, life, movies,
and writing. He even shares original fiction on the site. His blog can be found
at http://sdsouthard.com. Scott is also the fiction book reviewer for
WKAR's daily radio show Current State. 
-New%2Bpic.jpg)
Bernadette Marie has been an
avid writer since the early age of 13, when she’d fill notebook after notebook
with stories that she’d share with her friends. Her journey into novel writing
started the summer before eighth grade when her father gave her an old
typewriter. At all times of the day and night you would find her on the back
porch penning her first work, which she would continue to write for the next 22
years. 
