Saturday, September 21, 2013

Shades of Pink Teaser - In Love With Teresa March by T. Hammond

Every day until the end of September, I will post here the blurb for one of the stories from the Shades of Pink charity anthology, as well as a teaser, and a short bio for the author. The anthology will be available on October 1st, with all proceeds going to breast cancer research but you can donate today and get it 5 days early! I invite you to come back, share the links for these teasers, tell your friends about it... It's all for a good cause! And if you tweet about it, you can use the hashtag #shadesofpink :)

Today, a glimpse from In Love With Teresa March by T. Hammond

Navy man Sebastian enjoys his sister’s email and photo updates, but it’s the second woman in each picture, his sister’s best friend, that holds his attention—and, his friend David’s. Both men are coming home, and each has his objective: the Siege of Teresa March.

Yeah, I’m a dope. Who falls for a woman in a photograph? Granted, she’s crush-worthy, but if someone told me they were instantly fascinated by a picture, I’d be sending them to the medical tent to talk to one of the psychiatrists. I know guys that have movie star photos pinned to the inside of their lockers, or folded up in little squares so the picture can be tucked away in a uniform pocket. Soldiers fantasize about their pin-up crush in stolen moments, when they need to remember all the things they’re fighting for. What I felt was more than a crush or infatuation. When I looked at the pictures of Teresa March, I wasn’t thinking about sex; I was thinking about forever.

First time I saw her picture was after Bas, Senior Chief Sebastian Declan, read me a letter from his sister Janey. It was a light-hearted narration of everyday events, told by a sweet woman who obviously loved and missed her big brother. Bas motioned me toward his computer so I could look at the photos she had attached.

Janey looked like her brother. She was a Barbie doll personified with long, fluffy blond hair, clear blue eyes, and a pretty bow-shaped mouth in a heart-shaped face. She was a lovely girl, well, a woman really, since Bas told me she had just turned twenty-seven. Her figure was voluptuous, with full breasts and wide hips, emphasized by a tiny, nipped-in waist. Janey’s sex symbol body was startling when matched with her wholesome features.

I like blonds, they always drew my eye when we visited the bars off-base. In each of the sixteen photos attached to the letter, Janey was laughing and vamping for the camera. She was adorable. But it was the woman next to her in every picture that caught my eye.

Bas told me her name was Teresa March, and he planned to marry her one day.

I think her eyes were the first thing that caught my attention. Deep, dark brown, with touches of green like spokes of a wagon wheel, flaring away from her irises. The thick, black lashes are long, curving away from her gorgeous eyes in soft arcs. In every picture I’ve seen of her, her face has been bare of artifice—no makeup.

Maybe it was her smile I first noticed. She has a great smile, wide and welcoming. I pull out the folded picture I printed off my computer and feel a grin tug my mouth. I can’t help wanting to smile right along with her, to share the joke or that moment in time that brought the sparkle to her eyes and the tilt to the corner of her lips.

Teresa is one of the few natural beauties I have ever seen. She has one of those faces that the longer you stare at her, the more striking she becomes.

There were a few full-length pictures of the two women, so I was able to contrast and compare the dainty blond Janey, to the tall, dark-haired Teresa. Bas tells me she’s five-foot-ten, the perfect height for my six-foot-five frame. Teresa isn’t skinny like a fashion model, although she’s certainly beautiful enough to be one. She has curves, but not the over-blown ones like Janey. Teresa is elegant. Statuesque.

God, I even like her name. In the privacy of my room, I sometimes lay in my bunk and just whisper it aloud. Making it real. Teresa. Teresa March. Teresa… Prescott. Crap! The first time I said that, I freaked myself out. Thirty-eight years old and mooning over a girl. Damn, if I had a spiral notebook, I’d probably be penciling hearts framing her name, with fucking arrows running through them, because this was the woman Bas thought he was going to marry.


T. Hammond lives in Spokane, WA with her goofy, neurotic, long-coat German shepherd, Dexter. Writing is not a calling so much as it is a compulsion. No one is more surprised than she is when characters take over the plot and dialog, and (re)direct stories in directions she had not (consciously) intended. She is fully convinced that the writer is only the tool a story uses to tell its tale. Friend her on Facebook.

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