JP McLean finishes third book of trilogy!

Just before Christmas I made a trip to the liquor store to pick up a few special gifts. While I stood in the fine wines section contemplating the choices, my attention drifted down to a bottle of Amarone.

I quickly averted my gaze.

This was the season of giving, I reminded myself, and I was pretty sure that didn’t mean giving to myself. I made my selections then moved to the single malts. Again, my gaze wandered to fine wines. Not today, I reminded myself, and continued my gift shopping.

When I arrived at the check out, I joined a long line.  The entire time I waited, that damn bottle of Amarone called my name.

“You’re going to need me,” it taunted.  I ignored it.

“Soon.  You’ll see,” it chanted. I looked away.

“You’ll regret not having me on hand,” it said, humming Adele’s, Don’t you Remember.

I responded in kind, singing P!nk’s, Sober.

The Hairy Eyeball

The gentleman in front of me gave me the hairy eyeball (I really shouldn’t sing in public).  His order filled a shopping cart.  No one had that many friends, I thought, uncharitably. His bulk order gave me plenty of time to re-think my virtuous nature. Who was I trying to fool, I rationalized? And while he yanked out his credit card, I skeedattled back to fine wines, grabbed that bottle of Amarone and dragged it back to my cart.

It’s now a month since that fateful trip to the liquor store.  The days have been filled with bouts of guilt knowing I’d hidden the Amarone in a closet just around the corner from the kitchen.  Late in the evening when I’m plucking away at my computer, it taunts me from its cradle.  Every morning for a month I’ve said, “not yet, Il mio amore.  I’m not done,” and then another night of passionate typing ensues.  I persevere at the computer, day after day, night after night, moving inexorably forward.  It’s become a pilgrimage. JP McLean finishes third book of trilogy

But tonight is different.

Tonight something monumental happened.  The clock struck six p.m. (nine p.m. Eastern Central Time) and I finally fessed up to my better half about the Amarone. He didn’t blink (he knows my nefarious nature well).  He lassoed that plucky bottle of Amarone and uncorked it.  “What’s the occasion?” he sang out, pulling two glasses from the cupboard.

“Soon,” I said.

He went back to the news.  An hour later he returned, peering over my shoulder.  “Ready?” he asked patiently. (I added patiently because he’s listening).

Another long fifteen minutes passed before I gave him the go ahead.  “Pour,” I said, and he did.

And now, here we sit, enjoying a very fine glass of Amarone; a glass fine enough for a celebration.  One the Amarone itself foretold before Christmas. “Congratulations,” it said, and we raised a glass in toast. Congratulations, indeed, I agreed, savouring the rich, thick notes of a perfect bottle of wine.

And that’s what it tastes like to type “the end,” at the bottom of the last page of the third book of a trilogy.  What a ride!

Update: The Gift Legacy is now complete at seven books. You can read about all the book here.