I am a sandal-loving Florida native with a passion for my Savior, my family, writing, and travel. Some of my best writing has been done on the balcony of a cruise ship!
After working in the travel and hospitality industry for 15+ years I decided it was time to pursue my writing dream. My novels are relational and character driven and I hope they will always engulf the reader in a great story while leaving them stronger in their faith.
We met with Pastor Donovan this weekend and he seems as excited about this wedding as we are. He said he’s never heard of a proposal like ours and was touched to hear our story. I had forgotten about the prayer chapel we have on the campus. He took us to look at it after we finished talking. It’s perfect! He said it can accommodate 150 people and I can’t imagine we’ll have that many guests. There is a lovely stained glass of the nativity that made me certain this was the right place for our ceremony since it will be so close to Christmas.
Finding a place for the reception has been harder. There is an Italian-style country club outside Orlando that I loved, but they are booked almost two years out. It probably would have been a bit fancier than we want anyway. We must have visited close to two dozen places around town before we found something we both liked and that had an opening in December. The Avalon Grove Inn is beautiful. Originally it was a small, family owned packing house for citrus. In the early seventies it was purchased from the family and renovated as an Inn. Some of the original grove is still maintained, but most of it has been lost to freezing temperatures over the years. The banquet room has hardwood floors and the rafters are all exposed wood beams in the same espresso color. When we were there it was decorated for another wedding, with white lights wrapped around the beams, and draped with white organza. The walls are a warm golden-yellow and at the end of the room is a fireplace surrounded by large stones. I can’t believeI’venever heard of this place before . We stumbled on it when we were driving around Winter Park. It’s less than twenty minutes from the church and has plenty of parking in an adjacent field where they had to remove a large portion of the original orange grove. Photos of some of the other places I visited are on my Pinterest board.
The catering manager is an absolute gem. She and I hit it off right away. I can’t wait to start working with her on the menu and the linens. She had some great ideas as soon as we told her our date. I think I will invite her to the next Concierge Club dinner, or maybe I should wait until after the wedding. She might feel uncomfortable mixing business and pleasure, but I know she’ll fit right in.
If I could just decide on who I can ask to be my bridesmaids, then I could start thinking about their dresses.
The story Lizzie’s romance and proposal is chronicled in the
The next morning, they led the horses down from the line cabin and got home in time to do their regular chores. Kenny put his horse away and went back to town to help his folks with their many enterprises.
That night, Aldon dropped onto his cot in the loft and slept like a dog. By five a. m., he was shaved and ready to meet Ellie in the kitchen. Today would be different. They would shorten their coffee time and head for the corral where he would show her how he trained horses.
He mentally thanked Molly’s Daddo (grandfather) from County Cork who had taught the Leitzinger sons about horses. Once they’d learned all he could teach them, he called them Sullivans after a relative of his, the first known horse whisperer in Ireland long ago. Aldon wondered who had come up with the words horse whisperer. A good trainer used the technique of understanding them by watching the ways in which they responded to people and other animals. American Indians had developed similar traditions since they’d been introduced to the horse by the Spanish. Aldon shook his head thinking about the horses that had been tormented and injured over the years in the name of breaking them when the gentle truly was the best way for everyone.
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Asking Ellie to wait outside the corral, Aldon went into the barn to get the horses. When he shooed them out, they trotted to the other side of the corral and stood shuffling their feet and looking at him.
He checked to see where Ellie was and was impressed with how well the golden color of the Palominos complimented Ellie’s blond beauty. At that moment he wanted nothing more than to stand and stare like a love struck youth, but he knew Ellie would rather have him get on with the job at hand. Suddenly he knew how important it was to make Ellie happy. Whatever she wants, he thought, she gets. Now and always.
Aldon took a long line from his pocket, and holding one end began tossing the end of it in the direction of the mare and foal. As it floated downward in their direction they began to canter around the inside of the corral trying to get away from it, their white manes and tails flowing in the breeze they created. Aldon knew that instinct compelled them to run before they looked back to see what was chasing them.
As he circled slowly and watched the animals, music began to play in Aldon’s head as it so often did when he was working. The song this time was, “The Emperor’s Waltz, a perfect three-quarter rhythm for the canter. He had learned it from one of the few records Nancy bought for the wind-up Victrola. No one else in his family had this strange quirk, but he enjoyed the tunes his mind served up, they always seemed appropriate somehow. It must be the sub-conscious he had learned about in college that caused it.
Never having been abused by man, the Palominos had nothing to unlearn. As he shortened his line bringing them closer to him in the center of the corral, the dam slowed down and started licking her lips and making chewing motions. She dropped her head which told him that she was looking for a friend now, someone to help her in a terrifying situation. It was time to put the line away along with his aggressive stance and became more approachable. He turned his back, let his shoulders slump slightly, and became a figure of welcome and comfort. The less attention he gave her the closer she came. He turned sideways ignoring her, but one of her ears twisted in his direction showing she was aware of his presence and valued it. The minute the mare stopped moving the colt began to nurse. She ignored him and touched Aldon’s back with her nose.
He shifted to make a slow turn to face the horse and then scratched the long bone of her nose and told her what a good girl she was. In a moment, he quietly asked Ellie to bring the rope halter to him. She nodded and came through a narrow opening between the gate and the rails to give him the halter. He slipped it over the horse’s head and handed the end of it to Ellie.
“She’s all yours, happy birthday. Walk her around,” he said. Ellie’s eyes widened and she gave him a delighted smile. He knew she couldn’t speak for fear of startling the horse, but it didn’t matter. He had a warm feeling in his chest knowing he had made her happy.
He’s a CIA intelligence officer; he’s a new Christian, and he’s being stalked by an assassin. That’s the description of Titus Ray, the main character in the new series of Christian thrillers written by Luana Ehrlich. In the first book in the series, One Night in Tehran, Titus finds shelter with a group of Iranian Christians after his mission to Tehran is discovered by the secret police. Compelled by their unwavering faith, the battle-hardened, covert operative becomes a believer before escaping to Turkey.
When he returns to the States, he discovers his Iranian mission failed because of political infighting within the Agency. In a hot-tempered outburst, he delivers a scathing indictment against the Deputy Director of Operations, and the deputy forces Titus to take a year’s medical leave in Oklahoma.
Before leaving Langley, however, he discovers a Hezbollah hit man has targeted him for assassination. Now, while trying to figure out what it means to be a follower of Christ, he must decide if the Iranian couple he meets in Oklahoma has ties to the man who’s trying to kill him, and if Nikki Saxon, a beautiful local detective, can be trusted with his secrets. Book 1 is available in both print and Kindle editions on Amazon here.
Meet Luana Ehrlich
Luana has been an avid reader of the mystery/suspense/thriller genre from the moment she picked up her first adult fiction novel at the age of eleven.She’s also a news fanatic and follows events around the world on a daily basis, particularly the Middle East.
Luana is a minister’s wife and has lived in Norman, Oklahoma for the past two decades. Along with her husband, she also served as a missionary in Costa Rica and Venezuela.
For the past several years, she’s been a freelance writer for Baptist Press, a national news service for Baptists, where she’s written about the experiences of newly converted Christians. At one time, she wrote a weekly column entitled “A Story To Tell” for The Indiana Baptist, telling the stories of ordinary people who became followers of Christ.
BOOK TWO: Two Days in Caracas, A Titus Ray Thriller
On the hunt for an assassin, Titus Ray faces a threat he never imagined. Can he overcome the obstacles and capture Ahmed Al-Amin before it’s too late?
In this pulse-racing Christian thriller, CIA intelligence officer, Titus Ray, travels from Costa Rica to Venezuela in an effort to stop Ahmed Al-Amin, the Hezbollah assassin, from murdering a high-profile government official. Along the way, a family crisis jeopardizes his mission, and an Agency division head threatens to destroy his career. As the danger mounts, he’s forced to partner with an untested operative to complete the mission and bring Ahmed to justice. Will he make it in time?
The hunt for Ahmed Al-Amin continues in Book 2 of the TItus Ray Thriller novels, released on June 26, 2015 and now available in both print and Kindle editions on Amazon here.
BOOK TRAILER: Two Days in Caracas, A Titus Ray Thriller
BOOK EXCERPT:
Chapter 1
Monday, June 4
I needed to move. I needed to do it soon. I was standing inside the doorway of an apartment building on Calle Alturas, just a few blocks from downtown San José, Costa Rica. It was an ideal location, but I knew my presence was going to start drawing attention any minute.
Right now, the torrential downpour made it appear as if I were simply seeking shelter from the rain. However, such tropical afternoon showers usually gave way to sunny skies very rapidly in this part of the world
.
Once that happened, I would need to move quickly
I studied the house on the corner. Then, I scanned my surroundings for a building public enough for me to monitor the residence from a distance.
The overall construction of the house, with its concrete-block walls and iron bars across the windows, appeared typical for the neighborhood.
I could see nothing unusual about it.
However, its innocuous look didn’t mean anything. In fact, the normality of the place made it easy for me to believe it might be Ahmed Al-Amin’s safe house in San José.
On the other hand, I wasn’t totally convinced Ahmed was even in Costa Rica in the first place.
When I’d arrived at the CIA’s Operations Center in Langley, Virginia, Douglas Carlton, my operations officer, had briefed me on the status of Ahmed Al-Amin, the Hezbollah assassin I was tracking. Afterward, I’d questioned one of the Agency’s logistics analysts on the authenticity of the San José address he’d given me.
“How can you be certain Ahmed is at this location?” I’d asked him.
“Because we’re getting pings from all the texting.”
I shook my head. “I can’t believe Ahmed is using an unencrypted cell phone. He’s one of Hezbollah’s top operatives, and if he’s using his cell phone, he certainly knows our satellites can track him.”
“Oh, it’s not Ahmed who’s doing the texting. It’s the Venezuelan kid who’s with him. Every night he sends a text message back to his girlfriend in Austin. Ahmed might not even know the guy is using his cell phone.”
Would Ahmed really be that oblivious to what his traveling companion was doing? Somehow, I doubted it, but I didn’t argue with the impossibly young analyst.
Instead, I turned my attention to Josh Kellerman, a briefer from Support Services, who spent the next thirty minutes going over my legend, explaining the myriad of details involved in the cover identity I would be using in Costa Rica.
My business card indicated I was Rafael Arroyo, Vice President of Sales for Global Resources. Kellerman gave me a brief overview of the industrial refrigeration units I was supposed to be selling, along with several boring, but very colorful brochures.
The Rafael Arroyo legend was one I’d used on previous trips to the Middle East, although then I’d been given an Arabic name. Strangely enough, I felt very comfortable in the skin of a refrigeration salesman.
Following my briefing with Kellerman, I went over to meet with Sandy Afton. She was in the southwest wing of the Agency’s New Headquarters Building where Support Services had an area the size of a department store, which was solely devoted to men and women’s clothing. Although the women’s section was twice as large as the men’s section, I’d never questioned the need for this.
As soon as I arrived, Sandy showed me the clothing choices she’d made for me. I approved most of them, and, after that, while my suitcase was being packed by one of Sandy’s assistants, I changed into a guayabera and a pair of dark slacks for my flight to Costa Rica.
When I’d come out of the dressing room—looking like a refrigeration salesman—Sandy had deposited the clothes and shoes I’d just removed—along with my wallet and any other items identifying me as Titus Ray—inside a metal box about the size of a small footlocker.
The last thing I did was hand over the keys to my Range Rover. I did so reluctantly, because, although I’d just purchased the car two months before, I’d already fallen in love with it—or, maybe I’d simply fallen in love with the idea of owning my own vehicle.
I said, “My car is parked over by the west gate in the parking lot used by Security.”
“Why is it parked over there?”
“Because there’s a handgun underneath the front seat, plus a spare in the glove compartment, and I have extra ammo clips in the side pocket of the duffel bag in the back.”
She smiled. “I can see why they wouldn’t let you drive inside the complex. Speaking of weapons, I know you don’t want me to issue you a firearm before you leave, so I’ve instructed the embassy in San José to provide you with whatever you need when you get there.”
I seldom requested the necessary credentials permitting me to get on a plane with a gun. Doing so was too much of a hassle and only served to draw attention to me.
I never wanted to draw attention to myself.
Never.
Sandy said, “I’ve already spoken with Ben Mitchell about the type of weapon you’ll need.”
Carlton had set me up with Ben Mitchell, the “Economics Officer” assigned to the American Embassy in Costa Rica. He was my contact while I was in country. In reality, like me, he was a covert intelligence officer.
Carlton had told me Mitchell had been with the Agency for five years and was classified as a Level 2 officer. While I was a Level 1 officer, I didn’t think Mitchell’s lower status would be a problem for me on this particular mission.
I wasn’t acquainted with Ben Mitchell, but that didn’t surprise me. I’d been in Iran and Afghanistan for the past seven years, and I hadn’t traveled south of the border during that time.
Mitchell was scheduled to meet my flight from Miami. Meeting a refrigeration salesman from Global Resources was a natural thing for him to do in his role as the American Embassy’s Economics Officer.
I was sure he would think Rafael Arroyo was a great guy.
However, as it turned out, Mitchell didn’t come to the airport in San José to meet Rafael Arroyo, because, after leaving Agency’s headquarters in Langley, Virginia, I had decided to change my plane ticket and take an earlier flight.
After landing in San José, I’d rented a car and arrived at my present location without having had any contact with Ben Mitchell.
That’s the way I preferred to work.
Completely alone. Solo.
Now though, as I observed the boxy concrete house from the shelter of the apartment building, I was beginning to regret my decision to ditch Mitchell.
Having another set of eyes at the rear of the house might prove beneficial, and, since I’d come to the address directly from the airport, I didn’t have a weapon on me.
Knowing what I knew about Ahmed, I had no intention of confronting him without some kind of firepower.
When I’d entered the Calle Alturas neighborhood earlier, I’d spotted a man and a woman inside a Toyota Highlander parked about a block away from the safe house. I knew they had to be members of the surveillance team Mitchell had brought in to keep an eye on the house until I arrived. They were clearly amateurs, and if Ahmed were in the house, it wouldn’t be long before he would notice them as well.
If he hadn’t already spotted them.
The rain finally let up, and I stepped out of the doorway and walked over to a small pastry shop located next door to a video store. Three small café tables had been placed on the patio in front of the pastry shop, and when a waiter had finished drying off one of the wrought-iron chairs, I sat down and ordered un café sin leche.
Once the waiter had gone inside to get my coffee, I felt inside my pants pocket for my satellite phone and punched in the numbers I’d memorized before leaving Langley.
When Ben Mitchell came on the line, I told him my location and asked him to meet me. He said he would be driving a late model Jeep, and then he hung up on me.
