Midlife Magic by Victoria Danann

not too late book one

Catch a sneak peed of Midlife Magic by Victoria Danann, a Paranormal Women’s Fantasy Novel

This is one of the novels we are featuring in our October Blood Moon Ball Giveaway.  Enter Here.

“The best thing I’ve read in years.” – the Paranormal Romantic

If you can imagine yourself as a romantic and adventurous woman in midlife, who’s come into her power, ready to meet happy accidents head on, this book is for you!

The day after my forty-third birthday, my husband announced he was trading me in. His
words, not mine. What he said precisely was, “I’m trading you in on two twenty-two-year-olds,”
and then laughed. When he realized we weren’t sharing the joke, he added, “Seriously. I need
to free up because this isn’t working for me and I’ve found somebody who really gets me.”
I could only guess that really ‘gets’ him meant that she was into watching him look at his
phone during dinner out, was good at pretending to like football, and could field snipes about
her appearance without resentment. More likely, these details are discoveries yet to be
revealed. And endured. Good luck, sweetie.
The news that I was transitioning to single was unwelcome at the time, but honestly? I
needed a good goosing to get up and find my way to the exit, just like love had a couple of
decades ago. Why did I stay? It will have to remain one of the great psychological mysteries of
the ages because I don’t know. Maybe laziness. Maybe the benefits of combined income. None
of the answers I come up with paint a flattering picture.
If not for the financial component, I might have been embarrassingly elated. But living in
a state not friendly to discarded wives, I was also relieved of the financial 'security' I'd spent a
lifetime accruing. Did I mention that Cole wasn’t the sort of guy who was into sharing when he
saw no benefit to himself?
I’d be reduced to my sixty-eight-thousand-dollar-a-year job as a claims adjuster for
National Farm & Neighbor. I wouldn’t starve, but I wouldn’t be going on vacation to Las Brisas
either. Sigh. Nope. The ‘trade-in’ would be enjoying a pink jeep, a private pool overlooking
Acapulco Bay, and salads with flowers in them. Sigh.
So. Starting over? I didn't plan on it. Didn't see it coming. But pulling a sheet over my
head and waiting for the end didn't seem like my style. Granted, I wasn't sure what my style
was because I hadn't thought about freedom of expression since I was twenty.
Yeah. I’m over the hill. I’m over that and a world of other annoyances I kept quiet about
when I was younger. But what’s the point of packing on a few years and a few pounds if you
can’t speak up when the spirit moves you? Or gooses you in the ass.
Okay. Full disclosure. (Translation: Partial disclosure.) To the consternation of both my
parents, who’d hoped for demure, I never was what you’d call closed mouthed. But I did
manage a modicum of restraint until the recent, surprise announcement that I was about to
undergo a ‘status’ change. In my present state of being disyoked from an overly-opinionated
husband, I feel personal anarchy blossoming to life.

I checked to make sure the little stash I’d squirreled away was safe and secure at the
Peoples’ Prosperity Bank. There was enough for meager living quarters for a few months until I
could figure things out.
I set aside everything that didn’t fit into two rolling bags for storage and made my way
to the corporate residence, which was what we used to call a studio apartment. I left the bags
standing in the living room, looking as lost as I felt, and let myself fall onto the tweedy sofa
without thinking too hard about whether I needed to view the fabric through a black-light filter.

My boss was reservedly polite when I called to say I’d be taking a couple of weeks of
personal time. I knew it was short notice, but I had time accrued. If sick time was counted, I had
a lot of time on the books because I’d been fortunate to be healthy. And with no hobbies, and
one child who was extraordinarily self-sufficient, I could work or watch Telemundo. I chose
work.
I was sitting there, trying to summon the energy to go to the grocery for provisions to
stock the galley kitchen when there was a knock on the door.
I looked through the peephole before opening. It was the cheerful kid from the desk.
“Something for you, miss.”
“Gods bless you for calling me miss. Are you sure it’s for me? Nobody knows I’m here
yet.”
He looked at the big, black lettering on the front of the envelope. “You’re Rita
Hayworth. Right?”
I nodded dumbly. Hayworth was my maiden name. My head hadn’t yet cleared away
the shock of being told by my husband of twenty years that I was old news. I hadn’t even
thought about whether or not I would keep his name or reclaim my own. I hadn’t yet called a
lawyer, talked to my daughter, or decided to get rid of the navy-blue sedan Cole had insisted
was ‘classy’ and just perfect for me.
“Well, then,” the afternoon clerk said, pushing the envelope a couple of inches closer.
I took it. “Thanks.” And began looking for my purse to give him a tip. “Just a second.”
He waited while I fished out my wallet. I was clueless about the going rate of tip for
delivering what seemed to be documents, but I didn’t want to be thought of as a cheapskate by
the afternoon clerk. So, I pulled out a five and handed it over. By the smile on his face I knew it
wasn’t too little. Whether or not it was too much was hard to tell.
I closed the door, set the envelope down on the cheap veneered coffee table and
waited for a voice to tell me what to do next. Open it? Take a nap? Go get wine first? The last
option was the only one that resonated emotionally.
“Wine it is,” I said out loud to myself. When I realized I was speaking to no one, I added,
“I’ve been not-legally single for a day, and I’m talking out loud to myself.”
I grabbed my keys and set off on quest for wine and food that needed no more
preparation than a couple of turns in the microwave. While learning the layout of a market I’d
never seen before, because I was on the opposite side of town from where I’d lived my entire
adult life, I received calls from the animal shelter where I volunteered, the exterminator, and
my daughter. I told the first to leave me off the schedule for a couple of weeks, told the second
to cancel the account, thinking that insect infestations were the least my soon-to-be ex
deserved. Last, I assured my daughter, the college junior who’d heard the news from her father,
that I was going to be fine.
Through all of that, I never stopped thinking about the ‘package’, as the clerk had called
it. By the time I returned to my (hopefully) temporary digs, I was tired of waiting. I set the two-
and-a-half bags on the little countertop and went straight to the envelope.
I ripped the cardboard zip free and removed the contents expecting it to be a notice of
intent to divorce. After all, who besides Cole knew where I was? Come to think of it, I hadn’t
told anyone, including Cole, where to find me.

It contained a letter of summary and introduction, several legal documents and a
printout of travel arrangements in my name. Paid travel arrangements that included a first-
class, one-way ticket to London. I spread the papers out on the coffee table and stared for a
few seconds before deciding that there was only one reasonable course of action when
approaching a rare mystery such as this. Pour wine. Drink wine. Then read.
Congratulating myself on the foresight to pick up a wine opener at the store – because
of course there were cheap wine glasses in the cabinet, but no opener – I poured three inches
of deep red liquid, intent on feeling neither pain nor guilt. I moved the envelope’s contents to
the dinette and switched on the swag light that hung above.
After getting as comfortable as dinette chairs allow, I took a drink of black blend. Not a
sip or dainty taste. I enjoyed a full-on gulp with no shame and no one to critique my choices.
Dear Ms. Hayworth,
You have inherited a fine retail property with residence in the Eden of England, Cumbria,
and funds sufficient to cover your personal needs and ensure maintenance of the property for
your lifetime.
Enclosed you will find documentation of air transportation, a passport, a bit of currency,
and a credit card in your name. After clearing customs, kindly look for a sign that reads
‘Hayworth’. We will have a man ready to escort you to a vehicle suitable for completion of the
journey. Your auto will be equipped with navigation and programmed to guide you safely here.
Feel free to overnight en route to our picturesque village of Hallow Hill. The choice is
entirely yours. We look forward to your arrival.
Sincerely,
Lochlan Jois, Solicitor

This could be better than winning the lottery. Or it could be the opening scenes of a
horror movie. There was only one appropriate response. I reached for the wine glass and
downed all that was left in the goblet.