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The summer is as good a time as any to add new friends to your life, and reading The Saving Graces is certain to add at least four: Emma, Rudy, Lee, and Isabel. By the time you’ve finished the novel, you will feel as though you not only know these four women, but you’ll miss them the way you miss good friends.

Each of these four friends takes turns telling the story of the Graces a group of women who years ago began meeting periodically to discuss a women’s topic. Chapter by chapter, each woman reveals details about herself through the choices she makes in what to reveal about the others, until you’re gradually aware that you have become one of this group and are being told things the others don’t know.

Rudy and Lee slowly reveal the unhappiness of their marriages one of them finally deciding to end the destructive relationship and the other discovering the real reason for her unhappiness. Emma, who thinks of men as speed bumps, is very open with the reader about her coveting a married man. While the other three eventually learn about her unfulfilled longings, she lets only the reader and one other friend know who he is and what a road block he has become. Isabel, the oldest of the Graces, seems to emanate grace and wisdom as she faces the hardest decisions. In the end, it is her wisdom and foresight that allow the Graces to continue after what could have caused the group to disband.

Men, hairstyles, an abandoned dog, and food not exactly women’s topics, but as Emma puts it, We’ve already talked about everything under the sun. There’s nothing left. As in a typical group of friends, someone disagrees. Lee thinks they’ve all become lazier and just find it easier to gossip than to organize a discussion topic. Thank goodness for disorganization! It is what allows us to learn the story of four unusual women who form a group we would all like to join. It is what allows us to think of each of them as a new friend and to miss each one the minute the last page of The Saving Graces is read.

Jamie Whitfield writes from her home in Hendersonville, Tennessee.

The summer is as good a time as any to add new friends to your life, and reading The Saving Graces is certain to add at least four: Emma, Rudy, Lee, and Isabel. By the time you've finished the novel, you will feel as though…

Review by

If you’re feeling stressed, but can’t afford that getaway weekend in the Caribbean don’t despair. Grab your lawnchair, find a patch of filtered sun, inhale deeply and enter Karen Stolz’s World of Pies. Although set in the turbulent ’60s, this novel about growing up in a small Texas town will fill you with a sweet nostalgia that goes down as easily as Mabel’s Angel Food Cake with Chocolate Sauce. (Recipe included!) Comfort food recipes are, in fact, sprinkled throughout World of Pies, but Stolz’s real accomplishment in this taste-tempting first novel is the delicious batch of episodes she has baked up for us about the life of Roxanne Milner, a baseball-loving tomboy whose first-person narrative rings with the honest emotions the exhilaration and devastation, the confusion and wonder of growing up.

In the hot summer of ’61, 12-year-old Roxanne would rather be out pitching balls to her cousin Tommy than in the kitchen rolling pie dough, but the ensuing pie fair has the townswomen in a baking frenzy as they strive to perfect their individual recipes for the contest. But “at the eleventh hour,” to her mother’s delight and her own surprise, Roxanne develops an interest in the art that affords the mother a chance to teach and the daughter to learn. “And it happened,” she says, amazed at her ability to be gentle and precise. “I got the feel of the dough and learned how to make a decent piecrust.” The lessons she learns are not confined to the kitchen as race becomes a factor in the pie contest, the Vietnam War looms, and she gets her first, less-than-riveting kiss. While trying to figure out boys, and believing she will never look “right,” Roxanne experiences the consequences of taking a stand against racism in her small hometown, she gains insight into the complexities of her parents’ marriage and eventually explores her own burgeoning awareness of the increasingly attractive opposite sex.

Stolz packs a lot into 153 pages. Written with a flair for understatement and the telling detail, this humorous, relationship-rich tale is wholly satisfying. It may be a slim volume, but I found it a deep dish, full of insight into the human heart.

You’ll want to savor Roxanne’s adventures along with her recipes, so you may want to bake ahead. Then you won’t have to stop turning pages to check the oven! Lemonade, anyone? Linda Stankard is a writer in Cookeville, Tennessee, who believes in the restorative powers of baked goods.

If you're feeling stressed, but can't afford that getaway weekend in the Caribbean don't despair. Grab your lawnchair, find a patch of filtered sun, inhale deeply and enter Karen Stolz's World of Pies. Although set in the turbulent '60s, this novel about growing up in…

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Back when at least a few entertainers owned both intelligence and a sense of the fitness of things, Fred Allen, the great wit and radio comedian — in his case, not mutually contradictory terms — wrote his autobiography and titled it Treadmill to Oblivion. It is an inspired title to an inspired book, one of the points of which is that no matter what you do or how well you do it on your path in life, almost inevitably it will lead to being forgotten.
 
The seemingly dour but actually quite prosaic outlook expressed in that title might seem an odd introduction to Helen Fielding’s much-heralded screwball novel, Bridget Jones’s Diary. But I believe it is valid, especially for readers who have not only intelligence and a sense of the fitness of things but also a few years on them — i.e., those of us in the geezer or pre-geezer geologic strata — who might think that a novel, however hilarious, about the romantic entanglements of an unmarried, thirtysomething British woman could hold little interest for them.
 
Wrong. First, if you are a member of the generation that considered living together before marriage "shacking up," you will be much amused, with your treadmill-to-oblivion perspective, by the emotional gyrations of Bridget Jones and her generation, knowing that in a matter of fleeting decades they will amount to naught. This, of course, is an attitude that irritates the hell out of the Bridget Jones generation and is to be encouraged.
 
Besides that, the book is just plain funny. There have been many English diarists over the centuries, from Samuel Pepys to Adrian Mole, and while Bridget may not quite be the equal of Sue Townsend’s 13-and-3/4-year-old Adrian in sharp observation, she certainly rivals Mr. Pepys in personal revelation.
 
The book is told in the form of a diary over the course of one year, chronicling Bridget’s "Singleton" anxiety that she may never find Mr. Right, her doubts that there is such a thing as Mr. Right, and her resentments that she feels she has to be on such a search at all. "I sat, head down," she writes on September 9, "quivering at their inferences of female sell-by dates and life as a game of musical chairs where girls without a chair/man when the music stops/they pass thirty are ‘out.’ Huh. As if."
 
(Bridget’s — or Fielding’s — misuse of "inference" for "implication" in that entry is ironic, in this age when editors with deficient educations churn out books deficient in editing, because Bridget works in publishing and realizes her limitations: "Must work on spelling, though. After all, have degree in English.")
 
Each day’s entry is preceded by a tally of her success, or lack thereof, in the struggle against the vices of smoking, drinking, and calories. On one particularly stressful day she records "cigarettes 40 (but have stopped inhaling in order to smoke more)."
Some of the entries cheat on the diary conceit, in that they seem to have been written moments after the events took place, but that’s no matter. Nearly all of them have to do with men, sex ("shagging," as the Brits put it), jealousies, and her mother’s attempts to force a wealthy lawyer on her. "I don’t know why she didn’t just come out with it and say, ‘Darling, do shag Mark Darcy over the turkey curry, won’t you? He’s very rich.’"
 
And so it goes, from January 1 to December 26, detailing her Singleton’s "fears of dying alone and being found three weeks later half-eaten by an Alsatian" and her resentment/envy of the Smug Marrieds: hurrying to a party, Bridget writes, "Heart was sinking at thought of being late and hung-over, surrounded by ex-career-girl mothers and their Competitive Childrearing."
 
Still, what is worse than not being a Smug Married yourself is the possibility that one of your unmarried friends might become one: "if you are single the last thing you want is your best friend forming a functional relationship with somebody else."
 
What it all boils down to is a ’90s spin on the boy-gets-girl-gets-boy story. With "deep regret, rage and an overwhelming sense of defeat" Bridget learns that "the secret of happiness with men" comes through a variation on an ancient moral: Mother knows best.
 
Fred Allen probably could have told Bridget, though in a nasal-twangy witticism, that eventually this is what would happen. She’s on the treadmill to oblivion.
 
Roger Miller is a freelance writer. He can be reached at roger_miller@bookpage.com

Back when at least a few entertainers owned both intelligence and a sense of the fitness of things, Fred Allen, the great wit and radio comedian -- in his case, not mutually contradictory terms -- wrote his autobiography and titled it Treadmill to Oblivion.…

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Twenty-one-year-old Leandra was estranged from her sister and had never flown on an airplane or been outside her native North Carolina more than once. That, however, didn’t keep her from flying to Massachusetts immediately after her sister, Pamela, asked for her help during a difficult pregnancy. Little did Leandra’s much older brother-in-law, William, know when he first saw her at the airport that he would enter into a brief but passionate love affair with her not too long afterward. Little did both of them know that tragedy would soon follow this affair, and again a decade later.

But sometimes the foreknowledge of tragedy can illuminate startling beauty. In Susan Dodd’s mature, poignant, and warm-hearted third novel, The Mourner’s Bench, she shows the simple and strong ways that two seemingly incompatible people can find the consolation and love they need within each other.

At the novel’s beginning, Leandra is living alone in her house on the coast of North Carolina, mending dolls by vocation and still mulling over the deaths of her sister and her sister’s baby. William, or Wim, is dying of cancer and is traveling down South to see Leandra for the first time in ten years. Though he has remarried, he has decided that he is going to spend the rest of his short time left with Leandra that is, if she will let him.

Dodd, who has taught at Harvard University and the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, demonstrates her mastery of the English language by telling the powerful story in two distinct voices: the literary and decidedly high-brow tone of Wim, and the wise and just plain wise-cracking Southern style of Leandra. The two different voices allow Dodd to show the vulnerabilities of her two characters and the grace with which they accept the emotional baggage they will carry for the rest of their lives.

Through the comfort she conjures through telling details the preparation of a simple meal, the glow from stars overhead, the feel of a rose-colored comforter when one is bone-tired Dodd also shows that, ultimately, the connections that most reward are the ones that need no extra adornment. Loss and tragedy are unavoidable in life (and certainly in the ending of Dodd’s novel), but through it all, Leandra and Wim show that the chance to love and be loved is reassuringly near.

Deb Saine is a reviewer in Rock Hill, South Carolina.

Twenty-one-year-old Leandra was estranged from her sister and had never flown on an airplane or been outside her native North Carolina more than once. That, however, didn't keep her from flying to Massachusetts immediately after her sister, Pamela, asked for her help during a difficult…

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In her new novel Half a Heart, Rosellen Brown uses the experiences of one woman to examine the dual themes of motherhood and race. Brown, noted author of Before and After and Civil Wars allows the reader a deep look at the interior terrain of Miriam Vener, a beleaguered woman confronting the responsibilities of parenting and the challenges of racial prejudice.

A former civil rights activist, Miriam has seen her life change in many ways some subtle, some obvious. When she was a young woman involved in the intense Mississippi civil rights campaigns of the 1960s, Miriam possessed a liberal, humanist outlook that opened her to a forbidden affair with a black professor at a local college. That controversial liaison produced a daughter who is relinquished to her father after a heated child custody dispute.

Now 18 years later, Miriam is married to a wealthy ophthalmologist in the upper-middle-class suburbs of Houston, with children and an aging mother preoccupied with death. The staid, comfortable life of affluence has sparked feelings of ambivalence and tension, fostering her desire to reconnect with the daughter she gave up years before. The novel soars as Miriam seeks out her African-American daughter, Veronica, who is a troubling mix of sensitivity, intelligence, conflicting emotions, and racial pride. Brown pulls no punches in her insights into the character of these two women separated by both race and class. Veronica wants to make her mother pay dearly for her long absence from her life, and some of the book’s most potent scenes occur when the pair clash in their emotional tug of war.

Through her reunion with her daughter, Miriam gets to reassess her roles as mother, wife, and former activist, as well as examine the themes of identity, intimacy, and femininity. While Brown’s astute observations about the value of wealth and influence are noteworthy, her views on love and race are especially fascinating. Describing the courtship between Eljay and Miriam during the perilous times of the civil rights movement, she writes: She was amazed at what she saw: that, no part of them forbidden, they were beautiful together, they were remaking the whole ugly world, and yes, he was right, she had not failed to notice their differences. It would be easy to be overwhelmed by the novel’s complex themes and its many heart-wrenching scenes and miss the book’s low-key humanity and gentle honesty.

The resolution of the novel’s overlapping conflicts is handled with delicacy, care, and precision. This is the power and grace of Brown’s most introspective, accomplished work to date.

In her new novel Half a Heart, Rosellen Brown uses the experiences of one woman to examine the dual themes of motherhood and race. Brown, noted author of Before and After and Civil Wars allows the reader a deep look at the interior terrain of…

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Paul Evans, the best-selling author of the phenomenally successful The Christmas Box trilogy, has created yet another masterpiece. The Looking Glass, Evans’s seventh book, is poised to join the runaway success of his past work.

Set in the town of Bethel, Utah, during the pioneering days of the late 1800s, The Looking Glass is the fascinating love story of Hunter Bell and Quaye MacGandley and the struggles they undergo on the way to finding that love.

Bell, a former Presbyterian minister-turned-gambler, has spent most of his adult life running; he ran from his ministry to escape the never-ceasing memory of his wife’s tragic death and the young daughter he had to leave behind in Pennsylvania. Once a refugee from frontier justice, Bell is seemingly content to live out a solitary life in the rugged mountains above Bethel. Until, that is, during a blinding blizzard, he rescues a beautiful Irish maiden who turns his empty world upside-down.

As a young woman, Quaye MacGandley was sold into marital slavery during the Irish potato famine and brought to America against her will, finally ending up in Bethel. Abused and thrown out into a raging Utah snowstorm by her brutal husband, Quaye struggles to escape this tragic life.

Surrounded by a hungry pack of wolves, she is mercifully rescued by Hunter Bell, who nurses her back to health. His tender ministrations help to heal her wounds, but can they heal her broken heart? And, in turn, can Hunter open his heart to his own greatest fear: that he might love again? This beautiful tale of Hunter and Quaye is an inspiring, heartwarming story of how two wounded people help restore each other through the unending power of love and understanding. Written in short, simple chapters, Richard Evans skillfully creates yet another memorable cast of endearing characters who will touch lives worldwide.

A consummate storyteller, Evans’s work reflects a message of hope, love, and faith. Truly magical in content, The Looking Glass will delight and entertain new readers, and inspire and encourage Evans’s established legions of loyal fans. ¦ Sharon Galligar Chance is a book reviewer from Wichita Falls, Texas.

Paul Evans, the best-selling author of the phenomenally successful The Christmas Box trilogy, has created yet another masterpiece. The Looking Glass, Evans's seventh book, is poised to join the runaway success of his past work.

Set in the town of Bethel, Utah,…

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The Wholeness of a Broken Heart is the kind of book that makes you want to curl up and be left in solitude so that you can become fully immersed in the lives of its inhabitants. The story is told in the words of four generations of Jewish women, from the great-grandmother Channa, born in Koretz, Poland, in 1880, to the great-granddaughter Hannah, for whom she is named, living in Cambridge, Massachusetts, in l989. Although the story focuses on particular generations of Jewish mothers and daughters, it transcends these cultural boundaries to include women’s relationships in all cultures.

The story centers around Hannah and her relationship with her mother, which was intensely intimate until a casual comment catapulted them into irreparable separation. Hannah struggles with this loss, relying on the comfort and insight of her grandmother to help her survive. As we go back and forth through time, we discover the secrets and events that make this family of women both weak and strong, passive and domineering, depressed and joyful.

The stories involve you in the ties that bind these women together and the struggles that drive them apart. Katie Singer’s style is engaging, and the tales are colorfully laced with the Yiddish language, which makes for a poignant expression of the lessons and emotions that are passed down through the generations. These Yiddish expressions create a special intimacy not typically found in modern life, where we so often lack the right words to convey our feelings. The title itself comes from an old Yiddish proverb, Es is nitto a gantsere zach vi ah tsiprochene harts, There’s nothing more whole than a broken heart. This book, however, makes one’s heart full with the knowledge that love and family, while often the cause of much heartache, are ultimately the very things that make us whole again. Lorraine Rose is a writer and psychotherapist in Washington, D.

C.

The Wholeness of a Broken Heart is the kind of book that makes you want to curl up and be left in solitude so that you can become fully immersed in the lives of its inhabitants. The story is told in the words of four…

Behind the Book by

I'm James Patterson and I write thrillers such as Along Came a Spider and Kiss the Girls.

Having said that, let me tell you a love story.

Around 18 months ago, I had a glimmer of an idea to write a novel called Suzanne's Diary for Nicholas.

The story begins with a book editor who has fallen in love for the first time in her life, and she has fallen hard. Then suddenly, unexpectedly, the man walks out on her. A day later, she receives a diary and the following note from her lover:

Dear Katie, No words or actions can begin to tell you what I'm feeling now. I'm so sorry about what I allowed to happen between us. It was all my fault, of course. I take all the blame. You are perfect, wonderful, beautiful. It's not you. It's me. Maybe this diary will explain things better than I ever could. If you have the heart, read it. It's about my wife and son, and me. I will warn you, though, there will be parts that may be hard for you to read. I never expected to fall in love with you, but I did. Matt

Katie can't help herself; she starts the diary. And reading it changes her life. To be totally honest, the prospect of writing this novel scared me, because it was a love story actually two love stories and I had never even written one love story before. I remember that it was a Monday and that I happened to be in the offices of Little, Brown in New York City. I was meeting with the publisher and the editor in chief and suddenly I found myself saying, "Let me tell you a story that I can't get out of my head. I must warn you though, it's not a thriller." I told the story I had in mind for Suzanne's Diary for Nicholas, and when I finished, both of these somewhat tough (though tender on the inside) New Yorkers were crying.

At this point, I knew I had to try to get the story down on paper if I could.

For the next 10 months, every day, I continued to be scared, but I also was as excited as I had ever been while writing a book. I customarily write in my office, but I wrote Suzanne's Diary for Nicholas in the bedroom. I usually write six or seven drafts of a novel, but I wrote 11 drafts for Suzanne's Diary for Nicholas.

When I was finished, I gave it to my wife to read. When she came out of our bedroom about four hours later, she was crying.

I gave it to friends to read, and they cried. And then, this spring, a bookseller got hold of a reader's copy and sent me this e-mail. He wrote: "I'm an Irish man, and I don't cry. I never cry. I just finished Suzanne's Diary for Nicholas, and I cried for the first time in 20 years. Thank you." Suzanne's Diary for Nicholas comes out on July 16. Take it to the beach. But you better bring a handkerchief.

Former advertising executive James Patterson has become a one-man publishing powerhouse, with a string of best-selling novels, including the Alex Cross thrillers and a new mystery series, launched with the spring release of 1st to Die. His latest novel, Suzanne's Diary for Nicholas is a romantic departure from his earlier work. Patterson lives with his wife, Sue, and their young son. They have homes in New York and Florida.

I'm James Patterson and I write thrillers such as Along Came a Spider and Kiss the Girls.

Having said that, let me tell you a love story.

Around 18 months ago, I had a glimmer of an idea to…

Behind the Book by

In 2009, my then-eight-year-old daughter brought home a few slices of Amish Friendship Bread on a paper plate. “It’s so good,” she insisted. Then she pulled out a Ziploc bag of starter and a page (a page!) of instructions. Now if you’ve never seen (or smelled) a bag of fermenting batter, well, let’s just say that it’s something you don’t ever forget.

 It didn’t take long for me to figure out that this was essentially a culinary chain letter, a “bake and share” routine that grew exponentially as you passed the starter on to not one, but three more people. I could see people running in the opposite direction, a bit like I wanted to do at that moment.

Still, my daughter held the plate in front of me, patient. I broke off a corner of the bread and chewed it slowly. It was good, moist and sweet with a sugar-cinnamon crunch. Maybe I was having a sugar rush of my own, or maybe it was because I had a few minutes of peace and quiet, but a vision of a woman came into my mind, reluctantly holding up a bag of starter and regarding it with a frown.

She was lovely, and she was sad. I didn’t know what had happened, just that she was stuck in the day-to-day motions that mimicked life when in fact she hadn’t felt alive in years. I saw her own young daughter, her husband, the home they shared together.

I knew right then that I wanted to find out more. I put the bag of starter in a mixing bowl, the instructions tucked inside, and placed it on the counter. I called to my daughter and told her we would be baking Amish Friendship Bread in 10 days.

 
That night I sat down at my computer, the image of the woman still fresh in my mind. I started writing, and the story of Julia Evarts started unfolding, but still I didn’t know what was going on. Later that night, I saw a quarter flying through the air and landing in the palm of someone’s hand. That hand belonged to Julia’s sister. I liked Livvy instantly—her optimism, her bubbly personality. But I sensed that something had happened between her and Julia, that they were no longer talking though they had once been very, very close. I continued to write, and more central characters started to show up, all with stories of their own—Madeline, a lonely widow who opens a tea salon on a whim; Hannah, a former cello prodigy whose marriage is ending; and Edie, an ambitious journalist who is desperate to make her mark.
 
I started to see all the connections, saw how the bread was linking people together in ways that surprised me. Characters appeared for only a moment but left an indelible impression.

I filled any available moment, day or night, writing. My husband had read the first few pages and agreed that there was something there. We came up with a schedule that let us juggle the kids, work and writing. I figured the story was either there or it wasn’t, and it was my job to write until it became clear either way.

All this time, my daughter and I were following the instructions that came with the starter. For 10 days it was the same thing—mash the bag—a task her brothers were more than happy to help with. We added flour, milk and sugar on the sixth and 10th days, and watched the starter bubble up happily. I still have that same starter, almost two years later.

I’ll admit that I was looking forward to baking the bread that first time. There’s something about squeezing the bag for 10 days that has you counting the days until it’s time to bake. When I realized that we wouldn’t have any starter left once we divided the batter and shared it among our friends, I kept a bag for myself. Ten days later, we were baking again.

It continued like this as I wrote the book, sharing the starter with friends and neighbors. I experimented with new Amish Friendship Bread recipes, all the time fortifying myself with the bread that was at the heart of Friendship Bread, my novel.

Amish Friendship Bread is so much more than a simple recipe; it’s about friendship and community, about sharing what you have with others and expressing gratitude for the good things in your life. I’m reminded of this every time I gather with my family in the kitchen, the bowl of Amish Friendship Bread starter on the counter, waiting for our next baking day.

Darien Gee is the author of Friendship Bread and founder of the Friendship Bread Kitchen. Click here to download a PDF of the recipe for Amish Friendship Bread.

 

In 2009, my then-eight-year-old daughter brought home a few slices of Amish Friendship Bread on a paper plate. “It’s so good,” she insisted. Then she pulled out a Ziploc bag of starter and a page (a page!) of instructions. Now if you’ve never seen (or…

Behind the Book by

When I decided to make my grim reaper female in First Grave on the Right, I really didn’t want a being made of death and darkness and skeletal remains, so I decided to challenge lore. I mean, what if grim reapers were just misunderstood? Represented in legends and mythology erroneously? And what it they were really bright, shiny beacons of light that lured those departed who were stuck on Earth toward them to cross to the other side? Of course, my heroine would attract all kinds of trouble in the process, everything from demons who try to kill her to ghosts who try to kill her to, well, humans who try to kill her.

That is Charlotte “Charley” Davidson in a nutshell. And while she’d like to believe she’s a complete badass, she’s really more of an accident-prone, slightly schizophrenic girl from Albuquerque who takes the complications of ADD to a whole new level. And being the only grim reaper this side of forever doesn’t help.

Okay, but why the grim reaper, you might ask. That one is simple. As an aspiring author, I wanted to get noticed. I wanted something different that would pique the interest of agents and editors alike. Fortunately for me, Charley did just that. First, she won the 2009 RWA® Golden Heart© for Best Paranormal Romance, then she landed me an amazing agent. Not long after that, she secured a three-book deal for the rights to her story with St. Martin’s Press. Her journey has been an incredible one and the fun is just beginning.

For me, that Golden Heart final changed everything. Admittedly, I’d been entering the contest for several years, and while I never finaled despite some pretty good scores, every year I really thought I had a chance. Until 2009. I signed up to enter First Grave on the Right for one reason and one reason only: I wanted to force myself to finish the manuscript. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt it would not final. No way. No how. And then I was mad that I’d wasted the entry fee. That money could have been used for something worthwhile, like chocolate! But I grudgingly sent it in and dismissed it from my mind entirely.

So when March 25 rolled around and I received the call that I was a finalist, to say that I was in a state of shock would be an understatement. I honestly could not believe it. And when I won? Forget about it. I was so shocked, I forgot my shoes and walked to the stage in a daze barefoot.

In First Grave on the Right, Charley Davidson uses her reaper abilities to help her succeed as a private investigator. It’s a natural progression from her childhood. Since she was five, she’s been helping her detective father solve crimes. In First Grave, three lawyers from the same law firm are murdered, and they come to Charley to find their killer. At the same time, she's dealing with a being she calls the Big Bad. He’s more powerful, and definitely sexier, than any specter she's ever come across. With the help of some living and some not-so-living associates, Charley sets out to solve the highest profile case of the year and discovers that dodging bullets isn't nearly as dangerous as falling in love.

Darynda Jones lives in New Mexico, where she is currently hard at work on the third Charley Davidson mystery.

When I decided to make my grim reaper female in First Grave on the Right, I really didn’t want a being made of death and darkness and skeletal remains, so I decided to challenge lore. I mean, what if grim reapers were just misunderstood? Represented…

Behind the Book by

When is a series not a series? The easy answer is . . . when I write it. But the real answer is more complicated. Now, they say that a sequel for a writer is the last refuge of a scoundrel. But it’s not a sequel when the primary character is—well, when she has to share the stage.

Far more accomplished writers than I (Louise Erdrich and William Faulkner, to whom I’m not comparing myself) have written books that didn’t so much continue the history of one or two people but dipped into a familiar universe for the next story. That’s what I’ve done with my new novel, No Time to Wave Goodbye.

It does, in fact, take up where my first novel, The Deep End of the Ocean, left off, 13 years ago. But it begins a series of new events, not a new take on old ones.

What I learned from No Time to Wave Goodbye, other than that I could do this with dignity, was that I had the time of my life. I didn’t realize how vital these ancient characters still were. I didn’t recognize the places they inhabit in my writer’s heart.

And so, perhaps not so surprisingly, I’m back in that universe for the novel I’m currently writing, to be published in 2010.

There’ll be new people with new stories and old faces turned toward new complexities. Turns out, I have a crush on my own Yokapanowtha County—Chicago’s Italian neighborhood at Taylor and Racine Streets and the exurbs beyond.

In fact, The Deep End of the Ocean started with a crush. I thought it was a crush on a boy. Back when I was a young widow with four young kids, pushing 40 and ever so alone, I began to dream at night of my high-school sweetheart, taking refuge in the endless summer nights we shared, lying on a quilt on the hood of his grandpa’s Bonneville, smoking and stroking skin that would never be so soft again.

My honey and I were plumbers’ children, but still privileged. While we had to work, it was only after school. Before our dates, we girls dropped by the cologne counter at Marshall Fields—as one of my pals put it, “renting to own” our cosmetics. Four guys once serenaded me under the window of our apartment, singing “Jackie” instead of “My Girl” in the refrain.

Yet, there were stains on that place and time, just as there were for Francie Nolan in A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. A mile from our apartment, a friend parked his car on the railroad tracks until an eastbound train dragged him and his 15-year-old girlfriend away. She was already dead, from an overdose. Mr. Curry beat his wife so badly he put out her eye and didn’t go to jail. Our great-uncle raped my first cousin. What I felt wasn’t really a crush on a boy, but on the past— particularly the sweet and profane world in which I grew up.

When I wrote Deep End, I keened my own grief through the grief of another mother, Beth Cappadora. My children’s blunt suffering became the blunt suffering of Vincent Cappadora about his little brother’s kidnapping.

The book was a hit and a triumph.

I put away my west-side Chicago youth.

Or so I thought.

Last year, I had another book ready to go—one day to be published. But I found myself writing (around the edges) about the Cappadoras. Finally, it was clear I had the answer to the question that so many readers had asked me since the publication of my first novel: what ever happened to Vincent and the rest of the Cappadoras?

Back to the beginning I went with a purpose. I rewrote and followed the strands. The book bloomed into No Time to Wave Goodbye. Not everyone who read it will have read The Deep End of the Ocean. That’s not necessary. This new story didn’t come from the previous story.

It came from that great interlaced weave of lace and chain link that is my place, my locative past. And as soon as I finished it, I wanted to go there again, because the further we get from the life we once lived, the clearer the details. Why keep that universe under lock and key?

Of course I hope readers like revisiting people whom they once considered beloved, as I did. But more than that, I turn to those streets and those nights to find myself. I walk down a block of two flats, and a dog barks. A passing car trails the ribbon of a Frankie Valli song under the viaduct. Under the light in a kitchen window, a girl opens her books. Her hair is mayonnaised with Dippity-Do and wound on rollers the size of a car’s tail pipes.

I know her. I am her.

When is a series not a series? The easy answer is . . . when I write it. But the real answer is more complicated. Now, they say that a sequel for a writer is the last refuge of a scoundrel. But it’s not a…
Behind the Book by

My entry into tango was as convoluted as the steps I would eventually learn.
 
Having grown up in Italy, I was obsessed with America, cowboys and Indians, tepees and corrals, and dreamt to be able to two-step. Several years after my move to New York, I finally enrolled in evening classes at the aptly called Shall-We-Dance studio and began my formal instruction. Since Seven Brides for Seven Brothers had been one of my favorite childhood movies (yes, it dates me terribly), wearing boots and stomping around a fake barn to the sound of a banjo and a steel-guitar, seemed like a fabulous option.
 
Nothing came easily to me: not the steps, the pirouettes, or the arm movements. I felt like an orangutan let loose in a room full of mirrors. I bumped into everything and everyone, terrified by turns, afraid to drag my partner into such inelegant, senseless dancing. Beet-red after each of my mistakes, I’d burst into tears at the thought of my evident inadequacy. Doggedly, I continued to suffer through all those intricate patterns: Pretzel, Basket, Weave, Whip, Flip Flop, Lasso, Turning Crossbow, Barrel Roll, Wagon Wheel, Double-overhead Loop, Starburst and then Wrap, Cuddle, Hammerlock, Sweetheart, Skater’s lock, Killer Duck. The names alone were horrifyingly incomprehensible; imagine trying to remember the 180 degrees spin my feet were supposed to make in order to propel my legs (and the rest of my body) into a passable turn!
 
Two-step was followed by salsa and cha-cha, swing and rumba, waltz and the obscure Peabody and Balboa. As the months went by, I finally got it and began to feel omnivorous and hungry about dancing, any kind of dancing. I tried everything.
 
Then one day John, my teacher, played a song. He took me into his arms and suddenly that was it. Somehow the music of my youth, the notes so often played on Italian radio and never before registered, had seeped into my bones and asserted their power over my heart and brain. It was my first tango. And it would last.
 
I traveled to Buenos Aires, I took classes with the best teachers. I bought a ballet-bar and put it in my dining room to practice my moves. I studied videos of the greatest. I listened to everyone’s advice. “Tango is natural, just walk . . .” In total disbelief I would watch those fabulous performers imparting their simple teachings while their legs, seemingly completely detached from their torsos, whipped the air with incredible arabesques. “Where is your weight?” My weight? Panicking I would try to concentrate on this esoteric question. I had no idea.
 
The very first tango class I ever took in Argentina was at the beautiful Confiteria Ideal. The teacher showed a simple pattern and called me up to demonstrate. Horrified I slowly moved toward him, a sacrificial sheep about to be immolated. And then something happened, I still don’t know what came to my mind, but the moment he took me into his arms I swiftly unloaded a kick. Right at his balls . . .
 
Yes, I’m afraid I did. I had seen too many videos and thought that this was what was expected of me so I went for the first opening. I saw a knee bend, a thigh raise and BAM! My foot, size 10, was there. At full force.
 
I immediately hoped the earth would open under my feet, or a pyre would engulf me in flames, incinerating me quickly before Daniel’s fury unleashed on me. Let go like the pariah I was, I slowly, painfully (never as painfully as poor Daniel, naturally) walked back to the group and metamorphosed into a statue of salt.
 
Thankfully hours, days, months and years went by.
 
I learned to tango—but I will never forget the day I started.
 
A former model, Patrizia Chen used her passion for tango to inspire It Takes Two, a charming debut novel that chronicles a woman’s midlife escape from a dead-end marriage. Chen and her husband divide their time between New York City and Todi, Italy.
 

Author photo by Elisabetta Catalano

My entry into tango was as convoluted as the steps I would eventually learn.
 
Having grown up in Italy, I was obsessed with America, cowboys and Indians, tepees and corrals, and dreamt to be able to two-step. Several years after my move…

Behind the Book by

Theater writer Laura Harrington based her debut novel, Alice Bliss, on a one-woman, one-act musical she wrote that she couldn't get out of her head. Her desire to dramatize the experience of military families was due to her belief that the story of the war at home and its effect on children, families and communities was one that needed to be told—but it also resonated on a personal level. In a behind-the-book essay, Harrington explains how her family history informed her moving and memorable story of a girl's coming-of-age while her father is deployed in the Middle East.

 

My father was a navigator/ bombardier in WWII, flying missions into Germany from his air base just north of Paris. Both my brothers enlisted in the Air Force in 1966, at the height of the Viet Nam war, directly out of high school and college, respectively. Even though I don’t have a family member serving in the current war, my family has been deeply impacted by war.

My father suffered from what was then called battle fatigue following WWII, a time he would never talk about directly. Nor would he talk about the experiences during the war that had so devastated him. The silence surrounding my father’s war experiences has probably been the single greatest mystery and inspiration in my life. I believe that my fascination with war grows out of my need to understand these experiences and to bear witness to this silent suffering.

I think that making the war personal is important. Telling the stories of those who have a loved one deployed is important.

 

I chose to write about the family of a soldier in the Reserves in 2006 because in my research I learned that Reservists make up 63% of our armed forces. For the families of Reservists a sense of isolation can be especially acute. They often live in communities where few, if any, of their friends and neighbors are in the military or deployed. Not only do Reservists’ children feel that no one knows their story, they often feel that no one even knows they exist.

There are more than 1.7 million military children and teens scattered across the country. Most of us have the luxury of thinking the war is distant; these children do not. They live with this war, day in and day out; they wake up with it, they fall asleep with it; it is woven into the daily fabric of their lives. They are expected to carry on at home and at school, to pretend that they do not have a parent who is risking his or her life, that they are not consumed with worry, that their daily life is not affected by this absence.

How should this sacrifice, borne by less than 1% of our population, affect the rest of us, the lucky 99% of us? What is our responsibility? Most of us have the luxury to blithely choose to remain ignorant of the war, or simply not pay attention. We can turn the page; we can change the channel. There is decadence in that choice and, I would suggest, a sense of shame, a moral disquiet.

I think that making the war personal is important. Telling the stories of those left behind, illuminating the lives of spouses and partners and children who have a loved one deployed is important.

Stories have the unique power to open our eyes and our hearts to people and to worlds and to experiences that we would not otherwise know. I wanted to find a way to tell the story of this endless war, to shed light on these struggles, and most importantly, I wanted to hear these voices.

I hope that Alice Bliss can help us begin to see this war one child at a time, one soldier at a time, one missing father at a time.

Read an excerpt from Alice Bliss on Harrington's website.

 

 

Theater writer Laura Harrington based her debut novel, Alice Bliss, on a one-woman, one-act musical she wrote that she couldn't get out of her head. Her desire to dramatize the experience of military families was due to her belief that the story of the war…

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