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Where to by Ghost of a Chance

Click the the little boy ghost to watch the trailer

Book 1 in the

Chances Are ... Series

Ghost of a Chance


     Widower Trace Hawthorne has run his life on the left-brained model of an engineer—except for his impulsive move to Egypt with his toddler twelve years ago. When he returns to Minnesota and buys a century-old house, any odd incidents—misplaced items, flickering lights, a boy, Edward, whom no one will claim—he dismisses with logic.

     Single mother and herbalist Wynter Storm is poised to expand her business, moonlighting as an interior decorator for extra funds. In denial about her psychic intuition, she senses things about Trace’s new house and about him.

     Logic and intuition collide, sparks fly and love ignites. Can they heal past hurts of grief, guilt and abandonment while fending off their matchmaking daughters, curtailing their mothers—one a psychic and the other a busybody—and help the ghost of a small boy find his way home?



     Late that afternoon, Trace climbed the stairs to his study. At the moment it was a work in progress. A sheet of plywood, confiscated from the site, resting across two filing cabinets, imitated a desk. A bookcase created from more boards and cement blocks housed engineering books. He'd ask Wynter to work on this room next. Before the living room.

     He set a bottle of beer on the end table and settled into an overstuffed chair in one corner of the room. He'd catch up on professional reading before looking over a batch of blueprints to get a head start on work the next day.

     The sun had set, and dark filled the corners of the room. He reached over and touched on the lamp. Suddenly, a chill wafted across his arms. He got up to check the window. Perhaps Gertrude had opened it a crack to air out the room and forgotten to close it.

     The window was securely latched.

     He returned to his chair, settled himself, opened the journal he wanted to read, and the light shut off. "Must've bumped it when I turned the page," he muttered. He touched it back on. He read a paragraph, grabbed his beer and took a sip. The light went off again. Guess I hit it on accident, he decided. That was the only logical explanation. He turned it on once more and continued reading. Five minutes passed and it shut off again.

     "What the devil," he muttered. He hadn't moved. He touched it on for the third time. In no more than a minute or two, it turned off. Grinding his teeth in frustration, he touched it on. It went off.

     He got up, unplugged and plugged in the lamp, and turned it on. It immediately went off again. Was there an echo of childish laughter? He dismissed it. Sara was gone, spending the night with his mother. Had to be kids down the block, playing outside.

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