Meet Bestselling Author Barbara Freethy!

Barbara Freethy

#1 NY Times Bestselling Author Barbara Freethy talks inspiration, romance, and research, plus tells us about how the Callaways’ lives resemble her own… Check out what she has to say then Read on for more information about this blog tour and all its great prizes!

What do you love most about being an author?

Being able to tell stories! I’ve been a voracious reader since I was a child, and having a job that allows me to create my own worlds, characters and plots is a dream come true.

What first inspired you to write the Callaways? Where did you get the initial idea for the series?

I had wanted to write a family series for a while, and I wanted the family to be blended, just to make the dynamics a little more interesting. Jack Callaway was a widower with four small boys when he met Lynda Kane, a divorcee with two small girls. They fell in love, got married and had twins. The eight siblings are now adults and range in age between 35 and 25. I also wanted the Callaways to stand for something. So there’s a family tradition of “serve and protect”. All the kids are raised with the idea that they need to serve the community, to help others and to always protect the family as well as anyone else in trouble. And the Callaways always seem to find trouble, even when they’re not looking for it.

Which of the Callaway siblings is the most like you? How are the two of you similar?

There is a piece of me in every character that I write, which makes it impossible for me to ever pick a favorite. I do like Emma a lot, because she’s the one person in the family who has a close relationship with every sibling. She’s also independent, brave and loving, which are all great traits.

Your characters all have such fascinating jobs, and, in reading your novels, it feels like I’m right there with them. How do you perform your research in order to make careers such as a smoke jumper, homicide detective, or Coast Guard rescue pilot so authentic?

I’ve read quite a few nonfiction books and articles written by smoke jumpers, firefighters, cops, etc. And I have a writer friend who is also a police detective, so I often ask her for help with the more technical aspects. But what’s really fun about writing is discovering new things—so I love to write about people in careers I don’t know that much about. In THAT SUMMER NIGHT, one of the characters is tied into the pharmaceutical industry, and I had never written a book that delved into that area. I found some of the true whistleblower stories that I read in preparation for writing that book to be fascinating. I think enjoying research is probably a big part of being a successful writer. I was born with a curiosity and an imagination. Writing is a great outlet!

The Callaways all have such beautiful, unique love stories. How do you get in the mindset for writing them? Are any of their stories inspired, at least in part, by your own real-life love story?

I have a wonderful husband who always takes credit for being my inspiration. And while that’s true, as a writer I do love to explore stories beyond my own personal experience. I like to bring together couples who complement each other but also drive each other a little crazy. I think love is about finding that one person who pushes you to be better, who challenges the way you think, supports you no matter what and gives you that heady, dizzy, wonderful feeling that comes when you fall in love.

I love that your novels are not only awesome romances but also have gripping suspense as a central part of the story line. How do you start planning your novels with the romance or with the suspense—or with something else altogether?

I enjoy writing romance that brings a little extra in terms of a plot. So every Callaway novel features a great love story, a puzzling mystery, some family drama and a little nerve-tingling suspense. I don’t outline in great detail, but I always have a general idea of the suspense plot points before I begin. The story takes shape and changes as I put myself into the characters’ heads. That’s part of the fun of writing!

Congrats on your groundbreaking, new partnership with Ingram to get the paperback editions of the Callaways out to the world. What about this opportunity has you most excited?

Since I formed my own publishing company and began independently publishing my books outside of the traditional New York publishing industry, it’s been a challenge to get my books into print and into physical bookstores across the country. Late last year, I entered into a groundbreaking partnership with Ingram Publisher Services to sell and distribute my books into retail outlets like Target, Barnes and Noble, airport bookstores and supermarkets, as well as other bookstore chains. I know there are lots of readers who still prefer to read in print, and I’m thrilled that they’ll now be able to read my bestselling digital series in their favorite format!

About the Callaway Blog Tour & All Its Great Prizes!

This is the week you finally meet the Callaways! Not only are they all over the web as part of their extraordinary blog tour, but they are also out and about in your neighborhood. That’s right; we’re celebrating the print launch with Ingram by throwing a party all over the world! Make sure to follow this tour closely for your chance to win gift cards, swag, autographed books, and other incredible prizes.

All the info you need to join the fun and enter to win amazing prizes is RIGHT HERE. Remember, winning is as easy as clicking a button or leaving a blog comment—easy to enter; easy to win!

To Win the Prizes:

  1. Purchase any of the Callaway novels by Barbara Freethy (optional)
  2. Enter the Rafflecopter contest on Novel Publicity (go here)
  3. Visit today’s featured social media event (that’s where the HUGE prizes are)

About The Callaways: The Callaways were born to serve and protect! In Barbara’s new connected family series, each of the eight siblings in this blended Irish-American family find love, mystery and adventure, often where they least expect it! Each book stands alone, but for the full enjoyment of the series, you might want to start at the beginning with On A Night Like This! Get the eBooks via AmazonBarnes & NobleiBooks, or Kobo.

About the Author: Barbara Freethy has been making up stories most of her life. Growing up in a neighborhood with only boys and a big brother who was usually trying to ditch her, she spent a lot of time reading. When she wasn’t reading, she was imagining her own books. After college and several years in the P.R. field, she decided to try her hand at a novel. Now Barbara is a #1 New York Times and USA Today bestselling author loved by readers all over the world. Her novels range from contemporary romance to romantic suspense and women’s fiction. Learn more on her websiteFacebook page, or in her Street Team.


We let you go

A few weeks ago we said goodbye to Haddler. My boys’ best buddy, our four-legged son, our family’s companion for the past 10+ years. He was, as I suspect everyone else’s dog is, special. Widely known among our family and friends as the Dumbest Puppa, he was also the sweetest and most loved.

You see, Haddler was probably the only dog in the universe (and do note I am including the Jetsons’ dog Astro, and the Two Stupid Dogs from the cartoons) that did not have the capacity to discern when people didn’t actually like him. No, he was an equal opportunity giver of unabashed canine affection, demonstrated by excited jumping (on the actual person), vigorous whole-butt tail wagging, and leaning on people until he was literally sitting on their toes or they fell down, whatever came first. This could be quite dangerous, as Haddler was, at his skinniest, 89 pounds (106 last we checked). This is bigger than many humans, including my mother-in-law. He even loved going to the vet, as this entailed a lot more people petting him and telling him he was a good boy. He got so excited when he went to the vet, he couldn’t even eat the cookies they gave him. He had no time for eating when there was petting to be had.

This exuberance often got him in trouble, not that he noticed. One time, in our previous house in CT, there were visitors at our neighbor’s house. This neighbor was a retired gentleman who, for some reason, thought Haddler was a girl and called him Heather – he was okay with the dog coming to see him once in a while; however, this time his little grandchildren were playing in the yard. Well, Haddler takes off like his tail is on fire soon as I opened the door and ran straight to the poor little kids. Panic and screams ensue, the grandfather tries to get the dog off his children (presently on the ground, with dog jumping around them), gets a stick and starts waving it in front of Haddler, hoping to scare him… and the blessed dog wags his entire body in joy. I had to go pull him by the collar with the dog literally lying on his side so that I had to drag his dead weight for what felt like an entire football field.

Haddler back deck-7.11.10

But that was the way he was. He lacked the instinct you hear all dogs have that enables them to perceive fear and dislike, as well as sympathy, so that they can behave themselves accordingly.

Haddler was a Golden Retriever, not that he ever retrieved a thing. He loved to play in the yard with the boys or my husband, and would take off to fetch the sticks they threw for him. Once the stick was located, he would grab it and run IN THE OPPOSITE DIRECTION OF THE THROWER. Sometimes he would bring the stick back, but never relinquish it – it would become a new game of tug until the stick was effectively destroyed. Most times he’d come back, sans stick, and wait excitedly for another stick to go fetch and lose.

Haddler in the backyard

His doggie brain understood two commands – His favorite was “Sit”, because it was invariably followed by some sort of treat, and he would sit as close as possible to the person as his body would allow (1 mm apart, at the most). The other was “Stay with the mama”. This was instituted during the days when Haddler and I would say goodbye to the boys at the door, as they left to walk to the bus stop at the top of the street. It entailed his sitting on the 3rd step of the stairs on the front door entrance hall, and I would pet him until we could no longer see the boys – otherwise, he would take off after them and possibly go visiting neighboring streets in search of an open door to go through, regardless of where it led. Even though the last time we had anyone taking a bus to school was somewhere around 2005, to his last day he would dart off in search of the stairs, any stairs, every time anyone said “stay with the mama”, then wait patiently for me to go pet him and release him from his post.

Haddler loved food, just like any dog. There was no problem giving him meds – he even liked his heartworm pills and took them as if they were treats. He occasionally snacked from the kitty litter box, though he KNEW it was wrong; he only did it once he was sure we were all out the door and he was by himself. He especially loved carrots and apples (perhaps he was a horse in a former life, or was training to be one in the next), but his favorite of all times was bread, particularly Portuguese rolls. When he was a little puppy, and alone in the house while everyone went off to work and school, there was no loaf or bag of bread that was safe. We’d come home to find an entire bag of sandwich bread with tell-tale bite marks, plastic and all (well, he was a dog, not like he could untie the little twist thing and get the slices out) on the floor of the boys’ room. Haddler would jump and get the bread from the kitchen counter, so we took to putting it inside a top cabinet, under which he would patiently sit at least 5 times a day, in hopes of a rewarding bread treat.

Whenever he got a bone, Haddler would start what we called his “Bone Parade” – he would run around the house with the bone in his mouth, crying excitedly, showing his treat to everyone who happened to be there, including the person who had actually given him the bone. He went around, and up and down the stairs, until finally he sat to completely disintegrate the poor bone in a matter of minutes… leaving only a much chewed-on piece that he would then think of as a toy, and keep carrying it around for days until I got tired of the dirty thing and threw it out.


Haddler was extremely patient with his little brother from another species, our Persian cat Little Kitty (nee Fred, but have you really ever met a cat named Fred? Seriously). LK would try to engage him to play, jumping over him and trying to catch his wagging tail, while the blessed dog just quietly sighed and occasionally looked at the jumping cat. Haddler sighed with emphasis, especially when both boys were away and he would sink into a despairing depression, laying down on the kitchen floor and sighing loudly every 5 minutes. He also, I regret to say (having been on the receiving end of this) farted constantly when he was depressed. These farts, believe you me, could have been used to disperse a rioting mob. And – dumb as he was – he understood the words “he farted!!!”, as it would immediately provoke a frantic tail-wagging, I suppose in efforts to spread the love.

Haddler in his favorite retarded pose-4.10.2011

Haddler’s gentle personality taught my boys to be caring and loving. He was keenly in tune with the family, knowing instinctively who was sad, hurting, or sick. He alternated sleeping with each of the boys (on their beds), unless one of them was sick – he would then devote himself to the sick one until healed. He would give them slobbery kisses, and knew when he could not get close to their wounds or injuries (he nursed the boys back to life from two near-fatal car accidents, three surgeries, and three broken bones/sprains). When the rest of the body was off-limits, he would take off one of their socks and lick their feet. This had two advantages – he was showing love to his buddies, and he got to keep the sock to chew on. Haddler was definitely responsible for the disappearance (or at least destruction) of many a sock in his lifetime.

This sweet dog also taught all of us the meaning of unconditional love, the joy of pleasing others, and to bear pain and hurt without complain. Haddler was diagnosed with hip dysplasia before he was one year old. He lived with constant pain, and we only noticed when it was worse because he limped. He never once complained – that is why that Monday morning a few weeks back, when my boys saw him just sitting up and whimpering softly, we knew something was wrong. He would not lie down. And when brought to the vet, we got the sudden news: A tumor, originated in his spleen, was hemorrhaging into his abdomen. He must have been in excruciating pain; we had to decide then and there.

We hope that our decision to end his pain shows that we learned something from his selflessness. We sat down with him, the four of us, a blanket on the floor at the animal hospital, to say goodbye. Lights were dimmed; he had been sedated and was quietly sitting with us. He put his head on mama’s lap for one last time. The boys and my husband and I petted and told him what a good boy he was. When the time came, the vet sat on the floor with us and gently helped the boys to have him lie down. We continued to pet him and talk to him as he peacefully fell asleep, then his heart stopped.

We hope you have a yard full of snow to play with year-round, as you loved to do with us in the winter. We hope there is a doggie bakery full of Portuguese rolls. We hope you have a big orchard with already-sliced apples, and a huge veggie garden with carrots and peppers. We hope that bones, peanut butter doggie cookies, and old socks are all around you. But above all, we know that you no longer hurt. We let you go, dear friend. You are free.

January storm-Haddler in front-1.22.12

Eat, Drink, and Drink again

Hello dears. You may be wondering where in the world I’ve been, a la that classic video game, Carmen San Diego (with which admission I am hereby dating myself as an official dinosaur – you may call me A-Rex). Well, I have been here all along – barely functioning.

You see, in keeping with my traditional tardiness on writing about events and holidays, I just wanted to talk about the past holidays [do insert your own holiday here, by all means], and how both you (since you’re reading this) and I (since I’m writing it) survived them. Holidays are stressful times; celebrations with the ones present, sad memories about the ones gone; last-minute shopping and decorations; horrid Celine Dion* Christmas songs; and (GASP!) family reunions. [*Disclaimer: I am in no way disparaging Celine’s unlimited talent which I’m sure you, her numerous fans (n = 32, at last count), can appreciate and are as we speak writing to me in ALL CAPS to express outrage. I am merely saying that I can’t stand the sight of the woman, and despise her songs, as is my right on account of my having ears and good taste. But surely that need not affect you, and you can go ahead keep listening to her].

Now back to the issue at hand, which I promise I will link to the title of this blog: Family reunions.


I believe that the only thing worse than having your in-laws visit is having your OWN family visit. Think about it – It’s not like you can tell your spouse/partner/pet: “It’s YOUR mother, so YOU sit with her for five hours to talk about the gossip back home. Not my responsibility, nor am I interested, plus I haven’t the foggiest idea what/who she’s talking about”. No, it’s all on you, the actual relative. So in these situations, I strongly recommend that you (if you didn’t do so on your own accord) start drinking.

This is particularly necessary when you have to engage in strenuous household activities such as emptying the dishwasher or refreshing the dog’s water bowl. God forbid you should actually have to cook the holiday meal. It is a known fact that any self-respecting professional chef (including those with cooking programs in The Food Network and the like) won’t even disclose how much cilantro is included in the recipe*, without first securing a bottle of fine Rioja or a gallon of mixed drinks, to sip during commercial breaks *(Answer: None. Cilantro is a vile herb suitable only to line the cages of pregnant rabbits so the little mouse-looking bunny babies have a soft bed to fall on when they’re born).

Image courtesy of Salvatore Vuono at
Image courtesy of Salvatore Vuono at

So why should you question the wisdom of professional chefs? I don’t (though it is beer for me, not wine or mixed drinks). Imagine the following scenario (names and occupations have been changed to protect privacy of characters, which we can probably all relate to/are related to/know intimately):

Day of party:

10:44 am – Your sister Mandy, who has never worked a day in her life and is pregnant with her 4th child (seriously?), arrives with her three older children in tow – these children are aged from 6 months to 3 years old. These children are not, by any standards, well behaved (who the hell has time to discipline them, if you’re either pregnant or having another baby while your previous child is exploring the inside of the microwave oven???). The father(s) of said children is/are not coming (can you blame him/them?). It is time to pour first beer (for yourself, not Mandy – after all, she IS pregnant).

11:58 am – Cousin Richard surprises the family by coming over (suspiciously unshaven and possibly un-showered, as it befits someone having just left the half-way house and not passed Go nor collected $200). You ask yourself if Mother perhaps warned you that he was released from jail after that incident with the child porn, but you blocked it from your mind, in an effort to not throw up on your mother-in-law’s dinner table last Thanksgiving. Beer refills are called for.

1:25 pm – Uncle Charlie rolls in, with Flavor Of The Month partner Aunt Charliette (everyone in the family calls all of them Charliette, on account of the rapid changes in partner that Uncle Charlie seems to be fond of, rendering it impossible for anyone to learn the current one’s name, and also preventing the disastrous mistake of calling her by the wrong name). He proudly announces they’re getting married (his 5th, her 1st, judging from her being around 19 years old), and asks your oldest daughter (13) to bring him his usual (Jack Daniels). You wonder if it is too late to send for another keg.

Image courtesy of Danilo Rizzuti at
Image courtesy of Danilo Rizzuti at

3:10 pm – No party is complete without Aunt Louise. Your father’s sister, she never married – for reasons they always said you need not know – and frankly, do not want to find out. She is approximately 105 years old, not counting Sundays, and has the sunny disposition of a monsoon. As soon as Aunt Louise comes in, along with her ubiquitous companion Teresa (an unfortunate nice lady from Honduras who has been with her since the Nixon administration), she sits by the fire in manner of the Queen (Mother) and starts yelling for Teresa to bring her some brandy, what with the people in this house not paying attention to her. Spots you and calls out (“Child!” – she calls everyone “child”, since clearly she cannot even remember her own name). You pretend you don’t hear her, head for the bar. Perhaps if you fashion an IV you may get the beer into your bloodstream in a more efficient manner.

4:55 pm – Blood-curling screams can be heard from the general direction of the children’s bedroom, along with some whimpering noises. Mandy sees fit to inform you at that point that her eldest (3-yr old Timmy, herein to be known as Little Satan) has been watching The Life and Work of Ted Bundy lately (who thinks of these documentaries??), and was last seen going upstairs with a butcher knife. Also, your dog Patches has not been spotted for the past 3 hours. Reinforcements are in order. Beer won’t do. You look around for the fixings of a Scorpion Bowl.

Need I say more? If I have not presented here for you enough evidence of The Importance of Alcohol in Surviving Family Life, then you either a) are seriously creepy, or b) already started drinking yourself to oblivion and right now could not care less. I sincerely hope, for your health and sanity, that the latter is the case. Also, please note that every single event, character, and fact mentioned in this blog is entirely made up, except for the qualities of cilantro (and Celine Dion). As for the rest… I’ll leave you wondering if I, somehow, had a peek at YOUR last family reunion [insert evil laugh].