Triangle of Hope
by Michael Meyer
Genre: Contemporary Fiction
If one person can make a difference, just think what three can do.
Clint Westerly was a success until a fateful choice he makes tears his world all apart. Tanya Wilshire is broke but hell-bent on committing to her mother's final deathbed request. 84-year-old Seamus Harrington needs to right an ancient wrong before time runs out.
Filled with grit and determination, these three people with three different problems, an unlikely trio of unexpected allies, converge in a small Irish town to form a Triangle of Hope against all odds. Together they take a courageous stand that will forever change their world and that around them.
If you love feel-good reads with happy endings, then TRIANGLE OF HOPE is for you.
"If an author can make you cry for his characters then want to hug them close and then want to do an Irish Jig with them to celebrate overcoming that much pain then you know you have read a book that will stay with you forever."- Wanda Hartzenberg, Wanda's Amazing Amazon Reviewers
It is a "fantastic read that will pull at your heart." - Lauren Alumbaugh, Goodreads librarian
SEMIFINALIST FOR THE 2015 KINDLE BOOK AWARD IN LITERARY FICTION
Book Trailer
1.
His impending death hung in the air like thick smog, smothering everything in its path, obscuring a parade of ups and downs, the unevenness of thrills and chills that defined his life’s existence. It was eerie and scary, but also rather comforting, much like being in a warm bed on a cold night, like shivering while being filled with excitement at what was going to happen next. The news could very easily have been broadcast to those of his past and present, but he had made certain that all the speakers had been turned to mute. He had made the firm decision to meet his destiny without any chance of intervention by anyone. He was all alone in this, his final act.
The hotel room was a bit dark with all the lights switched off, but outside the window the sky was as bright blue as Cinnamon’s eyes had been. At least that’s the way it looked to Clint Westerly. For some reason his mind had suddenly flashed on Cinnamon of all things. Cinnamon had been the perfect cat. Paul Newman eyes, he had called them, which sparkled in the sunlight and glistened in the dark. Such beautiful eyes. Such a wonderful cat. Such a pity that eighteen years was all the time he had had to frolic through the world. Cinnamon had been the perfect cat, the perfect companion. The little cat had been much more than a friend. He had actually been like a son to both him and Sheila. Anybody who knew them would surely concur. That’s just the way things were in their wonderful world.
Their world. What a crock! What world? Everything gone now, vanished, disintegrated into thin air, the tiniest particles vaporized into non-existence. Not a remnant remaining except for the tortured thoughts brought about by that one memory that refused to disappear no matter how painfully the ever increasing toll that it took on his physical body and on his ever working brain, overwhelming him in the process, the remembrance bringing him to his knees, shutting out all other thoughts as well as the rest of the world. Darkness and clouds made up the present, and there would be no future. How could there be? Not with the ever painful memory tearing at his innards, wreaking havoc with the person he had once been. Obliterating the world he had once known. Snuffing out all that he had loved, all that had made up the world in which he had once so happily lived.
2.
Seamus Harrington remembered all the fuss when Robert Mitchum had come to Ireland to make the movie Ryan’s Daughter. At the end of the movie, which Seamus had seen several times over the years, the hard-drinking Hollywood tough man had become the scorn of the village populace, a laughing stock who had been forced to leave town and flee to the anonymity of the big city, Dublin.
Yes, Seamus Harrington had to admit that he, like the real Robert Mitchum, was a hard-drinking man and like Mitchum’s character in the movie he had now become the laughing stock of his small village of Gailemore, but that’s where the similarities ended. Seamus Harrington, though taunted relentlessly, was not one to run away and hide. No way. He would endure the verbal abuse and never flee from where he had spent most of his life. He would stay no matter what, no matter how bad things might get, and they had already gotten really ugly. Somehow, sometime, the truth would be told and, most important of all, be heard. Seamus Harrington would no longer be the scourge of the village. His standing among his people would return to where it had once been. He would be liked and respected by those he lived among, people who at one time had been his good friends.
The mind was a wonderful thing. Fantasizing was an art, and Seamus Harrington was a world-class artist. His body might be slow, but his brain still clicked well enough, helping shield him a bit from the verbal taunting from the good folks of Gailemore that never ceased.
Though he was now in his eighties and walked with a very pronounced limp, his facial features seemingly to have been formed by an angry artist who had created a mad imitation somewhere between a Van Gogh and a Picasso, his teeth twice removed from the original, his mind was still very much intact. As he thought about it, that fact certainly was not one for which to be grateful. Sagging, deteriorating body but an ever alert mind. What a cruel combination, he had to admit, but what was what was what, and that was a fact, mind you.
3.
At thirty-three years of age, Tanya Wilshire knew she could turn eyes when she walked into a room. She had worked hard to tone her body, and she had been very fortunate to possess the genetic make-up of her God-given beauty. Her long legs made even longer with the high heels that showed off her muscular calves made her natural height of five foot seven appear two inches taller. Her natural walk was picture perfect she had been told. She moved with her shoulders back and her head held high. Her flowing blond hair was like a halo around her face, which so many people had told her could easily be featured on a weekly magazine cover.
She had selected her target very carefully. She had observed him for over an hour. It had not been difficult at all to pull off in the crowded casino. It was obvious that he was a somebody by the way everyone kowtowed to him. It was almost hilarious to observe, but there really wasn’t anything funny about it. Anyone could see that the guy adored the way his presence stopped people in their tracks and made them show their false sides to him. That’s the way fear works.
But, for her plan to really work, she had to be sure. She was a good person through and through, always had been, and this time, though strictly out of character for her, she knew what she had to do and why she had to do it. However, she had to be absolutely certain first.
4.
Seamus Harrington could not believe his eyes. At first he thought he was seeing things. Was he hallucinating? Or could it really be. He had heard of such things, and had even seen a couple over the years, but nothing like this. Why hadn’t he seen them before? How had they sprung up without his having noticed it earlier?
The shamrock symbolized his beloved Ireland like nothing else, probably even more so than did Guinness, he grudgingly had to admit to himself. The shamrock was in reality the bedrock of the Emerald Isle. To see a shamrock, to really see it in all its majesty, was a wonder in itself. But to spy a four-leaf clover, now that was something. According to tradition, such leaves bring good luck to their finders, especially if found accidentally. And then to climb one rung higher, no small feat in itself, to accidently stumble upon a five-leaf clover—now that was something to really behold, since every good Irishman knew for a fact that spotting such a gem meant the coming of even greater good luck and good fortune.
The excitement sweeping through Seamus Harrington at what his own two eyes were seeing at the moment caused him to almost lose his footing. Since a fall at his age was dangerous, particularly after what his body had just endured, he was forced to step back a bit in order to steady himself.
There before him, nearly centered in the spot of land he himself owned, Lookout Cove, stood three five-leaf clovers side by side.
Seamus Harrington could not believe what he was witnessing. It was as if a miracle had taken place. He well knew that good luck and fortune was bound to come his way from his accidentally stumbling upon one five-leaf clover. But here before him stood three of the same. It was almost too much to comprehend.
5.
Just yesterday, as they sat together in the pub, Clint was heard to say, “We have a very interesting phenomenon here. Three lost souls, who came together to save each other. And we have, each of us, in one way or another.”
“True,” said Seamus Harrington. “Very true at that.”
Clint nodded. “I’d say we are like blood brothers.”
“And sister,” Tanya said.
Seamus set his half-full pint of Guinness on the table. “Kin,” he said. “We’re now like blood kin.”
Tanya nodded her head up and down in agreement. “I like that!”
“But it’s even more than that,” Clint said, “much more. We’re like the trio of five-leaf clovers in the grass of Seamus’ Lookout Cove. We’re bound together now, like an unbreakable triangle, a triangle of hope. It’s simply amazing what we have accomplished together in the short time we have known each other. For ourselves, and for so many others.”
“True, true, ah so true!” replied Seamus Harrington.
The fiddler, sitting nearby, overhearing this, began fiddling Amazing Grace, which brought all talk in the pub to a halt as the amazing tune floated its way from wall to wall, bouncing up and down and all around like a magical wand.
And so it was in the little corner of the world known as the village of Gailemore.
Michael Meyer is the author of mysteries, thrillers, humorous fiction, and non-fiction: Love and romance, laughter and tears, thrills and fears.
He has resided in and has visited many places in the world, all of which have contributed in some way to his own published writing. He has literally traveled throughout the world, on numerous occasions. He has lived in Finland, Germany, Thailand, Saudi Arabia (where COVERT DREAMS - INTERNATIONAL SUSPENSE COLLECTION BOOK ONE - is set), and the U.S. Virgin Islands (where DEADLY EYES - INTERNATIONAL SUSPENSE COLLECTION BOOK TWO - is set). He gained the wanderlust to see the world, to experience other cultures, at an early age, and this desire has never left him. If anything, it has only gained in intensity as he has aged.
Among the many unique things that have happened to him in his world travels, he has walked the streets of Istanbul with a detective, searching for a pickpocket who got him good. He has ridden on the back of a motorcycle in Tehran while the driver, who spoke not one word of English, pointed out all the sights to him. He has wrestled an Iranian soldier who tried to break into his hotel room in Tehran. He has had the paint completely stripped from his car as he drove across Saudi Arabia in a sandstorm. He has stood on the stage of a busy nightclub in Tokyo, singing "She'll be Coming Round the Mountain When She Comes" to an audience feeling no pain from the Sake they were drinking. He has been chased by a family of mongooses (yes, that is the correct spelling) on the idyllic Caribbean island of St. Croix. And that is just the beginning of his long list of worldly adventures.
As a recent retiree from a forty-year career as a professor of writing, he now lives in Southern California wine country with his wife, Kitty, and their two adorable rescue cats.
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Thank you so much for featuring my TRIANGLE OF HOPE, a tender story of love.
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