Suzanne Beecher

Dear Reader,

Sitting and relaxing is overrated. When I sit too long, I start thinking too much, and if I sit long enough, my thinking spirals downward. I'm an upbeat person, but I'm also a worrier. If everything feels like it's going a-okay, I can't settle in until I have something to worry about. No matter how insignificant, I have to find a placeholder--any teeny-tiny worry will do--until some "real" worry shows up. After all, if I quit worrying about things for a week, or two, or heaven forbid a month, I might forget how to worry.

When you don't practice your skill you get rusty. If you want to be a long-distance runner, you'd better be hitting the pavement every day. Want to be a writer? Write every day. If you want to be an accomplished worrier--I don't really want to, but it's ingrained in my personality--never miss a day of worry. Use it or lose it. What would I do with a big, empty worry space in the middle of my brain?

Too bad there wasn't a "Worrying 101" class when I was in school. It would have been an easy "A." I wouldn't have even needed to read the accompanying textbook, because I could have written it. Maybe I could cash in on this worry trait of mine? Where there's a need, if you can fill it, you can probably make a few bucks. Is there a place to advertise such a thing on Craigslist?

Running out of worry space? Please rent mine. Prime space, adaptable to big and small worries, automatic reminders if you start to forget what's in your worry space. Vacant at the moment, but will fill up fast, so call today. (I'm begging you.) Discounts on a long-term contract.

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

Suzanne Beecher
Suzanne@firstlookbookclub.com

P. S. This week we're giving away 10 copies of the book 'The Wolf Tree: A Novel 'by Laura McCluskey. Click here to enter for your chance to win. 

CHAPTER 1

People think that death by drowning would be peaceful. But if there is any truth to that, it's a peace that comes after the worst thirty seconds of your life. And it's a fate that, until today, George Lennox had never considered might befall her.

With her jaw clenched against both the biting cold and sudden dips, George stands on the heaving deck of the police launch; constricted by the bulk of an orange life vest, a duffel bag over her shoulder. She clutches a leather briefcase in one hand, the slick railing with the other. The weather has changed dramatically in the last few hours. The soft white clouds that farewelled her on Skye have turned black and heavy, and the waves that claw at her feet are splintered iron, threatening to drag her down all twelve thousand feet to the sunless floor of the North Atlantic Ocean.

"It really had to be today?" A burly marine police officer shuffles up behind her. "We couldn't wait for the fucking wind to die down?" He pauses and eyes her chest speculatively. "You know how to use those?"

She follows his gaze, then looks up coolly. "Life vests?"

He blinks, hearing his words over again. "I just meant there's a whistle under that flap, and a wee light over there..."

"I'm sure I'll figure it out should the need arise, Constable."

Though he must be at least ten years her senior, the officer ducks his head.

"Righto, 'Inspector'," he mutters before moving away.

George just grits her teeth, sucking in a quick breath as the boat angles sharply downward. The condescension is something she's used to, even when they learn her rank. These waves, however...She swallows hard, temporarily grateful for the wind that dries her perspiration as soon as it forms on her forehead.

"You might want to step inside, Inspector," a voice calls over the thrum of the engine. Despite his narrow frame, the captain barely sways as he leans out of the cabin behind her. "It's only going to get rough from here." The soft, rolling lilt of his Western Isles intonation is a pleasant contrast to the harsher Glaswegian accent she's become used to.

"This isn't rough?" George asks, incredulity creeping into her voice.

His bushy eyebrows pull together. "The Atlantic gives you hell on a good day," he rumbles, with knowledge born of a long career spent rescuing drunken tourists from dangerous cliffsides or fishing people from the sea-- alive or dead. "We're certainly going to test her patience by trying to dock."

George narrows her eyes as a light rain starts to fall. "How far are we pushing our luck?"

He shrugs. "The harbor is to the northeast of Eilean Eadar, and we're coming in on a strong westerly. In this swell it's sheltered once you're in, but it's a fine narrow entrance over the bar." At her nonplussed expression, he adds, "We'll be taking our time coming in, that's for sure."

He takes a moment to shout instructions back into the cabin and receives a muffled response. George clutches her briefcase tighter as a wave crests the edge of the boat and her boots, sending a new chill through her socks and soaking the hem of her trousers.

"Who out here can receive a distress signal?" she asks. "The coastguard should be within range." She peers through the thickening rain at a distant coastline. "Or one of the little islands...that's Hirta, isn't it?"

"You'll not find much help there. They're isolated enough as it is. Where you're going..." He blows out a long breath. "Even I've only set foot on Eadar once, dropping off some lads when one of their trawlers lost a rudder. That was near twelve years ago. I don't think any police have been there since."

"So if we need a quick exit...?"

He barks a laugh. "I hope you can speak dolphin." But his laughter dies as he squints into the distance, as if his seasoned eyes can see further across the water than hers. "If you're in a pinch, your best chance would be Stornoway; there's the airport there, and the Search and Rescue helicopter team, too. And a good hospital," he adds, as an afterthought.

She rubs a spot behind her ear, the only outward indication of her inner disquiet.

(continued on Tuesday)

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