tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3793917601906527742024-03-01T17:05:54.611-08:00Not Enough Time For BooksDeana Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16296434767624947481noreply@blogger.comBlogger144125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-379391760190652774.post-38477935792311054932024-01-20T15:32:00.000-08:002024-01-20T15:32:59.523-08:00Listen for the Lie by Amy Tintera<p><br /> </p><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRdAa3vwm3ESVqB8MWsU_z3fGvHfArP77cXfz8L_s0svV13E-v-uamm6LmhosF6RtUJ2O5bqSwvEME3TKZ3gwWW_-Tc-wUq14QUnlLN9Z3cn3ga_cbDmsaeQgX-xJTt_fyCISScp8Tmk5QkRle_QzNYkMeAOvXLW-gWYHRllYz1E24T23U4U-XQw3TMAo/s276/listen%20for%20the%20lie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="276" data-original-width="183" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRdAa3vwm3ESVqB8MWsU_z3fGvHfArP77cXfz8L_s0svV13E-v-uamm6LmhosF6RtUJ2O5bqSwvEME3TKZ3gwWW_-Tc-wUq14QUnlLN9Z3cn3ga_cbDmsaeQgX-xJTt_fyCISScp8Tmk5QkRle_QzNYkMeAOvXLW-gWYHRllYz1E24T23U4U-XQw3TMAo/s1600/listen%20for%20the%20lie.jpg" width="183" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: red; font-family: georgia;"><b>I was fortunate enough to snag a ARC of Listen for the Lie by Amy Tintera. I usually don't like to do a synopsis, because you can read that anywhere! However, this book is about Lucy who, about 5 years prior to the current timeline, was accused of murdering her best friend, Savvy. Problem is, Lucy can't remember what happened due to her getting her own traumatic brain injury on the night of the murder. </b></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: red; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: red; font-family: georgia;"><b>A podcast about the murder has started and tries to get to the truth of what happened to Savvy. The author has really wowed me with the insert of the podcast in the story. I thought it was very creative and fun to read the "transcripts" of the episodes. </b></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: red; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: red; font-family: georgia;"><b>Now, that was one good aspect for me. The other was that it really was a good mystery with several surprises in the book. So, it was really good in that in kept my interest and that I finished it very quickly. However, the downside was that (AND THIS IS JUST MY OPINION) in some instances it became a man bashing festival. EVERY man portrayed in this book as a bad person. The law of probability says this is impossible. I joke, but really, why make EVERY one look bad? In fact, there were several comments in there that made me feel like the author was trying to jump on a recent bandwagon. </b></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: red; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: red; font-family: georgia;"><b>All in all, I really enjoyed the story and I have to add, I just loved the Grandma. She cracked me up. I hope you enjoy this book and would love to hear your thoughts. Releases March 4. Thank you to the publisher and to NetGalley. I really appreciate this opportunity! </b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p>Deana Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16296434767624947481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-379391760190652774.post-28583373302436413092024-01-01T07:40:00.000-08:002024-01-01T07:40:27.964-08:00Mercury by Amy Jo Burns <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmd5iOwF0F2Ym7c4UvhhjBTdQ28H1ZBvZaoZkL9xMJhKQWhQCWscGOFpydv0g-bChiEUKYilscQoTLG0Ryc0IkEyp6oIt9N-PohhD9nLZArXXqfzjwUKWULxDdOVhKqnJorRBj_vBVSQQQ-4Spb3nEPC0Pw9iUO7yuN3tR-80Jdu3xfChxhknbVzXGOag/s277/mercury.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="277" data-original-width="182" height="277" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmd5iOwF0F2Ym7c4UvhhjBTdQ28H1ZBvZaoZkL9xMJhKQWhQCWscGOFpydv0g-bChiEUKYilscQoTLG0Ryc0IkEyp6oIt9N-PohhD9nLZArXXqfzjwUKWULxDdOVhKqnJorRBj_vBVSQQQ-4Spb3nEPC0Pw9iUO7yuN3tR-80Jdu3xfChxhknbVzXGOag/s1600/mercury.jpg" width="182" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: georgia;"><b>This is the story of the Joseph family: Mick, Elise, and their three sons, Baylor, Waylon and Shay. The father and sons run a roofing business in the town of Mercury, PA while Elise runs the home and is basically invisible, taken for granted by her husband and sons. </b></span></p><p><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: georgia;"><b>Newcomer Marley and her mother, Ruth, arrive in Mercury and Marley inserts herself into the Joseph family, looking for the stability she craves. What follows is an in depth look into the family dynamics and Marley's role to all of the members of the family. I don't want to give too much away, because her position in the family changes all through the book. </b></span></p><p><span style="color: #ff00fe; font-family: georgia;"><b>Here's a synopsis directly from Goodreads: </b></span></p><p><span style="color: #ff00fe;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">A roofing family’s bonds of loyalty are tested when they uncover a long-hidden secret at the heart of their blue-collar town―from Amy Jo Burns, author of the critically acclaimed novel Shiner</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">It’s 1990 and seventeen-year-old Marley West is blazing into the river valley town of Mercury, Pennsylvania. A perpetual loner, she seeks a place at someone’s table and a family of her own. The first thing she sees when she arrives in town is three men standing on a rooftop. Their silhouettes blot out the sun.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">The Joseph brothers become Marley’s whole world before she can blink. Soon, she is young wife to one, The One Who Got Away to another, and adopted mother to them all. As their own mother fades away and their roofing business crumbles under the weight of their unwieldy father’s inflated ego, Marley steps in to shepherd these unruly men. Years later, an eerie discovery in the church attic causes old wounds to resurface and suddenly the family’s survival hangs in the balance. With Marley as their light, the Joseph brothers must decide whether they can save the family they’ve always known―or whether together they can build something stronger in its place.</span></span></p><p><span style="color: #ff00fe;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Proxima Nova, Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><b>So, now for my two cents. This book started off great. I thought it was really going to pull me in. But, then it stared going downhill for me for two reasons. One (and this always irks me in any book), it seemed the author wanted to cram as many problems into the story for everyone as she possibly could. This always makes a story seem unrealistic to me. I understand people go through things, believe me, I've been there myself, but some things seemed like the author felt, "Well, I better throw THIS in, too." </b></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Proxima Nova, Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><b>The second thing that REALLY started to bug me as I was struggling to finish was all the characters seemed to think EXTREMELY deeply ALL the time. This was particularly annoying to me when Marley was only 19 in part of the story but was portrayed to be this wise old soul and psychoanalyzing everyone at every turn. I don't know. I guess there are definitely mature 19 year old kids, and I know we all dig deep sometimes but ALL the characters seemed to be doing it constantly, so no wonder they all seemed exhausted. </b></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Proxima Nova, Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><b>Marley was awfully assuming too, like she just had to be/wanted to be some kind of "savior" for this family when nobody asked her to. Also, she really overstepped with Shay, especially in the scenario when she had to go to the school for him. I totally get taking up for someone and helping out but screaming about how he was "her boy" and all was just over the top. Honestly, now that I think about it, I really can't think of anyone that was likable in this story, except maybe Ruth, who had sense and got out of town to live a peaceful life. </b></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Proxima Nova, Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><b> Definitely a family drama, but way too dramatically written for me. As always, you may love it and I hope you do. Publishes tomorrow. Thank you to NetGalley and the publisher. I always appreciate the advance copies. Happy New Year, everyone. Here's to some great reading this year!</b></span></span></p>Deana Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16296434767624947481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-379391760190652774.post-53960126212765564082023-12-14T12:01:00.000-08:002023-12-14T12:01:04.367-08:00This Disaster Loves You by Richard Roper<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-JzmXZKMcPzXhFbPhV-x-efGIWJozpd-8I-n_-BXDY6IFcU5ypthuzL2P5l7BHY11D7W5e74x17uuUKvVKbxjVfC4oM1Ar2NSb5-7tD0tdmsy7PFid58r4fH6o5mPh0ELMRNfq3X4pZBtV_-5wBlEwvYQQS14asqCTE1TeVLO0_Vd23PYCeUrgNlDzf8/s1000/disaster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="648" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-JzmXZKMcPzXhFbPhV-x-efGIWJozpd-8I-n_-BXDY6IFcU5ypthuzL2P5l7BHY11D7W5e74x17uuUKvVKbxjVfC4oM1Ar2NSb5-7tD0tdmsy7PFid58r4fH6o5mPh0ELMRNfq3X4pZBtV_-5wBlEwvYQQS14asqCTE1TeVLO0_Vd23PYCeUrgNlDzf8/s320/disaster.jpg" width="207" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><span style="color: #ffa400; font-family: georgia;"><b>Richard Roper is one of my automatic read authors. He could copy the phone book and I would read it. </b></span><p></p><p><span style="color: #ffa400; font-family: georgia;"><b>In This Disaster Loves You, we meet Brian and Lilly. It's a nice typical love story, except that Brian never feels as though he deserves Lily and battles not only that insecurity, but also the disapproval of her father. However, love reigns and they marry. What follows are the ups and downs in marriage, but then one horribly sad thing occurs and neither one are equipped mentally to lean on each other for support, resulting in hidden resentment and grief that is shouldered alone. </b></span></p><p><span style="color: #ffa400; font-family: georgia;"><b>We know in the beginning that Lily is gone but we don't know why or where she has gone. The reader is left wanting to turn pages to find out what has happened to her but also for me, to cheer Brian on in both learning where she has gone and maybe also in moving on, if need be. </b></span></p><p><span style="color: #ffa400; font-family: georgia;"><b>For me, Lily wasn't good enough for Brian. She never seemed capable of showing him a fraction of the love he had for her all through the story. This isn't to say I didn't enjoy the story, I absolutely did. I was totally vested in finding out what happened and the author did not disappoint. I am so glad I got a chance to read this ahead of it's release in February 2024. Thank you to NetGalley for this opportunity. </b></span></p><p> </p>Deana Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16296434767624947481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-379391760190652774.post-20674416794467700782023-11-02T18:51:00.002-07:002023-11-02T18:55:10.009-07:00A Walk with Jesus Down Hope Road by Michael Murray <p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDXPjFiYHY8ocUI0w95VSSaeAKn5Rkj61qbF6iMJt73tq8SVDQXlCh6RMX2IArMCtCgvPuej08IU5_X6aACsqIJx1T55fgq0vQF-L4rXoyxrMaYCd-CXBxAx-iJUBO_TSJ5Cs4vBP3i6Lj5qEsxlEfgos7mJlPEPcHKLL04rowV_iZ2YHMesXoR-U3iAw/s500/C77D9C38-EDA6-4D3C-BDE4-A3F5EC0D9B37.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="313" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDXPjFiYHY8ocUI0w95VSSaeAKn5Rkj61qbF6iMJt73tq8SVDQXlCh6RMX2IArMCtCgvPuej08IU5_X6aACsqIJx1T55fgq0vQF-L4rXoyxrMaYCd-CXBxAx-iJUBO_TSJ5Cs4vBP3i6Lj5qEsxlEfgos7mJlPEPcHKLL04rowV_iZ2YHMesXoR-U3iAw/s320/C77D9C38-EDA6-4D3C-BDE4-A3F5EC0D9B37.jpeg" width="200" /></a></div><span face="Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; background-color: white; caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87); color: #2b00fe; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre;">I loved this book. Not only did it have valuable teachings </span><div><span face="Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; background-color: white; caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87); color: #2b00fe; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre;"><br /></span></div><div><span face="Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; background-color: white; caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87); color: #2b00fe; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre;"> in it, but the author sprinkles his humor through </span><div><span face="Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; background-color: white; caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87); color: #2b00fe; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre;"><br /></span></div><div><span face="Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; background-color: white; caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87); color: #2b00fe; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre;"> it, making me laugh out loud at times.
The author made me tear up too. One of the quotes</span></div><div><span face="Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; background-color: white; caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87); color: #2b00fe; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre;"><br /></span></div><div><span face="Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; background-color: white; caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87); color: #2b00fe; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre;"> that moved me was how it wasn’t easy to see </span></div><div><span face="Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; background-color: white; caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87); color: #2b00fe; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre;"><br /></span></div><div><span face="Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; background-color: white; caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87); color: #2b00fe; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre;"> someone in pain, but that it is “holy ground.”</span></div><div><span face="Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; background-color: white; caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87); color: #2b00fe; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre;"><br /></span></div><div><span face="Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; background-color: white; caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87); color: #2b00fe; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre;"> I am helping take care of someone who is </span></div><div><span face="Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; background-color: white; caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87); color: #2b00fe; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre;"><br /></span></div><div><span face="Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; background-color: white; caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87); color: #2b00fe; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre;">terminally ill, and while I would love to see a </span></div><div><span face="Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; background-color: white; caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87); color: #2b00fe; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre;"><br /></span></div><div><span face="Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; background-color: white; caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87); color: #2b00fe; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre;"> complete healing, it is definitely an honor to help</span></div><div><span face="Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; background-color: white; caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87); color: #2b00fe; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre;"><br /></span></div><div><span face="Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; background-color: white; caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87); color: #2b00fe; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre;"> this person. I can’t help but feel there is definitely</span></div><div><span face="Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; background-color: white; caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87); color: #2b00fe; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre;"><br /></span></div><div><span face="Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; background-color: white; caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87); color: #2b00fe; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre;"> something spiritual in it.
In short, the author does a great job explaining</span></div><div><span face="Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; background-color: white; caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87); color: #2b00fe; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre;"><br /></span></div><div><span face="Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; background-color: white; caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87); color: #2b00fe; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre;"> scripture and bringing smiles, lessons </span></div><div><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face="Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; background-color: white; caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87); font-size: 14px; white-space: pre;"><br /></span></div><div><span face="Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; background-color: white; caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87); color: #2b00fe; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87); color: #2b00fe; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre;"> and best of all, hope.</span></div><div><p></p></div></div>Deana Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16296434767624947481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-379391760190652774.post-53010599146005363952023-08-17T07:53:00.001-07:002023-08-17T07:53:13.092-07:00Magdalena by Candi Sary<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJJ-tfJwbZSVhwoaFedcFPjs_lP9qAGo4NdrVXlkn3yb3ShwSHrj1irdk4zxP5bpQKnk67TQ1KcjZ_qdCEFbIo9VPjiflbObIQpRI-U8r8b-h4gupg4GXyKF34UqgBJtoTBGN9pYJfbQplB8sqf4kJb6aVLVF1tAzCq5bkMwcFGKm9KjoOS24fvGGEq24/s281/magda.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="281" data-original-width="179" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJJ-tfJwbZSVhwoaFedcFPjs_lP9qAGo4NdrVXlkn3yb3ShwSHrj1irdk4zxP5bpQKnk67TQ1KcjZ_qdCEFbIo9VPjiflbObIQpRI-U8r8b-h4gupg4GXyKF34UqgBJtoTBGN9pYJfbQplB8sqf4kJb6aVLVF1tAzCq5bkMwcFGKm9KjoOS24fvGGEq24/s1600/magda.jpg" width="179" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: helvetica;"><b>I was fortunate enough to get a copy of Magdalena by Candi Sary. I don't know what made me want to read this, but I am glad I did. First, a synopsis: </b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: right; white-space-collapse: preserve;">A haunting and lyrical novel that subverts expectations, </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; text-align: right; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Candi Sary’s </span><span style="color: #a61c00; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; text-align: right; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">MAGDALENA (Regal House Publishing; </span><span style="color: #a61c00; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; text-align: right; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">July 11, 2023) </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; text-align: right; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">pulls the reader into the small and secluded </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: right; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Sam’s Town, a place shrouded in fog and thriving on gossip </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: right; white-space-collapse: preserve;">and superstition. Dottie offers plenty of both when the </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: right; white-space-collapse: preserve;">scandal breaks about a missing girl, a ghost, and the affair </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: -0.348pt; white-space-collapse: preserve;">that started it all. She recounts her story from within her small room in the nursing home, “a holding cell for the dying,” though Dottie isn’t dying. The town simply has nowhere else to put her. </span></p><p><span id="docs-internal-guid-0da3a467-7fff-f902-4e7e-d0ed7d4cd440"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Dottie begins to write her story. On paper, napkins, bedsheets, whatever they will give her, she feverishly recounts her reclusive existence in Sam’s Town, her tragic history of miscarriages, her longing for the baby that never was, the mysterious disappearance of an almost lover, and the day that the 15-year-old neighbor girl, Magdalena, showed up at her door. Over time, Dottie develops a strange motherly interest in the girl. “I admit I’ve done some terrible things, but I swear on my life,” Dottie writes, “</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">I swear to all my accusers, I did nothing to harm Magdalena.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">” </span></span></p><p><span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: helvetica;"><b>And, now, before my two cents, read on for an excerpt: </b></span></p><p><br /></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">Magdalena once told me she knew how to cure sadness. She read on that little phone of hers</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"> that we all need fifteen minutes of sun every day and without it, depression could set in. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">Those of us here on the peninsula barely get fifteen minutes a week. The fog comes in over</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"> the cliffs in the morning, creeping through town, shrouding all neighborhoods with a thick</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"> graveyard effect. We don’t have an actual graveyard, but the landslide all those years </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">ago took enough lives and left enough ghosts behind to bring on that kind of fog. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">If it does lift around midmorning, a heavy cloud cover still stays most of the day, </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">keeping things gray. I’d always thought my sadness came from the unfortunate</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"> things that happened in my life, but according to Magdalena, my gloom</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"> might simply be a lack of vitamin D.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">From the day she got the phone, she stared into it constantly, seeking answers</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"> to all of her questions</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> and even finding new questions she would have never</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> thought of on her own. She fed on its information like meat.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">“Mushrooms,” Magdalena said. “We need to eat mushrooms.” The girl was my </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">only visitor. When she spoke, I hung onto her every word. “If we eat enough</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"> of them, we’ll get the vitamin D we’re missing from the sun.”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">I didn’t question her. For weeks, I based all my meals around mushrooms. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">I made mushroom casseroles, salads, risotto, soups, but I’m not sure it</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"> changed me. I’m not sure it changed her. How many mushrooms would </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">it take to replace the sun? I wish I could ask the girl, but she’s gone. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">Three weeks ago, I lost her for good.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">I pull up my sleeves and roll up my pants. My arms and legs are so pale</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"> in this light. They look like white maps with long blue roads leading to nowhere. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">The lighting in my house is soft enough to disguise my pallor, but here </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">in the rest home, the deficiency is glaring. I quickly lower my sleeves</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"> and pants again.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">“Focus, Dottie.” My command is quiet.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">I swallow down one of the tiny white pills and sit up straight in my chair. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">Pen in hand, I look around the dismal room I currently share with Mario.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"> It is a holding cell for the dying. We aren’t dying like the old people in this </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">nursing home. But our town is small. They had nowhere else to put my</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"> husband after the accident a decade ago. And they had nowhere else to put </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">me after the devastating incident at my house last week. So now we live together </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">again in room eleven with the beige walls, the brown and yellow floral comforters</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"> on our beds, and the slim, dark wood secretary desk beside the bathroom door. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">The old desk is where I currently sit as I tap my pen on the blank page, trying </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">to gather my thoughts.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">Now the cold distracts me. I pull a blanket from the bed and wrap it around</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"> me. The air conditioner is dreadfully high. They say it’s to keep germs down,</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"> but I sometimes wonder if they’re trying to weed out the weakest of us.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">“Focus, Dottie, focus,” I say a little louder, closing my eyes.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">“What do you need to focus on?” someone asks.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">Startled, I tighten the blanket around me and turn toward the voice. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">There is a white-haired lady in a wheelchair at my door. Her face is all wrinkled </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">up like fingertips after a long bath, and her lips seem to be growing inward</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"> around her teeth. Thick bifocals, wrapped around her head like goggles,</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"> magnify her wet and cloudy eyes. There are some really old people here, </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">but she has to be the oldest.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” she says, her ancient voice slowly rattling </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">out the words. “I heard you from the hall.”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">I wasn’t trying to be heard. I place my hand over my mouth to show her</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"> I’ve no interest in a conversation. I’m hoping my hand gesture will make</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"> her leave, but it doesn’t. Instead, she wheels through the small space between</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"> the two beds and parks next to me at the desk. Her nightgown is purple</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"> and far too big on her. She smells like leftover broccoli.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">“I’m curious. What do you need to focus on?” she asks again.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">It’s going to take some time getting used to this place. I’m not in the habit</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"> of answering to anyone, having lived alone for so long. “A letter,” I finally say.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"> She’s so close now, there’s no escaping her. “I’m writing a letter. A story really.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"> The rumors are terrible and—” I catch myself before it all comes flooding back.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"> Their ugly words. All the lies. “I need to tell my story. It’s the only way to get the truth out.”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">Her face lights up. “You must be Dottie,” she whispers. I nod. “I should have known.” </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">Her eyes travel the length of me. “I heard about you, the young woman living in </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">the old people’s home.” It sounds strange out loud but worse things have been said</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"> about me. “How old are you, dear?”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">“Forty-three.”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">“So young.” She shakes her head. “It’s just awful what happened to you.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"> How long will you be staying with us?”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">“Well.” I look over at Mario in his bed. His eyes are open, but there’s no telling</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"> what he’s thinking as he stares at the ceiling tiles. “The Sisters say I can stay </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">with my husband as long as I need. I’ve nowhere else to go.” She leans over</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"> the side of her chair to get a closer look at him.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">“Does he even remember who you are?” “I haven’t let a day go by without coming</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"> to see him.” “But with what happened to him, do you think he can remember?”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">“Oh, he remembers me.” I won’t let anyone convince me otherwise.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">“That’s nice.” Her smile is kind. “Sometimes I think I remember too much,” she says. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">“Some things I wish I could forget, but the pictures are there in my mind, clear as day.” </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">She sets her bony hands in her lap, and the veins bulge like soft worms. She smiles.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"> Her demeanor is pleasant; it’s just the broccoli smell that’s bothersome.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">I notice a pin on her nightgown. It’s gold with blue letters spelling out centenarian.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"> I point to it. “You’re a hundred?”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">“A hundred and two.”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">“That’s incredible,” I say, feeling a new respect for her. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">She’s not just an old lady—she’s National Geographic material.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">“It’s a curse, old age. The lucky ones die young. Freed from these bodies,</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"> they can move on. Or, of course, they can stick around.”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"> She raises the few hairs left of her eyebrows, as if I know something about this.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"> I feel her words in my stomach. I don’t respond. She whispers,</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"> “The ghosts of Sam’s Town are persistent, aren’t they, Dottie?”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">“If you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to my letter.”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">“But we haven’t talked about what happened to the girl yet.” </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">She laces her fingers together under her chin.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"> “We need to talk about what really happened to Magdalena.”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">Hearing her name almost makes me lose my breath.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"> I close my eyes and indiscriminate memories resurface—her blue nail polish,</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"> those stolen sunglasses on her head, lemon juice dripping from her fingers,</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"> her blood on the linoleum.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">“Do you know what happened?” the old woman asks.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"> “I mean what really happened to her?” She’s staring at me, waiting for an answer</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">. I reach for my pen, gripping it like a weapon. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">“Until I write it all down, I’m not talking about it to anyone.”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">“You can trust me, Dottie.” She wheels closer.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">“I don’t even know you,” I say.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">She smiles. It’s a sad smile. “Then let’s get to know one another.” </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">She glances toward my husband before leaning forward. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">The smell is strong, her voice is soft. “Is it true that the man,” she asks,</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"> “who started it all was your lover?”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">I close my eyes again, to escape her question, </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">but now there he is behind my eyelids—Benjamin.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"> His hand creeps under my dress and he’s massaging my leg. I squeeze my eyes tighter.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">“Go away!” I shout. “Go away!” I am talking to Benjamin, but when I open my eyes,</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"> the old lady in the wheelchair is hunched over, wheeling away </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">as fast as her bony arms will take her. I should explain</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"> that I was not yelling at her. But I don’t. I stay quiet.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">While I feel a bit guilty, I’m relieved to see her go. The poor woman looks so frail</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"> heading for the door, like her arms might snap. That’s the other effect </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">of vitamin D deficiency—frail bones. This town is killing all of us.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"> </span></p><p><span id="docs-internal-guid-ea720c74-7fff-245b-2ac3-210c206c7825"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Excerpted from </span><a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1646033345/ref=x_gr_w_bb_glide_sin?ie=UTF8&tag=x_gr_w_bb_glide_sin-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=1646033345&SubscriptionId=1MGPYB6YW3HWK55XCGG2" style="text-decoration-line: none;"><span style="color: #1155cc; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Magdalena by Candi Sary</span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> © 2023 by Candi Sary, used with permission from Regal House Publishing. </span></span></p><p><span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: helvetica;"><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><b>Now, for my two cents. I really enjoyed this story. It was really different from what I usually read. I found myself invested in Dottie and the other characters quickly and wanted to see where it was going. You do have to suspend belief if you don't already believe in the spirit world and the afterlife, but if you are good with that, there won't be any issue. </b></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: helvetica;"><b style="white-space-collapse: preserve;">I found the writing to be easy, flowing and just enough description. I saw another reviewer saying that she felt Dottie annoying because of decisions she was making. However, I think when people are in bad situations or suffer from depression or </b><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><b>loneliness</b></span><b style="white-space-collapse: preserve;">, there's no telling what people may do. The reviewer also said that Dottie should have just sought help for these ailments, but sometimes the person doesn't even know they are suffering from it, they just want relief. I say all that to say I really didn't feel that Dottie needed slammed like that. Maybe you will, maybe you won't. I did find her a little delusional regarding </b><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><b>Magdalena</b></span><b style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"> at first, but then Dottie admits she knows what she is doing is not healthy. </b></span></p><p><span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: helvetica;"><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><b>Anyway, the characters and story kept me very interested. The only thing is I wish I would have read this on a chilly October/late November rainy day. am glad I got to read this story and I think you will like it, too. Let me know if you read it and what you think. Thank you so much to the publisher for this opportunity! </b></span></span></p>Deana Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16296434767624947481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-379391760190652774.post-59931963819409550082023-08-12T07:37:00.041-07:002023-08-12T10:48:31.790-07:00In a Quiet Town by Amber Garza<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAiU6oh1vHEDin0QrXu2Loiqs7GH9hUWhpvuUePE8h3II0zezpJ5QrDb4DxYX1HSqk53AUQMkBbAtZ_TsiIX7ZUreYp4GjK0O4W7kNKoZe7haLnznMmA64O-Z-vIAt0Qn5Sahxt3B72Dh0fZg6Z_XGujWgsbwkD0Ww4nT4R6S0iPO6TEOm6K5h_UuD53M/s275/quiet.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="275" data-original-width="183" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAiU6oh1vHEDin0QrXu2Loiqs7GH9hUWhpvuUePE8h3II0zezpJ5QrDb4DxYX1HSqk53AUQMkBbAtZ_TsiIX7ZUreYp4GjK0O4W7kNKoZe7haLnznMmA64O-Z-vIAt0Qn5Sahxt3B72Dh0fZg6Z_XGujWgsbwkD0Ww4nT4R6S0iPO6TEOm6K5h_UuD53M/s1600/quiet.jpg" width="183" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: helvetica;"><b>Today's blog features In A Quiet Town by Amber Garza. Let's get right into in with a synopsis provided by the publisher:</b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b><span style="color: #a64d79;">ABOUT THE BOOK:</span></b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b><span style="color: #a64d79;">In this chilling new novel, a pastor’s wife discovers that her estranged daughter is missing, but no one will believe her, until she meets a man claiming to be her daughter’s fiancé.</span></b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b><span style="color: #a64d79;"><br /></span></b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b><span style="color: #a64d79;">The book is about Tatum, a woman who secretly reconnects with her estranged adult daughter—secretly because Adrienne’s been all but disowned by Tatum’s husband, a pastor at the church in their small California town, where every move is watched and reported by his congregation. When Adrienne doesn’t show up for her shift at the bar where Tatum’s been visiting her, she knows something is wrong. Adrienne may have been a bit of wild child, but she hasn’t missed a day of work without calling in for years.</span></b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b><span style="color: #a64d79;"><br /></span></b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b><span style="color: #a64d79;">Tatum tries desperately to get the police or her husband to take her daughter’s disappearance seriously, until a mysterious man shows up claiming to be Adrienne’s fiancé. It’s a relief to finally have someone who believes her and is trying as hard as she is to find out where Adrienne is. But can she trust that this stranger is really who he says he is? And can she find her daughter before it’s too late?</span></b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b><span style="color: #ffa400;">**************************************************************************************</span></b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><b>Read on for an excerpt from the book! </b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><b id="docs-internal-guid-75b830ae-7fff-a140-f1d4-bbaf560d52e9" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span face="Calibri,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">PROLOGUE (Language Warning)</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">His hands were in her hair, fingers threaded through the silky strands. I knew what it felt like.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"> My fingers had been buried in her hair many times, including last night. When their lips met,</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri,sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">I sat up </span><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre;">straighter, leaning forward. It didn't feel real. I </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">worked my jaw. It popped and clicked. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">My own</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;"> mouth </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">buzzed with the memory of how her lips felt on mine.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">The kiss was long. Too long.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">She liked it.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">My shoulder muscles pulled tight, a rubber band being stretched beyond its limits.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"> I thought they </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">might snap.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">The two of them drew back. She smiled. Smiled with the same lips that had smiled at me.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"> Kissed me. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Told me they loved me. Clearly, a lie.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">She brushed back her hair, and the diamond on her finger sparkled.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Her ring. The one I’d given her. She was wearing it.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">It felt like a punch to the gut. Like a big “fuck you” to me.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">It wasn’t like she knew I’d followed her. But still… Shouldn’t she take her engagement ring</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"> off before </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">she hooked up with another dude?</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Throwing her head back, her neck exposed, she giggled.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Imagining my hands wrapping around that tender flesh, I squeezed the steering wheel. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">It gave under the pressure, and I squeezed harder. It felt good. Therapeutic.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"> I pictured her terrified. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Pleading. Mouth tight, eyes bulging. I squeezed and squeezed, my teeth grinding, the vein in </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">my forehead throbbing. My muscles ached by the time I released my grip.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Their hands clasped. My breathing was labored as I watched them walk off together, </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">around the side</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;"> of the building, out of sight.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">I’d loved her. Given her so much.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">How dare she?</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">No one made a fool out of me.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">She wouldn’t get away with this. Not by a long shot.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="'Quattrocento Sans',sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: #1a1a1a; font-size: 10pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Excerpted from </span><span face="'Quattrocento Sans',sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: #1a1a1a; font-size: 10pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">In A Quiet Town</span><span face="'Quattrocento Sans',sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: #1a1a1a; font-size: 10pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"> by Amber Garza, Copyright </span><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">©</span><span face="'Quattrocento Sans',sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: #1a1a1a; font-size: 10pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"> 2023 by Amber Garza. Published by MIRA Books. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b id="docs-internal-guid-f725a46b-7fff-b50e-bf8e-b6897600a65c" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: red;"><b>BUY LINKS:</b></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="color: red;"><b><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Bookshop.org: </span><a href="https://bookshop.org/p/books/then-she-disappeared-amber-garza/18816653?ean=9780778334255" style="text-decoration: none;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">https://bookshop.org/p/books/then-she-disappeared-amber-garza/18816653?ean=9780778334255</span></a><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="color: red;"><b><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">B&N: </span><a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/in-a-quiet-town-amber-garza/1142722524?ean=9780778334255" style="text-decoration: none;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/in-a-quiet-town-amber-garza/1142722524?ean=9780778334255</span></a><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="color: red;"><b><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Amazon: </span><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Quiet-Town-Novel-Amber-Garza/dp/0778334252" style="text-decoration: none;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">https://www.amazon.com/Quiet-Town-Novel-Amber-Garza/dp/0778334252</span></a></b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b><span style="color: red;"> </span></b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: red;"><b>SOCIAL LINKS:</b></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="color: red;"><b><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Author website: </span><a href="https://ambergarza.com/" style="text-decoration: none;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">https://ambergarza.com/</span></a><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="color: red;"><b><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="color: red;"><b><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">IG: </span><a href="https://www.instagram.com/ambergarzaauthor/?hl=en" style="text-decoration: none;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">https://www.instagram.com/ambergarzaauthor/?hl=en</span></a><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></b></span></p><div><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #ffa400;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">*************************************************************************************</span></span></div><div><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: helvetica;"><b><br /></b></span></span></div><div><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: helvetica;"><b>MY TWO CENTS:</b></span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><b>Unfortunately, this was not for me. The first issue I had with this book was that the use of "wanna" and "gonna." Do we talk like that? ABSOLUTELY! But, I usually don't see it in books in the written form. I am surprised that the editor didn't have an issue with this. I know it may sound petty, but it really started to irk me. </b></span></span></div><div><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><b><br /></b></span></span></div><div><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #0b5394;"><b style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">The plot as a whole is good, don't get me wrong, but it feels the author jumped on the whole "All men are bad" culture that seems </b><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><b>prevalent</b></span><b style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> today. The word misogynistic even got placed in for good measure. Seems like all the boxes were being ticked off. Do we have issues in this world? Of course, but law of probability dictates that all men cannot be bad. It's impossible. </b></span></div><div><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #0b5394;"><b style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></b></span></div><div><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #0b5394;"><b style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">That wasn't even the main issue I had. Finally, as I said, yes, the plot was good, but the whole story read like a YA book for me. I don't enjoy that. I don't need complex storylines or conversations but there is definitely a difference between one that sounds more adult and one that sounds more geared to the YA crowd. </b></span></div><div><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #0b5394;"><b style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></b></span></div><div><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #0b5394;"><b style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">All that being said, I am grateful to the publisher and to NetGalley for this opportunity. I am always excited for these opportunities. And, also, my opinion should never discourage someone from reading a book if they like the premise. In fact, if you do read it and like it, reach out to me and let me know why. I like to hear different opinions! </b></span></div><div><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #0b5394;"><b style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></b></span></div><div><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #0b5394;"><b style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> </b></span></div><div><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><br /></span></div><div><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><p dir="ltr" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; white-space-collapse: collapse;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="color: #ffa400;"><b>ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</b></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; white-space-collapse: collapse;"><span style="color: #ffa400;"><b><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Amber Garza</span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> has had a passion for the written word since she was a child making
books out of notebook paper and staples. Her hobbies include reading and singing. Coffee</span></b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; white-space-collapse: collapse;"><span style="color: #ffa400;"><b><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> and wine</span></b></span><b style="color: #ffa400;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> are her drinks of choice (not necessarily in that order). She writes while blaring music, </span></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; white-space-collapse: collapse;"><b style="color: #ffa400;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">and talks</span></b><b style="color: #ffa400;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> about her characters like they're real people. She lives with her husband and</span></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; white-space-collapse: collapse;"><b style="color: #ffa400;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> two kids in Folsom,</span></b><b style="color: #ffa400;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> California.</span></b></p></span></div>Deana Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16296434767624947481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-379391760190652774.post-50414105036767961282023-08-08T15:44:00.001-07:002023-08-08T15:53:50.740-07:00The Puzzle Master by Danielle Trussoni<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMRlHDk0bZjSIgF7xJbZU279T-Q-s272CeK_PeBjS6XjeGRMQFxN46fcUozsy067Qiw0ZwAx0DKRkth_nD2u5R6SofadjgrXRwUv3p93MXUrPNFHrPQD1WeYL-MLs6a2LuWo6931oMBNHcn96FhUc9r9f1rt_PzdMh6Xju0OSjzgcAKWCEIiibLhkKGes/s450/puzzle.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="298" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMRlHDk0bZjSIgF7xJbZU279T-Q-s272CeK_PeBjS6XjeGRMQFxN46fcUozsy067Qiw0ZwAx0DKRkth_nD2u5R6SofadjgrXRwUv3p93MXUrPNFHrPQD1WeYL-MLs6a2LuWo6931oMBNHcn96FhUc9r9f1rt_PzdMh6Xju0OSjzgcAKWCEIiibLhkKGes/s320/puzzle.jpg" width="212" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="color: red; font-family: helvetica;">This may very well be the hardest book I have ever reviewed. In fact, I admit I did something very weird with it. But more on that in a bit. First a synopsis. Honestly, I could try to write one but it's a story that I feel is almost two separate stories, so this one is from Goodreads. Whoever wrote this summary did a better job that I can do: </span></p><p><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Once a promising Midwestern football star, Brink was transformed by a traumatic brain injury that caused a rare medical condition: acquired savant syndrome. The injury left him with a mental superpower—he can solve puzzles in ways ordinary people can't. But it also left him deeply isolated, unable to fully connect with other people.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Everything changes after Brink meets Jess Price, a woman serving thirty years in prison for murder who hasn't spoken a word since her arrest five years before. When Price draws a perplexing puzzle, her psychiatrist believes it will explain her crime and calls Brink to solve it. What begins as a desire to crack an alluring cipher quickly morphs into an obsession with Price herself. She soon reveals that there is something more urgent, and more dangerous, behind her silence, thrusting Brink into a hunt for the truth.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">The quest takes Brink through a series of interlocking enigmas, but the heart of the mystery is the God Puzzle, a cryptic ancient prayer circle created by the thirteenth-century Jewish mystic Abraham Abulafia. As Brink navigates a maze of clues, and his emotional entanglement with Price becomes more intense, he realizes that there are powerful forces at work that he cannot escape.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Ranging from an upstate New York women's prison to nineteenth-century Prague to the secret rooms of the Pierpont Morgan Library, </span><i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">The Puzzle Master</i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;"> is a tantalizing, addictive thriller in which humankind, technology, and the future of the universe itself are at stake.</span></p><p><span style="color: red; font-family: helvetica;"> So, here's the weird thing that I ended up doing. I got an e-book copy of it and seemed to really be struggling with it. I almost gave up on it and thought that maybe if I got a physical hard copy it would be better. Well, that actually worked. I don't know what it is about me. I just love to hold a book. Usually, it doesn't matter too much to me, but this one I had to hold in order to finish it. </span></p><p><span style="color: red; font-family: helvetica;">I have such mixed feelings about this book. It took me way too long to finish and, for me, it read like a text book in some places. BUT, in some places, it really sucked me in, especially toward the end. I thought it started picking up immensely.</span><span style="color: red; font-family: helvetica;"> Now, all that being said, while I may not have devoured the book, I applaud this author's creativity! I cannot even imagine being able to come up with this kind of intricate plot. So, overall, I am going to say I did enjoy this even though I spent more time with it than I would have liked. I wish the author the best. One more note: I think this would be a good movie! Thank you to NetGalley and to the publisher. No review was required. </span></p>Deana Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16296434767624947481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-379391760190652774.post-45703694926680102252023-07-05T11:05:00.001-07:002023-07-05T11:05:45.224-07:00The Woman Inside by M.T. Edvardsson<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTaEqicmt3fM4nz_E0RKq56UMaFTquY85dtUFFOUq422BqGQpi6XQnm482l301t499Zx7gL3Q7sbZvOgFhzxXR0EQlUhUN4ohMBfZZHVdgz_Inq_blM4BLGTJa9B8J5zLwUC58ph1G1me8lev2_N4QUeviWTSTIG8JHqERlRLEsblBRE5TZ_sx7gr0JLU/s278/woman%20inside.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="278" data-original-width="181" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTaEqicmt3fM4nz_E0RKq56UMaFTquY85dtUFFOUq422BqGQpi6XQnm482l301t499Zx7gL3Q7sbZvOgFhzxXR0EQlUhUN4ohMBfZZHVdgz_Inq_blM4BLGTJa9B8J5zLwUC58ph1G1me8lev2_N4QUeviWTSTIG8JHqERlRLEsblBRE5TZ_sx7gr0JLU/s1600/woman%20inside.jpg" width="181" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica;"><b>Is there anything better than summer reading? I love it and I can't believe it's July 5th already! This was my last read.</b></span></p><p><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica;"><b>T</b></span><b style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica;">he Woman Inside by Edvardsson released June 2023 and I was fortunate enough to get an advance copy from NetGalley. This book is about Bill, his young daughter Sally and a boarder they take in named Karla. </b><b style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica;">Bill and Sally are reeling from the death of his wife and her mother Miranda just shortly before all this and has Karla move in as a form of extra income. </b></p><p><b style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica;">Karla is struggling with putting her life together and studying law. She also works as a housecleaner for Steven and Regina Rytter. She knows something is wrong in the household, but can't quite put her finger on it. </b></p><p><b style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica;"> Also in this story is Jennica, a woman who is having an affair with Steven Rytter, but also has a link to Bill's past. All of these people will collide over very extreme circumstances. </b></p><p><b style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica;">So, I don't like to give anything else away, but here are my two cents. The book moved very quickly and I got to the point where I was itching to get back to it when I wasn't reading, especially as I got closer to the end. I was excited to see the connection between all the characters come together and find out what was going on. However, for me, the ending kind of left me underwhelmed. I thought the author was leading me up to a jaw dropper, but it never seemed to happen. HOWEVER, I did enjoy the story and reading how everything came together. Honestly, it may make a good movie. </b></p><p><b style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica;">I have another book by this author on my to read list, which I didn't realize until I was finished this one. I really appreciate this opportunity by NetGalley and am sending thanks to them and the publisher. </b></p><p><b style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica;">What is on your summer reading list? Let me know here or on my Goodreads profile Deana3452. </b></p><p><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica;"><b><br /></b></span></p>Deana Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16296434767624947481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-379391760190652774.post-66440425646621176172023-06-21T19:03:00.001-07:002023-06-21T19:03:50.728-07:00The Witching Tide by Margaret Meyer<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8iBYPDgpVCEdS-3xX-_qEhD5ugjFM0fodaGj92iEU0j_PxX7aLVZNFwqU-KOq4DC-V3-QhoSfLDoIVEa7HO8nO7ZKNTZmAmVKEn1w5OEUjciEZD8BLdPXid05IPPqLyWLhMQdd1iW-OfpHvkjrwZRbofd-Og9YwM5X2Vqm8tmhmV0DO4ngZkrVabupo8/s275/witching.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="275" data-original-width="183" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8iBYPDgpVCEdS-3xX-_qEhD5ugjFM0fodaGj92iEU0j_PxX7aLVZNFwqU-KOq4DC-V3-QhoSfLDoIVEa7HO8nO7ZKNTZmAmVKEn1w5OEUjciEZD8BLdPXid05IPPqLyWLhMQdd1iW-OfpHvkjrwZRbofd-Og9YwM5X2Vqm8tmhmV0DO4ngZkrVabupo8/s1600/witching.jpg" width="183" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: georgia;"><b>The Witching Tide takes place in the 1600's in a small village where chaos comes to reign. The story centers around Martha Hallybread, who is known for her caregiving to the residents with her herbs and helping to welcome new babies into this world. She is also house servant to Kit and his wife Agnes. Martha has known Kit since birth and feels very maternal toward him, considering him the son she never had. Agnes is getting ready to give birth herself so it should be a happy time in the household.</b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: georgia;"><b>However, a stranger comes to town. His name is Master Makepeace and he is on the hunt for any woman who may be a witch. He wants to rid the town of any evil that he deems is detrimental to the area. Martha is mute and uses a sort of sign language to communicate with her loved ones. This proves a disaster in this kind of situation where everyone is on edge and scared for their lives. Anything seems to be suggestive of being a witch and Martha is in Makepeace's sights. </b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: georgia;"><b>Kit uses his influence to get Martha a position WITH Makepeace to "examine" and interrogate the women brought forth on charges of being a witch. What's heartbreaking is, that, because it's such a small village, Martha knows everyone and even brought some of their children into the world, so loyalties are tested and heartbreak follows. </b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: georgia;"><b>I really have never read anything like this before and I had such mixed emotions reading it. First, the good. The author does a beautiful job describing the scenes, emotions and abject terror these women feel being rounded up. Her prose is beautiful and I genuinely felt sad in some parts, so that shows I connected with the characters. Well done there. </b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: georgia;"><b>However, I thought it dragged in some places and it took me longer to finish that I would have liked. Once it got going, I found myself finally wanting to come back to it. Also, and this is going to sound nitpicky, but I started getting annoyed with some of the words the author chose to use. There's one I won't mention at all but as far as the other one, boy, did this woman love the word piss. Isn't there another word she could have used? Oxford dictionary says it's vulgar slang as it is. I read the kindle version so I put a count on it only because it grabbed my attention that it was used a lot. She used it 14 times. </b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: georgia;"><b>In any event, it was enjoyable to the point that I wanted to finish it and was glad that I felt some connection to these characters, so if this sounds like your cup of tea, pick it up. Thank you to NetGalley and to the publisher for this opportunity. No review was required. </b></span></div> <p></p>Deana Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16296434767624947481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-379391760190652774.post-74532996520022242922023-05-24T06:25:00.001-07:002023-05-24T06:25:15.161-07:00The Couple in the Photo by Helen Cooper <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8bpg9JTXeaL7DnRqm25_ND0uCem8g53RqPP4JDFW93C_MF8jLDmsbslUx42RDg_mX9P6Ba4auracbmHnZr23LOfI84SuugLAjNrzcv8UJMaKLgebs7m5AxC04VI9sT-C0i2GWSPTfGOUucPX4CyLGQFH1faeuw9wlf8B7rtJPujYRaeAiKjna3X5H/s279/couple.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="279" data-original-width="181" height="279" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8bpg9JTXeaL7DnRqm25_ND0uCem8g53RqPP4JDFW93C_MF8jLDmsbslUx42RDg_mX9P6Ba4auracbmHnZr23LOfI84SuugLAjNrzcv8UJMaKLgebs7m5AxC04VI9sT-C0i2GWSPTfGOUucPX4CyLGQFH1faeuw9wlf8B7rtJPujYRaeAiKjna3X5H/s1600/couple.jpg" width="181" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: georgia;"><b>On a normal day at work, Lucy's colleague, Ruth is beaming from her recent honeymoon and sharing photos from her amazing trip to the Maldives. Lucy loves photos and all the happy times they convey, so she is more than happy to look at the pictures. </b></span></p><p><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: georgia;"><b>While flipping through, Lucy sees a snapshot of Ruth, her new husband and a couple at the resort and is floored to see the man is the husband of her best friend. When Lucy asks about it, Ruth says they are a great couple they met while there. Lucy feels sick. The man is Scott, her best friend Cora's husband, but the woman is NOT Cora. Furthermore, Scott is supposed to be in Tokyo on a business trip. He couldn't be in the Maldives, right?</b></span></p><p><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: georgia;"><b>What follows is a journey and discovery of secrets in a group of a very tight and close friends involving Lucy, her husband Adam and Scott and Cora. They couldn't be closer and their four kids are like siblings. Adam, Scott and Cora were all best friends at university before Lucy entered the picture. Lucy is torn about digging into the issue knowing it could implode all their lives as they know it. </b></span></p><p><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: georgia;"><b>Now, my two cents. I really enjoyed reading this book. I thought it moved at a breakneck pace. The only thing is I was 49 percent finished and I had it figured out. I was right about the big part, but there was some small surprise at the end, so overall, it was a great read! Releases in December 2023 but you can preorder now! </b></span><b style="color: #274e13; font-family: georgia;">Thank you to NetGalley and the publisher! No review was required. </b></p>Deana Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16296434767624947481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-379391760190652774.post-84971893201399566322023-05-19T14:23:00.000-07:002023-05-19T14:23:20.685-07:00The Bride to Be by Daniel Hurst<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4WuCrOfV_DGGbDTFdFJStkz2qx5FUGzeTCmmCB7U3Jc8jocifjxOrlK9FHdpBZTbgCx80fmKWgIucpcN_LIeOwdaycgmr6ew6yvNMUKrsu_XvyR5EPZmPujK9f2BDfeVG95R8lq3kftQlelvHkfQeqMd96x6M6VuqKQR1qUC7x_0dmEXmumtevcoZ/s600/bride%20to%20be.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4WuCrOfV_DGGbDTFdFJStkz2qx5FUGzeTCmmCB7U3Jc8jocifjxOrlK9FHdpBZTbgCx80fmKWgIucpcN_LIeOwdaycgmr6ew6yvNMUKrsu_XvyR5EPZmPujK9f2BDfeVG95R8lq3kftQlelvHkfQeqMd96x6M6VuqKQR1qUC7x_0dmEXmumtevcoZ/s320/bride%20to%20be.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="color: #20124d;">Kate is getting married! Good news, right? Well, not so fast. She's not 100 percent sure if her groom to be is the one for her. After all, Mark can be kind of condescencing, resulting in a lot of hurt feelings. She loves Mark but feels that something is missing. It's just not the fairy tale she expected when she dreamed of getting married. </span></p><p><span style="color: #20124d;">One day, while in the bridal store, Kate sees another couple and is instantly taken with the man. He seems ideal in the way he treats HIS wife to be. She's convinced that this couple has the perfect life, the one she always dreamed of. </span></p><p><span style="color: #20124d;">What follows is a woman's desperate attempt to feel loved and appreciated. WIthout giving anything away, things unravel quickly. So many things happen to the point where it really starts spiraling out of control to where Kate can't even recognize her own life. </span></p><p><span style="color: #20124d;">I thought the book had great premise. For the most part, I coudn't wait to get back to it. But, I think the author attempted a "twist" at the end and it just fell flat for me. Maybe, if I hadn't been expecting something crazy to happen at the end, I would have liked it better, so that may be on me. Overall though, I would say it was entertaining. Thank you to Netgalley and to the publisher for the opportunity! </span></p>Deana Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16296434767624947481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-379391760190652774.post-65594273309579595642023-04-22T13:29:00.007-07:002023-04-22T13:30:46.452-07:00The Door to Door Bookstore by Carsten Henn<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYHrnXntHotF-YPyr-zjTLIgzhHshWIxxew4FGLoH4V3uk4JR7tPMkR99hu-7KYxZYJdGQuCt3XHxddyRbwD8kgTKIkAZCHNrMi1FgXxW3UW2SN_baJDEv3Z8Pvu03SCN38wZF8lgr3miYDGWy-nPRNtBeHv6iljHxJFlOVST42xs59Z-JkQeFFl53/s500/door%20to%20door.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="330" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYHrnXntHotF-YPyr-zjTLIgzhHshWIxxew4FGLoH4V3uk4JR7tPMkR99hu-7KYxZYJdGQuCt3XHxddyRbwD8kgTKIkAZCHNrMi1FgXxW3UW2SN_baJDEv3Z8Pvu03SCN38wZF8lgr3miYDGWy-nPRNtBeHv6iljHxJFlOVST42xs59Z-JkQeFFl53/s320/door%20to%20door.jpg" width="211" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><b>This book is about Carl who is an older gentleman who works in his old friend's bookstore, now taken over by his friend's daughter. Carl actually has a special role in this store. He delivers books to certain customers by walking around town.. One day, he is joined by a little girl who becomes the friend Carl didn't even know he needed, in more ways than one. Times, they are a changing, and we need our loved ones to get by. Suffice to say, this is a story about friends, forgiveness and looking out for one another. </b></span></p><p><b style="color: #2b00fe;">I think there might be something magical about this book. Here's why. There are so many times I am reading an e-book and I look down and I see I have a lot more to go percentage wise. As I was reading, I got very invested in these characters, looked down at the percentage left and was astonished to see that I was almost finished. I was floored. How did this happen? I don't know except to say that there must be some magic going on here. I really loved it. Thank you to Netgalley and to the publisher for this opportunity. </b></p><p><br /></p>Deana Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16296434767624947481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-379391760190652774.post-83420823031194764872023-01-07T16:17:00.001-08:002023-01-07T16:17:14.066-08:00What Happens Next by Christina Suzann Nelson<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIDkcY7fPeIfD3WGFCWqn2UFeNlFy_fnCbte8jP5UeRL_7F4OwKMk7PmClhR_kjez_HiORz3LVs-48HslUoPRzKemFUG-DV1kg1ItiuXjBUJPOAFeztoSSvpgnte5nmiGWMknxosXZDIrzH32zmn2fBUc10Yj_7ukIg_27YYnKQz7L8PDQ5PUdheLW/s346/what%20happens.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="346" data-original-width="224" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIDkcY7fPeIfD3WGFCWqn2UFeNlFy_fnCbte8jP5UeRL_7F4OwKMk7PmClhR_kjez_HiORz3LVs-48HslUoPRzKemFUG-DV1kg1ItiuXjBUJPOAFeztoSSvpgnte5nmiGWMknxosXZDIrzH32zmn2fBUc10Yj_7ukIg_27YYnKQz7L8PDQ5PUdheLW/s320/what%20happens.jpg" width="207" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><b>Hello, everyone! </b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><b>I was fortunate enough to get an advance copy of What Happens Next by Christina Suzann Nelson. </b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><b>Here is a good description from Goodreads: </b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">Popular podcaster and ex-reporter Faith Byrne has made a name for herself telling stories of greatness after tragedy--but her real life does not mirror the stories she tells. While her daughters spend the summer in Hawaii with her ex-husband and his new wife, she must manage life on her own. But all that changes when she's asked to spotlight her childhood best friend's missing person case on her podcast.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">Dora Crane has never accepted that her younger daughter could be dead, keeping her home looking the same as when her daughter disappeared. But when her husband leaves her, and her older daughter intervenes, she agrees to counseling and to pack up her missing daughter's belongings under one condition: Faith Byrne comes to Deep Valley and sheds light on the cold case.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">As the investigation moves forward, the two women uncover desperate secrets, and Faith and Dora must face the long-hidden truth before they can begin to move forward.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">Award-winning author Christina Suzann Nelson masterfully leads readers on a journey of discovery, healing, and friendship in this suspenseful and poignant tale.</span></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><b>I thought this had such a good premise. I was excited to read it. I thought the characters were pretty memorable and I think the author did a good job in flushing out the whole story. I also think that it would be good for the YA crowd, only because of the way it was written. This book is Christian fiction, so there are faith based themes and lessons involved, which was also fine by me. I read it pretty quickly, too. I think a lot of people will enjoy it when it releases on January 17. See link below for preorder. You can also get it on Amazon. </b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><b><a href="https://bakerbookhouse.com/products/465080">Click here to buy</a><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><b>Let me know what you think if you get it! I am always interested in hearing people's opinions! Also, what are your reading goals for 2023?</b></span></div><br /><p></p>Deana Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16296434767624947481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-379391760190652774.post-67281078408297098332022-12-29T09:46:00.002-08:002022-12-29T09:49:18.705-08:00The Secret Society of Salzburg by Renee Ryan<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCaObXOi4TJYlFqhOW-DiLBFheoGVMCBo6KzqhtWzUu7QExv79AU5b15mLjeSKtp4PBgsyjwGhbSeHbl7Zbt8MdpzN_F_NJzbtGOMouq4BWbSeZKdAIiLb6tF1hUOz3o5Q50BJVDiYD6rSX8QyLm0dF_euChUAQj6md8y5sffFalWrvFb0mWKqovD9/s275/salzburg.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="275" data-original-width="183" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCaObXOi4TJYlFqhOW-DiLBFheoGVMCBo6KzqhtWzUu7QExv79AU5b15mLjeSKtp4PBgsyjwGhbSeHbl7Zbt8MdpzN_F_NJzbtGOMouq4BWbSeZKdAIiLb6tF1hUOz3o5Q50BJVDiYD6rSX8QyLm0dF_euChUAQj6md8y5sffFalWrvFb0mWKqovD9/s1600/salzburg.jpg" width="183" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p><span style="color: red; font-family: helvetica;">Hello all! <br />I hope everyone had a happy holiday. Today I bring to you The Secret Society of Salzburg by Renee Ryan. I was graciously given a copy by the publisher (no review was required). Here's a synopsis from Goodreads: </span></p><p><span style="color: red; font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p><b><em style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">London, 1933</em><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;"> </span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">At first glance, Austrian opera singer Elsa Mayer-Braun has little in common with the young English typist she encounters on tour. Yet she and Hattie Featherstone forge an instant connection—and strike a dangerous alliance. Using their friendship as a cover, they form a secret society with a daring goal: to rescue as many Jews as possible from Nazi persecution.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;"> </span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Though the war’s outbreak threatens Elsa and Hattie’s network, their efforts attract the covert attention of the British government, offering more opportunities to thwart the Germans. But Elsa’s growing fame as Hitler’s favorite opera singer, coupled with her secret Jewish ancestry, make her both a weapon and a target—until her future, too, hangs in the balance.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;"> </span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">From the glamorous stages of Covent Garden and Salzburg to the horrors of Bergen-Belsen, two ordinary women swept up by the tide of war discover an extraordinary friendship—and the courage to save countless lives.</span></b><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;"> </span></p><p><span style="color: red; font-family: helvetica;"><span style="background-color: white;">This was one of those books where I felt the characters were so real. I also found that it was one of those rare times where I didn't want to "leave" them at the end of the book. I've read other books that take place during that horrible time in history and I am always so saddened. I think it's important that authors write about this and educate as many as they can about this topic. </span></span></p><p><span style="color: red; font-family: helvetica;"><span style="background-color: white;">I really enjoyed this book. I loved the storyline, the characters and the way everything was described. I thought it was perfectly paced and honestly, I would like to see more about these characters! </span></span></p><p><span style="color: red; font-family: helvetica;"><span style="background-color: white;">Thank you to the publisher for this opportunity. It was a great book and it's available now! I hope you all have a Happy New Year! </span></span></p>Deana Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16296434767624947481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-379391760190652774.post-52018520547540956542022-11-01T19:09:00.001-07:002022-11-01T19:10:10.932-07:00Locust Lane by Stephen Amidon<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtPcTCVK04WndTKuDPtwlYyMAlwQmiYgVV9x28PdeTJ94IrSeEkS6S08XwybQGHZIUytt3idtPcA_4enUwUttZErUdbG9bZTcqNm5dn2cJq6Zc_265MpxufQwD6_PwKKG7gwyKMVRE0m8fRrgPEdQWu2odU2lqDyLYtlpSYi5pXz5NlIGzKKnkl2r7/s2775/9781250844231.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2775" data-original-width="1838" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtPcTCVK04WndTKuDPtwlYyMAlwQmiYgVV9x28PdeTJ94IrSeEkS6S08XwybQGHZIUytt3idtPcA_4enUwUttZErUdbG9bZTcqNm5dn2cJq6Zc_265MpxufQwD6_PwKKG7gwyKMVRE0m8fRrgPEdQWu2odU2lqDyLYtlpSYi5pXz5NlIGzKKnkl2r7/s320/9781250844231.jpg" width="212" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="color: #b45f06; font-family: georgia;"><b>I got an offer to read Locust Lane by Stephen Amidon via the publisher. In all honesty. I was hesitant at first because I thought it was going to be more of the same of the type of books I have been reading. </b></span></p><p><span style="color: #b45f06; font-family: georgia;"><b>I'm glad I took the chance because I thought it was really good! </b></span></p><p><span style="color: #b45f06; font-family: georgia;"><b>Here's a synopsis from Goodreads: </b></span></p><p><i style="font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px;"><span style="color: #181818;">On the surface, Emerson, Massachusetts, is just like any other affluent New England suburb. But when a young woman is found dead in the nicest part of town, the powerful neighbors close ranks to keep their families safe. In this searing novel, Eden Perry’s death kicks off an investigation into the three teenagers who were partying with her that night, each a suspect. Hannah, a sweet girl with an unstable history. Jack, the popular kid with a mean streak. Christopher, an outsider desperate to fit in. Their parents, each with motivations of their own, only complicate the picture: they will do anything to protect their children, even at the others’ expense.</span></i></p><p><b style="color: #b45f06; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif;">I don't like to say too much because I don't want to give anything away, but I REALLY enjoyed this book. I find so many books these days don't keep me interested enough to want to get back to it quickly, but this one did and it moved just fast enough without tons of description. And, the best part? It got me at the end even though I was sure I knew the ending. </b></p><p><span style="color: #b45f06; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><b>Good story, good plot, good topics and good ending. Thank you to the publisher for the opportunity. This book will release approximately in January 2023. Pick up a copy. You won't be disappointed. </b></span></span></p><p><br /></p>Deana Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16296434767624947481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-379391760190652774.post-56703581134914484672022-10-01T15:57:00.000-07:002022-10-01T15:57:15.029-07:00The Prisoner by B.A. Paris<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXT9tWxHY3PIFwh41i0cxld2vlo0Pnb-K92RRobaQe6ZcVlwqLAt4x-kXA7H3o_2qL04Q0Z1iVI8JE2QPjXHM3pjvRlHCsj7vbCCwpLI8Hi82zziePGBlhOxRVggSCF4xh-di6ucoT1-2Xu5c4eNhS2Pv9AtCDMfDydCNUPPCQFldFgTcJN4t_a0_D/s612/the%20prisoner.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="612" data-original-width="612" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXT9tWxHY3PIFwh41i0cxld2vlo0Pnb-K92RRobaQe6ZcVlwqLAt4x-kXA7H3o_2qL04Q0Z1iVI8JE2QPjXHM3pjvRlHCsj7vbCCwpLI8Hi82zziePGBlhOxRVggSCF4xh-di6ucoT1-2Xu5c4eNhS2Pv9AtCDMfDydCNUPPCQFldFgTcJN4t_a0_D/s320/the%20prisoner.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><b>Hello, everyone! </b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: georgia;"><b>Today's blog is about The Prisoner, by B.A. Paris. This will be released on or around November 1, 2022. </b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: georgia;"><b>This book goes back and forth between the "Past" and the "Present" and eventually all turns into the present. It take the reader into Amelie's life and her hard past. She does what she can to overcome her obstacles and life finally seems to be on the way, when she makes a deal with Ned, (SIDE NOTE: My kindle edition has the husband all through the book listed as NED, while Goodreads and other readers are calling him Jed-go figure lol) a rich magazine owner. He also is rich via his family, but he has all sorts of secrets. Secrets that come out when Amelie is thrown into his world. All she wanted to do was make a a life for herself but it just doesn't seem to be possible. <br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: georgia;"><b>A better synopsis from Goodreads: </b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="BookPageMetadataSection__description" data-testid="description" style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1.37; margin-bottom: 1.6rem;"><div class="TruncatedContent" style="box-sizing: border-box; position: relative;" tabindex="-1"><div class="TruncatedContent__text TruncatedContent__text--large TruncatedContent__text--expanded" data-testid="contentContainer" style="box-sizing: border-box; max-height: none; overflow: hidden visible; word-break: break-word;" tabindex="-1"><div class="DetailsLayoutRightParagraph" style="box-sizing: border-box; display: grid; gap: 1.7%; grid-template-columns: repeat(var(--num-right-col), minmax(0, 1fr)); margin-left: calc(-1 * var(--right-col-left-offset)); padding-left: var(--right-col-left-offset);"><div class="DetailsLayoutRightParagraph__widthConstrained" style="box-sizing: border-box; grid-column: span 7 / auto;"><span class="Formatted" style="box-sizing: border-box;"><span style="color: red; font-family: georgia;">Amelie has always been a survivor, from losing her parents as a child in Paris to making it on her own in London. As she builds a life for herself, she is swept up into a glamorous lifestyle where she married the handsome billionaire Jed Hawthorne.<br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" />But then, Amelie wakes up in a pitch-black room, not knowing where she is. Why has she been taken? Who are her mysterious captors? And why does she soon feel safer here, imprisoned, than she had begun to feel with her husband Jed?</span></span></div></div></div><div class="" style="box-sizing: border-box;"></div></div></div><div class="BookPageMetadataSection__genres" data-testid="genresList" style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 3.2rem 0px;"><ul aria-label="Top genres for this book" class="CollapsableList" style="box-sizing: border-box; list-style: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><b style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: georgia;">Now for my two cents: I usually don't mind switching back between the past and the present in books, but I found myself a little bored with the parts where Amelie was in the room where she was held captive. That was because you had to get to the "past" parts to get any of inkling of what was going on. There was only so much a writer can do having someone describe a room in which they are locked. </b></ul></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: georgia;"><b>So, after awhile, it DID start moving but as the end came, I kind of felt underwhelmed. B.A. Paris will probably remain one of my automatic read authors but this one was just too slow and for me, unsatisfying at the end. Don't let that stop you, though. Seems a lot of people have enjoyed it so far on Goodreads! Thank you to the publisher and to NetGalley for this opportunity. No review was required. What are you reading?</b></span></div><br /><p></p>Deana Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16296434767624947481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-379391760190652774.post-6798161161313439502022-08-31T10:50:00.000-07:002022-08-31T10:50:09.294-07:00A Sliver of Darkness by C.J. Tudor<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTEoeP42f1nhg-JLW6CaIaVEtuLwjQL2wOUdhKCguLi1NA-tVjdB0DalPwThKTvaNSi2jXmfI8JGjXzLlfrsc2jJ9JfHWeIBJdH_MrdkfZnDGJF2GFEsZm7KNaikJCiMTYFaTz50NKOvTHjAXzUJs_iKHU08g4U1cpKWGL7WoVxddluGuN8S-8MoE0/s275/sliver.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="275" data-original-width="183" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTEoeP42f1nhg-JLW6CaIaVEtuLwjQL2wOUdhKCguLi1NA-tVjdB0DalPwThKTvaNSi2jXmfI8JGjXzLlfrsc2jJ9JfHWeIBJdH_MrdkfZnDGJF2GFEsZm7KNaikJCiMTYFaTz50NKOvTHjAXzUJs_iKHU08g4U1cpKWGL7WoVxddluGuN8S-8MoE0/s1600/sliver.jpg" width="183" /></a></div><p><br /></p><span style="color: red; font-family: helvetica;"><b>Hello, everyone! </b></span><p></p><p><span style="color: red; font-family: helvetica;"><b>I received this courtesy of NetGalley and Penguin Random House and I'm glad I did! I am a huge fan of C. J. Tudor and was so excited that she was coming out with a new book. Then, full disclosure, I saw that it was a collection of short stories, and was a tad disappointed, because I am not a fan of short stories. I usually never read them, but being that it was one of my favorite authors, I decided to give it a go. </b></span></p><p><span style="color: red; font-family: helvetica;"><b>I have to say, this is one collection of short stories I really enjoyed! They are all chilling and just fun to read! The description reads: </b></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box;">The debut short story collection from the acclaimed author of <i style="box-sizing: border-box;">The Chalk Man</i>, featuring ten bone-chilling and mind-bending tales</span></span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><b><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">Timeslips. Doomsday scenarios. Killer butterflies. C. J. Tudor's novels are widely acclaimed for their dark, twisty suspense plots, but with </span><i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">A Sliver of Darkness</i><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">, she pulls us even further into her dizzying imagination.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">In Final Course, the world has descended into darkness, but a group of old friends make time for one last dinner party. In Runaway Blues, thwarted love, revenge, and something very nasty stowed in a hat box converge. In Gloria, a strange girl at a service station endears herself to a cold-hearted killer, but can a leopard </span><i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">really</i><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"> change its spots? And in I'm Not Ted, a case of mistaken identity has unforeseen, fatal consequences.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">Riveting and explosively original, </span><i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">A Sliver of Darkness</i><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"> is C. J. Tudor at her most wicked and uninhibited (from Goodreads). </span></b></p><p><b><span style="color: red; font-family: helvetica;">So, not much to say without giving too much away, but this is going to be a good read for you on those crisp fall nights! It releases in November 2022, so make sure you pick it up, get a hot beverage, your favorite blanket and read this collection of spooky stories! </span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="color: red;">Thanks to Netgalley and to the publisher! I really enjoyed it! </span><br /></span></b> </p>Deana Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16296434767624947481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-379391760190652774.post-78199220345471761732022-07-29T21:01:00.001-07:002022-07-29T21:01:00.169-07:00The Librarian Spy by Madeline Martin<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ8n-RHQMtZwzEMrjGWAgH3U-lR6tWeqFxTPLmtzjSwcYl5-GQPmAeb17sH6LiRFPJI0RbJAZ_wFGeIbPKqJu6cWt4oysku0K5kLmjxGAE7dtNt34QAa73OCKU5-3PuXIcp90GqUaK8PMYnLfZHPQRBZcID6WW0EsravYoKFtffgH85YYSlROStAvc/s3700/Librarian%20Spy%20cover%20final.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3700" data-original-width="2434" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ8n-RHQMtZwzEMrjGWAgH3U-lR6tWeqFxTPLmtzjSwcYl5-GQPmAeb17sH6LiRFPJI0RbJAZ_wFGeIbPKqJu6cWt4oysku0K5kLmjxGAE7dtNt34QAa73OCKU5-3PuXIcp90GqUaK8PMYnLfZHPQRBZcID6WW0EsravYoKFtffgH85YYSlROStAvc/s320/Librarian%20Spy%20cover%20final.jpg" width="211" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #073763;"><b>Hello, all! </b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #073763;"><b>Today I bring to you The Librarian Spy by Madeline Martin. I was graciously given a copy by the publisher and as of yesterday, it's now available! </b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #073763;"><b><br /></b></span></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Book Summary:</b> From the New York Times bestselling
author of The Last Bookshop in London comes a moving new novel inspired by the
true history of America’s library spies of World War II.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Ava thought her job as a librarian at the Library of
Congress would mean a quiet, routine existence. But an unexpected offer from
the US military has brought her to Lisbon with a new mission: posing as a
librarian while working undercover as a spy gathering intelligence.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Meanwhile, in occupied France, Elaine has begun an
apprenticeship at a printing press run by members of the Resistance. It’s a job
usually reserved for men, but in the war, those rules have been forgotten. Yet
she knows that the Nazis are searching for the press and its printer in order
to silence them.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As the battle in Europe rages, Ava and Elaine find
themselves connecting through coded messages and discovering hope in the face
of war.<span style="background: white; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #073763; font-family: helvetica;"><b>Read on for an excerpt from the book! :) </b></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 10.5pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><br /></p></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #073763;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #073763;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #073763;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #073763;"><b>***********************************************************************************</b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #073763;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i>EXCERPT:</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #073763;"><b><br /></b></span></div><p></p><p class="Pa21" style="line-height: 130%;"><i><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif;"><b>April 1943<o:p></o:p></b></span></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<p class="Pa21" style="line-height: 130%;"><b><i><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif;">Washington, DC</span></i><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="Pa31" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Bembo Std";"><b>There
was nothing Ava Harper loved more than the smell of old books. The musty scent
of aging paper and stale ink took one on a journey through candlelit rooms of
manors set amid verdant hills or ancient castles with turrets that stretched up
to the vast, unknown heavens. These were tomes once cradled in the spread
palms of forefathers, pored over by scholars, devoured by students with a
rapacious appetite for learning. In those fragrant, yellowed pages were stories
of the past and eternal knowledge.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Default" style="line-height: 130%;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif;"><b> </b></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 130%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 130%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Bembo Std";"><b>It was a fortunate thing indeed
she was offered a job in the Rare Book Room at the Library of Congress where
the archaic aroma of history was forever present.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif;"><b>She strode through the middle
of three arches to where the neat rows of tables ran parallel to one another
and carefully gathered a stack of rare books in her arms. They were different
sizes and weights, their covers worn and pages uneven at the edges, and yet
somehow the pile seemed to fit together like the perfect puzzle. Regardless of
the patron who left them after having requested far more than was necessary for
an afternoon’s perusal.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><b><i><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Bembo Std";">Their
eyes were bigger than their brains. </span></i><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Bembo Std";">It was what her brother,
Daniel, had once proclaimed after Ava groused about the common phenomena—one
she herself had been guilty of—when he was home on leave.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Bembo Std";"><b>Ever
since, the phrase ran through her thoughts on each encounter of an abandoned
collection. Not that it was the fault of the patron. The philosophical greats
of old wouldn’t be able to glean that much information in an afternoon. But she
liked the expression regardless and how it always made her recall Daniel’s
laughing gaze as he said it.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 130%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 130%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Bembo Std";"><b>They’d both inherited their
mother’s moss green eyes, though Ava’s never managed to achieve that same
sparkle of mirth so characteristic of her older brother.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Default" style="line-height: 130%;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif;"><b> </b></span></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif;"><b>A glance at her watch
confirmed it was almost noon. A knot tightened in her stomach as she recalled
her brief chat with Mr. MacLeish earlier that day. A meeting with the Librarian
of Congress was no regular occurrence, especially when it was followed by the
scrawl of an address on a slip of paper and the promise of a new opportunity
that would suit her.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif;"><b>Whatever it was, she doubted
it would fit her better than her position in the Rare Book Room. She absorbed
lessons from these ancient texts, which she squeezed out at whim to aid patrons
unearth sought-after information. What could possibly appeal to her more?<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Default" style="line-height: 130%;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif;"><b>Ava approached the last table at the right and gently closed <i>La
Maison Reglée</i>, the worn leather cover smooth as butter beneath her
fingertips. The seventeenth century book was one of the many gastronomic texts
donated from the Katherine Golden Bitting collection. She had been a marvel of
a woman who utilized her knowledge in her roles at the Department of
Agriculture and the American Canners Association.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Bembo Std";"><b>Every
book had a story and Ava was their keeper. To leave her place there would be
like abandoning children.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Bembo Std";"><b>Robert
floated in on his pretentious cloud and surveyed the room with a critical eye.
She clicked off the light lest she be subjected to the sardonic flattening of
her coworker’s lips.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Bembo Std";"><b>He
held out his hand for <i>La Maison Reglée</i>, a look of irritation flickering
over his face.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Bembo Std";"><b>“I’ll
put it away.” Ava hugged it to her chest. After all, he didn’t even read
French. He couldn’t appreciate it as she did.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 130%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 130%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Bembo Std";"><b>She returned the tome to its
collection, the family reunited once more, and left the opulence of the
library. The crisp spring DC air embraced her as she caught the streetcar
toward the address printed in the Librarian of Congress’s own hand.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Default" style="line-height: 130%;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif;"><b> </b></span></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif;"><b>Ava arrived at 2430 E Street,
NW ten minutes before her appointment, which turned out to be beneficial
considering the hoops she had to jump through to enter. A stern man, whose
expression did not alter through their exchange, confronted her at a
guardhouse upon entry. Apparently, he had no more understanding of the meeting
than she.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif;"><b>Once finally allowed in, she
followed a path toward a large white-columned building.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Default" style="line-height: 130%;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif;"><b>Ava snapped the lid on her overactive imagination lest it get
the better of her—which it often did—and forced herself onward. After being
led through an open entryway and down a hall, she was left to sit in an office
possessing no more than a desk and two hardbacked wooden chairs. They made the
seats in the Rare Book Room seem comfortable by comparison. Clearly it was a
place made only for interviews.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif;"><b>But for what?<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif;"><b>Ava glanced at her watch.
Whoever she was supposed to meet was ten minutes late. A pang of regret
resonated through her at having left her book sitting on her dresser at home.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><b><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif;">She had only recently started
Daphne du Maurier’s </span><i><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Bembo Std";">Rebecca </span></i><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Bembo Std";">and
was immediately drawn in to the thrill of a young woman swept into an
unexpected romance. Ava’s bookmark rested temptingly upon the newly married
couple’s entrance to Manderley, the estate in Cornwall.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Bembo Std";"><b>The
door to the office flew open and a man whisked in wearing a gray, efficient
Victory suit—single breasted with narrow lapels and absent any cuffs or pocket
flaps—fashioned with as little fabric as was possible. He settled behind the
desk. “I’m Charles Edmunds, secretary to General William Donovan. You’re Ava
Harper?”<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Bembo Std";"><b>The
only name familiar of the three was her own. “I am.”<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Bembo Std";"><b>He
opened a file, sifted through a few papers, and handed her a stack. “Sign
these.”<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Bembo Std";"><b>“What
are they?” She skimmed over them and was met with legal jargon.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Bembo Std";"><b>“Confidentiality
agreements.”<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Bembo Std";"><b>“I
won’t sign anything I don’t read fully.” She lifted the pile.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Bembo Std";"><b>The
text was drier than the content of some of the more lackluster rare books at
the Library of Congress. Regardless, she scoured every word while Mr. Edmunds
glared irritably at her, as if he could will her to sign with his eyes. He
couldn’t, of course. She waited ten minutes for his arrival; he could wait
while she saw what she was getting herself into.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Default" style="line-height: 130%;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif;"><b>Everything indicated she would not share what was discussed in
the room about her potential job opportunity. It was nothing all too damning
and so she signed, much to the great, exhaling impatience of Mr. Edmunds.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif;"><b>“You speak German and
French.” He peered at her over a pair of black-rimmed glasses, his brown eyes
probing.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><b><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif;">“My father was something of a
linguist. I couldn’t help but pick them up.” A visceral ache stabbed at her
chest as a memory flitted through her mind from years ago—her father switching
to German in his excitement for an upcoming trip with her mother for their
twenty-year anniversary. </span><i><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Bembo Std";">That </span></i><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Bembo Std";">trip.
The one from which her parents had never returned.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Bembo Std";"><b>“And
you’ve worked with photographing microfilm.” Mr. Edmunds lifted his brows.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Bembo Std";"><b>A
frown of uncertainty tugged at her lips. When she first started at the Library
of Congress, her duties had been more in the area of archival than a typical
librarian role as she microfilmed a series of old newspapers that time was
slowly eroding. “I have, yes.”<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Bembo Std";"><b>“Your
government needs you,” he stated in a matter-of-fact manner that broached no
argument. “You are invited to join the Office of Strategic Services—the
OSS—under the information gathering program called the Interdepartmental
Committee for the Acquisition of Foreign Publications.”<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Bembo Std";"><b>Her
mind spun around to make sense of what he’d just said, but her mouth flew open
to offer its own knee-jerk opinion. “That’s quite the mouthful.”<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Bembo Std";"><b>“IDC
for short,” he replied without hesitation or humor. “It’s a covert operation
obtaining information from newspapers and texts in neutral territories to help
us gather intel on the Nazis.”<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Bembo Std";"><b>“Would
I require training?” she asked, unsure how knowing German equipped her to spy
on them.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 130%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 130%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Bembo Std";"><b>“You have all the training you
need as I understand it.”<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif;"><b>He began to reassemble the
file in front of him. “You would go to Lisbon.”<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif;"><b>“In Portugal?”<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif;"><b>He paused. “It is the only
Lisbon of which I am aware, yes.”<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif;"><b>No doubt she would have to
get there by plane. A shiver threatened to squeeze down her spine, but she
repressed it. “Why am I being recommended for this?”<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif;"><b>“Your ability to speak French
and German.” Mr. Edmunds held up his forefinger. “You know how to use
microfilm.” He ticked off another finger. “Fred Kilgour recommends your keen
intellect.” There went another finger.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif;"><b>That was a name she
recognized.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif;"><b>She aided Fred the prior year
when he was microfilming foreign publications for the Harvard University
Library. After the months she’d spent doing as much for the Library of Congress,
the process had been easy to share, and he had been a quick learner.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif;"><b>“And you’re pretty.” Mr.
Edmunds sat back in his chair, the final point made.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif;"><b>The compliment was as
unwarranted in such a setting as it was unwelcome. “What does my appearance have
to do with any of this?”<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif;"><b>He lifted a shoulder.
“Beauties like yourself can get what they want when they want it. Except when
you scowl like that.” He nodded his chin up. “You should smile more, Dollface.”<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif;"><b>That was about enough.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif;"><b>“I did not graduate top of my
class from Pratt and obtain a much sought-after position at the Library of
Congress to be called ‘Dollface.’” She pushed up to standing.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif;"><b>“And you’ve got steel in that
spine, Miss Harper.” Mr. Edmunds ticked the last finger.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Default" style="line-height: 130%;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif;"><b>She opened her mouth to retort, but he continued. “We need this
information so we best know how to fight the
Krauts. The sooner we have these details, the sooner this war can be
over.”<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif;"><b>She remained where she stood
to listen a little longer. No doubt he knew she would.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif;"><b>“You have a brother,” he went
on. “Daniel Harper, staff sergeant of C Company in Second Battalion, 506th
Parachute Infantry Regiment, in the 101st Airborne Division.”<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><b><i><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Bembo Std";">The
Airborne Division. </span></i><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Bembo Std";">Her brother had run toward the
fear of airplanes despite her swearing off them.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Bembo Std";"><b>“That’s
correct,” she said tightly. Daniel would never have been in the Army were it
not for her. He would be an engineer, the way he’d always wanted.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Bembo Std";"><b>Mr.
Edmunds took off his glasses and met her gaze with his small, naked eyes.
“Don’t you want him to come home sooner?”<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Bembo Std";"><b>It
was a dirty question meant to slice deep.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Bembo Std";"><b>And
it worked.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Default" style="line-height: 130%;"><b><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif;"><span> </span>The longer the war continued, the greater Daniel’s risk of being
killed or wounded. </span><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif;"><b>She’d done everything she
could to offer aid. When the ration was only voluntary, she had complied long
before it became law. She gave blood every few months, as soon as she was
cleared to do so again. Rather than dance and drink at the Elk Club like her
roommates, Ava spent all her spare time in the Production Corps with the Red
Cross, repairing uniforms, rolling bandages, and doing whatever was asked of
her to help their men abroad.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Default" style="line-height: 130%;"><b><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif;">She even wore red lipstick on a regular basis, springing for the
costly tube of Elizabeth Arden’s <i>Victory Red</i>, the civilian counterpart
to the <i>Montezuma Red </i>servicewomen were issued. Ruby lips were a derisive
biting of the thumb at Hitler’s war on made-up women. And she would do anything
to bite her thumb at that tyrant. </span><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif;"><b>Likely Mr. Edmunds was aware
of all this.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif;"><b>“You will be doing genuine
work in Lisbon that can help bring your brother and all our boys home.” Mr.
Edmunds got to his feet and held out his hand, a salesman with a silver tongue,
ready to seal the deal. “Are you in?”<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif;"><b>Ava looked at his hand. His
fingers were stubby and thick, his nails short and well-manicured.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif;"><b>“I would have to go on an
airplane, I’m assuming.”<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif;"><b>“You wouldn’t have to jump
out.” He winked.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif;"><b>Her greatest fear realized.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif;"><b>But Daniel had done far more
for her.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif;"><b>It was a single plane ride to
get to Lisbon. One measly takeoff and landing with a lot of airtime in
between. The bottoms of her feet tingled, and a nauseous swirl dipped in her
belly.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif;"><b>This was by far the least she
could do to help him as well as every other US service member. Not just the
men, but also the women whose roles were often equally as dangerous.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif;"><b>She lifted her chin, leveling
her own stare right back. “Don’t ever call me ‘Dollface’ again.”<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Pa41" style="line-height: 130%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif;"><b>“You got it, Miss Harper,” he
replied.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Default" style="line-height: 130%;"><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif;"><b>She extended her hand toward him and clasped his with a firm
grip, the way her father had taught her.
“I’m in.”<o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="Default" style="line-height: 130%;"><b><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif;">He grinned. “Welcome aboard.”</span><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="Default" style="line-height: 130%;"><b><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif;">***********************************************************************************************My two cents: I think this book had a great premise and will do very well. I don't like to be negative about books, and I will never be. However, this book wasn't for me. I was very excited about the subject matter but this one ran too slow for me and I left at about 39 percent. I really tried coming back to it a few times, but it just didn't grab me. BUT! That doesn't mean I don't think everyone will feel that way. I think a lot of people will love it. </span></b></p><p class="Default" style="line-height: 130%;"><b><span style="color: #211d1e; font-family: "Cambria",serif;">I want to thank the publisher for the opportunity. I am always grateful for the chance to read new books and share them! </span></b></p></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #073763;"><b>***********************************************************************************</b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #073763;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #073763;"><i>ABOUT THE AUTHOR: </i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #073763;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #073763;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRPT-3ew1115ekcK0b1Oo5WCYp8RdmCJAT3m3ZbAdFzPbA4vY5j3e1YhEA_2rHZHYxN03CwP_TH7a2BAzNuC6Bxxt1unQ1SI87ajpkagz5ysJ6h5RAlsQJdTpLNteK6rYu3Dfj7bttYupAtAmtdfrv6ZmvDUCGp1weyU5OjdA8qSSq-Ozh6pQIE4PN/s3088/MadelineMartinAuthorPic2022.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRPT-3ew1115ekcK0b1Oo5WCYp8RdmCJAT3m3ZbAdFzPbA4vY5j3e1YhEA_2rHZHYxN03CwP_TH7a2BAzNuC6Bxxt1unQ1SI87ajpkagz5ysJ6h5RAlsQJdTpLNteK6rYu3Dfj7bttYupAtAmtdfrv6ZmvDUCGp1weyU5OjdA8qSSq-Ozh6pQIE4PN/s320/MadelineMartinAuthorPic2022.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #073763;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b><span style="color: #0f1111; font-size: 12pt;">Madeline Martin</span></b><span style="color: #0f1111; font-size: 12pt;"> is a <i>New York Times </i>and international bestselling author of historical fiction novels and historical romance. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">She lives in sunny Florida with her two daughters, two incredibly spoiled cats and a husband so wonderful he's been dubbed Mr. Awesome. She is a die-hard history lover who will happily lose herself in research any day. When she's not writing, researching or 'moming', you can find her spending time with her family at Disney or sneaking a couple spoonfuls of Nutella while laughing over cat videos. She also loves travel, attributing her fascination with history to having spent most of her childhood as an Army brat in Germany.</span></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>Buy Links:<o:p></o:p></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><a href="https://www.sanmarcobooksandmore.com/event/madeline-martin-lit-chat?fbclid=IwAR3UofhvYCyNhYzfKPQINWSbhDoFEjG3X_N61Nj87AOX3Mv3C-S2u8qqrkQ" target="_blank"><span style="color: #0070c0;">San Marco Books, Signed Copies for Preorders!</span></a><strong><span style="background: white; color: #0070c0; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></strong></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><a href="https://storyandsong.handseller.com/home/bookdetailsin/9781335426918" target="_blank"><span style="color: #0070c0;">Story & Song Books, Signed Copies for Preorders!</span></a><strong><span style="background: white; 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margin-bottom: 0in;"><b> </b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>Social Links:<o:p></o:p></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><a href="https://madelinemartin.com/">Author Website</a><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">Twitter: <a href="https://twitter.com/MadelineMMartin"><span style="background: white; font-family: "Segoe UI", sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">@MadelineMMartin</span></a><span style="background: white; color: #536471; font-family: "Segoe UI", sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"></span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">Facebook: <a href="https://www.facebook.com/MadelineMartinAuthor"><span style="font-family: "inherit", serif;">@MadelineMartinAuthor</span><span style="background: white; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", sans-serif; font-size: 13pt;"> </span></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background: white;"><br /></span>Instagram: <a href="https://www.instagram.com/madelinemmartin/">@madelinemmartin</a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/12062937.Madeline_Martin">Goodreads</a></p></div></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #073763;"><b><br /></b></span></div><br /><p></p>Deana Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16296434767624947481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-379391760190652774.post-77753727880187705082022-02-05T16:17:00.005-08:002022-02-05T16:37:02.747-08:00The Liz Taylor Ring by Brenda Janowitz<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjsoXjY2jImxEPPdpchh8loa3d0uSNQbbs6demMbgbBleaV6FFCJVpUlrptdLJW9K9ewdp-SVHKO78SlxNfIinCLad2Cz8V-OX1LyJuvYW8COUt6lcqaJWZGhwdNZGkFaKJLBYCbGwtIvYtmiOscIe259a88IXBbObBy805l60AKYzW1QClZoFihUGx=s612" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="612" data-original-width="612" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjsoXjY2jImxEPPdpchh8loa3d0uSNQbbs6demMbgbBleaV6FFCJVpUlrptdLJW9K9ewdp-SVHKO78SlxNfIinCLad2Cz8V-OX1LyJuvYW8COUt6lcqaJWZGhwdNZGkFaKJLBYCbGwtIvYtmiOscIe259a88IXBbObBy805l60AKYzW1QClZoFihUGx=s320" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: helvetica;"><b>The Liz Taylor Ring has a different kind of premise than I've been reading lately and I found that refreshing. Lizzie and Ritchie have a love story for the ages. Ritchie has a severe gambling problem that causes terrible friction and devastation during their marriage, but they always love each other and their three children, Addy, Nathan and Courtney. </b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: helvetica;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: helvetica;"><b>What follows is a journey about not only the ring, but the lives of the children and how their past has defined them. They learn about themselves and even more about their parents even after they thought they knew everything. </b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: helvetica;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: helvetica;"><b>I really enjoyed this book. I thought it was paced just right and it was written in a way that made me want to know what exactly happened to the ring and how the siblings would work it all out. It also teaches an age old lesson of something we should already know but forget: everyone is going through something at any given time so we should be cognizant of that when we treat people the way we do. We also learn great lessons about family and forgiveness. This is my first Brenda Janowitz story and it won't be my last. I think a lot of people will enjoy the lifelong journey of Lizzie and Ritchie and then seeing the different viewpoints of the siblings. Thank you to Netgalley and to the publisher. </b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: helvetica;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: helvetica;"><b>Here is an excerpt for you! </b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: helvetica;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span id="docs-internal-guid-0d75b25b-7fff-b8d1-0b63-300844f4e1cc"><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #ffa400;">Addy looked at herself in the mirror. Surely every woman looked like a wet dog after getting their hair washed at the hairdresser, didn’t they? </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #ffa400;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #ffa400;">She examined the lines of her face, the rings under her eyes. She looked tired. She looked old. She didn’t look like herself anymore. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #ffa400;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #ffa400;">“Just to lighten you up a bit,” Roberto said, running his hands through her hair. He’d been styling her hair since she was nineteen—just over twenty years—and his pleas to color it had gotten more insistent as of late. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #ffa400;">But she would not be one of those women who colored her hair. She simply would not. After all, she had daughters to raise, twin girls who were sixteen years old. She had to set a good example. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #ffa400;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #ffa400;">“You know how I feel about coloring my hair.” </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #ffa400;">“Remind me again.” </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #ffa400;">“It’s antifeminist.” </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #ffa400;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #ffa400;">“Coloring your hair does not have to be a political statement,” he said, self-consciously examining his own hairline, receding ever so slightly, in the mirror. “Forty is the new thirty, you know.”</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #ffa400;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #ffa400;">“I’m forty-one.” Addy pressed her fingers to the lines that led from the edge of her lip, up to the side of her nose. Marionette lines, they called them. As if women were just wooden dolls, controlled by a master. Most women her age had already started Botox and fillers. They threw Botox parties at each other’s houses, getting shot up by people who weren’t even doctors. Still, they looked good. Better than she did.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #ffa400;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #ffa400;">“Oh, well, forty-one’s the new sixty.” They both laughed.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #ffa400;">“Just a trim.”</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #ffa400;">“I could easily make you look the way you looked when we first met. It would only take an hour.”</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #ffa400;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="color: #ffa400;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When Roberto referenced </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">when we first met, </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">he meant the summer she turned nineteen. When she let her blond hair lighten in the sun, when it flowed in wavy bursts down her back. She could let her hair dry naturally and it would still look like it had been professionally done. She walked into the salon carefree, unencumbered by kids’ schedules, what to make for dinner that night, and college funds. She walked into the salon with a smile on her face, open to the possibilities of life in a way she could no longer fathom now. That’s how he saw her. That’s how he remembered that summer.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #ffa400;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #ffa400;">That’s not what Addy remembered. It was the summer after freshman year of college, and she’d come home to work with her dad, to learn how to run a retail store. Her father was still learning the retail game himself. Recently sworn off gambling and desperate for a job (a real job, not one of those get-rich-quick schemes he’d been chasing since the day he met her mother), he’d gotten the place for a steal from a friend of the family. It was a small store in the center of their Long Island town, filled with fast fashion. The sort of clothes that were ridiculously trendy and would go out of style in a season. (Which was good, because the quality only lasted a season, too.) </span></span></p><span style="color: #ffa400;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #ffa400;">He called the store “Lizzie and Ritchie’s” in a romantic gesture, and new to the retail game, he did all the books by hand. Addy was dying to put her digital marketing class to use, and when she told her father that one of her classmates had started a website and then quit school because the company took off, he wanted in. She got him onto QuickBooks, created a website, modeled all the clothing herself, and turned Lizzie and Ritchie’s into a dot-com. Ritchie barely understood what his daughter was doing, but he humored her because he loved her so much. He humored her because he was a doting father who hated to say no to his daughter. (Also, she was the smart one.)</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #ffa400;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #ffa400;">Within a month, he understood. They could barely keep up with the online demand, and Addy brokered a deal with a classmate from Texas, whose family owned a manufacturing plant, to start making the clothing themselves. Within six months, Addy was back at school, and Ritchie had expanded his operation to a team of four. Within a year, the store was a half a million dollar a year business. Within three years, he expanded his team to ten. Within five years, his company—one brick-and-mortar shop and an online store—was a multimillion dollar enterprise.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #ffa400;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #ffa400;">And it was all because of Addy.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #ffa400;">“We don’t even have to go to your old color,” Roberto said, pulling up a picture of a model on his phone. “We could make you a buttery dirty blond.”</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #ffa400;">“Showing my girls that I’m ashamed to get older is not the example I want to set,” Addy said, even though the sound of butter and dirt was intriguing.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #ffa400;">“Your girls are all over Instagram giving Gigi and Bella a run for their money.”</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #ffa400;">“The modeling thing is just for fun,” Addy explained, as she’d explained to countless other people countless other times. “Gary really started having them do it to build their confidence.” (And </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #ffa400;">because Addy was now too old to model the clothes herself, but better to leave that part unsaid.)</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #ffa400;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="color: #ffa400;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I’d say they’re confident enough. Have you seen this?” He turned his phone toward Addy, and she immediately recognized it as the Lizzie and Ritchie’s Instagram page. A picture of her girls filled the screen: the clothes were beside the point (but they </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">were </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">wearing clothes, weren’t they?) as they stood, legs wide apart, mouths open, thumbs tugging on their bottom lips. The image was bold. It was strong. It was undeniably sexual. Addy was horrified.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #ffa400;">“Of course I’ve seen that.” She had not. “At least they’re not coloring their hair.”</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #ffa400;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #ffa400;">“Are they eating?” Roberto closed the photo and began scrolling through their individual feeds.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #ffa400;">“Of course they eat.” When she was sixteen, Addy still had baby fat. Her girls had cheekbones like razor blades, bellies flat and taut. When she’d ask, Emma would laugh and explain how easy it was to manipulate the way you looked with makeup, camera angles, and filters. But Addy wasn’t so sure. “Lemme see that.”</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #ffa400;">As Roberto handed over his phone, Addy’s own phone rang out, the sound of an old-fashioned telephone filling the air.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #ffa400;">“Do you need to get that?” he asked, holding up her purse with the ringing phone inside.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #ffa400;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #ffa400;">“No,” she said, transfixed by the store’s Instagram account. And then, instantly remembering herself: “I mean yes.” Addy swapped phones with Roberto. “It could be the girls or their school.” Addy looked at the screen. It was a number she didn’t recognize. The exchange looked international, a jumble of extra numbers. “I can let this go to voice mail.”</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #ffa400;">It would be hours before she remembered to check her messages. Long after her girls came home from school. After her husband came home from work. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #ffa400;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="color: #ffa400;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">After she cooked dinner and </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">served it. After she fell into bed at ten, too tired to stay up to watch TV with Gary. It wasn’t until the next morning, after breakfast, that she remembered to check her voice mail.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #ffa400;">And after that, nothing would be the same. </span></span></p><span style="color: #ffa400;"><br /><span style="font-family: "Bembo Std"; font-size: 10.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Excerpted from The Liz Taylor Ring by Brenda Janowitz, Copyright </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">©</span><span style="font-family: "Bembo Std"; font-size: 10.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> 2021 by Brenda Janowitz. Published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.</span></span></span></div><br /><p></p>Deana Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16296434767624947481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-379391760190652774.post-22188548131891574392022-02-04T19:04:00.001-08:002022-02-04T19:04:28.550-08:00The Couple at Number 9 by Clarie Douglas<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgO8r4-Bul966orPtajev5IMNS1E-Vlp9OwyXMRJ-Y5VJ-fHTJyMjSXKsVdlf9EB2yc_yW-JFf-m0lTqKPxO1ot5SnBXWbgndjkl1Wqn2Y7PkZkHJ1Mq_4GztUofFuw4liTlh8f9Bgc03z-jwrGi1pUfjkj0Eowy90u1XmJO-t7lFvePr9FBwt7Z-IO=s612" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="612" data-original-width="612" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgO8r4-Bul966orPtajev5IMNS1E-Vlp9OwyXMRJ-Y5VJ-fHTJyMjSXKsVdlf9EB2yc_yW-JFf-m0lTqKPxO1ot5SnBXWbgndjkl1Wqn2Y7PkZkHJ1Mq_4GztUofFuw4liTlh8f9Bgc03z-jwrGi1pUfjkj0Eowy90u1XmJO-t7lFvePr9FBwt7Z-IO=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p><span style="color: #351c75;"><b>The Couple at Number 9 was ...well hang on a second (lol). The story is about Saffy and her husband Tom who inherit a home from her grandmother Rose. Right off the bat the story takes off by telling the reader that there are two bodies in the garden of the home. That was enough to blow me away right there and it was practically right there on the first page. No beating around the bush here! </b></span></p><p><span style="color: #351c75;"><b>Saffy was really close to her grandmother, Rose, who is now, sadly, in an assisted care home suffering from dementia. Rose hadn't lived in the cottage at number 9 in decades. In fact, Saffys mother Lorna, doesn't ever remember living there either. So, either woman isn't going to be much help in telling anyone who these bodies belong to in her yard. </b></span></p><p><span style="color: #351c75;"><b>An investigation ensues and so does a journey into the past concerning Rose and Lorna when she was little. What could have happened back then to have not one, but two bodies in the yard? Who are they? I couldn't wait to find out. </b></span></p><p><span style="color: #351c75;"><b>Let me tell you, when I found out what happened my mouth dropped open and I don't mean in a bad way. I am a huge reader and sometimes I am incredulous when I get to the end of a book and think, "Is that IT?" NOT the case here. My mouth dropped open in shock. I was so thrilled with this clever unfolding of events. I had one issue in the book that seemed kind of forced, but otherwise this was a crazy ride and I mean that in a good way! It was so fun and if you want a really fast read with an ending that kept me guessing, this is for you. I really enjoyed it. This may have been my first Claire Douglas book but it won't be my last. Unfortunately, you will have to wait until late Summer 2022, but it will be worth it! </b></span></p><p><span style="color: #351c75;"><b>Thank you so much to NetGalley and to the publisher for this opportunity. No review was required. </b></span></p>Deana Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16296434767624947481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-379391760190652774.post-24014254769971957642022-01-09T15:56:00.001-08:002022-01-09T15:56:09.092-08:00The Foundling by Ann Leary<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjh3023vZwquypeQNL-bDjnr6bfVx2aTowXPpkL4MtC3_sceVJ2LAu4fPYHysdQjxkVNktnLPZ3NHatq35P8vBPNrsI9jMfvGPIHz8We5zTxjFS1dDb23LMk7ezfpIPfDTHWRguKoIbIM9Bg14xwsvZR1lVq8wzBC1CgSYyFj_lgX7wxvHcIZne9HfF=s1200" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="1200" height="336" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjh3023vZwquypeQNL-bDjnr6bfVx2aTowXPpkL4MtC3_sceVJ2LAu4fPYHysdQjxkVNktnLPZ3NHatq35P8vBPNrsI9jMfvGPIHz8We5zTxjFS1dDb23LMk7ezfpIPfDTHWRguKoIbIM9Bg14xwsvZR1lVq8wzBC1CgSYyFj_lgX7wxvHcIZne9HfF=w640-h336" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: georgia;">The Foundling by Ann Leary will not be available until May 2022, but I was lucky enough to get an advance copy from the wonderful Netgalley. First, a quick synopsis. </span></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: georgia;">Back in the 20's a hospital or "home" called the Nettleton State Village for Feebleminded Women of Childbearing Age exists for women who have been deemed "feebleminded" for whatever reason. Some do need help, but some are classified this way for other reasons that seemed to be "the norm" back then. I won't go into the whole thing, because that's part of the journey with the story. However, suffice to say, the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania thought it was doing society a favor by keeping this women from reproducing other humans that would cause havoc later. Hence, they kept them locked away during those childbearing years. </span></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: georgia;">The story really involves Mary who gets a job with the head of the institution, Dr. Vogel. Mary finally feels, after a life of being in an orphanage and then with some unloving relatives, that she has finally made it and on her way to becoming someone important. However, after working for awhile for Dr. Vogel, she recognizes someone from her time in the orphanage and has no idea why she would be in any facility with "feebleminded" in the title. What follows is an investigation into why this girl would be here and what can be done about her circumstances. Can Mary help her? Will Mary's perceptions of the institution, its work and Dr. Vogel shift? What about Mary's future? </span></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: georgia;">My two cents: I really loved this story. I have said before and I'll say it again, I LOVE stories that make me look more into a topic, place or issue. This was based on the author's grandmother's experience in a real institution that really did exist for this reason. It's hard to imagine this now, but it's important to know these things happened. From what happened to Mary to the other girls in the story to imagining that this kind of place really ran and operated for a long time kept me engrossed from beginning to end. I really think this is something that should be known and while it's educational, it was also a wonderful story where I felt very invested in the characters. Pick it up when it comes out May 2022. You won't be disappointed. </span></p>Deana Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16296434767624947481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-379391760190652774.post-55515459032255477222021-06-07T07:41:00.000-07:002021-06-07T07:41:09.786-07:00No Journey Too Far by Carrie Turansky<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDBcx_p4U-o6H51Aa951gcCsKaws06bNH-P8ORefaAYT70fUYP1-IkfkbFUMIXMjJn2YIbc2uYAqMgwsHOPu1G13RWWwHfYHh8n6mHENwXVyJ3y3cQE43HrzgzhN5tW6g2qucXaMfV3JA/s300/journey.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="201" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDBcx_p4U-o6H51Aa951gcCsKaws06bNH-P8ORefaAYT70fUYP1-IkfkbFUMIXMjJn2YIbc2uYAqMgwsHOPu1G13RWWwHfYHh8n6mHENwXVyJ3y3cQE43HrzgzhN5tW6g2qucXaMfV3JA/s0/journey.jpg" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p><span style="color: #741b47;"><b>What do I love best about books? Well, everything. But, I really love when I stumble across a topic I don't know about in a book and the writing makes me want to look more into that subject. In this case, the book focuses on the fact that around 1869, t</b></span><b style="color: #741b47;">housands of children, some homeless, some perceived to be and others who were neglected, were taken in by homes in England, then adopted out. Not only were they adopted out, they were sent to Canada and other countries. While some were fortunate and received good homes, others were simply taken in to become domestic and farm workers. This story depicts a fictional journey of a family torn apart by these true events. </b></p><p><span style="color: #741b47;"><b>Now, No Journey Too Far is the sequel to Ms. Turansky's book, No Ocean Too Wide, and while there's enough explanation through this book to understand the backstory, I HIGHLY recommend you read the first one before this. It just really delves in to the stories of Katie, Garth, and Grace deeply and you make a connection with them enough to want to know what happens in this one. </b></span></p><p><span style="color: #741b47;"><b>However, I'll just say that In </b></span><b style="color: #741b47;">No Ocean Too Wide, Garth, Katie, and Grace's mother falls ill and they are believed to be alone and neglected. </b><b style="color: #741b47;">They are taken into a home for children and sent to Canada. </b><b style="color: #741b47;"> I don't want to spoil too much but what follows in that book is the trials and heartbreak they face being separated from their mom and older sister, Laura. Laura already lives away from home working as a lady's maid. But, she hurries home in an attempt to reunite her family. </b></p><p><span style="color: #741b47;"><b>This book continues ten years after the first one and </b></span><b style="color: #741b47;">Garth is returning home from war with his friend Rob. They go on a huge journey to attempt to find Garth's youngest sister, Grace. Nobody has any knowledge of what happened to Grace when she was adopted by a couple. Again, no spoilers, but we get to see what happened to Grace and also get to follow Garth as he pursues his own happiness. I must add, much deserved happiness after all he has gone through. </b></p><p><b style="color: #741b47;">But, as we all know, no life comes without trouble and this is where faith and gratefulness for our blessings comes in. Garth, his girlfriend Emma, and Grace stand strong in their faith and belief that God is with them as multiple things happen and obstacles seem to stand in their way. Through it all, they stick together and show each other love and compassion and value the importance in their relationships. </b></p><p><b style="color: #741b47;">I received an advance copy of this story from Multnomah and I have to admit, I rushed to read the first story first and I am so glad I did. As far as my review, I really enjoyed finding out what happened to Grace and Garth and I am even more glad that I got to read them back to back because I don't think I would have wanted to wait that long between books (lol). Ms. Turansky always does a wonderful job in not only weaving a beautiful story, creating wonderful characters, but also throws just enough intrigue in the mix to keep you reading! </b></p><p><b style="color: #741b47;">Thank you to Multnomah and to Ms. Turansky for another great experience! </b></p><p><b style="color: #741b47;"><br /></b></p>Deana Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16296434767624947481noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-379391760190652774.post-57987624553291462772021-05-10T07:00:00.003-07:002021-05-30T18:57:21.302-07:00New Girl in Little Cove by Damhnait Monaghan<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyiKdnXb5zKhi1Vitsf1mPuhHZB_QyRZsOkMJ6dZRllDIi4fePvAw-uulVbtfGkmO9YS9I0bmAnrsSPrFfk7MIrISvymLwOf94tnEPkQ1tXpl8g0fwhPNtMZWlweih-XCXSDj-t-5kaDg/s2048/NGLC.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyiKdnXb5zKhi1Vitsf1mPuhHZB_QyRZsOkMJ6dZRllDIi4fePvAw-uulVbtfGkmO9YS9I0bmAnrsSPrFfk7MIrISvymLwOf94tnEPkQ1tXpl8g0fwhPNtMZWlweih-XCXSDj-t-5kaDg/s320/NGLC.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: red; font-family: helvetica;"><b>This book is about Rachel who left her home and life behind in a hurry. She needed a change due to multiple things that I won't spoil here, but she finds herself in Little Cove, in Newfoundland. It's a very small town where everyone knows everyone and everyone's business. </b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: red; font-family: helvetica;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: red; font-family: helvetica;"><b>Rachel is there to take over as a French teacher in a Catholic school when the previous teacher left amidst scandal. Not everyone is welcoming in Little Cove, but most are and Rachel starts building a life in the small village. </b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: red; font-family: helvetica;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: red; font-family: helvetica;"><b>The story started out beyond charming. The author did an amazing job creating the characters. The residents of Little Cove seemed real to me. Side note: I really loved Lucille. All of the older people in Little Cove are people that I would like to spend time with, too! </b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: red; font-family: helvetica;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: red; font-family: helvetica;"><b>This was truly a fast read and shares a lot of lessons in compassion, friendship, forgiveness and moving on. All good things in a story and lesson. I think some may feel uncomfortable with some of the things Rachel was running from but no judgement. I just wanted to know if, in the author's mind, does she feel that Rachel would have told Doug everything about her past? </b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: red; font-family: helvetica;"><b><br />Otherwise, this was a great read. I really appreciate the opportunity from the publisher. All opinions are my own and no review was required. On sale May 11! Read on for an excerpt! Enjoy! </b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: red; font-family: helvetica;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: red; font-family: helvetica;"><b>***********************************************************************************************************</b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: red; font-family: helvetica;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica;"><p align="center" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 36pt;">1
</span>
</p>
<p align="center" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p align="center" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Caveat, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">September
1985 </span></span>
</p>
<p align="center" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Caveat, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Little
Cove: Population 389 </span></span>
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">The battered sign came into view as my
car crested a hill on the gravel road. Only 389 people? Damn. I
pulled over and got out of the car, inhaling the moist air. Empty
boats tilted against the wind in the bay below. A big church
dominated the valley, beside which squatted a low, red building, its
windows dark, like a row of rotten teeth. This was likely St. Jude’s,
where tomorrow I would begin my teaching career.
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“You lost?”
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I whirled around. A
gaunt man, about sixty, straddled a bike beside me. He wore denim
overalls and his white hair was combed neatly back from his forehead.
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Car broke down?”
he continued.
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“No,” I said.
“I’m just … ” My voice trailed off. I could hardly confide my
second thoughts to this stranger. “…admiring the view.”</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">He looked past me
at the flinty mist now spilling across the bay. A soft rain began to
fall, causing my carefully straightened hair to twist and curl like a
mass of dark slugs.
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Might want to
save that for a fine day,” he said. His accent was strong, but
lilting. “It’s right mauzy today.”
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Mossy?”
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Mauzy.” He
gestured at the air around him. Then he folded his arms across his
chest and gave me a once-over. “Now then,” he said. “What’s a
young one like you doing out this way?”
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I’m not that
young,” I shot back. “I’m the new French teacher out here.”
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">A smile softened
his wrinkled face. “Down from Canada, hey?”
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">As far as I knew,
Newfoundland was still part of Canada, but I nodded.
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Phonse Flynn,”
he said, holding out a callused hand. “I’m the janitor over to
St. Jude’s.”
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Rachel,” I
said. “Rachel O’Brien.”
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I knows you’re
staying with Lucille,” he said. “I’ll show you where she’s
at.”
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">With an agility
that belied his age, he dismounted and gently lowered his bike to the
ground. Then he pointed across the bay. “Lucille’s place is over
there, luh.”
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Above a sagging
wharf, I saw a path that cut through the rocky landscape towards a
smattering of houses. I’d been intrigued at the prospect of a
boarding house; it sounded Dickensian. Now I was uneasy. What if it
was awful?
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“What about your
bike?” I asked, as Phonse was now standing by the passenger-side
door of my car.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Ah, sure it’s
grand here,” he said. “I’ll come back for it by and by.”
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Aren’t you
going to lock it?”
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I thought of all
the orphaned bike wheels locked to racks in Toronto, their frames
long since ripped away. Jake had been livid when his racing bike was
stolen. Not that I was thinking about Jake. I absolutely was not.
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“No need to lock
anything ’round here,” said Phonse.
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I fumbled with my
car keys, embarrassed to have locked the car from habit.
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Need some help?”</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“The lock’s a
bit stiff,” I said. “I’ll get used to it.”
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Phonse waited while
I jiggled in vain. Then he walked around and held out his hand. I
gave him the key, he stuck it in and the knob on the inside of the
car door popped up immediately.
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Handyman, see,”
he said. “Wants a bit of oil, I allows. But like I said, no need to
lock ’er. Anyway, with that colour, who’d steal it?” I had
purchased the car over the phone, partly for its price, partly for
its colour. Green had been Dad’s favourite colour, and when the
salesman said mountain green, I’d imagined a dark, verdant shade.
Instead, with its scattered rust garnishes, the car looked like a
bowl of mint chocolate chip ice cream. Still, it would fit right in.
I eyeballed the houses as we drove along: garish orange, lime green,
blinding yellow. Maybe there had been a sale on paint.
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">As we passed the
church, Phonse blessed himself, fingers moving from forehead to
chest, then on to each shoulder. I kept both hands firmly on the
steering wheel.
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Where’s the
main part of Little Cove?” I asked.
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“You’re looking
at it.”</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">There was nothing
but a gas station and a takeout called MJ’s, where a clump of
teenagers was gathered outside, smoking. A tall, dark-haired boy
pointed at my car and they all turned to stare. A girl in a lumber
jacket raised her hand. I waved back before I realized she was giving
me the finger. Embarrassed, I peeked sideways at Phonse. If he’d
noticed, he didn’t let on.
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Although Phonse was
passenger to my driver, I found myself thinking of Matthew Cuthbert
driving Anne Shirley through Avonlea en route to Green Gables. Not
that I’d be assigning romantic names to these landmarks. Anne’s
“Snow Queen” cherry tree and “Lake of Shining Waters” were
nowhere to be seen. It was more like Stunted Fir Tree and Sea of Grey
Mist. And I wasn’t a complete orphan; it merely felt that way.
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">At the top of a
hill, Phonse pointed to a narrow dirt driveway on the right. “In
there, luh.”
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I parked in front
of a small violet house encircled by a crooked wooden fence. A rusty
oil tank leaned into the house, as if seeking shelter. When I got
out, my nose wrinkled at the fishy smell. Phonse joined me at the
back of the car and reached into the trunk for my suitcases.
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Gentle Jaysus in
the garden,” he grunted. “What have you got in here at all?
Bricks?” He lurched ahead of me towards the house, refusing my
offer of help.
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">The contents of my
suitcases had to last me the entire year; now I was second-guessing
my choices. My swimsuit and goggles? I wouldn’t be doing lengths in
the ocean. I looked at the mud clinging to my sneakers and regretted
the suede dress boots nestled in tissue paper. But I knew some of my
decisions had been right: a raincoat, my portable cassette player,
stacks of homemade tapes, my hair straighteners and a slew of books.
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">When Phonse reached
the door, he pushed it open, calling, “Lucille? I got the new
teacher here. I expect she’s wore out from the journey.” As he
heaved my bags inside, a stout woman in a floral apron and slippers
appeared: Lucille Hanrahan, my boarding house lady.
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Phonse, my son,
bring them bags upstairs for me now,” she said.
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I said I would take
them but Lucille shooed me into the hall, practically flapping her
tea towel at me. “No, girl,” she said. “You must be dropping,
all the way down from Canada. Let’s get some grub in you before you
goes over to the school to see Mr. Donovan.”
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Patrick Donovan,
the school principal, had interviewed me over the phone. I was eager
to meet him.
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Oh, did he
call?” I asked.
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“No.”
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Lucille smoothed
her apron over her belly, then called up the stairs to ask Phonse if
he wanted a cup of tea. There was a slow beat of heavy boots coming
down. “I’ll not stop this time,” said Phonse. “But Lucille,
that fence needs seeing to.”
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Lucille batted her
hand at him. “Go way with you,” she said. “It’s been falling
down these twenty years or more.” But as she showed him out, they
talked about possible repairs, the two of them standing outside,
pointing and gesturing, oblivious to the falling rain.
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">A lump of mud fell
from my sneaker, and I sat down on the bottom step to remove my
shoes. When Lucille returned, she grabbed the pair, clacked them
together outside the door to remove the remaining mud, then lined
them up beside a pair of sturdy ankle boots.
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I followed her down
the hall to the kitchen, counting the curlers that dotted her head,
pink outposts in a field of black and grey.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Sit down over
there, luh,” she said, gesturing towards a table and chairs shoved
against the back window. I winced at her voice; it sounded like the
classic two-pack-a-day rasp.
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">The fog had
thickened, so nothing was visible outside; it was like watching
static on TV. There were scattered cigarette burns on the vinyl
tablecloth and worn patches on the linoleum floor. A religious
calendar hung on the wall, a big red circle around today’s date.
September’s pin-up was Mary, her veil the exact colour of Lucille’s
house. I was deep in Catholic territory, all right. I hoped I could
still pass for one.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p align="center" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Excerpted
from New Girl in Little Cove by Damhnait Monaghan, Copyright </span></span><span style="font-family: Roboto, serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">©</span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">
2021 by Damhnait Monaghan</span></span></p>
<p align="center" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Published
by Graydon House Books</span></span></p></span></div><br /><p></p><div><span style="color: red; font-family: helvetica;">***********************************************************************************************************</span></div><div><span style="color: red; font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica;"><b>ABOUT THE AUTHOR</b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="width: 597px;">
<colgroup><col width="597"></col>
</colgroup><tbody><tr>
<td height="45" style="border: none; padding: 0in;" valign="top" width="597">
<p><b>DAMHNAIT MONAGHAN</b> was once a mainlander who taught in a
small fishing village in Newfoundland. A former teacher and
lawyer, Monaghan has almost sixty publication credits, including
flash fiction, creative non-fiction, and short stories. Her short
prose has won or placed in various writing competitions and has
been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best Small Fictions, and Best
Microfictions. <i>New Girl in Little Cove</i> placed in the top
six from more than 350 entries in the 2019 International Caledonia
Novel Award.
</p>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody></table></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNMI-poX090PcWCybBZEODUg9HIDAbHK7xnSSr6MxTuyLWeT4i1XqfwfnhQeO1tOw_uvRvcLMn9ufH6ZF2W_Dc7t1O6dHZ7tLUWB1vgivi5nlWwDpWfk9kGdQ0vAGNsrV9mfAt4onOcto/s2048/dm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1388" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNMI-poX090PcWCybBZEODUg9HIDAbHK7xnSSr6MxTuyLWeT4i1XqfwfnhQeO1tOw_uvRvcLMn9ufH6ZF2W_Dc7t1O6dHZ7tLUWB1vgivi5nlWwDpWfk9kGdQ0vAGNsrV9mfAt4onOcto/s320/dm.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>Social Links:</b></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><a href="https://www.damhnaitmonaghan.com/"><span style="color: #1155cc;"><u>Author
Website</u></span></a></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Twitter: <a href="https://twitter.com/Downith"><span style="color: #1155cc;"><u>@Downith</u></span></a></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Instagram: <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/CNCssEOALsg/"><span style="color: #1155cc;"><u>@Downith1</u></span></a></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Facebook: <a href="https://www.facebook.com/AuthorDMonaghan"><span style="color: #1155cc;"><u>@AuthorDMonaghan</u></span></a></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/19052424.Damhnait_Monaghan?from_search=true&from_srp=true"><span style="color: #1155cc;"><u>Goodreads</u></span></a></p></div><div><br /></div><span style="color: red;">**********************************************************************************</span><div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><b>WHERE TO BUY</b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>Buy Links: </b>
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><a href="https://bookshop.org/books/new-girl-in-little-cove-9781525811500/9781525811500"><span style="color: #1155cc;"><u>BookShop.org</u></span></a></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><a href="https://www.harlequin.com/shop/books/9781525811500_new-girl-in-little-cove.html"><span style="color: #1155cc;"><u>Harlequin
</u></span></a>
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/new-girl-in-little-cove-damhnait-monaghan/1136932343?ean=9781525811500"><span style="color: #1155cc;"><u>Barnes
& Noble</u></span></a></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/New-Girl-Little-Cove-Novel/dp/1525811509/ref=sr_1_1?crid=3BPYVNL7RNXNU&dchild=1&keywords=new+girl+in+little+cove&qid=1617217374&s=books&sprefix=new+girl+in+li%2Cstripbooks%2C145&sr=1-1"><span style="color: #1155cc;"><u>Amazon</u></span></a></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><a href="https://www.booksamillion.com/p/New-Girl-Little-Cove/Damhnait-Monaghan/9781525811500?id=7670068459528"><span style="color: #1155cc;"><u>Books-A-Million</u></span></a></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><a href="https://www.powells.com/book/new-girl-in-little-cove-a-novel-9781525811500"><span style="color: #1155cc;"><u>Powell’s</u></span></a></p></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Deana Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16296434767624947481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-379391760190652774.post-23505875425811472392021-05-03T10:17:00.001-07:002021-05-03T10:35:18.969-07:00The Woman With the Blue Star by Pam Jenoff<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLGXOlmjZ1npYteHouqEWg5WlMntu14TFb4eqxOnae93yDOtM_HX3wLqkdQFfTexKxl45rIvCiT7QoBYzLa-PGmrkR5BVJsEalUJ9dEFle7shlNy1b7N_BQa2Eep5X0kk5haWBd7Eijo4/s612/woman+star.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="612" data-original-width="612" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLGXOlmjZ1npYteHouqEWg5WlMntu14TFb4eqxOnae93yDOtM_HX3wLqkdQFfTexKxl45rIvCiT7QoBYzLa-PGmrkR5BVJsEalUJ9dEFle7shlNy1b7N_BQa2Eep5X0kk5haWBd7Eijo4/s320/woman+star.jpeg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><b>Well, now that I finished the book, I can breathe. I felt like I was holding my breath the whole time. First, a quick synopsis...Sadie and her family are in the middle of World War II and the Germans have invaded Poland. There is no choice for Sadie and her family but to hide underground...in the sewers of </b></span><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><b><span style="background-color: white;">Kraków. One day, a young woman named Ella sees Sadie through one of the grates in the sewer. Ella is facing her own troubles during the war what with her family and her boyfriend Krys, who is away at war. Both young women have seen heartbreak and face a very uncertain future. What follows is a tale of friendship, compassion and unbelievable courage. </span></b></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><b><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></b></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><b><span style="background-color: white;">I can't rave about this book enough. First of all, this type of thing really did happen in the Holocaust. While I may have known that Jewish families hid, I had no idea that people took to the sewers beneath the street. That is absolutely unfathomable to me. We're not talking for a night or two either. The author notes at the end of the book that there is a non-fiction book about families who lived in the sewers for months, and sometimes even a year or two. Can you even begin to imagine this? Honestly, I don't think I would make it. </span></b></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica;"><b>I rarely give a book 5 stars on Goodreads, but if there were more to give for this book, I would have. I felt shock, horror, disbelief, love, hope, gratefulness...ALL the feelings. This book took me on such an emotional roller coaster. I can't even begin to describe it. The characters were wonderful and the story is a bittersweet all encompassing experience. The way the author wrote this story made me feel like I was WITH Sadie. And, no spoilers, but the way the author wrapped things up? Well, there are no words. This is what books are supposed to be in my opinion. I felt so vested in the story and the characters that when I was finished the book, I was sad to leave them. </b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica;"><b>Read on for Chapter 1 of the story and a Q & A with the author. Thank you to Harper Collins for the advanced copy and I mean THANK YOU! All opinions are my own and no review is was required. </b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red;"><b><u>CHAPTER 1-EXCERPT</u></b></span></div><span><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sadie</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Kraków, Poland March 1942</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Everything changed the day they came for the children.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I was supposed to have been in the attic crawl space of the three-story building we shared with a dozen other families in the ghetto. Mama helped me hide there each morning before she set out to join the factory work detail, leaving me with a fresh bucket as a toilet and a stern admonishment not to leave. But I grew cold and restless alone in the tiny, frigid space where I couldn’t run or move or even stand straight. The minutes stretched silently, broken only by a scratching—unseen children, years younger than me, stowed on the other side of the wall. They were kept separate from one another without space to run and play. They sent each other messages by tapping and scratching, though, like a kind of improvised Morse code. Sometimes, in my boredom, I joined in, too.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Freedom is where you find it,” my father often said when I complained. Papa had a way of seeing the world exactly as he wanted. “The greatest prison is in our mind.” It was easy for him to say. Though he manual ghetto labor was a far cry from his professional work as an accountant before the war, at least he was out and about each day, seeing other people. Not cooped up like me. I had scarcely left our apartment building since we were forced to move six months earlier from our apartment in the Jewish Quarter near the city center to the Podgórze neighborhood where the ghetto had been established on the southern bank of the river. I wanted a normal life, my life, free to run beyond the walls of the ghetto to all of the places I had once known and taken for granted. I imagined taking the tram to the shops on the Rynek or to the </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">kino </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">to see a film, exploring the ancient grassy mounds on the outskirts of the city. I wished that at least my best friend, Stefania, was one of the others hidden nearby. Instead, she lived in a separate apartment on the other side of the ghetto designated for the families of the Jewish police.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It wasn’t boredom or loneliness that had driven me from my hiding place this time, though, but hunger. I had always had a big appetite and this morning’s breakfast ration had been a half slice of bread, even less than usual. Mama had offered me her portion, but I knew she needed her strength for the long day ahead on the labor detail.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 12pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As the morning wore on in my hiding place, my empty belly had begun to ache. Visions pushed into my mind uninvited of the foods we ate before the war: rich mushroom soup and savory borscht, and pierogi, the plump, rich dumplings my grandmother used to make. By midmorning, I felt so weak from hunger that I had ventured out of my hiding place and down to the shared kitchen on the ground floor, which was really nothing more than a lone working stove burner and a sink that dripped tepid brown water. I didn’t go to take food—even if there had been any, I would never steal. Rather, I wanted to see if there were any crumbs left in the cupboard and to fill my stomach with a glass of water.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I stayed in the kitchen longer than I should, reading the dog-eared copy of the book I’d brought with me. The thing I detested most about my hiding place in the attic was the fact that it was too dark for reading. I had always loved to read and Papa had carried as many books as he could from our apartment to the ghetto, over the protests of my mother, who said we needed the space in our bags for clothes and food. It was my father who had nurtured my love of learning and encouraged my dream of studying medicine at Jagiellonian University before the German laws made that impossible, first by banning Jews and later by closing the university altogether. Even in the ghetto at the end of his long, hard days of labor, Papa loved to teach and discuss ideas with me. He had somehow found me a new book a few days earlier, too, </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Count of Monte Cristo</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. But the hiding place in the attic was too dark for me to read and there was scarcely any time in the evening before curfew and lights-out. </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Just a bit longer</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, I told myself, turning the page in the kitchen. A few minutes wouldn’t matter at all.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I had just finished licking the dirty bread knife when I heard heavy tires screeching, followed by barking voices. I froze, nearly dropping my book. The SS and Gestapo were outside, flanked by the vile Jüdischer Ordnungsdienst, Jewish Ghetto Police, who did their bidding. It was an </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">aktion</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, the sudden unannounced arrest of large groups of Jews to be taken from the ghetto to camps. The very reason I was meant to be hiding in the first place. I raced from the kitchen, across the hall and up the stairs. From below came a great crash as the front door to the apartment building splintered and the police burst through. There was no way I could make it back to the attic in time.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 12pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Instead, I raced to our third-floor apartment. My heart pounded as I looked around desperately, wishing for an armoire or other cabinet suitable for hiding in the tiny room, which was nearly bare except for a dresser and bed. There were other places, I knew, like the fake plaster wall one of the other families had constructed in the adjacent building not a week earlier. That was too far away now, impossible to reach. My eyes focused on the large steamer trunk stowed at the foot of my parents’ bed. Mama had shown me how to hide there once shortly after we first moved to the ghetto. We practiced it like a game, Mama opening the trunk so that I could climb in before she closed the lid.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The trunk was a terrible hiding place, exposed and in the middle of the room. But there was simply nowhere else. I had to try. I raced over to the bed and climbed into the trunk, then closed the lid with effort. I thanked heavens that I was tiny like Mama. I had always hated being so petite, which made me look a solid two years younger than I actually was. Now it seemed a blessing, as did the sad fact that the months of meager ghetto rations had made me thinner. I still fit in the trunk.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When we had rehearsed, we had envisioned Mama putting a blanket or some clothes over the top of the trunk. Of course, I couldn’t do that myself. So the trunk sat unmasked for anyone who walked into the room to see and open. I curled into a tiny ball and wrapped my arms around myself, feeling the white armband with the blue star on my sleeve that all Jews were required to wear.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">There came a great crashing from the next building, the sound of plaster being hewn by a hammer or ax. The police had found the hiding place behind the wall, given away by the too-fresh paint. An unfamiliar cry rang out as a child was found and dragged from his hiding place. If I had gone there, I would have been caught as well.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 12pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Someone neared the door to the apartment and flung it open. My heart seized. I could hear breathing, feel eyes searching the room. </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m sorry, Mama</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, I thought, feeling her reproach for having left the attic. I braced myself for discovery. Would they go easier on me if I came out and gave myself up? The footsteps grew fainter as the German continued down the hall, stopping before each door, searching.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The war had come to Kraków one warm fall day two and a half years earlier when the air-raid sirens rang out for the first time and sent the playing children scurrying from the street. Life got hard before it got bad. Food disappeared and we waited in long lines for the most basic supplies. Once there was no bread for a whole week.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Then about a year ago, upon orders from the General Government, Jews teemed into Kraków by the thousands from the small towns and villages, dazed and carrying their belongings on their backs. At first I wondered how they would all find places to stay in Kazimierz, the already cramped Jewish Quarter of the city. But the new arrivals were forced to live by decree in a crowded section of the industrial Podgórze district on the far side of the river that had been cordoned off with a high wall. Mama worked with the </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Gmina</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, the local Jewish community organization, to help them resettle, and we often had friends of friends over for a meal when they first arrived, before they went to the ghetto for good. They told stories from their hometowns too awful to believe and Mama shooed me from the room so I would not hear.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 12pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Several months after the ghetto was created, we were ordered to move there as well. When Papa told me, I couldn’t believe it. We were not refugees, but residents of Kraków; we had lived in our apartment on Meiselsa Street my entire life. It was the perfect location: on the edge of the Jewish Quarter but easy walking distance to the sights and sounds of the city center and close enough to Papa’s office on Stradomska Street that he could come home for lunch. Our apartment was above an adjacent café where a pianist played every evening. Sometimes the music spilled over and Papa would whirl Mama around the kitchen to the faint strains. But according to the orders, Jews were Jews. One day. One suitcase each. And the world I had known my entire life disappeared forever.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I peered out of the thin slit opening of the trunk, trying to see across the tiny room I shared with my parents. We were lucky, I knew, to have a whole room to ourselves, a privilege we had been given because my father was a labor foreman. Others were forced to share an apartment, often two or three families together. Still, the space felt cramped compared to our real home. We were ever on top of one another, the sights and sounds and smells of daily living magnified.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Kinder, raus!” </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">the police called over and over again now as they patrolled the halls. </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Children, out. </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It was not the first time the Germans had come for children during the day, knowing that their parents would be at work.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But I was no longer a child. I was eighteen and might have joined the work details like others my age and some several years younger. I could see them lining up for roll call each morning before trudging to one of the factories. And I </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">wanted </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">to work, even though I could tell from the slow, painful way my father now walked, stooped like an old man, and how Mama’s hands were split and bleeding that it was hard and awful. Work meant a chance to get out and see and talk to people. My hiding was a subject of much debate between my parents. Papa thought I should work. Labor cards were highly prized in the ghetto. Workers were valued and less likely to be deported to one of the camps. But Mama, who seldom fought my father on anything, had forbidden it. “She doesn’t look her age. The work is too hard. She is safest out of sight.” I wondered as I hid now, about to be discovered at any second, if she would still think she was right.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 12pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The building finally went silent, the last of the awful footsteps receding. Still I didn’t move. That was one of the ways they trapped people who were hiding, by pretending to go away and lying in wait when they came out. I remained motionless, not daring to leave my hiding place. My limbs ached, then went numb. I had no idea how much time had passed. Through the slit, I could see that the room had grown dimmer, as if the sun had lowered a bit.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sometime later, there were footsteps again, this time a shuffling sound as the laborers trudged back silent and exhausted from their day. I tried to uncurl myself from the trunk. But my muscles were stiff and sore and my movements slow. Before I could get out, the door to our apartment flung open and someone ran into the room with steps light and fluttering. “Sadie!” It was Mama, sounding hysterical.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Jestem tutaj,” </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I called. </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I am here. </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Now that she was home, she could help me untangle myself and get out. But my voice was muffled by the trunk. When I tried to undo the latch, it stuck.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mama raced from the room back into the corridor. I could hear her open the door to the attic, then run up the stairs, still searching for me. “Sadie!” she called. Then, “My child, my child,” over and over again as she searched but did not find me, her voice rising to a shriek. She thought I was gone.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Mama!” I yelled. She was too far away to hear me, though, and her own cries were too loud. Desperately, I struggled once more to free myself from the trunk without success. Mama raced back into the room, still wailing. I heard the scraping sound of a window opening and felt a whoosh of cold air. At last I threw myself against the lid of the trunk, slamming my shoulder so hard it throbbed. The latch sprang open.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 12pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I broke free and stood up quickly. “Mama?” She was standing in the oddest position, with one foot on the window ledge, her willowy frame silhouetted against the frigid twilight sky. “What are you doing?” For a second, I thought she was looking for me outside. But her face was twisted with grief and pain. I knew then why Mama was on the window ledge. She assumed I had been taken along with the other children. And she didn’t want to live. If I hadn’t freed myself from the trunk in time, Mama would have jumped. I was her only child, her whole world. She was prepared to kill herself before she would go on without me.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A chill ran through me as I sprinted toward her. “I’m here, I’m here.” She wobbled unsteadily on the window ledge and I grabbed her arm to stop her from falling. Remorse ripped through me. I always wanted to please her, to bring that hard-won smile to her beautiful face. Now I had caused her so much pain she’d almost done the unthinkable.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I was so worried,” she said after I’d helped her down and closed the window. As if that explained everything. “You weren’t in the attic.”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“But, Mama, I hid where you told me to.” I gestured to the trunk. “The other place, remember? Why didn’t you look for me there?”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mama looked puzzled. “I didn’t think you would fit anymore.” There was a pause and then we both began laughing, the sound scratchy and out of place in the pitiful room. For a few seconds, it was like we were back in our old apartment on Meiselsa Street and none of this had happened at all. If we could still laugh, surely things would be all right. I clung to this last improbable thought like a life preserver at sea.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But a cry echoed through the building, then another, silencing our laughter. It was the mothers of the other children who had been taken by the police. There came a thud outside. I started for the window, but my mother blocked me. “Look away,” she ordered. It was too late. I glimpsed Helga Kolberg, who lived down the hall, lying motionless in the coal-tinged snow on the pavement below, her limbs cast at odd angles and skirt splayed around her like a fan. She had realized her children were gone and, like Mama, she didn’t want to live without them. I wondered whether jumping was a shared instinct, or if they had discussed it, a kind of suicide pact in case their worst nightmares came true.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 12pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My father raced into the room then. Neither Mama nor I said a word, but I could tell from his unusually grim expression that he already knew about the </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">aktion </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">and what had happened to the other families. He simply walked over and wrapped his enormous arms around both of us, hugging us tighter than usual.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As we sat, silent and still, I looked up at my parents. Mama was a striking beauty—thin and graceful, with white-blond hair the color of a Nordic princess’. She looked nothing like the other Jewish women and I had heard whispers more than once that she didn’t come from here. She might have walked away from the ghetto and lived as a non-Jew if it wasn’t for us. But I was built like Papa, with the dark, curly hair and olive skin that made the fact that we were Jews undeniable. My father looked like the laborer the Germans had made him in the ghetto, broad-shouldered and ready to lift great pipes or slabs of concrete. In fact, he was an accountant—or had been until it became illegal for his firm to employ him anymore. I always wanted to please Mama, but it was Papa who was my ally, keeper of secrets and weaver of dreams, who stayed up too late whispering secrets in the dark and had roamed the city with me, hunting for treasure. I moved closer now, trying to lose myself in the safety of his embrace.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Still, Papa’s arms could offer little shelter from the fact that everything was changing. The ghetto, despite its awful conditions, had once seemed relatively safe. We were living among Jews and the Germans had even appointed a Jewish council, the Judenrat, to run our daily affairs. Perhaps if we laid low and did as we were told, Papa said more than once, the Germans would leave us alone inside these walls until the war was over. That had been the hope. But after today, I wasn’t so sure. I looked around the apartment, seized with equal parts disgust and fear. In the beginning, I had not wanted to be here; now I was terrified we would be forced to leave.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“We have to do something,” Mama burst out, her voice a pitch higher than usual as it echoed my unspoken thoughts.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I’ll take her tomorrow and register her for a work permit,” Papa said. This time Mama did not argue. Before the war, being a child had been a good thing. But now being useful and able to work was the only thing that might save us.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mama was talking about more than a work visa, though. “They are going to come again and next time we won’t be so lucky.” She did not bother to hold back her words for my benefit now. I nodded in silent agreement. Things were changing, a voice inside me said. We could not stay here forever.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“It will be okay, </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">kochana</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: #211d1e; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">,” Papa soothed. How could he possibly say that? But Mama laid her head on his shoulder, seeming to trust him as she always had. I wanted to believe it, too. “I will think of something. At least,” Papa added as we huddled close, “we are all still together.” The words echoed through the room, equal parts promise and prayer.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Excerpted from The Woman With the Blue Star @ 2021 by Pam Jenoff, used with permission by Park Row Books.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">
</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="color: red;"><b><u>Q & A with Pam Jenoff</u></b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><ul style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica;">
<li>
<p class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0.19in; margin-top: 0.19in;"><a name="_GoBack"></a>
<b>Why did you decide to write this story?</b></p></li></ul><p class="western" style="font-family: helvetica; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0.19in; margin-left: 0.25in; margin-top: 0.19in;">
While looking for an idea for my next book, I discovered the
incredible story of a group of Jewish people who had hidden from the
Nazis by living for many months in the sewers of Lviv, Poland. I was
struck by the horrific circumstances which they endured, as well as
their ingenuity and resilience in surviving there. I was also moved
by the selflessness of those who helped them, most notably a sewer
worker, and by their search for human connection in such a dark and
isolated place.</p><p class="western" style="font-family: helvetica; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0.19in; margin-left: 0.25in; margin-top: 0.19in;"><span style="color: #1d2228;">After twenty-five years of working with World
War II and the Holocaust, I find a story that makes me gasp, I know I
am onto something that will make my readers feel the same way. This
was certainly the case with the true inspiration for </span><span style="color: #1d2228;"><i>The
Woman With The Blue Star.</i></span></p><ul style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica;"><li><p class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0.19in; margin-top: 0.19in;"><b>How much research went into your story?</b></p>
</li></ul><p class="western" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0.19in; margin-left: 0.25in; margin-top: 0.19in;"><span style="color: #1d2228;">Immersing myself in the world where my story is
set, whether the circus in The Orphan’s Tale or the sewer in The
Woman With The Blue Star, is always one of the most rewarding and
challenging aspects of beginning a book. I had so many questions:
What did the sewer look and feel like? How was it possible to eat
and sleep and even see in the dark underground space? Fortunately,
there was an excellent non-fiction book, In The Sewers of Lvov by
Robert Marshall, that explained so much of it. I learned that there
were so many dangers beyond getting caught by the Germans, from
drowning to floods. Every day was a battle for survival.</span></p><p class="western" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0.19in; margin-left: 0.25in; margin-top: 0.19in;">
<span style="color: #1d2228;">When I decided to move the story to Krakow,
Poland (where I had lived for several years), I planned a research
trip there. Those plans were scuttled by the pandemic, but I am
lucky enough to still have good friends there who put me in touch
with experts on the sewer and the city to help me (hopefully) get it
right.</span></p><ul style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica;">
<li>
<p class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0.19in; margin-top: 0.19in;">
<b>What takeaway message do you hope readers get from your book?</b></p></li></ul><p class="western" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0.19in; margin-left: 0.25in; margin-top: 0.19in;">
<span style="color: #1d2228;">Sadie and Ella, two women from completely
different worlds, form a deep bond that has profound and lasting
consequences. I hope readers will see in them the ways in which we
can transcend our differences and connect. I also hope readers
recognize the ways in which reaching out to someone, even in the
smallest or most fleeting way, can have a tremendous impact on that
person’s life as well as his or her own.</span></p><ul style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica;">
<li>
<p class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0.19in; margin-top: 0.19in;">
<b>What can you tell me about your next project?</b></p></li></ul><p class="western" style="font-family: helvetica; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
My new book is set in Belgium and inspired by the incredible true
story of the only Nazi death train ever to be ambushed on its way to
Auschwitz.</p><ul style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica;">
<li>
<p class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0.19in; margin-top: 0.19in;">
<b>Do you have any specific writing rituals, such as a certain pen,
drink, outfit, etc?</b></p>
</li></ul><p class="western" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0.19in; margin-left: 0.25in; margin-top: 0.19in;"><span style="color: #1d2228;">I find that my writing routine has evolved over
the years. For example, at one point I went in to my office to
write, at another I went to a coffeeshop, now sometimes I am on the
couch. I have written in castles and mountain getaways, but I have
also written in my doctor’s waiting room and in my car. There are
certain constants, though. I love the early morning and I would
write from five to seven every day if I had the chance. I just love
getting that first burst in before the day gets hectic. I am a short
burst writer, which means I have no stamina. If you give me eight
hours in a day, I don’t know what to do with that. I would much
rather have an hour seven days per week. And as much caffeine as
possible!</span></p><ul style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica;"><li><p class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0.19in; margin-top: 0.19in;"><b>Which character is most like you and why?</b></p></li></ul><p class="western" style="font-family: helvetica; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0.19in; margin-left: 0.25in; margin-top: 0.19in;">
In this book, I suppose I relate to Sadie because her sense of
isolation in some ways reflects what we have all felt during this
pandemic.</p><ul style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica;">
<li>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>Readers
can't get enough of WWII stories. Why the interest?</b></p></li></ul><p class="western" style="font-family: helvetica; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Personally,
my love for the World War II era comes from the years I spent working
in Krakow, Poland as a diplomat for the State Department. During
that time. I worked on Holocaust issues and became very close to the
surviving Jewish community in a way that deeply moved and changed me.
More globally, I think World War II has great resonance for authors
and readers. There is a drive to capture and tell stories from
survivors now while we still have a chance. There is also a great
deal of archival material that became available to authors as
researchers after the Cold War ended that provides new ideas for
books. And as an author, my goal is to take my reader and put her or
him in the shoes of my protagonist so she or he asks, “What would I
have done?” World War II, with its dire circumstances and stark
choices, is incredibly fertile ground for storytelling.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">
</span></p><ul style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica;">
<li>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>Your
stories are always Jewish related. What is the universal idea that
captures readers of all backgrounds?</b></p></li></ul><p style="font-family: helvetica; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
I would not describe my stories as “always Jewish related” but
rather predominantly set around World War II and the Holocaust. This
era is not only important in its own right but has many uniersal
themes regarding human rights, prejudice and hate that are very
relevant for our times.</p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">
</span></p><ul style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica;">
<li>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>Where do
your stories come from? Do you do research?</b></p></li></ul><p style="font-family: helvetica; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.31in;">
I do research for new ideas and I am generally looking for two
things. First, I would like to take a true bit of history and
illuminate it so that readers can learn. Second, I am looking for an
incredible, untold story. I have worked with World War II and the
Holocaust for twenty-five years and if I find an idea that makes me
gasp with surprise, I’m hopeful readers will feel the same way.</p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">
</span></p><ul style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica;">
<li>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>Do you
work from an outline or do you write from the seat of your
pants?</b></p></li></ul><p class="western" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0.19in; margin-left: 0.25in; margin-top: 0.19in;">
<span style="color: #1d2228;">Well, I’m a “pantser” and that means I
write by the seat of my pants and not from an outline, at least most
of the time. So I don’t have a neat idea of where the book will
wind up. I have an opening image and some general idea of where I
will wind up and if I am lucky there are one or two high moments that
I can see along the way, like lighthouses to guide me. But I am
sometimes surprised by the end and that was certainly the case with
</span><span style="color: #1d2228;"><i>The Woman With The Blue Star.</i></span><span style="color: #1d2228;">
That moment when you realize it is all going to come together is
just one of the best feelings ever.</span></p><ul style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica;">
<li>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>You are a
bestselling author. How many books are expected from you per year?
How many edit passes does your novel go through?</b></p></li></ul><p style="font-family: helvetica; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.25in;">
I used to write a book a year, but I’ve slowed down and now it is
more like 18-24 months. I really prefer that creatively. My
manuscripts go through many rounds of edits. The first round of
changes are usually big picture and then it goes back and forth with
the feedback getting increasingly more granular with each round of
revision until my editor, agent and I are all satisfied.</p><p style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.5in;"><b>Is there
anything about you or your work that you'd like to share with
readers?</b></p><p class="western" style="font-family: helvetica; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.31in;">
I consider my books that are set around World War II and the
Holocaust to be love songs to the people who lived through that most
horrific period. I try to approach it with a great deal of respect
and do them justice. On a very different note, I’d like to share
that I always love connecting with readers. I invite each reader to
find me online – through my website, Facebook author page, Twitter,
Instagram or wherever they are hanging out.</p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: red;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><b><i><u>ABOUT THE AUTHOR AND SOCIAL MEDIA LINKS </u></i></b></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-decoration-skip: none; background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">About the Author:</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Pam Jenoff is the author of several books of historical fiction, including the NYT bestseller </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">The Orphan's Tale. She holds a degree </span><span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">a degree in international affairs from </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">George Washington University and a degree in </span><span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">history from Cambridge, and she </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">received her JD from UPenn. Her novels are inspired by her </span><span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;">experiences working at the</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;"> Pentagon and as a diplomat for the State Department handling </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Holocaust issues in Poland. She lives with her husband and 3 children near Philadelphia, </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">where she teaches law.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b id="docs-internal-guid-c2ec63ce-7fff-a2d8-9ee9-7f78725535f3" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAIkvzjbIkRV5hmCH3KqAf9dDdk7HZig2KNede4X4TMYHZ81VIp-BbdpIDhr4gGLDGCU_7ahJo0qNDAEwbtJOIFJv__bCzUCdfa15zxpTUVsUPZ_J_Xv8G47I30oUghkzaFRj9S3dfq_c/s2048/Copy+of+Pam+Jenoff+Author+Photo+credit+Mindy+Schwartz+Sorasky.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1367" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAIkvzjbIkRV5hmCH3KqAf9dDdk7HZig2KNede4X4TMYHZ81VIp-BbdpIDhr4gGLDGCU_7ahJo0qNDAEwbtJOIFJv__bCzUCdfa15zxpTUVsUPZ_J_Xv8G47I30oUghkzaFRj9S3dfq_c/s320/Copy+of+Pam+Jenoff+Author+Photo+credit+Mindy+Schwartz+Sorasky.jpg" /></a></div><br /><b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-decoration-skip: none; background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Social Links:</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Website: </span><a href="https://www.pamjenoff.com/" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="-webkit-text-decoration-skip: none; background-color: transparent; color: blue; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; 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text-decoration-skip-ink: none; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">https://www.facebook.com/PamJenoffauthor/</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Twitter: </span><a href="https://twitter.com/PamJenoff" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="-webkit-text-decoration-skip: none; background-color: transparent; color: blue; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">https://twitter.com/PamJenoff</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Instagram: </span><a href="https://www.instagram.com/pamjenoff/" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="-webkit-text-decoration-skip: none; background-color: transparent; color: blue; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">https://www.instagram.com/pamjenoff/</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Goodreads: </span><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/213562.Pam_Jenoff" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="-webkit-text-decoration-skip: none; background-color: transparent; color: blue; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/213562.Pam_Jenoff</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Mailing List: </span><a href="https://pamjenoff.com/mailing-list/" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="-webkit-text-decoration-skip: none; background-color: transparent; color: blue; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">https://pamjenoff.com/mailing-list/</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-decoration-skip: none; background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Buy Links:</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Amazon: </span><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Woman-Blue-Star-Novel/dp/0778389383/" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="-webkit-text-decoration-skip: none; background-color: transparent; color: blue; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">https://www.amazon.com/Woman-Blue-Star-Novel/dp/0778389383/</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Barnes & Noble: </span><a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-woman-with-the-blue-star-pam-jenoff/1137387567" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="-webkit-text-decoration-skip: none; background-color: transparent; color: blue; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-woman-with-the-blue-star-pam-jenoff/1137387567</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Bookshop: </span><a href="https://bookshop.org/books/the-woman-with-the-blue-star-9780778311546/9780778389385" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="-webkit-text-decoration-skip: none; background-color: transparent; color: blue; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">https://bookshop.org/books/the-woman-with-the-blue-star-9780778311546/9780778389385</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">IndieBound: </span><a href="https://www.indiebound.org/book/9780778389385" style="text-decoration-line: none;"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline;">https://www.indiebound.org/book/9780778389385</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span></span></p><br /></span></div><br /><p></p>Deana Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16296434767624947481noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-379391760190652774.post-39041483303851739332021-04-01T10:59:00.008-07:002021-04-01T11:15:13.921-07:00Her Dark Lies by J.T. Ellison <p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhafKfM8YLMKZBs0CwR1DqFYzgf9dNqYvLOsWVK7j8Q4rYwCYVe-yh-bXkA2HNUneYgTNDVjVl7nAhkDY0va4uY3qwc6UoxNjA1lioOoMZ4lUz19CRIjNY3JnDNuwxDnn_GqX-OX_d6mdM/s499/her+dark+lies.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="331" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhafKfM8YLMKZBs0CwR1DqFYzgf9dNqYvLOsWVK7j8Q4rYwCYVe-yh-bXkA2HNUneYgTNDVjVl7nAhkDY0va4uY3qwc6UoxNjA1lioOoMZ4lUz19CRIjNY3JnDNuwxDnn_GqX-OX_d6mdM/s320/her+dark+lies.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: courier;"><b>Her Dark Lies had an interesting premise. The story centers around Claire and her fiancé Jackson. They're polar opposites but feel extremely lucky to have found each other. Jackson is rich beyond words and Claire, an artist, but in some ways, struggling is looking forward to their dream wedding on Jackson's family villa. The villa is on a secluded island and the perfect backdrop for a wedding. </b></span></p><p><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: courier;"><b>However, there's one shadow that Claire can't seem to shake. Jackson has been married before and is now a widower. His wife's body was never found. A part of Morgan's body was found at one point in the story, but Claire learns that there's more to her death than the family is letting on. Between Jackson's mother, brothers and father, it seems like everyone is hiding something or has something to lose. </b></span></p><p><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: courier;"><b>Before Claire and Jackson can leave for the villa, strange things start happening. A man breaks into their home shattering their pre-wedding happiness. Claire tries to banish the incident from her mind and focus on the wedding, but when they leave for the villa and finally arrive, more strange things happen. I won't ruin it all for you, but suffice to say, it looks like someone on the villa is out to ruin Claire's happiness. And what about the intruder back at home? There are a lot of questions.</b></span></p><p><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: courier;"><b>Here's an excerpt: </b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #221e1f; font-family: MrEavesXLModOT; font-size: 36pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>1</b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #221e1f; font-family: "Bembo Std"; font-size: 13pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Beginnings and Endings</b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #221e1f; font-family: "Bembo Std"; font-size: 11.5pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>She is going to die tonight.</b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #221e1f; font-family: "Bembo Std"; font-size: 11.5pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>The white dress, long and filmy, hampers her effort to run. The hem catches on a branch; a large rend in the fabric slashes open, exposing her leg. A deep cut blooms red along her thigh, and the blood runs down her calf. Her hair has come loose from its braid, flies unbound behind her like gossamer wings.</b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #221e1f; font-family: "Bembo Std"; font-size: 11.5pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>In her panic, she barely notices the pain.</b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #221e1f; font-family: "Bembo Std"; font-size: 11.5pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>The path ahead is marked by towering cypress and laurel, verdant and lush. A gray stone waist-high wall is all that stands between her and the cliffside. It is cool inside this miniature forest; the sky is blotted out by the purple-throated wisteria that drapes across and between the trees. Someone, years ago, built an archway along the arbor. The arch’s skeleton has long since rotted away and the flowers droop into the path, clinging trails and vines that brush against her head and shoulders. It should be beautiful; instead it feels oppressive, as if the vines might animate, twist and curl around her neck and strangle her to death.</b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #221e1f; font-family: "Bembo Std"; font-size: 11.5pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>She tries not to look down to the frothing water roiling against the rocks at the cliff’s base. She thinks the ruins are to her right. From what she remembers, they are between the church and the artists’ colony, the four cottages cowering on the hillside, empty and waiting.</b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #221e1f; font-family: "Bembo Std"; font-size: 11.5pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>A horn shrieks, and she realizes the ferry is pulling away. A crack of lightning, and she sees the silhouette of the captain in the pilothouse, looking out to the turbulent seas ahead. A gamble that he makes it before the storm is upon them.</b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><b><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #221e1f; font-family: "Bembo Std"; font-size: 11.5pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Don’t panic. Don’t panic</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #221e1f; font-family: "Bembo Std"; font-size: 11.5pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">.</span></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #221e1f; font-family: "Bembo Std"; font-size: 11.5pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Where is the church?</b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #221e1f; font-family: "Bembo Std"; font-size: 11.5pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>There it is, a flash of white through the trees. The stuccoed walls loom, the bell tower hidden behind the overgrown foliage. Now the path is moving upward, the grade increasing. She feels it in her calves and hopes again she is going the right way. The Villa is on the hill, on the northwest promontory of the island. If she can reach its doors, she will be safe.</b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #221e1f; font-family: "Bembo Std"; font-size: 11.5pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>It is too quiet. There are no birds, no creatures, no buzzing or cries, just her ragged, heavy breath and the scree shuffling underfoot as she climbs. The furious roar of the water smashing its frustration against the rocks rises from her left, echoing against the cliffside.</b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #221e1f; font-family: "Bembo Std"; font-size: 11.5pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>The dogs begin to howl.</b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #221e1f; font-family: "Bembo Std"; font-size: 11.5pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Climb. Climb. Keep going.</b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #221e1f; font-family: "Bembo Std"; font-size: 11.5pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>She must get to the Villa. There she can call for help. Lock herself inside. Maybe find a weapon.</b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #221e1f; font-family: "Bembo Std"; font-size: 11.5pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>A branch snaps and she halts, breathless.</b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #221e1f; font-family: "Bembo Std"; font-size: 11.5pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Someone is coming.</b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #221e1f; font-family: "Bembo Std"; font-size: 11.5pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>She startles like a deer, now heedless of the noise she’s making. Fighting back a whimper of fear, she breaks free of the cloistered path to see an old decrepit staircase cut into the stone. Careful, she must be cautious, there are gaps where some steps are missing, and the rest are mossy with disuse, but hurry, hurry. Get away.</b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #221e1f; font-family: "Bembo Std"; font-size: 11.5pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>She winds up the steps, clinging to the rock face, until she bursts free into a sea of scrubby pines. Two sculptures, Janus twins, flank a slate-dark path into a labyrinth of rhododendron and azalea.</b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #221e1f; font-family: "Bembo Std"; font-size: 11.5pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>This isn’t right. Where is she?</b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #221e1f; font-family: "Bembo Std"; font-size: 11.5pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>A hard breeze disrupts the trees around her, and a rumble of thunder like a thousand drums rolls across her body. Lightning flashes and she sees the Villa in the distance. So far away. On the other side of the labyrinth. The other side of the hill.</b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #221e1f; font-family: "Bembo Std"; font-size: 11.5pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>She’s gone the wrong way.</b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #221e1f; font-family: "Bembo Std"; font-size: 11.5pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>A droplet of water hits her arm, then her forehead. Dread bubbles through her.</b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #221e1f; font-family: "Bembo Std"; font-size: 11.5pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>She is too late. The storm is upon her.</b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #221e1f; font-family: "Bembo Std"; font-size: 11.5pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>The howls of the dogs draw closer. The wind whistles hard and sharp, buffeting her against the stone wall. She can’t move, deep fear cementing her feet. Rain makes the gauzy dress cling to the curves of her body, and the blood on her thigh washes to the ground. None of it matters. She cannot escape.</b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #221e1f; font-family: "Bembo Std"; font-size: 11.5pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>When he comes, at last, sauntering through the storm, the barking beasts leaping and growling beside him, she is crying, clinging to the wall, the lightning illuminating the ruins; the ancient stones and stark, headless statues the only witness to her death.</b></span></p><p><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: courier;"><b><span id="docs-internal-guid-bc57846e-7fff-e4dd-7ae0-e9ef420fdeb7"></span></b></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #221e1f; font-family: "Bembo Std"; font-size: 11.5pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>She goes over the wall with a thunder-drowned scream, the jagged rocks below her final companions.</b></span></p><p><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: courier;"><b>*********************************************************************</b></span></p><p><b style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: courier;">So, why this all sounded mysterious and intriguing, it was so obvious to me who was behind it all from the very beginning. I kept at it thinking the author may pull out some twist at the end, but it never came. Also, in my opinion only, there wasn't really one likeable character in this book. I read some reviews where some fans of this author were saying that they had problems believing this was the same author as prior books. I don't know but this is one I didn't really enjoy. Thank you to the publisher for the opportunity. </b></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Deana Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16296434767624947481noreply@blogger.com0