There’s a new line of dolls at Tonner Doll Company. It’s called Deja Vu. Here is the description of the line from the website:
“Time after time, life after life, looking for her one true love….” Ever have that strange sensation of overwhelming familiarity, when something shouldn’t be familiar at all? Penelope Brewster does. She can’t recall if these experiences are manifesting from something that she’s read in a book or seen in a movie, but…could it be the remembrances of past lives? She just chalks it up to Déjà Vu™ …but could it really be that simple? Follow Penelope as she sets out on her latest adventure across time!”
The story is intriguing, the dolls are gorgeous! What more could a person want? Well, how about a book! Robert is writing a book with Stephanie Finnegan. And just for you, here is a teaser from the book. Please let us know what you think!
Please enjoy this tiny teaser from
New novel based on his
Déjà Vu line of dolls
Join Penelope Brewster as she careens
From romance to calamity,
Danger to hilarity
You’ll be coming back again and again!
Book series written by
And Stephanie Finnegan
Penelope had been sitting in the hospital waiting room for nearly an hour. She knew it had been that long because at least fifteen Muzak versions of popular hits had been wafting past her. When she first sat down with her paperwork, it was an elevator-music rendition of “Moves Like Jagger.” Adam Levine would be livid, she thought. But then again, he does dress kind of preppy for a tattooed rocker. It had made her giggle.
Now, as she was starting to feel panicked, sitting on the grubby orange plastic chair, it was Cyndi Lauper’s “Time After Time.”
It was true that the patient information form was huge. They needed to know all about her medical conditions dating way back to pre-K, it seemed. She hadn’t even begun to check off whether or not she had heart trouble or a family history of high blood pressure.
No, for nearly sixty minutes, she was focused on the first question alone: Full name, last name first, first name last.
Penelope knew her first name was Penelope. It was the last name that was escaping her. Each time she tried to write down a letter of the alphabet, she’d get an enormous pain in her head. It was more powerful than a mighty Migraine. It felt like an entire classroom of first-graders were trampling across her brain. Each student a little brown nose, shouting out, “Choose me, Penelope! Choose me! I’m the letter C. . . . No, go with me! I’m R. That’s silly, Penelope! Your surname stars with an S! It’s S as in silly!!!”
With her mind whirring, and her head entertaining the cast of Romper Room meets The Walking Dead stomping loudly across her cerebellum, Penelope was set to give up. Yes, she had suffered a blow to the head when a clock fell off a prop room’s shelf and hit her smack in the noggin. Leave it to me to be an actual victim of time flying by, she had silently groused when it happened. But now she was too embarrassed to face a physician and have to admit she didn’t know her own name.
I think I should just sneak out of here, she thought furtively. The nurses are all swamped, and I think they forgot all about me, anyway.
Just as she decided this would be her strategy—stand up, put down the clipboard, stretch, pretend to yawn, and saunter to the doorway—a voice cried out, “Miss Brewster! What are you doing here?”
A huge smile burst across Penelope’s face. Brewster! That’s it! My name is Brewster. In the future—if this ever happened again—she’d be sure to remind herself that her name rhymed with rooster. If that failed, she’d just think, Cock-a-doodle-doo is my last name, kind of. It’s a barnyard sound-alike.
In the meantime, she looked at the tall, good-looking young man who had shaken her out of her temporary mental fog. Even if she had been 100 percent herself, he still would have powerfully affected her.
He was good-looking, with clear gray eyes. His hair was a rich, dark brown. His jawline was the stuff that leading men in Hollywood paid megabucks to achieve at the cosmetic surgeon’s office. Somehow, though, Penelope sensed this was all him. She knew immediately that he was completely natural.
“Miss Brewster, you look like you don’t recognize me. I’m Trevor Reynolds,” he said, staring at her with sincere concern.
“Oh, my God, Trevor!” she responded with an embarrassed laugh. She remembered him. After moving to Los Angeles six weeks ago, he was one of the first people she had met in her apartment building’s lobby. They had each been collecting their mail from their mailboxes and had exchanged small talk about how it was always bills and circulars, never anything exciting or personal anymore.
They hadn’t exchanged names then, but he must have seen her name on the mailbox: P. Brewster.
Suddenly, Penelope remembered what their last conversation together had been:
She had looked lovingly and longingly into his eyes, and had said, “No, my dearest, it can’t be. We aren’t meant for one another. Fate is our harsh master and he is determined to toy with us.” She wept elegantly and discreetly into an embroidered linen handkerchief.
He, in turn, had said, “Time can’t separate us, darling. No matter the twists and turns—no matter the foils or villains—we shall be together. This I vow!” His brown locks were covered with a powdered wig!
Holy cow! That didn’t sound like mailbox small talk. What in the world was happening!
Penelope’s porcelain complexion blanched even further. If Casper the Friendly Ghost had a long-lost twin sister, Penelope had just reached that skin tone.
Her legs felt wobbly. The Muzak was becoming louder and more discordant in her ears. She couldn’t swear to it, but she thought she was hearing the melody of “As Time Goes By.” The music sounded like that familiar oldie, but it also sounded like a harpsichord or some other tinny piano was playing in her brain.
She wasn’t able to say anything at all.
The next thing she knew she was dropping to the floor, but, luckily, Trevor was there to scoop her up before she hit the linoleum.
Just like I knew he would be was her last conscious thought.
The above excerpt is the sole property of Robert Tonner and Stephanie Finnegan. Text can be used for review purposes only.