05 October 2022

Mitchell Manor by S. R. Leinbeck Review#MitchellManor #NetGalley


Mitchell Manor is a place that holds a lot of secrets.

The Mitchells were one of the most prominent families in the area. In 1843, Theodore Mitchell’s family and the household staff were found murdered. When Theodore disappeared, rumors began accusing him of the crime. What would cause a normally well-mannered and well-liked individual to completely snap? Over one hundred years would pass before the true answer to that question is discovered.

Elle Lewis is a novel writer looking for inspiration for her next book. She rented Mitchell Manor in hopes of removing herself from the distractions of the city. As soon as she arrives at the manor, strange events start to happen. Believing it’s her imagination, Elle dismisses many of the occurrences. When things start to escalate, Elle can’t ignore the manor anymore. She realizes it is her responsibility to find out what really happened the night of the murders.

This book has all the ingredients for a classic ghost story: a haunted house, evil spirits, time travel, and small-town rumors. Along with a little romance and humor, this book gives the reader a little bit of everything.

Kindle Edition86 pages
Published September 16th 2022

My Thoughts

In 1843 a family is murdered. The man who they said had killed his family and servants disappeared, never to be heard from again.

in 2022, Elle Lewis, a writer, rents Mitchell Manor to have a place to finish her next book. Mitchell Manor is in a small town so it is a quiet place for her to accomplish this task.

Upon arrival, there are servants there of which she knew nothing about. A butler and a cook, she thinks that this is pretty cool. As she settles into her new home, strange things start to happen. The servants can tell what she wants even before she does.

The back story to the haunting of this house is that in 1843, Theodore Mitchell murdered his family and servants, or did he? He disappeared and was never found. Elle is intrigued by the story and starts researching the family. She questions people in town and finds that she feels responsible to find out what happened to the family.

What she finds has disturbing consequences. 

Mitchell Manor is a short read, only 86 pages but I felt that it was written surprisingly well. A story that had me turning the pages in one sitting. I love a good ghost story and this one did not disappoint. Kind of a sad story also. The fate of one family rested in one person's hands and that person was not a good person.

I give this book a 5-star rating.

I received a copy of the book for review purposes only.

Ace of Hearts by Lucy Mason New Release Blitz and Giveaway! @ninestarpress @indigomarketingdesign #LGBTQIA+

 Title:  Ace of Hearts

Author: Lucy Mason

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 10/04/2022

Heat Level: 1 - No Sex

Pairing: Male/Female

Length: 60200

Genre: Contemporary, LGBTQIA+, Romance, contemporary, new adult, family-drama, asexual, college students, sports injury, fake marriage, slow burn, friends to lovers, abusive father, depression

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Hesper Stalides and Felix Morlan have been best friends for as long as they can remember, bonding over their troubled home lives. When a horrible sports injury derails Felix’s promising career and results in the loss of his scholarship, Hesper offers a proposition: a year-long marriage of convenience so he can get free tuition at the college where she works. 

It isn’t supposed to be complicated…until they fall in love for real. When Hesper reveals that she’s asexual, Felix must reassess everything he thinks about love and ask himself what he’s willing to sacrifice for a future with Hesper—before the past she’s spent her life running from can take her away from him forever.


Ace of Hearts
Lucy Mason © 2022
All Rights Reserved


It was not my Felix Morlan lying in the hospital bed, tangled in the sterile white sheets. He was the bravest, funniest, most cheerful man I knew, strong enough to make up for it when his friends were weak, and this wasn’t him. I brushed his dark hair away from his forehead, which was glistening with sweat, pain hazing over his eyes.

“Sorry I scared you, Hes.” His voice cracked, and I handed him a Styrofoam cup filled with cold water and ice chips.

“I’m just glad you’re…”

Okay? Of course he wasn’t okay. One of his teammates had shown me a replay of the hit that had hyperextended his knee and destroyed his ACL. It had been on mute, and Felix was wearing a helmet that obscured part of his face, but the contorted expression of agony was seared into my memory. He may or may not have blacked out from the pain; I wasn’t sure because I quit watching, unable to stomach it.

“Want me to call the nurse?” I asked tentatively.

He turned his head away, but not before I caught the shine of tears gathering in his eyes. His leg was wrapped heavily in dressings, but I’d seen it when he came out of surgery, exhausted but too frightened to sleep while I waited. The skin around his knee was swollen, an angry red color where staples held the surgical wounds closed. I’d sat by his bed, sketching on the small pad I kept in Calamity, my old Jeep, while he slept off the anesthesia. But he was awake now, and he twisted his calloused hands in the sheets.

“They’ll be keeping me for observation for a few days. Go home and get some rest.”


“Some of the guys from the team will stop by and—”

“Nope,” I reiterated firmly, crossing my arms.

It was a policy we’d had with each other our whole lives, and it didn’t change even when we’d moved halfway across the country together for college: we had nobody else here, but we had each other. He’d watched my back, and I would watch his. Felix and I had been best friends since we were old enough to walk and talk. Now, his mom was in jail while his dad was busy raising his six younger siblings, and I had run away from Missouri to avoid getting an order of protection against my own father. We’d basically raised each other. I wasn’t running away at the first sign of trouble.

“Show me.” He held out one hand for my sketch pad and I clutched it to my chest. “Come on.”

Normally this was fine. I’d draw tables covered in leaves, teacups and books and pocket watches and chunks of amethyst and rusty old keys, the kind of things I found aesthetically soothing. But I’d been doing something different while he slept, trying to erase the memory of his pain in the video replay of his injury. I’d drawn the slightly blocky angle of his jaw, his mouth turned up in half a smile, a five-o’clock shadow dusting the sides of his face. I’d drawn him happy, my best copy of the way he looked in my favorite memory of him.

I contemplated crumpling the page before he could see it.

Instead, I flipped back to an earlier page where I’d been doing a study of the trees outside his hospital window, light filtering through them in an orange haze as the sun rose. I hadn’t been able to quite capture it with the small bag of pencils I had on hand, but it was enough that he got the idea.

“Remind me again why you aren’t going into this?” He sounded clearer than he had in several hours, his eyes focused on my sketch pad. It was an uncomfortable feeling, to see someone marvel at my work. Like being under a microscope.

“No steady paycheck,” I reminded him, counting the reasons I’d rehearsed to people a hundred thousand times off on my fingers. “Deadlines would push me to create when I didn’t feel like it. I would grow to hate it if I had to do it for a living. The pressure would be too intense.”

I didn’t list the other reason. Sometimes it took every ounce of energy I possessed just to get up in the morning. Sometimes I simply didn’t have enough inside me to both function and create. Art was my escape. If I turned it into another source of stress, where would I hide when the rest of the world got to be too much? What would I do to restore the balance?

“Those are all good reasons,” he agreed begrudgingly, and he reached back over to hand the pad back to me, twisting slightly to do so.

He didn’t say a word but the set of his mouth and eyebrows told me he’d moved wrong, in a way that would have left him screaming if he hadn’t been so heavily medicated. My chest hurt, my lungs burning because I just couldn’t get enough oxygen in, because I couldn’t breathe looking at the way my best friend suffered. This was the sort of thing you read about in the paper or heard about on the news. It happened to other people, sure. But it wasn’t supposed to happen to Felix.


NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Lucy lives in rural southern Illinois with a frankly ridiculous amount of yarn and books. During the day she works in adult education and by night she’s a writer and dabbler in yarncrafts. She knits, loves video games and podcasts, and cries over fictional characters regularly.

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Fortunate Son By Thomas Tibor Blog Tour! @thomastibor57 @maryanneyarde @cathiedunn Hashtags: #HistoricalFiction #BlogTour #CoffeePotBookClub


Book Title: Fortunate Son

Author: Thomas Tibor

Publication Date: February 2022 

Publisher: Zahav Brothers Publishing

Page Length: 338 Pages

Genre: Historical Fiction

A powerful, evocative novel that transports the reader to a tense period in America, Fortunate Son is set on a southern college campus during the turbulent spring of 1970. Reed Lawson, an ROTC cadet, struggles with the absence of his father, a Navy pilot who has been Missing in Action in Vietnam for three years.

While volunteering at a drug crisis center, Reed sets out to win the heart of a feminist co-worker who is grappling with a painful past, and to rescue a troubled teenage girl from self-destruction. In the process, he is forced to confront trauma’s tragic consequences and the fragile, tangled web of human connections.

Trigger warnings:

One aspect of this story dramatizes instances of self-harm and makes references to suicide.

This book is available to read on #KindleUnlimited

Universal Buy Link:


Amazon UK:


Amazon US:


Amazon CA:


Amazon AU:


Barnes and Noble: Not available yet; will be available by October 1, 2022

Thomas Tibor


A veteran writer and video producer, Thomas Tibor has helped develop training courses focusing on mental health topics. In an earlier life, he worked as a counselor in the psychiatric ward of two big-city hospitals. He grew up in Florida and now lives in Northern Virginia. Fortunate Son is his first novel.


Social Media Links:

Website: https://tiborcommunications.com/


LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/in/thomas-tibor-5602b04/

Instagram: thomastibor2

Amazon Author Page: 


Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/22287866.Thomas_Tibor


…An hour later, Adam watched with amusement as Reed drenched himself with Brut cologne, rubbed most of it off, and tried on different outfits.

First, he tried the hippie route—faded jeans, one of Adam’s worn-out flannel shirts left untucked. Nah, too affected. Next, the country-club look—light-blue button-down oxford, chinos, and Bass Weejuns. Too square. Finally, he settled into his comfort zone—polo shirt, jeans, and white Adidas.

“You’ve never spent this long getting ready for a date.”

“Yeah, well. This is different. She’s different.” Late the night before, Jordan had called and asked him to pick her up at six.

Driving to her house, he recalled the fantasy that had kept him aroused the night before.

He rolls up to Jordan’s house.

Dressed in skimpy cutoff jean shorts and a low-cut T-shirt, she greets him with a deep kiss.

As the Mustang rumbles along country roads, she tosses her windblown hair, laughs at Reed’s witty jokes, and praises his well-rehearsed left-wing propaganda.

And when they arrive at a lover’s lane deep in the woods, they waste no time.

Naked, she straddles him as they make passionate love in the front seat.

Reed waited on her doorstep in the glow of the sinking sun. Despite his fears about Annabel’s state of mind, perpetual anxiety about his father’s possible fate, and trepidation about talking to his mother on Easter Sunday, life was looking up in his small corner of the universe.

That is, until Olivia opened the door, blew her nose into a handkerchief, and glared at him as if he were a Bible salesman.

“Oh, it’s you.” She retreated, replaced by Jordan, who was looking sexy in tight jeans and the raised-fist feminist T-shirt.

“Hi, do you mind if Olivia tags along? She’s been psyched to see this flick.”

Reed managed a polite smile. “Yeah, no problem.” But it was a problem. Three’s a crowd. What was she thinking? He wanted to hold hands at the movie, share milkshakes afterward, drive somewhere and make out—your basic, grade A, All-American Date.

Olivia reappeared in her usual baggy overalls and work boots. “Let’s split. I want a good seat.”

Like air slowly hissing from a punctured balloon, his hopes for the evening dissipated on the way to the theater. Jordan sat in the passenger seat. Olivia sprawled lengthwise in back, the soles of her boots rubbing dirt on the immaculate vinyl.

Reed glanced back a few times before saying anything. “Sorry, but do you mind keeping your shoes off the seat?”

Rolling her eyes, Olivia reluctantly moved her long legs.

Jordan turned on the radio news.

“Yesterday,” the announcer was saying, “President Nixon announced further troop withdrawals from Vietnam over the next year, contingent on progress at the Paris peace talks.”

“What a load of bullshit,” Olivia said.

“Why is it bullshit?”

“Simple. Because the peace talks are bogus, a cover for Tricky Dicky to keep the war going.”

Reed scoffed. Everything Nixon did was bogus or outright evil to Olivia. “Why the hell would he do that?”

She leaned forward, head between the front seats, frizzy hair brushing his shoulders. “How naive can you be? Because it’s an imperialist war. We claim to defend democracy but undermine it instead. Do you realize the U.S. has supported the French colonialists in Vietnam since World War II? Do you realize Ho Chi Minh would have won eighty percent of the vote had elections been held in ’56? And do you realize just who prevented those elections from taking place? We did.”

“So let me get this straight . . . according to you, we’re the bad guys, and the North Vietnamese are the good guys?”

“That’s exactly right. Vietnam’s been fighting for its independence for decades, first against the French and now us. Ho Chi Minh is like, you know, their George Washington.”

“You have got to be shitting me!”

Jordan switched off the radio. “Enough already. It all sounds like a broken record. By the way, I think you missed the turn a few blocks back.”

The movie was Midnight Cowboy, starring Dustin Hoffman and Jon Voight. Reed sat next to Jordan, Olivia on her right. The acting was good but the story was tedious, so he only feigned interest. Mostly he focused on Jordan’s thigh—an inch from his own—and mentally rehearsed draping an arm around her shoulder. Just when he finally worked up the nerve to lift his arm, he glanced over at Jordan—who was holding hands with Olivia.

He lowered his arm, slid down in his seat, and prayed for the “date” to end.

Afterward, though, Jordan wanted to drive into the countryside, and he glumly agreed. She inserted a Jefferson Airplane tape, Olivia lit a joint the size of a small cigar, and the car soon morphed into a cocoon of psychedelic music and pot smoke.

Olivia thrust the joint toward him. “Want some?”

“Fuck no,” he said, venom in his voice.


Jordan smiled knowingly—must be enjoying his misery. He punched the radio on and twisted the dialed until a newscaster’s voice materialized from the crackle of static:

“In related news, the League of Families expressed satisfaction with the president’s call for North Vietnam to provide more information on the whereabouts and condition of American prisoners of war . . .”

“It’s just like this lying government to keep calling them ‘prisoners of war,’” Jordan said.

“Hold on a minute,” Reed demanded. “What the hell else would they be?”

She took a deep hit from the joint, held the smoke, and exhaled slowly. “Think about it,” she said in a professorial tone. “This is an undeclared war. Never authorized by Congress. In fact, a lot of people think the Gulf of Tonkin Resolution, which gave Johnson the green light for this disaster, was based on fraud. Basically, Johnson and McNamara bamboozled the American people.”

“I’ve heard that bullshit theory,” Reed said. “Forget it. Those commie gunboats definitely attacked us. We didn’t do anything to provoke them.” Jordan shook her head mechanically. “Either way, what’s your point?”

“Simple. The North Vietnamese don’t feel bound by the Geneva Convention because they view this as an illegal war. So why should they release information about prisoners?”

Reed yelled, “Because they’re supposed to! Because it’s the goddamn moral thing to do!”

The Mustang barreled down the road.

From the back seat, Olivia scoffed. “Morality? Give me a break!”

Jordan continued calmly. “From their point of view, our soldiers aren’t official POWs.”

Reed’s foot pressed harder on the accelerator pedal. “That’s a lot of crap, and you know it!”

The lights of a one-stoplight town grew brighter. Jordan eyed the speedometer, which had edged above eighty. “Hey. You wanna slow down some?”

Olivia piped in. “Either way, if we’d stop bombing the North, they’d let those POWs go.”

“We stopped for two years, and nothing happened,” Reed countered.

“Is that what Rot-cee teaches you? Bomb Third World countries into the Stone Age?”

“How would you know what the fuck they teach me?”

A police siren wailed, growing louder until red flashers loomed in Reed’s rearview.

“The sad fact is the POWs have become pawns in the peace talks,” Jordan said.

“More like war criminals,” Olivia added.

Reed smashed his fist on the dashboard. “He’s not a goddamn war criminal!”

“Who’s not a war criminal?” Jordan and Olivia yelled at the same time.

Now the police car’s siren and flashers crowded the Mustang’s bumper.

“Shit! Son of a bitch!” Reed slammed on the brakes and veered onto the narrow shoulder, gravel flying.

“Fucking pigs,” Olivia muttered.

Reed ripped the joint from her hand and tossed it out the window. Leaning across Jordan, he yanked open the glove compartment and grabbed the registration. “Both of you—don’t move! Just shut the hell up!”

Unnerved by his rage, Jordan regarded him with a mix of curiosity and concern.

He jumped out, hoping to intercept the cop before he got near the car. What kind of a major dumbass shithead would drive into redneck country in a pot-infused car? Most of the people around here worked at the nearby state prison and hated hippies, drugs, and anything reeking of the counterculture.

Reed’s head swirled with panicked visions. Handcuffs clicking on his wrists. Judge’s gavel banging down—Guilty of Possession. Jail door slamming shut. Dismissal from ROTC. Eternal shame.

The cop was a baby-faced good old boy, standing over six feet with a sizable belly protruding above his gun belt. 

Standing behind the car, Reed handed over his registration and license. Fidgeting, right hand opening and closing, he read a billboard outside a church across the street: Let the Power of Love Replace the Love of Power.

The cop studied both documents and took in Reed’s neat appearance and his pristine car. He wore a tiny gold lapel pin in the shape of a pig, an attempt at irony by the Florida State Police.

“Son, do you have any notion how fast you were goin’?”

Reed launched into a detailed justification, punctuated by a stream of obsequious Yes, sirs, No, sirs, and I’m sorry, sirs. Yes, of course he’d been speeding and was “very, very sorry, sir.” He’d already slowed down when the speed limit changed, “in only two blocks, from sixty-five to thirty-five. Isn’t slowing down that fast actually kind of dangerous, sir?”

The cop muttered several “uh-huhs” as he checked the license plate and glanced inside. Jordan’s and Olivia’s demure smiles beamed back at him.

“Pretty decent bullshit, son. I’ve heard worse.” Then he wrote Reed a speeding ticket and warned him to be careful. “Some folks aren’t too happy with you college kids and all this protesting goin’ on. If you ask me, it’s goddamn un-American.”

“Yes, sir. I understand, sir. Thank you very much, sir.”

Reed pocketed the ticket and made a cautious U-turn. He vowed to remain silent on the way back and stay well below the speed limit, though he couldn’t wait to get home.

Unfortunately, Olivia still felt the need to spew more left-wing sewage. Only Reed’s Leave It to Beaver clean-cut looks, along with his groveling and ass-kissing, had kept “that redneck Neanderthal from locking us up.” Fascists cops like him were “tools of the capitalist power structure, which is all about keeping women barefoot and pregnant, not to mention oppressing the poor and Blacks.”

If only he had his boxing gloves, he could jam his fist down her throat.

Jordan, who’d been glancing at him curiously, interrupted. “Before, you said, ‘He’s not a war criminal.’ Who’s not a war criminal?”

He didn’t want to answer, but what was the point of keeping it a secret? The night had gone to hell long ago.

“My dad. He’s a Navy fighter pilot. MIA.”

“Wow,” Jordan said. “For how long?”

“Three years. We don’t know if he’s dead or alive.”

“I’m so sorry. I really am,” Jordan murmured…

Tour Schedule: https://maryanneyarde.blogspot.com/2022/08/blog-tour-fortunate-son-by-thomas-tibor.html


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