How
Aaron Paul Lazar Shifts Between Genres
By
Dora
Machado
Hello
Aaron. Welcome! Why and how did you make the transition from mystery to
romance?
Hi, Dora! Thanks for asking. I had
actually written over a dozen mysteries when I decided to depart from my
favorite genre and write a love story. The reason? Blame it on wife! She loves
Nicholas Sparks, and actually said to me, “You need to write a story like he
does. A good love story.”
We’d been staying on Cape Cod each
summer for a week for the past few years, and I’d fallen in love with Paines
Creek Beach in Brewster, Mass. I felt like I needed to set a story there, and what better than a romance? I will
admit that I’d rarely read any romance, but naturally, I knew what love was,
and had been exposed to those types of stories my whole love by watching movies
with my wife in that genre. I’m actually glad I didn’t read the current most
popular authors in romance, because I wanted my own stamp on this book. Thus, The Seacrest was born. It actually has
won some awards, so I guess my approach worked!
·
2015 Semi-finalist in Kindle Book
Review Awards
·
2014 Best Beach Book Festival
WINNER, Romance category
·
2013 ForeWord Book Awards, Romance,
FINALIST
How
are The Seacrest, The Seacroft, and The Seadog related?
When I wrote The Seacrest, I didn’t intend it to become a series, but I had so
much pressure from my readers to give them more of those characters and that
setting, I had to give in. The Seacroft
is book two in the series, and The Seadog
is book 3, but I wrote them all to easily standalone so one can read them in
any order. There are common characters in each book – for example, Finn and
Libby from The Seacrest are in both
books 2 and 3, but they aren’t the featured characters anymore.
In The Seacroft, I move forward five years
in the future from The Seacrest and
bring Finn’s young nephew (15 in the first book) to manhood. Cody is now
twenty-one and becomes embroiled in a difficult situation when his lascivious
boss wants to own him in everyway imaginable (!), yet he finds himself falling
for the demure young woman who also works on the estate. The Seacroft is a twin
mansion to The Seacrest, by the way, built two hundred years ago by twin
brothers. Both are located off Paines Creek Beach.
In The Seadog, book 3, two
new characters emerge, and so far they have become my favorite of all. Scout
Vanderhorn is a spunky redhead whose life has been hell. Abandoned by her
father, abused by her stepfather, and poor as a church mouse, she sets out to
meet her biological father at The Seacrest mansion. Jack Remington doesn’t
remember his name or last month. He’s living in a cave on the beach, barely
surviving. And all he wants to do is paddle his kayak out onto the ocean to
search for something he can’t remember.
How
are they different?
They are different stories about
love and loss and survival, of course. But mostly they feature new characters
against a familiar backdrop. ;o)
Will you be writing more romance in
the future?
I definitely will. I’m already thinking about the sequel to The Seadog. But first I have to go back
to my other series and catch them up. Right now I’m writing book 11 in the Gus
LeGarde Mysteries, called Voodoo Summer. It features young Gus (age 13 in 1966)
and in addition to a fun, family mystery, it shares many of the issues of the
decade, including prejudice and mistreatment of black folks. It also shows
great heroism, and some of the defining moments that made the adult Gus who he
is. Next on the agenda is Devil’s Spring,
book 3 in my Bittersweet Hollow romantic suspense series. That one is loosely
planned, but needs to be written first to flesh it out.
Can
you give us a peek?
I’m
going to share a few chapters here from my recently released book, The Seadog,
below. Thank you for having me over today, Dora! It’s been a blast. ;o)
Great! What a treat. Thank you,
Aaron.
****
Chapter 1
Scout slumped in her old Honda Civic, staring at the grand
mansion at the end of the white oyster shell driveway. Biting her lip, she
peered toward the front window where a shadowy figure passed back and forth
behind the sheer curtains.
Was someone watching her? Would they call the cops on her?
She knew her fifteen-year-old rust bucket didn’t look like
it belonged to this place. The house probably expected Mercedes and Jaguars,
not the beater she’d bought off her ex-boyfriend for three hundred bucks.
Heart thumping wildly, she rolled down her window to catch
the breeze coming off the sea. Instantly, fresh air filled the car with a salty
tang.
Did she have the courage to go right up to the front door
and knock on it? Could she? And what would she say? “Hi, there. I’m the
daughter you never knew you had.”
She adjusted the sling on her arm, wincing. It still
throbbed. Mind racing now, she considered her options.
Go back, and face Monty’s anger? No, his wrath?
Or…she could walk boldly up to The Seacrest mansion and
demand that her father recognize her, insist that he help her.
She’d never met the guy, but she’d hated him her whole life.
For the past twenty-three years, she’d pictured a leonine bastard, with a stone
cold heart and miserly soul. Her mother had painted a pretty dreadful picture
of Rudy Vanderhorn. And yet, here she was, about to face him down.
Shaking her mane of fiery hair, she let out a shivery sigh.
“I can’t go back. I can’t.” She eased the car forward and made her way along
the driveway, coming closer to the home where she’d been conceived. Her
mother—her dear, sweet mother—had run from this place years ago. Pregnant.
Betrayed. And oh-so-scared.
And that bastard Rudy Vanderhorn hadn’t even come after her.
He just let her go. Never chased her. Never tried to find her. What was wrong
with such a man?
Well, she’d soon find out.
Now anger replaced fear, and she felt courage swelling in
her heart. “I have to do this. For Mum.”
She pulled up in the parking area and turned off the engine.
The beast choked, shuddered, and finally sputtered to a stop.
With her purse on her shoulder, she slid out into the heat
of the day. Her white sundress was already wrinkled. She smoothed its skirt and
headed for the entrance, but before she could press her finger on the ringer,
the massive door swung open.
A heavy-set woman wearing a white apron glanced quizzically
at her. “Ja? Can I help you?”
Scout thought she sounded Swedish. Or maybe German? “Is Mr.
Vanderhorn home?” Scout asked, nervously twisting her leather purse strap. “I
need to see him.”
The housemaid—if that’s what she was—turned as white as her
apron. “Nein.”
“I’m sorry. Do I have the right house? This is The Seacrest,
isn’t it?”
The woman drew in a quivery sigh, then seemed to collect
herself. “Ja. I’m sorry. But the
Mister…he…”
“He what?” Scout asked, feeling queasy now.
“He is gone. It was a heart attack. In the hurricane, last
summer.” The woman’s voice wobbled and she seemed ready to burst into tears.
“Fritzi?” A voice called from inside. “Who is it?”
The distraught woman turned to answer. “It’s a lady, Miss.
She wants to see the Mister.”
“Hi. I’m Libby.” A dark-haired woman ambled forward with a
baby on her hip. She shook hands with Scout. “You were asking about my father?”
Suspicion grew in her eyes.
But Scout could only stare at the baby girl. About five
months old, the baby grinned at her with moss green eyes, peering under an
unruly mop of flaming red hair.
It was like looking at one of her own baby pictures.
“I—” Scout’s legs turn to rubber. “I mean—”
Now it was Libby’s turn to gawk. “Wait a minute. Do I know
you?”
Scout laughed, but she knew at any second it could swing
into tears. Her father was dead. She was too late. “I doubt it,” she said,
sagging against the door. “I’m sorry. I should go.”
Libby put a hand on her arm. “No. Wait. Come inside. Let’s
sort this out.”
If she hadn’t been so hot, so tired, and if her arm hadn’t
throbbed so badly, Scout would have run away. Anywhere but here, where she had
to face such disappointment.
“Come inside,” Libby urged. “Fritzi will get you a cold
drink. Is lemonade okay?”
Scout mumbled her assent and followed Libby into a room
carpeted with a thick Oriental rug, and strewn with polished mahogany antiques.
A vacuum stood on the floor by a grand piano.
That’s what I saw from
the road. Fritzi, if I heard the name right, was pushing that vacuum back and
forth in this room.
Fritzi made apologies and whisked the machine away, rolling
it toward the hall. “I will be right back with refreshments,” she said.
Definitely a German accent, Scout thought.
“Please. Sit,” Libby said, openly staring again.
“I’m sorry to barge in on you like this. I’m sure you’re
busy with—”
Libby sank beside Scout on the couch and settled the little
girl on the floor. “This is Sidney. She’s my youngest.”
“You have more?”
“Oh, yes. We have triplets, too. They’re four years old.
Girls. Ramona, Sylvia, and Olivia.”
“Pretty names.” Scout gave a trembling smile. “But four
girls. Oh my.”
Libby laughed. “It’s a bit of a challenge.”
Scout nodded. “I’ll bet.” She folder her hands on her lap
and lowered her eyes. This is too weird.
I have to get out of here.
Libby waited a beat, then burst out with her question. “I’m
sorry. But you must have noticed. You have the same eye and hair color as my
little one, here.”
Scout squirmed in her seat. “Yes.”
Libby glanced back and forth between them again. “Your hair
is a unique coppery shade. I’ve not seen it very often.”
“Um, there’s a reason for that. I think.”
Libby looked up. “There is?”
“Um. My name’s Scout, and I’m…I’m actually related to you.
We have…we had…the same father. Rudy Vanderhorn was my father. My mother said
he had my exact hair color when he was a boy.”
***
Libby stared at the redheaded woman who sat beside her with
tears welling in her eyes. She glanced between Sidney and Scout. She was right
about the hair color. “Wait a minute. I don’t understand. How—”
The girl leaned forward, covering her face with her hands.
Her shoulders shook. “I’m too late.”
“Wait,” Libby repeated. “Rudy was your father? How’s that
possible? When were you born?”
The girl hiccupped a few times, then sat up, wiping
furiously at her wet cheeks. “I’ll be thirty-three in a few weeks.”
The blood drained from Libby’s face. “That’s not possible.
I’ll be thirty-three in August. How—”
Scout stuttered the words. “My mother was Iris. She was
married to Rudy.”
Libby stiffened. “But Iris was my mother. She left us when I was three, and we never saw her
again. There’s no way she could be your mother.”
Scout glanced up at Libby. “My mother, Iris, left when your
father had an affair with someone else. She was pregnant with me when she ran.
Iris isn’t your mother. It’s not possible. Not if we’re both turning
thirty-three. And we’re sure as hell not twins.”
Libby felt the blood drain from her face. She was about to
ask Scout what in the world she was talking about, but Fritzi entered, bearing
a tray of clinking glasses.
Fritzi laid the tray on the glass-covered coffee table.
“Here you go, ladies. You can add your own sugar, if you want to. There is a
bottle for Sidney, too.”
Fritzi’s hands trembled, and Libby wondered if she was still
upset about having been asked about Rudy. She’d been with the family for as
long as Libby could remember, and had taken his death very hard.
When Fritzi left the room, Libby picked up her daughter and
took a deep breath. How could this woman accuse her father of such a terrible
thing? “I don’t understand what you’re saying. It’s not possible. Like I said,
my mother—Iris—didn’t leave until I was three years old.” She stopped and
thought about it. “I mean, that’s what my father always said. I don’t actually remember her.”
Scout didn’t answer.
“You’d better tell me what you know,” Libby said. “Just
start from the beginning.”
***
Aaron Paul Lazar is
obsessed with writing. He's completed twenty-five books to date, and has earned
nineteen literary book awards. He writes mysteries, suspense, love stories, and
more. You'll usually find him writing his heart out in the early hours of the
day - preferably in the dark, quiet hours when no one else is awake in his
bustling household.
“Addictive, award-winning fiction.”
BOOKS:
11. VOODOO SUMMER
(coming 2016)
3.
DEVIL’S SPRING (coming in 2016)
WRITING ADVICE
WEBSITES:
aaron.lazar@blogspot.com
