Behind Closed Words: Exploring the impact of miscommunications and misperceptions within families, delving into the chaos that ensues, even when driven by love.
White Picket Fences
Behind Closed Words Collection #1
by Kyle Ann Robertson
Genre: Women’s Fiction
White Picket Fences is a heartfelt family drama fueled by an honest story of motherhood, written for those of us caught up in our own self-searching journeys.
The one thing Julie Cahill knows because of her transitory upbringing as a military brat is that she never had a hometown. So she has made sure her kids would grow up in one forever home, in a forever neighborhood, with lots of forever friends. Yet her dream of a permanent hometown has her feeling fenced in.
Set in the Delaware Bay area, Julie has achieved her dreams but struggles with having to accept invisibility, underappreciation, and being taken for granted by her family in trade for her unconditional love.
Her guilt over not being available for her family on that one fateful day has her challenging karma by tightening her grip on her daughters and husband, ultimately pushing them away.
Book Links:
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/White-Picket-Fences-Kyle-Robertson-ebook/dp/B0BXQ3282X
Bookbub: https://www.bookbub.com/books/white-picket-fences-by-robertson-kyle-ann
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/123201258-white-picket-fences
Book Trailer:
White Picket Fences Excerpt:
My father’s voice echoed in every movement of the second hand from the vintage desk clock he had passed down to his grandson. “Time. Heals. All. Wounds. Give. It. Time.” I was pretty sure there was not enough time in the universe to surmount the death of my son.
I summoned strength by running my hand over the collage of superhero posters: Captain America, Spider-Man, the Hulk. After today, the walls would be bare. The slight leathery, sport-locker smell of the light-blue room elicited visions of my darling son. And so, between therapy sessions, grief groups, and the several books I’d read on loss over the past year and a half, I digested my pain in a void forever in my heart. If it wasn’t going to get any better, then I had to learn to live in the now with my grief and help my family heal. I could understand that Curtis would never come home, but I couldn’t accept that he was gone forever. I called the incident an accident. Surely, an eleven-year-old dying from a brain aneurysm could be nothing but a mistake.
Curtis’s dearest possession, a team-signed baseball, rolled between my fingers and brought a smile to my face. On the hottest afternoon of his last summer, Curtis hit a home run in the ninth inning of his Majors All-Star Game. He tied up the longest, most boring, 1–0 game. He single-handedly brought a small stadium of zombies back to life. The echo of his laughter above the awakening crowd and his smile as he slept that night were forever locked inside my heart.
Draped over his karate trophy at just the right angle, I could easily read “Most Valuable Player” on the medal Curtis received from that game. The tears I had been holding back fell as our eight-year-old golden retriever entered the room, wanting his morning walk.
Was he looking for Curtis too? Plopping on the corner of the twin bed, I ruffled the puffs of fur behind Roger’s ears as he settled at my feet. “I know, Rog. I know.” Together we shared the loss, which was no less today than it had been yesterday or all the yesterdays before then.
I picked up book number eight of Darren Shan’s Cirque Du Freak, making sure the bookmark was secure where Curtis had left it. I smoothed out the wrinkles I had created in the superhero duvet cover and flipped the matching pillow, exposing the lump of Curtis’s hidden “Doggie.”
From inside the pillowcase, I pulled out the threadbare stuffed Doggie Curtis never slept without. But after one embarrassing sleepover with a few baseball buddies, I found Doggie tucked deep inside the pillowcase. Close by but hidden. Had everything not happened so fast in the days after Curtis’s incident, had I time to think about it, if I could have thought at all, I would have placed Doggie in the casket with Curtis.
“Come on, Rog. Let’s go for your walk.”
Roger sauntered in front of me down the long hallway. I paused at the door to my art studio as the early morning light illuminated the painted canvas on my easel. I would get back to my latest com- mission as soon as I cleared my thoughts and got through this first step toward my family’s new normal.
Silence came from behind the twins’ closed bedroom door across the hall. The twins were either still asleep or understandably tucked under their weighted comforters to delay the start of their day.
By the time Roger and I made it to the sidewalk, pink and purple light seeped through the grays, but the sun hadn’t quite snuck above the horizon. I now walked Roger every morning and under- stood why Curtis never complained about this one chore.
The boost of energy from the brisk stroll, the silent moments for clear thought, and the apparent joy it brought Roger was a great way to start every day.
Although Roger stopped and smelled every yard, his tail never failed to wag. If only it were that easy. Stop and sniff and move on. I needed to move on, but not back to where I was before Curtis’s incident. Life had gotten stale, and as good as Michael was to me, I thought I wanted more, but I was wrong.
The day of Curtis’s passing, I had taken some time, just a few meaningless hours, for myself. Time to catch up with an old friend, one visit. It wasn’t intended to be a secret. It just wasn’t anybody’s business.
Curtis’s death pushed me closer to my empty nest sooner than I’d ever wished and was not what I imagined when I said I was tired of being Mom and Mrs. just for an afternoon. Would things be different if it weren’t for my selfishness and for not appreciating what I already had? I’d apologized to the universe every which way since then.
I kicked a stone. It bounced and rolled down the sidewalk in front of me. Roger chased it down, sniffed, then snorted, not pleased with his discovery. As we walked, the neighborhood came alive. Lights switched on. People brewed coffee and brushed their teeth. Across the street, Mrs. Amberly rocked on her front porch, sipped coffee, and watched me with consideration. Old Mr. Pender stepped out in his bathrobe, shot up a quick wave, then searched the ground as if the newspaper at his feet had disappeared before his eyes.
Mary Simon herded her three small children into her minivan. I caught her eye, but she looked away, overreacting to her oldest child climbing into the back seat. It had been more than eighteen months, and still, people felt the need to avoid me. But I understood. How many times could a person say, “Sorry you lost your son”?
Not So Little Things
Behind Closed Words Collection #2
Tina Edwards loved her childhood and creating fairy houses, a passion shared with her father, a world-renowned architect. But at nine years old, she found him dead at his desk and is haunted by this memory.
Tina’s mother abruptly moved away leaving Tina with feelings of abandonment and suspicion. Raised by her loving, wheelchair-bound Aunt Liddy, her father’s sister, 33 year old Tina has become a miniature room artist and cherishes the control she has over her life in Northeast Georgia as she works hard to please her beloved dead father’s wishes of following in his footsteps in art and history.
At the same time Mr. Jake Martin, all six-foot three of him, with a heavy southern drawl and winsome dimple, hires Tina to build replicas of the original rooms of his own family’s Victorian mansion purchased to turn into a B&B, Tina’s estranged, dying mother re-enters her life with family secrets that must be told.
Amid their research for Jake, Tina and her assistant find out that stories from his past were unfounded and prove that miscommunications and misperceptions passed down through families create unwarranted, painful separations, echoing Tina’s life story.
Book Links:
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Not-Little-Things-Kyle-Robertson-ebook/dp/B0D9KWWDRL
Bookbub: https://www.bookbub.com/books/not-so-little-things-by-kyle-ann-robertson
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/202906254-not-so-little-things
In the split second the door was open, I locked eyes with the thin woman, her hair wrapped helmet-like in a scarf. Even with dark circles around her sunken eyes, the tube in her nose leading to a white box hanging off her shoulder, and the ridiculous-looking floral housecoat-type dress, I recognized Mary Jane Edwards instantly.
“Tina, come on, open up.” She pounded with more strength than I thought possible. “Is this any way to treat your mother?”
“Go away. You’re good at that. Just go away,” I said under my breath and leaned on my side of the door. The battle line was drawn. I refused to let the woman who abandoned me when I was nine years old walk into my life like no time had passed.
“Tina, I’m not leaving until we talk,” Mary Jane said as she wiggled the door handle.
You’ve got to be kidding me. Stretching and loosening my jaw, I backed away from her insistence. What on earth could she want from me after all this time? I stared at the door, shaking my head as if the action itself would send the woman away.
“Come on, Christina, we need to talk,” she said with a crack in her voice as she wiggled the door handle and tried to force the door open.
With deep breaths in through my nose and then eased out through my mouth, I slowed my hammering heart, a technique I’d learned through years of therapy. But the long-buried memory of being dropped off at Aunt Liddy’s house for an hour, only for it to turn into forever, ached all over again.
“You haven’t had a word to say in over twenty years, and I certainly have nothing to say to you… and don’t break my frickin’ doorknob.” I yanked open the door.
Holding on to the doorframe, Mary Jane took a step forward. “Thank you.”
Squeezing my eyes to expel visions from the last time I saw her, I allowed one word to exit my mouth. “Speak.”
“I’m not going to talk to you in this hallway.” She gripped the hanging white box as if using it for balance. “May I come in? Please?”
Still, the nine-year-old in me refused to budge.
Mary Jane took a breath. With her attempt at more words, she wheezed, which led to chesty coughing.
I winced as this woman, who was practically a stranger, dug a tissue from the purse hanging off her arm. She hiked up the strap on her shoulder, swung the white box to the front of her hip and adjusted a knob. After several deep inhales, she relaxed.
Aunt Liddy would have been horrified had she seen me treat anyone like this, let alone my own mother. Truth be told, my behavior was appalling, even embarrassing, but what was I to do?
With my aunt’s loving parenting, strategies from a knowledgeable therapist, and emotional support from my bestie, Nissa, I had painstakingly put in place a life that honored my late father, blocked out my estranged mother, and propelled me into an existence all my own, one I thoroughly enjoyed. I owed it to all of us not to go down this rabbit hole.
But I had already stepped on the trigger. The steel jaws had snapped, trapping me between head and heart. With thoughts of hashing things out and never having to see her again, I resigned myself.
“Just this once.” I lowered my shoulders and prayed I wouldn’t regret letting her into my home. L’Air du Temps, the scent of my youth, passed by ever so slightly as Mary Jane entered.
With my forehead pressed against the closed door, I took two deep breaths and got ready for battle. I pulled a rubber band off my wrist, piled my long brunette curls into a bun on the top of my head, and reminded myself that my difficult childhood had very little to do with me and a lot to do with the woman sitting on my couch.
I peeked at the clock: 9:30 a.m. Was it too early to open a bottle of wine? Whipping around, ready to face my past, a loose curl fell down the side of my face. So much for being Miss Tough Guy.
Mary Jane seemed out of place, sitting slumped and focused on her breathing in my living room, which reflected the mid- century home my father had built for her where she always dressed picture-perfect, behaving like royalty.
Seeing her now, in her unbecoming pink floral housedress in contrast to my sleek, custom-built, 1920s-inspired, fluted-back, Art Deco couch bewildered me. Who was this woman interrupting the ethos of my condo?
Even with a mildly warming heart, I couldn’t let go of my veil of protection. “Talk.”
She began. “I know it’s been a long time, and we have a few things to work out.”
“A few? Jesus, Mother, you’re unbelievable. You. Left. Me. Remember?”
“Will you sit? Please? I need to explain a few things I thought Liddy had told you long ago. I’m surprised she never…” Mary Jane’s cough snuck up on her again, but I still refused to sit.
Aunt Liddy? I paced, waiting for Mary Jane to get her cough under control. She had no business bringing Aunt Liddy into this. Liddy was like a mother to me. She had raised me from the age of nine.
Liddy took me to buy my first bra. She listened when I lost my first crush and cheered me on when I graduated from high school and college, then moved into my own apartment as I attempted to enter adulthood.
“Aunt Liddy?” I questioned once Mary Jane’s cough subsided. “You, Mom. Let’s talk about you. I saw you last year at Liddy’s funeral. You didn’t stick around long enough to talk to me.”
I paced, unclasped my tense hands, and glued my arms to my sides to keep them from flailing in anger. “You know what? This isn’t going to go anywhere. You need to leave. I can’t do this. I don’t need you to tell me we have to talk because I know there’s nothing to say.” I marched to the door and yanked it open.
“Tina, I know showing up like this is a shock, but I don’t know how much time I have left to straighten things out with you. I have lung cancer. I’ve quit my job and would like to be with you during the experimental treatment I’ve signed up for.”
I froze. Oh, no. No way. No way will my mother do this to me. Mary Jane could not come into my home and drop a bomb of this caliber. The walls of my carefully assembled life began to crumble.
“Shut the door, Tina. We really need to talk.” She pulled a large folded manilla envelope out of her purse and laid it on the coffee table.
About the Author
Since achieving her Creative Writing Certificate from Emory University, Kyle Ann has authored the children’s book series ” Nissa The Woodland Fairy.” as writer BB Walsh. is the CWO (Chief Writing Officer) of the blog IF CORKS COULD TALK. And now her first novel WHITE PICKET FENCES with more to come.
Kyle Ann’s a retired Physical Therapist Assistant with most of her education coming from raising four children who are all out of college, happy in their own space, and paying their own bills! She spends as much time as possible reading, writing, golfing, gardening, and enjoying a glass of wine with friends and family. KyleAnnRobertson.com
Website * Facebook * X * Instagram * Bookbub * Amazon * Goodreads
Author Links
Website: https://www.kyleannrobertson.com/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/kyleann.robertson
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/kyleannrobertson
Bookbub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/kyle-ann-robertson
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/stores/Kyle-Ann-Robertson/author/B07DGPXL6F
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/18637419.Kyle_Ann_Robertson
Giveaway
$20 Amazon giftcard,
Audiobook of White Picket Fences,
Audiobook of Not So Little Things
-1 winner each!
Follow the tour HERE for special content and a giveaway!
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