A Brand New Address

By Kathleen Rowland

Review for A BRAND NEW ADDRESS
A BRAND NEW ADDRESS is a quirky coming-of-age story taking place during Earth’s 22nd-century Second Ice Age. Plucky heroine, Yardley Van Dyke, faces a fiendish combination of family tensions, personal insecurities, and life-threatening cold. She is a teenager with whom any reader can identify.
The story tells parallel, multi-layered stories about Yardley, Marchand, her twin brother, and their companions. They experience the typical laughs, anxieties, and ups and downs of everyday life. Their trajectories, though, are riddled with moments of deathly seriousness as they are forced to confront the realities of Earth’s dwindling resources and the grave dangers of space travel. Caught between her attachment to her greenhouse in frigid California and her desire to join suave, intrepid Marchand LaFond on the intergalactic adventure of a lifetime, Yardley blossoms as a person, flourishes as an intellectual, and is physically transplanted to a new environment – as is her beloved vegetable garden.
A BRAND NEW ADDRESS mirrors both the wisdom and the awkwardness of teens with diverse personalities. In different ways Yardley and Marchand fight against the uglier aspects of human nature. Some are corrupt such as octogenarian CEO, her right hand man, and two unsavory jailbirds. Yardley and Marchand shield innocent young sisters who suddenly lose both parents. A BRAND NEW ADDRESS does not shy away from the sobering tragedies, the terrifying uncertainties, or the unfair nature of many of the challenges faced by both youths and adults. But far from a simple cautionary tale, A BRAND NEW ADDRESS is also a satisfying love story, an erudite romp through space, and a courageous call to protect the soaring potential of the human spirit.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kathleen Rowland
• Release date: May 14, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311585110

Kathleen Rowland

Having blocks of time to write is pure luxury. Before, when raising a family and working as a teacher or computer programmer, tantalizing tales of dark deeds and people facing them swirled in my head. Lucky for me, I can write them now. My husband, a CPA with his own busy practice, and I are almost empty nesters. Isn't it terrific when kids want to become independent?

Book preview

Intervenus Series, Book One:

A BRAND NEW ADDRESS

by Kathleen Rowland

Copyright 2014 Published by Smashwords

Book Cover designed by Carey Abbot

Edited by Rachel Cravens

Futuristic, Multicultural Young Adult

Romantic Suspense

Dedicated to our outstanding grandson, D’mitri.

Love it when you ride shotgun!

CHAPTER ONE

From the living room Dad’s voice charged its way to the front porch swing. He and his fiancé were at it again. Just terrific.

Hunkered under a fur-lined quilt, Yardley Van Dyke’s head pounded, worsened by the frigid air. As if trapped in a vise, pain squeezed hard from both temples. On the swing she faced forward with her back against the house. Against them. Between them. With their fight on its fourth day, they battled over her late mother’s greenhouse.

Yardley tended it all day, every day.

His fiancé, Pinky Hazelton, wanted to sell it and move into the Biosphere with its profits. Powerless with her at the top of the pecking order, her mouth strained. Around Pinky, she forced it into a straight line.

Why did Dad ignore her promise to her dying mother? For three years, she’d grown food for the family. Mom’s hodge-podge structure protected plants against the freeze of Earth’s second ice age. Yardley met the challenge of gardening in the frigid hinterlands, but without a surplus to sell, she had the low pro of a subsistence gardener. She reined in ideas to maximize sunlight although her latest effort worked.

Discarded Mylar balloons reflected light. With fifty mounted, she pinched fewer dead leaves. Under the quilt she balanced a basket of peas on her lap, proof of success from her dirt-candy world. Yardley took a pod, tore down the string, and dumped peas into the basket.

Inside the cabin Pinky screamed, Time is running out. Timeliness, a variation of her hammering technique, arose with every current event.

I’ll think on it. Dad’s voice razzed like a trombone.

Better be quick. As Pinky squawked about the essence of time, the trombone cranked louder and louder. Their bombardment sent Yardley a wakeup call.

Her hands shook, and she stopped shelling for one reason. She predicted their routine. Dad blew a gasket before giving in. After that, Pinky won.

He yelled, Stop needling me, Pinky.

Hearing a smash, Yardley jerked upright. A crashed dish against the wall? She had no idea what would come next. A flipping of a table?

His fiance’ screamed, Yeah? Put this in your data bucket. An ice cap moves south.

She imagined Dad’s face turning beet red as he fumed just short of a gasket-blow.

Rubbing one side of her head, she faced the frigid combination of family tension and the twenty-second century ice age. Their now quiet cabin in Newport Beach, California sat in an Arctic spruce forest with northern Siberian climate suffering an annual drop of five degrees.

Cold, colder, and about to be coldest. Pinky filled the vacuum with truth, but was timing immediate?

You know, Pinky. While I tested you out, you took over. Dad’s off-topic roar revealed bitterness, but he’d come around to her side.

Good thing I did. Want to sit on a polar ice cap? It kills everything that’s not dead.

Sick of listening to them, Yardley’s gaze shifted to the porch steps. With the inclement weather, they’d turn slick. She’d slip and spill her peas if she stepped down them to walk the path to the greenhouse. Not quite done shelling, a syrupy voice came through the rough-hewn triple-plank wall.

I don’t want you dead, sweetheart. Pinky’s wear-down entered its completion stage.

An icy gust blew strands of hair across Yardley’s face. She groaned and let it be. If she moved her hands, she’d spill the pods. Her thoughts shot from the greenhouse issue to a parallel problem. Without the greenhouse, she’d be a non-contributing eighteen-year-old still living at home. Pulling the quilt over her head, she preferred the ice-age temperature to hanging out with them.

Using a chipmunk voice on herself cheered her up. Yardley, there’s no work for you. Run along, won’t you?

Inside the cabin Pinky fueled her hissy fit with a nightmare. Oh, Robert, she said, I had a bad dream. Pinky’s premonitions often came in this form. If we stay here, we’ll die of full-body frostbite.

The chipmunk squeaked in her mind. Bit of a cold snap.

No one wants that. Dad’s tone warmed up.

Yardley’s throat tightened. She swallowed a lump of raw emotion but refused to cry or give into defeat. She listened to Dad’s steady voice as he brought up hidden expenses at the Biosphere. Selling the greenhouse might get us in, Hon. But can we afford it long term?

Right on, Dad. Don’t give up.

Sweetheart, we need a contract. Within the cabin, the drama queen spoke matter-of-factly. I know people at BotGen Incorporated.

Yardley cringed, wishing she had the means to incorporate the pink-yappy hour. Since when had Pinky become a member of Botany General’s inner circle? A few minutes passed, and they stopped talking. Was smooch-kissy-face going on? Great.

Somewhere inside, her twin brother wandered about. At times like this, Skeeter bugged the crap out of her. Nothing about Pinky bothered him including her obsession to watch century-old movies. A few nights ago he’d shared his crush on a girl who lived at the Biosphere. Yardley had nowhere to go.

During the feature, BRING IT ON, Pinky turned into a cheerleader with rah-rahs for Sharlene Mantis. Snobnoxious Sharlene wore brand new argyle sweaters and talked about how much they cost. Ugh. Yardley pressed a palm against her stomach. The idea of fitting in with the Biosphere’s upper crust made her want to hurl. Didn’t Skeet know? Without money and status, their family was low on both counts. She didn’t share Pinky’s worship of BioGen’s tippy top, particularly Sharlene’s grandmother, Gwendolyn Mantis. After a run-in with the octogenarian CEO, her late mother had stood up for herself, a singular rarity.

From far away, her dog barked, alerting her of someone’s approach. She decoded all of Honeydog’s vocalizations, and this one didn’t imply danger. Guessing a hunter and not a charging moose, she didn’t unsheathe her paring knife. Willing herself to calm down, she centered her thoughts on the prize she’d won for her gardening talent.

If her mom were alive, she’d bring out the china plates and the linen tablecloth for a dinner in her honor. Her inner chipmunk started up. You rock, Yardley. Your awesome prototype will make you famous.

When? She gazed at the trees, and brittle branches danced in the squall. Balancing on the swaying porch swing, she folded and refolded her certificate. She wanted to crawl into its pleats and cuddle up against words such as congratulations, bestow upon, and honor. Wiping an angry tear from her cheek, she held the precious paper against her swelling heart. The sensation made a gradual change into rigid pride.

Would her BotGen certificate, proof of her accomplishment and hers to keep, lead to concrete recognition? Job independence had to come next, the only way to be these days. The check’s intended purpose of on-line tuition had to be bypassed. Dad needed it for expenses. Not enough to move into the Biosphere, the greenhouse stayed on Pinky’s auction block.

In the distance she heard blades cut over ice. Oh him! Not a hunter, the ice-sailboater. Lanky Marchand LaFond was showing off his sailing skill. Within seconds she caught sight of his white triangular sail zip across their frozen yard. In its wake, frosty flints whirled like diamonds. With a sudden tack, the bow spun, and her brother’s cocky friend aimed straight for her.

The closing rate between an ice-boat and any object came so fast that by the time a person thought about what to do, it’d be too late. Speed and a sense of danger appealed to him. He played chicken.

She didn’t budge.

Now luffing into the wind, he slowed his boat and put out a spiked boot for a perfect stop. Often risky-beans, Marchand never damaged his goods. This made him safety conscious and far different from his two cousins. Last week one cousin borrowed the other cousin’s stolen snowmobile. After a quick arrest, they both landed in juvie hall.

Tall-dark-and-rugged peeled off his helmet and took a minute to catch his breath. Congrats, Blondie. Full of energy, sweat beaded on his mahogany forehead.

Thank you. Compliments from her family were few and far between. Being called Blondie made her feel special, but she found it irksome he had a nickname for everyone. If Marchand bared his teeth at Sharlene and called her Snarly, she giggled every time.

You jealous girl, the chipmunk accused her. Get one up. Tell him about growing kale. Second thought, don’t. Let Sharlene be the bragger.

Climbing from his shallow cockpit, he locked his gaze on her. In another instant he dashed up slippery steps and planted a brotherly kiss on her cheek. His routine peck, whenever he visited Skeeter, melted her defenses.

Gloat, he whispered, and his breath warmed her ear.

For sure, Marchand. Something clenched inside her, but she refused to fuss over him like other girls. Skeeter’s inside.

The natural-born salesman flashed a grin, and she found it impossible not to return his disarming smile. She smelled his skin, hardworking and honest.

I knew you’d win. He spoke in a low, almost sensual, voice. Standing up, he didn’t rob her of the high of being close. His eyes crinkled as he smiled. Super good, Blondie.

Sure is. For her benefit, she waved the certificate, proud she’d snagged one of twenty-thousand dollar prizes for high school seniors. Few recognized her long preparation.

A panting sounded in her ears and interrupted her thoughts. Seen from the corner of her eye, her golden mutt bounded for her.

On constant lookout, Marchand chuckled. Honeydog will rip your check to shreds.

How much adventure did the guy need? I’m holding the certificate, not the actual check. She stuffed it into her jacket pocket as her dog leaped up.

Knowing its location, Honeydog pawed for it without success and then sidled down to greet Marchand.

All the while looking at Yardley, the big guy bent down and ruffled fur behind her dog’s ears. I’m not interested in gardening, but I am interested in eating.

"I promised my mom—

—to feed her family, he said, and she gave him points for remembering.

In a stealth move, Honeydog sneaked behind him. Crouching alongside the hull of his boat, her dog settled into a pounce position.

Smiling over the canine’s plan to strike, Yardley feigned interest in shelling the last few peas and tossed the pods into a compost bin. As she expected, a golden blur of fur arched through the air toward his back.

Honeydog’s strong forepaws pushed Marchand forward. He turned to block the huge canine with his shoulder. Off balance and slammed sideways, he thudded onto a snowbank.

Landing on top, Honeydog would never bite a family friend but had a deadly lick.

As Yardley watched them wrestle and roll, a tingle of excitement raced through her. She enjoyed tricking Marchand. It gave her a small measure of control over him, and she stifled a giggle. Tell her she’s a good dog. She’ll leave you alone.

Good dog.

The command worked. Kicking up snow, Honeydog darted toward a chipmunk, a real chipmunk not the voice-in-the-head variety.

He picked himself up, brushed himself off, and managed a smile. Honeydog’s a wolf in a sheep’s clothing.

Cunning animals were masters of disguise. Her nose sniffs out fun. She laughed, and her reaction seemed to amuse him.

You got that right. He put the matter aside. Ice showers are predicted.

Are you never happy? More ice for the ice-boater. Moving from the swing, she sat on the top step with her finished basket of peas.

You’re right, Blondie. It makes for smooth sailing. His left shoulder shifted upward. He’d landed hard.

She regretted the ice under the snow.

Stepping toward his boat, he untied a backpack from a hook at the mast. For the end of May, it’s darn cold.

Solar panels do zilch. Her chest grew heavy with indecision. Why worry over a greenhouse on freezing Earth?

His expressive face became serious as he discussed the second cosmic impact of 2153 with the onslaught of moon-sized asteroids.

She liked the melodic tone of his voice in spite of his old-news topic of the cooling period throughout the solar system.

When he jumped to the current topic of glacial movement, she asked, So the ice cap is real?

Afraid so, he said. Food will be more limited.

Limited to eating a chipmunk?

His grin went wide. Without your side of vegetables, a rodent dinner is less than appetizing.

My mother would have agreed with that.

I know.

Her mom had said to ask any dinosaur about the first Ice Age. After Earth’s second climatic change, she’d put her doctorate in botany to use with a home greenhouse. Yardley was the proud daughter of Rebecca Ramsdell Van Dyke, having lost her to pneumonia these long three years.

Marchand said, Venus is as habitable as Mars.

Makes perfect sense, she said. Cosmic mishaps affected all planets, and for some, in a good way, moving orbits further from the sun. Terrible thing, the nuclear war on Mars. She shoved her full basket to a secure corner.

Nodding in agreement, he eased onto the step below her. After pulling out a scale model of a space shuttle, he turned it in his hands.

She opened her mouth to ask about his model, but he asked, Decided yet where you’ll take classes?

Nah. Unlike high school, on-line universities were expensive. She tipped her head toward the foreclosure sign frozen on their neighbors’ lawn. We’re struggling too. I gave the check to my dad. Hours ago, before their spat, his soon-to-be wife, Pinky Hazelton, had peered over his shoulder without commenting about Yardley’s 10-day plant growth experiment to feed astronauts after they landed. Lack of recognition ate away at her nerves.

Marchand gave her an atta-girl pat on her knee. You won. That’s great. The front door squeaked, and he looked up.

Her twin brother came through, closing the door behind him. Skeeter’s curly brown hair looked a lot like their late mother’s. Yardley had her blue eyes and Dad’s light hair.

I know that model, bud. Skeeter leaned between them.

Yup, a replica of the Russian Chertok. Marchand answered with a burn of excitement behind his green irises.

Her brother said, BotGen scrapped their parallel project before launching.

Yardley remembered, too, and turned to Marchand. Your dad managed it, isn’t that right?

He gave her a wink. He never stopped working on it. My mom came up with a new name. Venusfinder. His voice cracked on the magical name. Pulling out a flyer, he held it up. Got my hands on this.

Skeet grabbed it, but Marchand’s dark green eyes narrowed as he studied her face. You’ve perked up, Blondie.

I’m never perky.

You’re verging on perk.

She booted him in the shins.

Excellent kick from a sitting position.

A burst of happiness ran through her, and she straightened her frame. Give us a listen, Skeet.

Her twin began reading. Space Race to Venus. Sponsored by BotGen. Millions of dollars in prize money. If the topic weren’t exciting, his flat voice would have lulled her to sleep. Earth’s downward temperatures didn’t tempt him to make changes. Unlike Marchand who’d been groomed for an opportunity like this, her coddled brother preferred drab-cold to mysterious space and unknown Venus. The adventurer would have to convince him.

She leaned back on her elbows. BotGen created the space race for a reason.

Aren’t you the bright one, Skeet said. They’re swindling the desperate into going. If you see Peter Pan, tell him I’m looking for him.

She glanced at Marchand’s face, full of deep down confidence.

We’ll pave the way, Skeet. Marchand made the near-impossible sound entirely possible. Mixed-race, the most hardheaded lot, Alaskan, directed the rest of him. Dark Oreo on the outside, the inside layer was smooth Inuit determination.

Skeet exhaled with skepticism. Venus is far away. He focused on the slippery steps.

Earth’s people will come afterward. Marchand’s words bounced along like a bright tune.

That’s when the stay-behinds make real dough. Booyah. Skeet clinched his fist and thrust his elbow downward.

Planet-to-planet travel, Marchand answered. That’s in the future, he said and let it drop.

A space race to the promised land, Yardleu mused and hoped no harm came to those brave enough to enter it. The space race is aimed toward aeronautical engineers and astrophysicists. She thought of their recently fired fathers and Marchand’s mother. As soon as their last project was documented, their boss let them go without warning or severance pay. Good old Vito Savage. His hanging jowls reminded her of a hound dog.

Finished with the flyer, Skeeter tilted his head in thought. Sharlene is entering the race. Told me last week. I freakin’ love that girl.

Love?

Marchand’s eyebrows rose. I didn’t know Sharlene had a jammy side.

Yardley didn’t either. Whatever Sharlene Mantis wanted, she got, but Shar’s family might be as buggy as her own. As she extended her hand for the flyer, she wondered why the Mantis family allowed their precious-snowflake to go on the first mission.

Her teasing brother held the flyer higher than her reach.

With a jump, she