October has a way of making an ordinary evening feel like an occasion.

A few pumpkins by the door. Something delicious baking in the oven. A table set for dinner, perhaps with a candle or two. Suddenly, staying home sounds like a wonderful plan.

Here in Florida, autumn doesn’t always arrive with crisp air and a landscape of red and gold. Sometimes we have to invite it inside. We bring out the fall decorations, choose something comforting to cook, and enjoy the season in our own way—even if the weather hasn’t quite received the message.

With Oktoberfest celebrations adding to the festive mood, I’ve been thinking about the pleasure of gathering around a table. There is something inviting about a celebration that makes room for hearty food, lively conversation, and another helping.

For my own toast to October, I want to share a recipe that comes with a special connection: chicken pot pie from my late friend Sharon Burke, who wrote under the pen name Sloane Taylor.

A Recipe Worth Keeping

When someone we love is no longer here, the things they left behind take on a different meaning.

A recipe becomes more than a list of ingredients. We recognize a turn of phrase in the instructions. We notice a practical little tip. We see their name at the top of the page, and for a moment, the distance feels smaller.

That is part of what makes sharing Sharon’s recipe meaningful to me. Readers knew her as Sloane Taylor. I knew her as my friend, Sharon, and I’m happy to make a place for her here.

Her recipe ends with these words:

“May you enjoy all the days of your life filled with good friends, laughter, and seated around a well-laden table!”

What a lovely wish to leave with someone.

It also seems like a wonderful invitation for October.

We can get so caught up in everything that needs doing that we postpone the small pleasures. We’ll invite someone over when the house is tidier. We’ll make a proper dinner when the week is less busy. We’ll sit down and catch up when there is more time.

But a meal doesn’t have to be elaborate to be worth sharing. A warm pie, a few plates, and people who are happy to see one another can be enough.

Comfort Beneath a Golden Crust

Chicken pot pie feels especially suited to this kind of evening.

There is the golden pastry, of course, and that first spoonful of creamy filling beneath it. There are familiar vegetables, tender chicken, and herbs that make the kitchen smell welcoming while dinner is in the oven.

Sharon’s version uses refrigerated pie crusts, which makes it easier to bring to the table. She also included a homemade substitute for heavy cream—a useful addition for those moments when you discover that the one ingredient you need is the one you don’t have.

This isn’t a traditional Oktoberfest dish, but it fits the spirit of the gathering I have in mind: comforting food and time to enjoy it together.

So today, I’m sharing it with you in Sharon’s memory.

Sharon Burke’s Chicken Pot Pie

Chicken

• Carrot chunks
• 1 pound boneless, skinless chicken breast
• Celery chunks
• Onion chunks
• Water

Place the vegetables in a medium saucepan with enough water to cover the chicken. Bring to a boil, add the chicken, and reduce the heat to a gentle simmer. Cook until the thickest part of the chicken reaches 165°F on a food thermometer.

Remove the chicken to a plate. Discard the cooking water and vegetables. When the chicken is cool enough to handle, trim any excess fat and cut the meat into bite-size pieces.

The chicken preparation above has been adapted to include a temperature check.

Filling

• ⅓ cup butter
• ½ cup sliced celery
• ½ cup chopped carrots
• ⅓ cup chopped onion
• ⅓ cup flour
• Chicken stock: confirm quantity before publishing; attachment may indicate 1⅔ cups
• ¾ teaspoon garlic powder, not garlic salt
• ¼ teaspoon ground thyme
• ½ teaspoon dried sage
• ½ teaspoon dried parsley
• ½ teaspoon salt
• Freshly ground pepper, to taste
• ⅔ cup heavy cream*
• 1 cup frozen peas; thawed is fine

Melt the butter in the saucepan. Add the celery, carrots, and onion. Sauté over medium heat until the vegetables are partly softened and the onion is translucent, about 7–9 minutes.

Stir in the flour and cook for 1 minute, stirring frequently.

Carefully pour in the chicken stock while stirring. Scrape the bottom and sides of the pan to incorporate any flour residue.

Add the garlic powder, thyme, sage, parsley, salt, and pepper. Stir in the cream. Simmer over medium-low heat until thickened, about 5–10 minutes, stirring often to prevent burning.

Add the chicken and peas. Remove from the heat and let the filling cool briefly while preparing the crust.

Assembling the Pie

• 2 premade refrigerated pie crusts
• 1 egg yolk
• 1 tablespoon milk

Preheat the oven to 425°F.

Follow the directions on the pie crust package to prepare the pan for a two-crust pie.

Spoon the filling into the bottom crust. Place the second crust over the filling. Press the crusts together around the rim to seal, and trim off any excess pastry.

Mix the egg yolk and milk in a small bowl. Brush the mixture over the top crust, including the rim.

Cut 4–6 small slits in the top crust to allow steam to escape.

Bake for 10–15 minutes. Cover the edges with aluminum foil to prevent them from burning, then continue baking for another 30–35 minutes, or until the top is golden brown and the center of the filling reaches 165°F.

Let the pie rest for 10–15 minutes before serving so the filling can set.

Sharon’s Heavy Cream Substitute

• ¾ cup milk
• ⅓ cup butter

Pour the milk into a small bowl and let it lose its refrigerator chill.

Melt the butter over medium-low heat or in the microwave. Let it cool until lukewarm while remaining liquid.

Combine the milk and butter with a hand mixer until well blended.

Use the mixture as a one-for-one substitute for heavy cream in cooked dishes. For this pie, measure out ⅔ cup of the prepared substitute.

This substitute will not work as whipping cream.

A Place at the Table

As a writer, I spend a great deal of time thinking about the moments that bring people closer. Often, those moments happen in familiar places. A kitchen. A dining room. A table where someone finally finds the courage to speak, or where laughter makes a difficult day easier.

Food belongs in those scenes because it belongs in our lives. We offer it when we want to welcome someone, celebrate with them, or give them a little comfort.

Sharing Sharon’s recipe is my way of remembering her this October. I hope someone reading this will make her chicken pot pie, enjoy it with people they care about, and pass the recipe along.

So here’s a toast to October—and to Sharon.

May there be something good in the oven, someone welcome at your table, and time enough to enjoy both.

What dish makes autumn feel like autumn to you? And do you have a treasured recipe from someone you miss? I’d love to hear about it.

With love,
Stella May

When I’m writing a book, my characters have a habit of following me everywhere. I leave my desk, but they don’t leave with the notebook. I think about them while I make coffee, do the dishes, or try to fall asleep. Sometimes a conversation I’ve been struggling to write suddenly becomes clear when I’m doing something else entirely.

I love living with a story that way. I also need the pleasure of stepping into a world I didn’t create.

That’s when I become a reader again. I can open a book without knowing what the author has planned. I can be surprised by a character’s decision, worry about what might happen next, and tell myself I’ll read one more chapter before discovering how late it has become.

I recently finished Mad Mabel by Sally Hepworth, and I am completely in love with this book. I won’t give away the story, because I enjoyed discovering it for myself and would want another reader to have that same experience. I’ll just say that it has stayed in my thoughts since I finished it. I catch myself wanting to return to it, even though I’ve already turned the last page.

As a writer, I can’t help admiring a book that does that. I spend so much time trying to create characters readers will care about. Then I pick up someone else’s novel, forget all about my own work for a while, and remember what it feels like to be carried along by a story. It’s a wonderful feeling.

I also adore J.D. Robb’s In Death series. Reading a book in a favorite series is a different kind of pleasure. Part of the joy is anticipation: I already know I want to be there, and I’m eager to find out what awaits me this time. Even after a busy writing day, I can find myself looking forward to those pages.

I don’t read only to study how other writers tell stories. In fact, the happiest reading hours are the ones when I forget to think like a writer at all. I’m simply curious. I care about the people on the page. I want to know what happens. When a book keeps me up later than I intended, I’m quite willing to forgive it.

There’s usually music in my day, too. I listen to classical music constantly, especially Mozart, Chopin, and Rachmaninov. I’m not sure whether it helps me write. I wish I could say that putting on a particular piece solves a stubborn chapter, but writing has never worked so neatly for me.

Sometimes the music fades into the background while I’m concentrating. Sometimes I notice it and pause to listen. And sometimes I realize I’ve been sitting at my desk for hours and am glad the room hasn’t been silent. Perhaps that’s enough of a reason to keep playing it.

Reading and music each give me something I value during a writing day. A book lets me follow another imagination wherever it leads. Music keeps me company while I find my way through my own. Neither asks me to produce a single word.

I think writers need that freedom as much as anyone does. We need time to enjoy a story without taking it apart, and time to listen to something beautiful without asking whether it’s useful. Then, when we return to the page, we bring all of ourselves with us: the reader, the listener, and the person still wondering what their characters will do next.

So lately, between my writing sessions, you’ll find me thinking about Mad Mabel, returning to J.D. Robb’s In Death series, or listening to Mozart, Chopin, and Rachmaninov. I’m enjoying every minute of it.

What are you reading these days? And do you like to have music playing while you read or work?

Sometimes a character enters a story so quietly that I don’t realize how much she matters until I find myself thinking about her long after I’ve closed my writing notebook.

That’s what happened with Maggie Coleman.

When I first imagined Maggie, I thought about the family around her: Nika and Eli, the people who had come before them, and the extraordinary events that had shaped all their lives. Maggie had grown up surrounded by love, but also by questions no one was quite ready to answer. She knew her family. Or at least, she believed she did.

As I spent more time with her, I began to wonder what growing up in that house would be like from her point of view. What little things would she notice? Which conversations would stop when she entered a room? Would she ever sense that the people closest to her were carrying a secret?

A character becomes especially interesting to me when I can see the moment her understanding of the world begins to change. For Maggie, one of those moments comes on her eighteenth birthday.

Nika enters her room carrying two gifts. One is an old tin can filled with Maggie’s childhood “secrets”—the small treasures a little girl once thought important enough to hide away. The other is a jewelry box containing a long string of pearls. On another birthday, those gifts might have led to laughter and happy memories. This time, Maggie has just learned that her mother is a traveler from the future.

I keep returning to the image of the two of them in that room. Nika knows that Maggie has questions. Maggie may not yet know how to ask them. The tin can holds pieces of the childhood she understands, while the pearls come with a family history she is only beginning to discover.

What draws me to Maggie is everything that happens after the revelation. Learning a secret doesn’t instantly tell you what to do with it. Maggie still has to look her mother in the eye. She has to decide which memories feel different now and which ones remain exactly as they were. She has to find her own place in a story that began long before she was born.

I’ve loved writing the people who came before her. Following Maggie lets me see them in a new light, through the eyes of someone who loves them deeply but wants answers from them, too. She has her own hopes, her own fears, and choices that no one else can make for her.

That’s how she surprised me. I thought I knew the shape of her place in the story. Then I pictured her standing before a mirror with those pearls around her neck, looking at a young woman whose future suddenly seemed much larger—and less certain—than it had the day before.

I wanted to know what she would do next.

Have you ever finished a book and wished you could follow one of its supporting characters into a story of their own?

And here is a short except from A Mission In Time Book 6 that will be released on November 17th:

Mesmerized, Maggie stared at her elegant, sophisticated mother, and tried to envision her in jeans, cap, with a toolbelt around her slender hips. Her imagination refused to obey. The picture she struggled to conjure in her mind simply defied that description. Briefly, she wondered if her mother still kept her old clothes. Maybe. Probably. And what of her toolbelt?

“What happened to it? Your toolbelt, I mean.”

“Oh, I still have it. I know it’s not wise to keep any objects from another time, but… I just couldn’t part with it. It’s one of my most treasured possessions.” Daisy curved her lips in a small, sad smile. “Your Uncle Alex gave it to me as a present when I passed my contractor exam.” She cast her eyes downward, as her face grew clouded with melancholy. Even the silence felt sad, mirroring her mother’s expression.

Uh-oh. Time to lighten the mood.

Maggie deliberately switched the subject. “I can’t believe you were a contractor, Mama!”

To her delight, her mother chuckled, then looked at her with a twinkle of humor in her eyes. Her face had lost all traces of sorrow, which pleased Maggie immensely.

“Not just a contractor, mind you, but the best historic restoration specialist in all of northern Florida. They called me the House Whisperer of Amelia Island.”

Unmistakable wistful notes crept into her mother’s voice.

“You miss it,” Maggie murmured softly.

After a moment, Daisy conceded, “Yes. Or I used to. Especially in the early days. I was bored out of my mind, didn’t know how to keep myself occupied. But then I found photography, and it became my passion. Still, once in a blue moon, I admit dreaming about getting involved in the process of restoring some old mansion…”

Her voice trailed off, then she shook her head. “Impossible, I know. But as my grandmother Verochka always said, impossible dreams are the only kind worth having.”

A bittersweet smile flickered on her mother’s lips; a faraway expression on her face hinted at memories of another time and another place.

Growing up, Maggie often heard the name Verochka. It always struck her as endearing and sweet and charming. Like poetry, or a soft melody, delicate and graceful. She wondered about her looks. Was she tall or petite? Blonde or brunette? Or maybe a redhead?

The only thing Maggie knew for a fact—Verochka had violet eyes, just like her, and her mother. She used to pester Daisy with the question: why was there not a single portrait of Verochka, or any of the members of her family? Her mother never answered, stubbornly evading the subject. Today, she finally understood why.

No, they weren’t estranged, as she’d thought for many years. They just existed in another time, in another century. In the distant future… Incomprehensible!

But no matter how much her brain struggled, her heart and her soul had already accepted what her mind refused to believe.

She gazed at her mother in breathless wonder. A time traveler. A woman who followed her heart despite the odds and dangers and fears.

A woman who leaped through centuries, defying science and reality, and tearing through the barriers of time.

A woman who dared destiny. A woman who loved so deeply and purely and selflessly, the Universe itself had to bend to her will.

My mother is a living, breathing miracle.

Maggie desperately wanted to learn about her mother’s family, the people who were related to her as well. But most of all, she wished to know more about Verochka.

“Mama, tell me about her. Tell me about your grandmother. What is she like?”

Daisy slowly lowered her gaze, but not before Maggie caught a glimmer of tears in her eyes.

“She’s wonderful. Amazing. Incredible. Classy and beautiful, adventurous and courageous, witty and spunky, with a wicked sense of humor. But her most endearing assets are her kindness, her fierce loyalty, and her immeasurable integrity.” A broken sigh later, Daisy softly finished, “There’s simply no words to describe her. She is… Verochka.”

There is a moment in the life of every book when it no longer belongs entirely to its author.

For months—sometimes years—the story exists in a private world. It lives in scattered notes, unfinished chapters, late-night thoughts, and conversations only the writer can hear. Its characters follow us through ordinary days. They sit quietly beside us while we make dinner, drive to the store, or try to fall asleep. They are never very far away. Then, slowly, the story takes shape. The empty pages begin to fill. Characters make choices we did not anticipate. Scenes we once imagined only faintly become real. A beginning finds its way toward an ending, and eventually, after countless revisions, corrections, doubts, and small victories, the book is finished. Or at least as finished as a book can ever feel to the person who wrote it.

And then comes the difficult part. We must let it go.

This week, A Timeless Equation left my hands and entered the world.

For a long time, Andrew Morris and Scarlett Fitzpatrick belonged only to me. I knew their questions, fears, frustrations, and hopes before anyone else did. I watched Andrew search for the sister who had vanished from his life. I followed him as mathematics led him toward something no reasonable man should have been able to believe. I watched Scarlett challenge him, understand him, and slowly become part of a journey neither of them could have predicted.

Now their story belongs to readers. That realization is both wonderful and a little frightening. Publishing a book is often presented as a moment of pure celebration. There is certainly joy in it—the excitement of seeing the finished cover, holding the first copy, and finally being able to say, “It is here.”

But beneath that joy lies vulnerability.

A book carries pieces of its author between the lines. Not always in the ways readers might expect. The characters are not necessarily reflections of us, and the events may be entirely imagined, but the emotions often come from somewhere real. Our understanding of love is there. Our experience of loss is there. Our questions about courage, regret, destiny, and hope are woven into the story, even when we never planned for them to appear.

Releasing a book means allowing strangers to enter that private world. They may love the characters we created. They may become angry with them. They may notice something we never intended or find meaning in a scene that once seemed small. That is the remarkable thing about stories: they change when they are read.

Every reader brings a different life to the page. A sentence that passes quietly for one person may stop another in their tracks. A character’s decision may remind someone of a road not taken, a person they once loved, or a choice they are still trying to make. Once a story leaves the author’s hands, it begins living many different lives. Perhaps that is not a loss of ownership at all. Perhaps it is the fulfillment of everything the book was meant to become.

A Timeless Equation began with an intriguing idea: What if mathematics could point toward a place where time itself had been broken? But as the story grew, I realized it was never truly about solving time. It was about the things no equation can measure. How far would we go for someone we love? What happens when logic brings us to the edge of the impossible? Can we trust an answer that the mind rejects but the heart recognizes?

Writing this book changed me, too. Every novel teaches its author something. Sometimes, the lesson arrives through research or the difficult work of improving the craft. Other times, it appears unexpectedly through a character’s struggle. Andrew reminded me that intelligence does not protect us from uncertainty. Scarlett reminded me that patience is not the same as standing still. Together, they reminded me that the most meaningful parts of life cannot always be proven before we choose to believe in them.

Andrew begins his journey searching for certainty. He wants proof. He wants explanations. Most of all, he wants to find his sister, Nika, who disappeared years ago without leaving him an answer he could accept. But some journeys do more than take us to a new destination. They change the person who began them.

This book also carries a particularly tender piece of my heart because it is dedicated to my dear friend Sharon Burke. Some people leave their presence in our lives so deeply that even after they are gone, we continue to carry them into every new season and every new chapter. Including Sharon’s name in this book was both painful and meaningful. It was my way of letting love remain where loss had created an empty space.

Perhaps that is another reason releasing this story feels so emotional. It carries imagination, memory, friendship, hope, and countless hours of quiet work. And now, all of it rests in someone else’s hands. When readers open A Timeless Equation, I will no longer be beside them to explain what I meant or tell them which scenes mattered most to me. The story must speak for itself. That is exactly as it should be. A book begins in the imagination of one person, but it is completed in the heart of another.

So today, I am letting Andrew and Scarlett go—not because their story matters less to me now, but because it is finally ready to matter to someone else. Their journey is no longer mine alone.

And I cannot wait to discover where it takes you.

There is something quietly magical about the first day of autumn. The world does not transform overnight. The leaves do not all turn gold at once, and the air may still carry a trace of summer’s warmth. Here in Florida, autumn often arrives more as a promise than a dramatic change of scenery. But somehow, we sense it. The light begins to soften. The evenings arrive a little earlier. And something inside us whispers that one season is ending and another is ready to begin.

Autumn has always felt different from other seasons. Spring bursts into the world with color and possibility. Summer invites us to slow down, escape our routines, and linger beneath the sun. Winter asks us to retreat into warmth and stillness. But autumn encourages reflection. It asks us to look at what we have gathered during the year—and what we may finally be ready to release.

Perhaps that is why the falling leaves never seem entirely sad to me. They remind us that letting go is not always an ending. Sometimes, it is simply how we make room for what comes next. Trees do not cling desperately to every leaf. They release them when the time is right, trusting that bare branches will not remain empty forever. Beneath the quiet surface, life continues. Roots deepen. Strength gathers. A new season waits.

We experience seasons like that in our own lives.

There are times when everything feels bright and certain, when the road ahead appears clearly marked. There are also seasons of waiting, searching, and wondering whether we are moving forward at all. Sometimes, the changes happening within us are too subtle to recognize until we look back and realize how far we have traveled.

Autumn reminds us that transformation does not always need to be loud. It can happen in the quiet decision to begin again. It can happen when we finally put aside something that no longer belongs in our lives. It can happen when we return to a forgotten dream, forgive an old mistake, open our hearts after disappointment, or simply allow ourselves to hope once more.

As a writer, I often think of life in chapters and seasons. Some chapters seem reluctant to end. Others close before we feel prepared. Occasionally, a new story begins while we are still trying to understand the one that came before it. Yet every blank page carries possibility.

We may not know what the next chapter will bring. We may not know who will enter our lives, which road we will choose, or whether the dreams we have carried for years will finally find their moment. But perhaps we do not need to know everything before we begin.

My characters frequently discover this truth before I do. They search for answers, attempt to control the future, and convince themselves that careful plans will protect them from uncertainty. Eventually, however, they must take a step that logic alone cannot justify.

They must trust. They must believe. They must walk into the unknown.

This year, the first day of autumn is especially meaningful to me because it also brings the release of my newest novel, A Timeless Equation.

There is something wonderfully fitting about sending a new story into the world on the day a new season begins. Andrew Morris enters his journey believing that every mystery must have an explanation and every problem can be solved. But some truths cannot be contained within an equation—and some destinations can be reached only when we are willing to follow the heart. Like autumn itself, his story is about change, courage, love, and the willingness to cross an uncertain threshold.

Perhaps that is what every new season asks of us. Not to have all the answers. Not to know exactly where the road will lead. Only to take the next step.

So, on this first day of autumn, I hope you will pause for a moment. Notice the softer light. Welcome the faint change in the air. Think about what you are ready to release—and what new story might be waiting to begin.

A season is turning. A fresh page is opening. And perhaps something beautiful is already on its way.

A few days before one of my books is released, I always find myself thinking about the journey that brought it into being—and about the readers who are preparing to enter its world for the first time.

By the time a book reaches publication day, I have lived with its characters for so long that they no longer feel imaginary to me. I know their fears, their secrets, their stubborn habits, and the truths they are not yet ready to admit to themselves. Letting readers meet them is exciting, but it also feels a little like introducing close friends and hoping they will be loved.

A Timeless Equation, Book Five in my Upon a Time series, will be released on September 22. Before it arrives, I would like to share five things about the story—without revealing the secrets waiting inside.

1. The Story Begins With a Brother’s Love

At the center of A Timeless Equation is Andrew Morris, Nika’s younger brother.

Andrew is a mathematician—a man who believes that every problem has an answer if one is patient, disciplined, and clever enough to find it. Numbers follow rules. Equations can be tested. Patterns may be hidden, but they exist. His sister’s disappearance follows no rules at all. Nika seemingly vanished under baffling circumstances, leaving behind questions no one could answer. As time passes, others begin to accept that the mystery may never be solved. Andrew cannot.

His determination to understand what happened to Nika becomes the driving force behind his work. He is not interested in theories for the sake of intellectual curiosity. He is searching for something deeply personal: a path to the sister he refuses to believe is beyond his reach.

Long before this becomes a story about time, it is a story about family—and about the promises we make to the people we love, even when they are not there to hear them.

2. The Mathematics Matters—but the Heart Matters More

The title A Timeless Equation reflects Andrew’s world. He trusts mathematics because it offers him order in a life disrupted by the impossible. But what happens when the numbers begin to suggest something that logic says cannot exist? Andrew’s calculations lead him toward a possibility too extraordinary to accept and too compelling to ignore. The equation may offer a path, but mathematics alone cannot prepare him for what waits at the end of it.

Numbers can reveal coordinates. They can expose patterns. They can point toward a door. But they cannot tell Andrew whether he should open it. That decision requires something far less predictable than logic. It requires courage, faith, and the willingness to risk everything for an answer he may not be ready to receive.

This is one of the ideas I loved exploring while writing the novel: even the most rational person may eventually encounter something that cannot be understood by reason alone.

Sometimes, the mind takes us as far as it can. The heart must carry us the rest of the way.

3. Scarlett Has Questions of Her Own

Scarlett Fitzpatrick is a curator, a woman trained to examine the past through the objects and stories it leaves behind. She understands that history is never truly silent. It speaks through paintings, documents, photographs, forgotten belongings, and details that seem insignificant until someone looks closely enough.

Scarlett is intelligent, observant, and grounded. Yet she, too, becomes drawn into a mystery that challenges everything she believes she knows about the past. Her connection with Andrew begins amid questions neither of them can answer easily. He is searching for his sister. Scarlett is trying to understand discoveries that should not be possible. Together, they begin following clues that connect mathematics, art, history, and Coleman House in ways neither of them expected.

But Scarlett is not simply waiting beside Andrew while he follows his quest. She has her own voice, her own strength, and her own reasons for needing the truth. Andrew may be determined to solve the equation, but Scarlett helps him understand that not every answer can be calculated—and that finding what we have lost is not the same as knowing what to do once it is found.

4. Coleman House Still Has Secrets to Reveal

Readers of the Upon a Time series already know that Coleman House is more than a setting. It has witnessed love, separation, sacrifice, and reunion. Its rooms carry memories from more than one lifetime, while the grandfather clock at its heart continues to guard secrets that few people would ever believe.

In A Timeless Equation, the house once again becomes part of the mystery.

Andrew approaches it differently from those who came before him. He does not begin with faith in the impossible. He begins with calculations, coordinates, and the conviction that there must be a rational explanation. Coleman House is not particularly interested in rational explanations. There are places that seem to remember everyone who has passed through them. Places where the past never feels entirely gone and where time appears thinner somehow—as though one moment might still be able to reach another.

For Andrew and Scarlett, the house offers both possibility and danger. It may hold the answer they have been seeking, but it will not surrender that answer easily.

And the grandfather clock is waiting.

5. Every Answer Comes With a Price

We often imagine that discovering the truth will bring relief. Sometimes it does. But answers can also create new questions. They can demand choices we never expected to make. They can change our understanding of the past and leave us standing before a future that suddenly looks very different.

Andrew believes that finding the solution will be the most difficult part of his journey. It is not.

The true challenge begins when the impossible becomes real and he must decide how far he is willing to go—and what he is prepared to leave behind. That is the emotional heart of A Timeless Equation. It is not simply a story about whether time can be crossed. It is about what makes someone attempt the crossing in the first place.

How much would you risk for someone you love? Could you walk away after discovering that the impossible was within reach? And if you finally found the answer you had sacrificed so much to obtain, would it give you peace—or ask even more of you?

The Door Is Almost Open

A Timeless Equation is a story about mathematics and mystery, but it is also about siblings, family, grief, devotion, and a love that appears where it is least expected. It is about the courage to keep searching when everyone else has stopped. It is about the traces people leave behind and the invisible threads that continue to connect us across years, distances, and lives. Most of all, it is about the moment when a man who trusts only what he can prove must decide whether he is willing to believe in something impossible.

The equation has been solved. Coleman House is waiting. And on September 22, the door will open.

A Timeless Equation Book Five in the Upon a Time series Releasing September 22

There comes a moment in almost every difficult journey when the voices around us begin to change.

At first, people encourage us. “Keep going.” “Don’t lose hope.” “You’ll find the answer.”

But as time passes and nothing changes, their optimism begins to fade. Encouragement becomes concern. Hopeful words give way to gentle suggestions that perhaps it is time to accept what cannot be changed.

And eventually, someone says the words we have been trying not to hear: “You have to let it go.”

Sometimes, they may be right. There are battles that exhaust us without bringing us any closer to peace. There are questions that may never be answered and doors that will remain closed, no matter how long we stand before them. But sometimes, the heart knows something that cannot yet be proven.

Sometimes, giving up would mean abandoning not merely a dream, but a part of ourselves.

When Hope Stops Making Sense

It is easy to keep searching when progress is visible. It is much harder when every road seems to lead nowhere. True perseverance begins after the reasonable amount of hope has run out. It begins when the facts are stacked against us, when other people have moved on, and when we can no longer explain—perhaps even to ourselves—why we still believe.

The world admires determination once it produces results. We celebrate the person who refused to surrender and eventually proved everyone wrong. What we rarely see are the lonely years before the victory—the unanswered letters, failed attempts, closed doors, and quiet mornings when that person had to choose hope all over again.

Continuing to search does not always look heroic. Sometimes, it looks like getting out of bed and trying once more. Sometimes, it means returning to a problem everyone else has dismissed as impossible. Sometimes, it means protecting a fragile thread of hope when even the people who love us are afraid it will break our hearts.

The Difference Between Hope and Denial

There is a delicate line between refusing to give up and refusing to face reality. Denial asks us to ignore the truth. Hope asks us to acknowledge the truth and still leave room for possibility. Hope does not promise that we will find exactly what we are seeking. It does not protect us from disappointment or guarantee that courage will be rewarded. It simply whispers that the story may not be finished yet. Perhaps that is why hope requires so much bravery.

To keep searching is to risk being disappointed again. It is to open the same wounded place in our hearts and admit that we still care. Walking away may sometimes feel easier—not because we have found peace, but because we are tired of hurting. Yet certain questions refuse to release us. Certain people remain part of us, no matter how much time has passed.

And certain mysteries seem to wait patiently for the one person stubborn enough to keep looking.

Searching Is an Act of Love

We often think of searching as an intellectual pursuit—a quest for facts, proof, or understanding. But some searches begin in the heart. We search because someone matters. We search because a promise matters. We search because accepting the absence of an answer feels too much like accepting that what was lost no longer matters.

That is not always obsession. Sometimes, it is love refusing to become indifferent. Love can make us persistent in ways logic cannot explain. It can send us through old photographs, forgotten letters, family stories, historical records, and memories we have examined a hundred times before. It makes us notice the smallest inconsistency and wonder whether it might be the beginning of an answer.

Love says, “Look again.”

The Man Who Refused to Stop Searching

This kind of courage lies at the heart of my upcoming novel, A Timeless Equation.

Andrew Morris is a mathematician—a man who trusts reason, patterns, and answers that can be proven. But when his sister Nika disappears under circumstances no one can explain, logic fails him. Other people may learn to live with the mystery. Andrew cannot.

He continues searching, not because he knows he will succeed, but because giving up on the search would feel like giving up on his sister. His determination leads him toward an equation that should be impossible, a mysterious house, and Scarlett Fitzpatrick—a woman who may understand more about his journey than either of them initially realizes.

Andrew begins with numbers, believing that somewhere within them he will find the answer he needs. What he does not expect is that the search will ask far more of him than intellect. It will demand faith, courage, sacrifice, and the willingness to step beyond everything he believes he understands.

Because sometimes, the answer we are seeking changes us before we ever find it.

When the World Says It Is Time to Stop

Not every search ends with a miraculous discovery. Not every unanswered question becomes clear. Sometimes, courage means continuing. At other times, it means recognizing that we have done all we can and allowing ourselves to rest. Only the person making that journey can know the difference. But I believe there are moments when the quiet voice inside us deserves to be heard—even when it cannot offer proof.

The people who keep searching are not necessarily fearless. Often, they are frightened, exhausted, and painfully aware of everything they may never find. They continue anyway. Not because they are certain of the ending, but because something—or someone—is worth one more attempt. Sometimes, the mind declares that all possibilities have been exhausted.

And sometimes, the heart answers: “Not yet.”

As the release of A Timeless Equation approaches, I’d like to share a brief moment from Andrew’s journey—a glimpse of the determination that refuses to let him surrender his search.

The room looked like it had been hit by a hurricane.

Torn pages from his notebook littered every surface—the floor, the bed, the small writing desk. Papers everywhere, covered in frantic scribbles and abandoned calculations.

He sighed. What he wouldn’t give for a whiteboard and a couple of decent markers.

Adding it to his growing list of things to buy, he bent down and began gathering the scattered sheets.

Determined to solve the problem, Andrew had thrown himself headfirst into the formula. But no matter what approach he tried, the calculations refused to cooperate. The numbers made no sense. For days, he had fueled himself with coffee, trying to force clarity from exhaustion.

All he had to show for it was a pounding headache—and pages of meaningless figures.

Time and again, he arrived at the same sequence of numbers.

What am I missing?

He crouched, smoothing one page covered in dense calculations, and studied it again. Twelve digits in the first row. Thirteen in the second. What could that mean?

And then— It clicked. Coordinates. Longitude and latitude.

Of course!

“How did I miss that?” he muttered.

Springing to his feet, Andrew grabbed his iPhone and opened the Google Earth app. His fingers moved quickly as he entered the numbers. The result appeared instantly—a blinking red dot.

He froze. Then entered it again. Same result.

“I’ll be damned…”

If the numbers were correct, they pointed to a location right here on Amelia Island.

Excitement surged through him, sharp and electric. Was it possible? Had the formula actually worked? Had he solved it?

“Yes!” He pumped his fist, riding the rush of victory. “Eureka.”

Numbers never lied. What a fool he had been to doubt them.

Eager, breath quickening, he switched to Google Maps and pulled up the exact location. Then—

Everything inside him went still. The address stared back at him. The Coleman House Museum.

His excitement drained away in an instant. He frowned, staring at the screen.

Of all places…

That was not what he had expected.

A Timeless Equation, Book Five in the Upon a Time series, releases September 22.

Can love be measured? Can destiny be calculated? And if someone you love disappears without leaving a trace, could mathematics help you find the place—or the time—where they have gone?

These questions lie at the heart of my upcoming novel, A Timeless Equation, the fifth book in my Upon a Time series.

The story belongs to Andrew Morris, a brilliant mathematician who has always trusted numbers more than emotions. Numbers are orderly. Predictable. They follow rules and lead to answers.

But there is one mystery Andrew has never been able to solve: the disappearance of his older sister, Nika.

To everyone else, Nika simply vanished under baffling circumstances. Andrew refuses to accept that explanation. He knows his sister would never leave without telling him, and he cannot bring himself to stop searching for her—even when every reasonable possibility has been exhausted.

Then he discovers a mathematical equation that may prove time is not as fixed as it appears.

For Andrew, the equation is more than an intellectual puzzle. It might be the only path leading to Nika. The only chance to discover what happened to her. And perhaps the only way to bring her home.

His search leads him to Scarlett Fitzpatrick, a museum curator whose knowledge of history may be as important as Andrew’s understanding of mathematics. Scarlett is intelligent, independent, and accustomed to protecting her heart. She has no intention of becoming entangled in Andrew’s impossible quest—or in the life of the quietly determined man behind it.

But some mysteries cannot be solved alone.

As Andrew and Scarlett follow the clues, the boundaries between history and the present begin to blur. Paintings hold secrets they should not possess. An old house seems to remember those who passed through it. And a grandfather clock may be more than an elegant relic from another century.

The closer Andrew comes to the truth, the more dangerous his search becomes. Because finding Nika may require him to challenge everything he believes about time, reality, and love.

I have always been fascinated by time-travel stories, but for me, the true heart of such stories is never merely the journey into another era. It is the reason someone is willing to make that journey.

Andrew’s reason begins with devotion to his sister. He refuses to forget her. He refuses to surrender to the impossible. Yet along the way, his search becomes something more. It brings Scarlett into his life and forces him to confront the one force he never expected to encounter in any equation: love.

A Timeless Equation is a story about family, destiny, courage, and the extraordinary things we are willing to risk for the people we cannot bear to lose.

The book will be released on September 22, and today I would love to share a small glimpse of Andrew and Scarlett’s journey with you.

An Excerpt from A Timeless Equation

The redhead caught Andrew’s attention the moment he stepped inside the museum. Her dress—long, fluid, almost shapeless—moved around her tall frame like water, concealing more than it revealed. Deliberate? Or simply comfortable? Probably both.

The interior felt warmer than expected, despite the steady hum of the AC. A space this large must be difficult to cool. Uneasy from the strange episode outside—and his lingering reluctance to enter—Andrew nevertheless sharpened, alert and curious. About her.

Surrounded by a small group of tourists hanging on her every word, she smiled as she spoke—but fatigue showed in the fine lines around her eyes. And what a face. Even in profile, it was arresting. Dusky skin. A generous mouth. An upturned nose. That slightly off-center, pointed chin kept it from perfection. Good. Perfection was overrated. And boring.

Nothing about this woman was boring. Her features were vivid. Alive. Impossible to ignore.

A flame.

Her hair—deep, burnished red—caught the light streaming through the tall windows. Pulled into a high ponytail, it revealed the elegant line of her neck.

A swan’s, he thought absently. Beneath the loose dress, her figure suggested curves. Subtle. But unmistakable. His imagination, unhelpfully, filled in the rest. Andrew flushed.

What the hell is wrong with you?

She looked young. Too young. And here he was—thirty-two—mentally undressing her. Pervert.

He tore his gaze away, forcing himself to focus elsewhere. The furniture. The rugs. The grandfather clock. Anything.

It didn’t work.

Like a magnet, his eyes found her again. This time, she looked straight at him. Their gazes locked. Held. For a heartbeat. Two.

The air between them tightened—charged, electric. He felt it. A pulse. Real.

And then—

The clock.

The steady ticking grew louder. And louder.

Until it filled the room—deep, resonant, almost overwhelming.

They both froze. The sound swelled, then stopped. Abruptly. Silence rushed in. Thick. Heavy.

Broken only by the quiet, familiar tick…tock. Andrew held his breath.

What just happened?

Another episode? Or something else entirely? That connection—brief but undeniable—still hummed through him. Real. Too real to dismiss. And the clock…

That sound hadn’t been normal. It had felt like a warning.

He glanced at her. She was already speaking again, smiling at the departing group as though nothing had happened. Unaffected. Unbothered. As if she hadn’t heard a thing.

He exhaled slowly. Ridiculous. A trick of stress. Had to be it. What else could it be?

Shaken, he turned his attention to the clock. Positioned beneath the sweeping staircase, half-shadowed, it appeared perfectly ordinary. Polished mahogany. A gleaming face. A pendulum swaying in calm, measured rhythm. An object. Nothing more. Relief mingled with something else. Disappointment. For a moment there, he had felt…something extraordinary.

Almost—

No. Don’t go there.

His rational mind snapped back into place.

Get a grip, Morris.

He hadn’t come here for ghosts or fantasies. He needed information. Facts. About the house. About its last owner. That was all.

He scanned the room, looking for another guide. Another staff member. Anyone. No luck.

She was alone. Damn. He braced himself. No way around it. He would have to talk to her.

The last of the tourists filed out, leaving the foyer quiet. Empty. Just the two of them.

He slipped his hands into his pockets, stalling.

Move, Morris.

With a quiet curse, he forced himself forward.

She didn’t move. Didn’t smile. Just watched him approach. The light from the windows wrapped around her, soft and bright, obscuring her features. But not her expression. Startled. Guarded. Like a deer caught in headlights.

He slowed.

Is she afraid of me?

Maybe. Especially after the way he’d been staring. He stopped a few feet away. She stepped back immediately.

Message received. Andrew winced inwardly and summoned what he hoped was a non-threatening smile. Her lips remained pressed together. Her posture tense. Wary.

I wish I could see her eyes.

But the light hid them completely.

“Can I help you, sir?” she asked at last.

---

A Timeless Equation Book Five in the Upon a Time series Coming September 22

Every year on Labor Day, we celebrate the dignity of America’s workers and the labor unions they have built. 

Unfortunately, for most people today it simply marks the last weekend of summer and the start of the school year. The holiday’s founders in the late 1800s envisioned something very different from what the day has become. The founders were looking for two things: a means of unifying union workers and a reduction in work time.

Labor Day honors the contributions of workers in every field to maintain our country’s strength and prosperity.

Happy Labor Day!

We often think of autumn as the season when things end. The flowers fade. The leaves loosen their hold. The bright abundance of summer gives way to cooler mornings, longer shadows, and earlier sunsets. But perhaps autumn is not truly a season of endings. Perhaps it is the season when transformation becomes visible.

A tree does not apologize for changing. It does not cling desperately to every leaf or mourn the green it once wore. Instead, it turns gold, amber, and crimson. It makes change beautiful. And when the time comes, it lets go—not because what it carried was unimportant, but because holding on forever would leave no room for rest, renewal, or new growth. There is a quiet lesson in that.

We spend so much of our lives resisting change. We hold tightly to familiar places, old dreams, former versions of ourselves, and plans that no longer fit the people we have become. Even when we know it is time to move forward, letting go can feel like failure. We wonder whether releasing something means it never mattered. But letting go does not erase love. It does not diminish the value of what came before. A season can end and still have shaped us. A dream can change and still have led us somewhere important. A person may no longer walk beside us, yet remain forever woven into who we are. What mattered remains—not always in the form we expected, but in the wisdom, tenderness, strength, and memories we carry forward.

Autumn reminds us that transformation does not have to be loud. Sometimes it happens almost imperceptibly. One cool morning. One golden leaf. One moment when we realize that something within us has shifted.

Perhaps we are a little braver than we were before. Perhaps an old sorrow no longer hurts in quite the same way. Perhaps the future, once frightening, has begun to feel open and full of possibility. We may not even know exactly when the change began. We only know that we are no longer standing in the same emotional place.

As a writer, I am drawn to characters who find themselves between seasons of life. They cannot return to who they were, but they do not yet know who they are becoming. They stand at the edge of the familiar, frightened to step forward and equally unable to remain where they are.

That uncertain space is where the most meaningful stories begin.

My characters may travel through time, but their greatest journeys are often the ones taking place within them. They must release old fears, forgive what cannot be changed, and trust that love can survive transformation. Sometimes they cross decades to find another person. Sometimes they must cross the distance between who they have been and who they are ready to become.

Real life asks the same courage of us. There are seasons when we flourish openly, like gardens in summer. There are seasons when we must be still. And there are autumn seasons—times when life asks us to loosen our grip, accept change, and make room for what is coming next. This does not mean we must welcome every change immediately. Some transitions are painful. Some goodbyes take time. We are allowed to grieve what was beautiful, what was familiar, and what we hoped would last longer.

But grief and hope can exist together. We can miss what has passed while remaining curious about what lies ahead. We can honor an earlier version of ourselves without needing to become that person again. We can carry the love forward without carrying every weight that came with it.

Perhaps becoming is not about transforming into someone entirely new. Perhaps it is about uncovering the person who has been quietly taking shape inside us all along. Autumn does not hurry this process. The season changes leaf by leaf, evening by evening. It teaches us that transformation has its own rhythm. We do not have to force it. We only have to remain open to it.

So as the air cools and the world begins to turn gold, perhaps we can ask ourselves a gentler question—not, What am I losing? but, What am I becoming?

Maybe we are becoming more patient. More courageous. More forgiving. More willing to choose what truly matters.

The trees will soon stand bare, but they will not be empty. Beneath the quiet surface, life will be gathering strength for another beginning. And perhaps we are doing the same. Autumn is not simply the season of letting go.

It is the season of becoming.