“My dearest darling…” That was how my grandfather began all of his letters to my grandmother while he was stationed in Okinawa in World War II. I never knew my grandfather, but I’ve poured over his letters. I used to draw lines up the back of my legs, just as my grandmother had as a young woman whose nylons had been donated to make parachutes, and I’ve endlessly pestered my paternal grandfather for stories of his childhood and service. The worn letters and patiently-told stories cemented my interest in history, especially in the WWII era.
 
I found my first Nancy Drew mystery in a sun-dappled attic at a friend’s house and subsequently fell in love with the grip and tautness of a well-told mystery.
 
I flew an airplane before I learned how to drive a car; did my undergrad work in a crumbling once-all girls’ school in the sweltering south; spent a summer and fall in Maine picking peaches and apples; traveled the world for a few years; and finished a masters in a once-all girls’ school in the blustery north. Now I’m writing my third novel (my first venture into historical fiction), hanging out with my standard poodle, and spending my days as a scientist with the requisite glasses but minus the lab coat.