Seven
Seeds of Summer
Chantal
Gadoury
Genre: YA Paranormal Romance
Publisher: Waldorf Press
Date of Publication: March 15, 2014
ISBN: 1630684775
ISBN-13: 978-1630684778
ASIN: B00J1PMYAE
Number of pages: 332
Word Count: 66,420
Cover Artist: Karen Davis and
Terri Cooper
Book Description:
Seven Seeds of Summer follows the
story of Summer, a college art student who has grown up in a house full of
Greek mythology and legends. Summer grew up with a love for the darkest of all
Gods: Hades, which caused tension between her and her mother. Summer comes home
to Point Judith, Rhode Island, to find a mysterious figure on their family
beach. The figure comes to her with questions about a familiar myth of her
childhood: of Persephone and Hades. He proceeds to tell her of a new version of
the story with a different ending that Summer never knew; an ending that
includes herself.
A trip to Greece leads to tragic
twists, leaving Summer in the arms of the strange figure whom she had met
before. He takes her on a whirlwind through the busy streets of Athens, to the
lowest point of Greece where his lair awaits: The Underworld. Determined to
find out the secret of herself and her piece in the story, Summer goes with
him, and tries to make herself at home in his world.
Summer has to decide to follow
her heart or follow the same footsteps of the mysterious woman in her past
life.
Book Trailer: http://youtu.be/klFPgDuwwSY
Excerpt Chapter One
“Summer!”
I could
hear my friend, Maggie shouting my name across campus. There wasn’t one
person who hadn’t heard my name. My cheeks heated with my embarrassment and I slowly
turned to see Maggie running toward me. Her brown hair billowing in her face as
her loose ponytail fell apart. I caught myself grinning at seeing her dressed
in her paint-splotched overalls again. She was always adamant that they were
her lucky painting clothes. It was all I ever saw Maggie wear to classes. She
advertised “artist.”
“Hey Maggie,” I murmured, giving
her a small smile. I clung to my over sized sketchbook and waited for her to
catch her breath.
“Are you
going home now?” she asked me, pushing her hands on her waist, looking as if it was
all she could do to hold herself up, either from the all-nighter that she more
than likely had in finishing her project, or the fatigue in wrapping up the
semester and packing to go home. I gave her a curt nod and turned my head in
the direction of my mother, seeing her stuffing in one of the last boxes from
my dorm room into her car. Spring semester was finally over, and I was
officially considered a sophomore in college. Thank God. No more “annoying
freshman” classification.
“Aw, that’s too bad.
A bunch of us from Sketch class were going to head over to Rusty's Grill for a
goodbye lunch,” she said as she pushed her bangs from her
face. I noticed her hands were still dirty from painting. I wondered how long
she had been in the studio overnight working on the last project of the year – the one due
this morning. I let out a sigh and shrugged.
“I’m sorry,
Maggie. My mom and I have a long drive,” I glanced over in
my mother’s direction again. She was standing by the car with her arms folded
over her chest, expectantly looking at Maggie and me. “I better
get going. I’m sorry for leaving in such a rush. I’ll keep in
touch with you over the summer.” I lied as best as I
could. It was hard to walk away from a person that only wanted to be my friend.
I just didn’t want any friends. I had spent the entire year in the studio,
painting, drawing, painting, and drawing. Lunch and dinners usually consisted
of me, alone; grabbing something from the Quick-Fix in the student center and
taking it to my dorm room. Usually, that was the only time my roommate saw me.
I must have made Rachel’s life very easy.
For the
next year, I applied for a single, so I could set up my easel and paint into
the wee hours of the morning and not have to worry about bothering someone with
the stenches of paint, or the tiny trickle of classical music escaping from my
computer.
“Who was
that?” my mother asked me as we climbed into her
silver 1990 Honda Accord.
“That was
just Maggie,” I murmured, pushing my pillow towards my
feet as I reached for my seat belt. “She was in a few of
my art classes with me.” I clicked the seat belt into place and
pulled the pillow back up into my lap.
“You never mentioned a Maggie,” my mother
said, glancing over her shoulder as she backed out of the parking lot and
started to drive toward the exit of the Institute.
“I never had
to mention a Maggie,” I said, pushing my pillow against the
window and leaning on it. I knew what was coming next. My mother was going to
tell me how much she wished I had made friends at school, and if I applied
myself more, I would be happier. In her mind, not so alone, but I enjoyed being
alone, for the most part.
“Honey, I
think friends would be something positive in your life. You need friends. You
always do everything alone. Every time either your father or I would call you,
you were always alone. Always in the studio. Always doing something. You never
even tried to be friends with your roommate.”
“You don’t know
that!” I growled and closed my eyes, wanting her
to drop it.
“I do know
it, Summer. If you just tried hard enough, you could be so much happier. You
have so much potential to do so many great things, and meet people. If you
don't try hard, you'll never have those opportunities."
“I don’t want friends,
Mom. I just want my art degree and to move on, get a job and live.”
“But you are
living,” she argued. “What do you
think you’re doing now? This is life, honey. This is it. We didn’t just fork
over the money to The New England Art Institute for you to just sit in a studio…”
“I thought
you were paying for my education. For my future, to get a great job in
something I love to do. Not make friends.”
“We thought
this place would open you up, and give you a chance to test your social skills.”
“I’ve been
evaluated and measured, and ta-dah, I have none,” I said
improvising one of my favorite quotes from one of my favorite movies.
“You don’t have to
be so negative all the time,” my mother sighed,
pushing her sunglasses over her eyes.
I could
tell this was going to be a long drive. The New England Art Institute was only
an hour away from Point Judith, where we lived in a small house by the ocean.
It was probably my favorite place in the whole world. There was nothing but
ocean, and sand, and more opportunities to paint quietly.
“Your father
is back in Greece,” my mother murmured after a few minutes of
nothing but the silence and the soft hum of the air conditioner.
“Again?” I asked,
opening my eyes to glance at her. She nodded, not looking away from the road. “He was
called out about three days ago. They found something more on the Hades
location.”
“Elis?”
“Yes,” she said
with a grin. “Elis.”
“They found
something more than rock and rubble?”
“Well, they
just asked your father to come out and give his opinion on their recent
findings. I’m not even sure what exactly they wanted him to look at.”
“Rock and
rubble,” I finished, lowering my head back down
onto my pillow. My family loved anything that had to do with Greek Mythology.
Our house was filled with relics, and pictures of relics, statues, and temples.
My mother was fascinated by Aphrodite, the Goddess of Love. I was sure it was
because my mother was in love with the idea of love. She lived for Valentine’s Day and
stories of Cupid, and was fascinated by how love worked in stranger’s lives. It
could have been the fact that she was a psychologist and loved studying people,
but I had a feeling the reasons for her fascination delved much deeper than
what surfaced.
There were
pictures that littered our fridge and our hallways of my parents in their
younger years, posing in front of all sorts of different temples. I imagine this is where or why my mother
began her fascination with the Greek Gods and Goddesses. It must have started
out as just an admiration, until she started to pray to them. The only part of
her decision to pray to them that bothered her was my growing adoration for
Hades through my childhood, into my adolescent years. I had the freedom to
explore and learn more about my dark friend, and even at times, prayed to him
in the quietness of my mind.
I started
at a very young age, after being told of the story of Hades and his love,
Persephone. In my eyes, he was the perfect man. I became obsessed with him.
“Do you have
to be so morbid?” my mother asked me when I told her of my
fascination in our kitchen one morning. “Can’t you
choose another God to like?”
“Why should
I have to? You can't make fun of me for liking him when you decided against
going to church like all the other normal families.” I asked,
hoping I'd make my point with her.
“Normal is
over-rated, honey. Don’t be ashamed to be different.”
“Then I’ll stick with
Hades,” I said, giving her a smile. “He’s
different, and I like him.”
It could
have been the story that I heard growing up as a child. It could have even been
the Disney version of Hercules, when Hades was given blue hair that started my
admiration for him. I always felt a tug toward him that I couldn’t
understand. There were several paintings that littered my room, filled with black
oil paint and faces that longed for love and daylight. He was something that I
had created in my imagination, and I desperately wanted for him to be alive and
real.
But I knew
they were only stories.
“Why do you
like him so much?” my mother asked me one evening when she
came into my room and caught me painting his dark face. He was a mix of colors,
all washed in water and coal dust. He was my perfect creation.
“I feel like
he knows me,” I uttered, lost in the painting, washing
his eyes with a blue paint that seemed to encase the loneliness that I knew he
suffered. In those dark caverns, filled with spirits and doom, I knew that my
God wanted to have more than what he already knew. He wanted to taste love and
companionship. When I looked up, I saw my
mother giving me a weird look and I knew I needed to explain and find the words
to describe the connection that I felt.
“I don’t know, Mom. I
guess it’s like that God-human connection people get with Jesus.”
“Jesus and
Hades are two very different people, Summer,” my mother said in a
stern voice.
“Well, yeah.
Hades is a God,” I said with a smile.
“I don’t think your
obsession is healthy.”
“I’m not
obsessed, and I’m not worshipping him or anything.”
“What do you
call that?” She pointed to my painting in front of
me. My hands were all black from the watercolor when I glanced at my work. “Or that?” she said
when she pointed to the collection of other paintings leaning against the wall
near my bed; my dark love.
“A creative
outlet.” I
said with a smile.
“You need to
let that go,” she said, shaking her head.
“Why do I
have to let it go? He’s not a bad person or anything,” I argued.
“He’s the God
of the Underworld, Summer. Don’t you think that
classifies him as a bad person?”
I shook my
head and lowered my brush onto my desk and lifted the half-painted drawing to
show her. “He didn’t choose the Underworld, Mom. If you remember right, Zeus took the
Universe, Poseidon chose the oceans, and that only left Hades with the
Underworld.”
“I already
know the story, Summer,” she murmured, leaning her body against my
door.
“He’s not
really a villain at all. He’s just the keeper
of souls. Without death, there can be no life.” I said,
trying to defend him.
“You really
need to find a new hobby, Summer. Or a new God to fantasize about.”
“Why should
I? You’re the one that worships all of them. I just love one.”
“I don’t make my whole
life about them.”
I lowered
the painting back down onto my desk and shook my head. “Yes, you
do. Have you taken a look at our house? They’re everywhere. You
and Dad have made this house into a temple of your own.”
“And you’ve made
your room into a temple for Hades. How do you think that looks to us?” She
shouted, lifting her hands into her hair. I could tell that she was frustrated and
was about to "let me have it." My mother made accusations that she
was going to "Let me have it one day." Maybe today would be that day.
“Dad doesn’t think that,” I argued
back.
“You don’t know what
you’re father thinks about you.” She accused as she closed
the door behind her in disgust; her disgust echoed all around me.
“I guess
that leaves the two of us.” I whispered,
glancing back down at my painting.
My dad was
more willing to understand. He loved all the Gods – loved
learning about ancient Greek culture, and mythology. He loved Apollo and
Hermes; probably more so because he could relate to what they were Gods of.
“What do you
think that says about me?” my dad asked one evening, while we were
driving back home from one of his Greek artifacts exhibits. We had all been
comparing Gods and Goddesses, and I was extra careful not to ruin the
conversation with any mention of Hades.
“That you
like order and being the middleman to everyone,” my mother
said with a smile. I saw my father wink at my mother under the orange glow of
the highway streetlights. It was true. My dad often played the middleman in
between my mother and me in fights. He was usually the only reason why we made
up. There had been plenty of nights when my father came into my room and tried
to apologize on my mom's behalf, or beckoned me to come to their room to talk
to her. He'd sit on the edge of the bed and coax me out with stories of Greece,
of his childhood, and sometimes even with stories of the Gods and Goddesses
that he claimed no one knew about. I had always suspected that there was more
to them then what was written in countless books, and my dad was the only
clever man who knew about them.
My
attention snapped back to the present, as I thought of something. “Do you know
when Dad will be back from Greece?” I asked my mom, as
she drove past the “Welcome to Point Judith,” sign.
Point
Judith was a small town at the southern-most point of Rhode Island. It was
beautiful; the kind of beauty that you find on post cards with tall, white lighthouses
and lobster boats. It was a quiet place. The only sounds at night were of
dinging bells on the buoys, and the silent waves that crashed onto the white,
powdery beaches. I couldn’t wait to pull my shoes off and walk around in the cool evening sand.
“He’s going to
be there for a few more days. He’ll be back
Wednesday night.” It was only Friday. I did the math,
counting down the days in my mind. That meant Saturday, Sunday, Monday and
Tuesday alone with my mom. I anticipated it would be a long couple of days.
Days filled with my mom trying to do things with me, while I'd try and escape;
searching to do anything but what she'd plan. She liked to go into town and
look at other people's gardens. She liked to go to farm festivals, if she could
ever find one near the shore, and spend hours looking at their fresh produce
and greens, commenting on how well or poor their harvest had been. I'd count
the hours on my wristwatch, hoping for some relief in the hours to come. Just
as all mothers seemed to do, from what I observed from the few tourists that
trekked to Point Judith, and from the high school classmates, my mother was
notorious for pulling me around, station to station, talking about my
schooling, the things that I was doing, and the things that she hoped I'd do in
the coming years. She wanted what was best for me - a good education and a good
head on my shoulders to face the world with once I was done with school. I
wanted to focus on the few more years I had before I had to face those
realities. The only highlight was the promise in the coming days for me: the
chance to run away after dinner to the shore, and spend the last few hours of
daylight lost in the strokes of my paintbrushes, the colors of the night sky
and the images of faces and scenes in my mind.
“What do you
want for dinner?” my mother eyed the local McDonalds as we
slowly drove past it. I already knew she wanted to stop there and eat, and not
have to be bothered to cook anything when we got back to the house. She hated
to cook. She’d much rather be out in her gardens planting and weeding, than being
bothered to take the meat out of the freezer and prepare it and have to plan
side dishes and desserts. She’d rather pay for
someone else to do it for her. There was a joke that if my father ever died, my
mother and I would most likely starve, if there was no such thing as take-out
or drive-thru’s.
“Dad didn’t leave you
any TV dinners in the freezer?” I asked, amused.
She gave me a small smile and shook her head. “I’ve been
eating them for the past two days. I think I could use some real grease in my
system.” My mother didn’t hesitate
to make the decision for me. She pulled into the U-Turn lane and went back to
her favorite grease-filled fast food stop.
About
the Author:
Chantal Gadoury is young author
who currently lives in a small town in Delaware with her two cats, Theo and
Harper and her boyfriend, Robert. Chantal likes anything Disney, plays a mean
game of Disney trivia, enjoys painting, and has a interest in British History.
Chantal first started writing stories at the age of seven and continues that
love of writing today. As a recent college graduate from Susquehanna
University, with a degree in Creative Writing, this is her first book.
Twitter: https://twitter.com/cgadoury16
Tumblr for Book: http://sevenseedsofsummer.tumblr.com/
Giveaway 1 print copy- 5 ebook copies
a Rafflecopter giveaway
This sounds like a great read and look forward to reading it. Keep up the gret work.
ReplyDeletelove paranormal looks good thank you for the giveaway
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