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Tuesday, March 15, 2011


Last months interviews were so fun, they decided to let me come back in March! Call me Aine this time around…

Before we begin, I must remind everyone of the Moonlight Mistresses boring rule to please try and keep your responses to a PG13 atmosphere – *eye roll*. However, they haven’t seemed to care about double entendres, so let them fly!

My guests today are, Willoughby Tate and Lillian Mullins – please, have a seat on our lovely couch! – from Alabama and Pennsylvania, respectively. Their tale can be found in Magnolian, a novel creation by Lisa Greer.

*Settling comfortably onto the sofa, *

You two make one fine pair! I did a wonderful job pairing you two up if I do say so myself! Then, I just love all of my matches!

Aine: Please, Willoughby, tell our readers how you two first met. Was it by your design, or hers?

Willoughby: By mine of course. We met at her grandmother's spooky old house in Everwood, Alabama.

Aine: Lillian, would you say it was love at first sight or did you find him repulsive?

Lillian: I thought he was gorgeous at first sight, but love? No way. Besides, I'm still not sure about him. There is this other really sweet guy, Donovan, in the picture...

Aine: Since chaotic happenstance tends to put characters like yourselves in situations where they must work together or live together for one reason or another, tell us what chaotic happenstance “forced” the two of you to work or live together. How did you both feel about this?

Lillian: We were forced together because I had no one else to turn to when I suspected murder at Magnolian, the family estate.

Willoughby: That's right. I am something of a knight in shining armor if I do say so myself.

Aine: Willoughby, would you say that your relationship developed easily or would you say there was some reluctance?

Willoughby: Ha. There was definitely reluctance on her part, but I always get what I want.

Aine: How long did it take you to know your true feelings for the other? At what point did you know, “this is the one”?

Lillian: I'm still not sure, actually.

Willoughby: I am. I was sure the first time I met her.

Aine: Willoughby, what would you say was your biggest obstacle to overcome before you could settle into a relationship with Lillian?

Willoughby: The other guy who wants her-- Donovan Ross. He's a pain in the--

Aine: This is for either of you. Would you like to thank anyone – other than me, of course – for getting you two together?

Lillian: No, like I said. My options are still open.

Aine: I know our readers have enjoyed learning about you two so far, but I’m getting a little bored, so I’m going to heat things up. Lillian, how would you end this sentence, "I wish Willoughby would _____?" *leans forward to eagerly hear your response*

Lillian: quit taking me down dark paths behind Magnolian, trying to seduce me

Aine:Willoughby, would you prefer to give Lillian a bubble bath or a back massage? Why?

Willoughby: A back massage. As you can hear, she's a little uptight.

Aine: How many of you remember that old show, The Newlywed Game? Well, these next questions are going to help us play a similar game. Let’s see how well you two know each other. Willoughby, what would Lillian say is your aphrodisiac? *waggles eyebrows*

Willoughby: probably water towers on dark wooded paths

Aine: Lillian, did he correctly guess your answer? How would you have answered that question?

Lillian: Yes, he got it right.

Aine: *sits back in his chair* Willoughby, what would Lillian say is a spot guaranteed to drive you crazy with passion? Is she correct in that assumption?

Willoughby: She would probably say touching my hair. She loves it.

Lillian: I can think of other spots I like much better on you.

Aine: *readjusts his position in the chair* It’s time to cool things off just a tad. Lillian, as far as you know, what is Willoughby’s idea of a perfect date?

Lillian: necking in the woods

Aine: Willoughby, is she correct? If not, what is your idea of a perfect date?

Willoughby: I'm hurt. My perfect idea of a date is cooking for her like I did for our first real date.

Aine: Willoughby, your turn in the hot seat. What is Lillian’s idea of a perfect date?

Willoughby: a night of ghost hunting in the woods

Aine: Lillian, is he correct? If not, what is your idea of a perfect date?

Lillian: He's wrong. A quiet night at home with no ghosts bothering us.

Aine: In your adventures, journeys or travels, have the two of you had the chance to have the “perfect date,” or the closest you could get to one? Where did you go and what did you do?

Willoughby: Not yet. We had a lot of other things to deal with first: ghosts, murder, and so on. And she's still putting me off...

Lillian: The night Will cooked for me was pretty close to perfect.

Aine: I want to switch gears just a bit. March has close connections to Ireland, and as many of us acknowledge, Ireland is steeped in myths and mysticism, as are many Native American tribal beliefs. Lillian, Willoughby Do you believe in this type of mysticism? Have you had any experiences that helped you develop these beliefs?

Lillian: Definitely. I've had more experiences with ghosts than I ever wanted to.

Willoughby: I do, but I'm still a skeptic at heart.

Aine: Lillian, Willoughby Do you believe in fate and destiny or are most things just a happenstance of coincidence? Why do you feel the way you do?

Lillian: Actually, I believe in choices and free will. I'll know true love by how the man acts. I'm not sure if I've found it yet.

Willoughby: Oh, fate. Definitely. We're destined to be together. I just have to convince her of that.

Aine: Lillian, Willoughby Where do you see yourselves in 5 years?

Lillian: Strangely enough, as the mistress of Magnolian.

Willoughby: That's weird because I see myself as the master of the house.

Aine: I’m sorry folks, but that’s all the time we have for today. Thanks to Willoughby and Lillian for joining us today and giving us some great answers. We hope you’ll check out their story, Magnolian.

To learn more about their author, Lisa Greer, visit:


When her father dies, college dropout Lillian Mullins steels herself for a future of nothing special in Pittsburgh. An invitation to Magnolian holds promise, but nightmares, ghosts, and murder threaten to derail her attempt to get a life.

Lillian heads to the South, leaving Donovan Ross, an angsty potential lover, behind. After she finds her mother's old journal at Magnolian and learns a shocking secret, Lillian resolves to find out what happened nearly forty years ago to her mother's African American lover, Samson Jones. Mysterious accidents and threats make her wonder whom she can trust: her enigmatic distant cousin Willoughby Tate, who is running his father's gubernatorial campaign, her Aunt Lorelei, who warns of a dire future, the ghost who beckons her in the night, or her father's voice in the recurring dream that will not let Lillian rest.


She found the path only thirty yards from the back of the house. It was shaded and cooler than the open air, and it was only about a yard wide. It felt a bit closed in, but the space was also deliciously secret and small. She shivered a bit as she walked, crunching rocks and underbrush underfoot. Lillian had a strange sense of déjà vu and gasped as she realized it was related to her dream. She laughed aloud nervously. It was just a dream. There were no angry voices or crowds following her as she ran in a filmy night dress. Sunlight glistened on spiderwebs hanging between bushes and small pine trees. Resin filled the air as Lillian went deeper into the woods. She began humming, and then noticed the song she was humming was the one she had heard in her room last night. Shuddering, she clamped her lips shut, determined to walk on. She was about to turn around and head back when she heard a sound that stopped the birds’ singing.

Swing low, sweet chariot—

The sound echoed softly through the trees like the sighing of a tired wind. The loveliness of the voice was undeniable. It was the singing of a nightingale in human form. Though in poetry most nightingales were of the female persuasion, this bird was definitely male. Lillian knew that nightingales who sang were male, too. It was only the poets—especially the Romantics like Shelley, Coleridge and Wordsworth—who wanted to believe they were lovelorn females. The thought would have made her smile any other time, but the song made her spine tingle with fear.

Comin’ for to carry me home...

The sweet sound was also terrifying and relentless. Lillian clapped her hands over her ears. “Stop. Stop. Stop. This isn’t happening.” She tried to think. Perhaps it was a man singing—someone working in the woods, but there was no sign of such a man, and the sound was quite close to her. She walked as quickly as she could through the woods back the way she had come toward Magnolian, afraid she would see a shadow. The singing died off to a hum and then silence as she burst out of the woods, gasping at her fast pace. All she wanted to do was get back to the house away from the singer of that song. It was lovely but not human—at least not anymore.

She rounded the house, running and burst through the front door, glad no one was there to see her. She darted up the steps to her room, shutting and locking her door and collapsing on the bed. She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them, thinking of Donovan. She had forgotten to call him. She took her cell phone out of her purse—thank goodness for nationwide calling plans—and punched in his number. Disappointment and something like relief spread in her chest when he didn’t answer. After all, she wanted to talk to him, but what would she say? All is well, but I think I heard a ghost in the woods and saw one last night in my room? The idea was ludicrous. She left a quick message telling him she had arrived safely. Then, feeling a little guilty, she shut off her phone. For some strange reason, he felt worlds away. She didn’t want to bring him into all of this. It was her own, just as the man’s song was her own. The thought stopped her as soon as it entered her mind. What a strange idea to have, but she knew the singer was a man, maybe in his twenties, and something terrible had happened to him.

Head pounding, Lillian stretched out under the covers and decided to nap. Maybe it was just jet lag, but she felt lethargic as the sun shone through the curtains, signaling approaching noon. She drifted into a dreamless sleep, waking up to a loud pounding on her door.

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