I read somewhere that it is better to make resolutions in February once the new year is settling in. If that makes sense, here is a book that will encourage readers to have an exceptional year. It offers something for every day to incorporate into making for a good life.
In the introduction, Hendricks summarizes the two principles that drive this book. They are how to eliminate Upper Limit Problems (what is done when things are gong well) and how to live in, what the book refers to as, the Genius Zone.
This book is organized into what are called cycles. Within each are themes and ways to put each theme into action. Start with day one where the author asks for the reader’s commitment and then try to keep going. Hopefully, things will be learned.
Those who like self-help and motivational works may well find this title to be helpful. Hopefully, many of the entries will resonate.
Many thanks to NetGalley and St. Martin’s Press for this title. All opinions are my own.
This story of sisters and the importance of family will be enjoyed by readers of women’s fiction and those who are already fans of this author. It is an easy and absorbing read.
Meet three sisters (and their mom) who have come together following their grandmother’s death. Lark, Hannah and Avery all have their own backstories and challenges. They have come to their small town to complete their grandmother’s quilt and in the process will learn so much more about themselves and each other.
This is a book with characters for whom readers will care. They will also I think enjoy the small town setting.
Many thanks to NetGalley and Harlequin for this title. All opinions are my own.
The subtitle of this book, A Guide to Celebrating Old Friends, Making New Ones, and Navigating Sticky Social Situations, gives a perfect insight into what will be found in these pages. Once again, the folks at Rebel Girls are keyed into a topic that is of great concern to their audience.
Friendships are a source of great joy but also of unhappiness and dissension at times. What to do? Here is lots of helpful advice without condescension.
In these pages are chapters entitled What Makes a Good Friend; How to Make Friends; Being a Good Friend; Different Types of Friendships; When the Road Gets Rocky; and Mourning A Friendship. Within each chapter are a number of sections. For example, the Rocky chapter talks about Asking for Help and How to Apologize as just two topics.
This brightly illustrated title is filled with the authors’ (who are good friends) reflections and thoughts. There are quizzes, questions and answers and more throughout the text.
This book is a good resource for kids who are entering the tween years. Give it to a girl you know. They just may thank you.
Many thanks to NetGalley and Rebel Girls for this title. All opinions are my own.
Many thanks to the team at HTP for this opportunity.
Book info:
THE LAST DAYS OF LILAH GOODLUCK
Author: Kylie Scott
ISBN: 9781525804809
Publication Date: February 6, 2024
Publisher: Graydon House
18.99 US | 23.99 CAN
Summary:
Red White and Royal Blue meets The Last Holiday in this delight of a novel, about a woman who unexpectedly finds “fall in love with a prince” on her bucket list after a fortune teller tells her she only has a week to live. Ideal for fans of Sophie Cousens and Rebecca Serle.
Your boyfriend is cheating on you
You will be passed over for the promotion
5-8-12-24-39-43
Your soulmate is a royal prince
And your time is up a week from Monday
When Lilah Goodluck saves the life of Good Witch Willow as they’re crossing a busy LA street, the last thing she expects is five unwanted predictions as a reward. Who gives someone the lotto numbers then tells them they’ve only got a week to live? And who believes in that nonsense anyway?
But when the first three predictions come true within twenty-four hours, Lilah’s disbelief turns to mild panic. She’s further horrified when she nearly runs a car off the road that belongs to Alistair Lennox, the illegitimate son of the English king.
Alistair is intrigued by her preposterous story, but Lilah is adamant about resisting the heat between her and the playboy prince. If he’s not her soulmate, then the last prediction can’t come true. But as the days count down, they become maybe friends…and then maybe more. Between the relentless paparazzi and his disapproving family, dating a sort-of prince isn’t easy, especially when you have death on your doorstep.
Start reading:
riday
Good Witch Willow is unhappy at me for keeping her waiting.
This is made obvious by the way she glares up at me through her wire-rim glasses while tugging on one of the crystal pendants around her neck. Like it is going to take help from beyond to stop her from slapping me silly or something.
“Lilah,” says my best friend with much patience, “why are you like this?”
“I don’t know.”
“Just ask her a question already.”
Rebecca (not Becca or Becky) does have a point. It’s not like I haven’t known this moment was coming for weeks now. She wanted to do something fun for her birthday and every other entertainer had already been booked. A lot of birthday parties in March, apparently. Guess everyone has sex in the summertime.
The private room at the back of the bespoke cocktail bar off Santa Monica Boulevard is close to capacity and a song by Hozier plays over the speakers. We stand at one of the tall round bar tables with the remains of a charcuterie board and a flickering tea light in a vintage jar. The walls are painted a bright turquoise, but the vibe is relaxed. It should be a great night. I want it to be for my friend’s sake. But I am anxious and distracted and not in the mood at all, dammit.
“I honestly don’t have one,” I say. “I’m sorry. I told you this wasn’t my thing.”
Rebecca groans and downs more than a mouthful of her whiskey sour. It’s her party, she can self-medicate if she wants to—and apparently, she does.
“What do people normally ask?”
Good Witch Willow is older with white skin and long gray hair in a braid. She’s exactly what I imaged a witch would look like when I was a child. A dramatic long lace dress and plenty of chunky jewelry. Instead of answering me, she glances at her smartwatch and announces, “That’s your two hours up. I’m out of here.”
Rebecca gives me a look.
Good Witch Willow wastes no time, packing her tarot cards, a travel-size crystal ball, and a collection of brightly colored crystals back into her large velvet tote.
“I’m sorry,” I say to Rebecca for the second time. “Though your work bestie hogging her for over forty minutes to ask about his fantasy football team didn’t help. And your neighbor that needed that emergency love potion. I wonder if she’ll actually manage to find Keanu Reeves and persuade him to drink it.”
Rebecca just raises her brows.
“You have to give it to her, it’s a beautiful dream,” I say. “But my point is you, my friend, are popular. There are a lot of people here. The chance of Good Witch Willow getting around to everyone was always going to be low.”
“Just admit you’re all up in your feelings about your boyfriend again.”
“I am worried about Josh.” I take a sip from my gimlet. “He said the headache was really bad, that it was messing with his vision.”
“That actually doesn’t sound good,” she reluctantly agrees.
“Yeah. I really think he needs to see a doctor, but you know what dudes are like.”
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’ve pretty much made it my life mission to not know what dudes are like.” She takes another sip of her drink. “You’re going to rush home to play nurse instead of going dancing with me, aren’t you?”
“Rebecca, can you predict the future?” I fake gasp. “And you never told me…that hurts. Wait. Did you know that was going to hurt?”
She gives me an amused smile and raises the remains of her drink in a toast. We’ve been best friends since sharing a dorm room in college about a decade ago. She’s petite with dark hair and olive skin. I on the other hand am more of a robust blonde. They didn’t spare the tits and ass when they made me.
“Go on, abandon me then,” she says. “But you owe me.”
“How about I take you out to dinner next week? To that Japanese place you love?”
“No complaining when I eat all the salmon sashimi.”
“Agreed. Happy almost birthday. Talk to you tomorrow.” I set my mostly empty gimlet on the bar and give her a hug. “Don’t go home with Priya. You know you’ll only regret it. Again.”
“But she’s brilliant and beautiful and emotionally unavailable. She’s exactly my type.”
“Oh my God. It’s like you just proved my point.”
“Get out of here, loser.”
I smack a kiss on her cheek. “I love you, Rebecca. Make good choices.”
Despite the late hour, there are still plenty of people around. The road is glossy black from a recent storm, and puddles on the sidewalk reflect the lights from the bars and restaurants. I huddle down into my cardigan against the cold night air. There’s a small convenience store open on the other side. Just perfect for picking up Tylenol since I have no idea how much we have at home, and Josh might need more. Better safe than sorry.
I join the only other person waiting at the corner to cross, and she just so happens to be Good Witch Willow. Her stereotypical pointed boot taps impatiently as she rummages through her colorful velvet tote in search of something. Being a witch must be interesting. Not that I believe in all that. Divination and spirits and so on never seemed particularly probable to me. My father is an atheist and taught us to question everything and always demand proof. I’m also a librarian, and librarians like facts. An established truth is a beautiful thing. They help to prop up society and keep us warm at night. Or they used to.
The walk light flashes, and Willow’s gray braid swings as she steps off the curb. I follow with my mind wandering, thinking about what else Josh might need and whether I should buy him some soda. But out of the corner of my eye, I see it—a sleek vehicle that doesn’t stop like the others. It doesn’t even slow down. It is, in fact, speeding straight toward us with headlights dazzlingly bright.
There’s no time to think. I grab the older woman from behind as I propel us both back toward the curb and tumble to the ground. Had she been any bigger, it might not have worked. But my years of infrequent gym attendance finally come in handy. Wheels screech and the horn blares as the sports car roars past us. It’s so damn close I can feel the rush of air in its wake.
But we don’t get hit.
Holy shit. My heart is hammering. Willow’s elbow digs into my stomach as she rolls off me onto the pavement. Whatever. I am just honestly amazed to still be amongst the living.
“Asshole!” Good Witch Willow hollers at the fading taillights.
The cool damp ground is hard beneath me, but overhead a star twinkles in a gap between the clouds. Parts of me hurt. My hand is bloody and scraped, and my hip is bruised. There’s also a tear in the tiered skirt of my new pale blue mini dress, not to mention numerous stains from the wet and dirty sidewalk. Odds are also good that I just flashed my panties at the entire street.
Willow raises a brow at me. “Oh, it’s you.”
“You’re welcome,” I reply dryly.
A young man standing nearby caught the whole thing on his cell. And is still filming. A jogger stops and offers Willow his hand. He gently pulls her to her feet before doing the same for me. Which is nice of him.
Willow brushes herself off, gathering the items that fell from her tote. Breath mints, hand sanitizer, and such. “I didn’t see that car coming at all.”
Were I not still catching my breath, I would definitely make a smart-ass comment about her supposed prognostication abilities. Or at least give it serious consideration. But my hip is aching and my hand stings. I wince as I pick a piece of gravel out of one of my deeper scratches. What a mess.
“You’re the one who wanted to know what people ask me, aren’t you?” She tosses her braid over her shoulder and narrows her gaze on me. Like she’s attempting to stare into my soul or something.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say. “Are you okay?”
She nods. “Falling on you made for a soft landing.”
“Great.”
“There’s a lot that people would like to know,” she continues. “But the most popular questions tend to revolve around love. Are they cheating on me? Will they come back to me? Who’s my soulmate? Things like that.”
“Makes sense, I guess.”
“Then they tend to move on to more mundane issues, like if they’re going to get that promotion, or are they on the right career track? Then you’ve got the ones who think they’re funny. They like to ask me for this week’s lotto numbers.”
I snort. “That is kind of funny.”
“Not when you’re hearing it for the hundredth time, it isn’t. And then there are the ones who want to know when they’re going to die.” She cocks her head and sighs. “That car would have hit me if you hadn’t been there. Given the speed it was going, I doubt it would have ended well for me.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I keep my mouth shut.
“It would seem you’re owed something.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“Be quiet and listen.” Willow draws herself up to her full height, and her gaze turns hazy. As if she’s staring into the middle distance. Then in a sonorous tone, she announces, “He is cheating on you. But I think you already know that deep down. The name of your soulmate is Alistair George Arthur Lennox. What a mouthful.”
My smile is bemused. “Wait a minute. You don’t mean—”
“You will be passed over for the promotion. They really don’t appreciate you. I have no idea why you’ve stayed there so long.”
“It’s complicated. You’re actually predicting all of this, aren’t you?”
“Five, eight, twelve, twenty-four, thirty-nine, and forty-three. And I’m very sorry to tell you this, but you will die next Sunday.”
“What?” I shake my head. She cannot be saying what I think she is saying. Because there is not a chance in hell that this is real. “No. That’s not possible.”
“You might want to say goodbye to your loved ones and get your affairs in order.”
My laughter is brittle with an edge of disbelief. “Are you serious? I mean, you’re joking, right?”
Willow blinks several times and blows out a breath. Like she’s coming back to herself or returning to her version of reality or whatever. Maybe she hit her head on the pavement. It’s the only thing that makes sense. Though she believed in all the supernatural stuff to begin with. Which just goes to validate my belief that people are wild.
“Right,” she says. “Goodnight.”
“Did you mean right as in you were joking?”
But without another word, she heads off into the night, leaving me standing there stunned.
I ask the night at large, in a not so quiet voice, “What in the actual fuck?”
But no one answers. Even the dude with the cell phone has disappeared. Despite the drama and weirdness, no one so much as spares me a glance. The world keeps turning and life goes on. Insert big sigh here.
What I need is to buy the Tylenol, go home, check on Josh, down some of the previously mentioned painkillers (for my poor sore hip and hand), have a long hot shower, and then go to bed.
This is a fun quirky and escapist read that is perfect for cozying up with on a cold winter’s day. The characters are engaging, the plot is involving and there are both humor and heart here. Readers will want the best for Lilah as her life is turned upside down and her end may be in sight. How will she fare? Readers will turn the pages eagerly to find out.
Kylie Scott is the New York Times, USA Today, Wall Street Journal and international bestselling author of 19 novels including the Stage Dive series, the Dive Bar series, the Larsen Brothers series, and West Hollywood series. Her most recent release, Pause, debuted on the USA Today bestseller list. Her books have been translated into fourteen languages, and she has sold over 2 million copies worldwide.
Many thanks to the team at HTP for this opportunity. Books by this author are very enjoyable!
THE UNCHARTED FLIGHT OF OLIVIA WEST
Author: Sara Ackerman
ISBN: 9780778369516 Publication date: February 6, 2024 Publisher: MIRA
18.99 US | 23.99 Can
About this title:
Book Summary:
This extraordinary novel, inspired by real events, tells the story of a female aviator who defies the odds to embark on a daring air race across the Pacific.
1927. Olivia “Livy” West is a fearless young pilot with a love of adventure. She yearns to cross oceans and travel the skies. When she learns of the Dole Air Race—a high-stakes contest to be the first to make the 2,400 mile Pacific crossing from the West Coast to Hawai’i—she sets her sights on qualifying. But it soon becomes clear that only men will make the cut. In a last-ditch effort to take part, Livy manages to be picked as a navigator for one of the pilots, before setting out on a harrowing journey that some will not survive.
1987. Wren Summers is down to her last dime when she learns she has inherited a remote piece of land on the Big Island with nothing on it but a dilapidated barn and an overgrown mac nut grove. She plans on selling it and using the money to live on, but she is drawn in by the mysterious objects kept in the barn by her late great-uncle—clues to a tragic piece of aviation history lost to time. Determined to find out what really happened all those years ago, Wren enlists the help of residents at a nearby retirement home to uncover Olivia’s story piece by piece. What she discovers is more earth-shattering, and closer to home, than she could have ever imagined.
My thoughts
Sara Ackerman knows how to write interesting and involving dual time period fiction. Her love of Hawaii is a delightful aspect of her book
This title about early flight and the plight of women in a “man’s world” was a page turning read. The sense of setting, the feeling of flight, the interest that I had for the protagonist in this earlier time period, all kept me turning the pages.
I also enjoyed the more modern time setting and how the two time periods converged. Anyone who likes historical fiction should give this title, based on truth, a look.
Many thanks to the team at HTP for this book and the spot on the blog tour.
Start reading:
Olivia San Diego, 1920
Livy had been coming to the airfield for months now but still had yet to go up in an airplane. On weekends, when Pa was out fishing, she would offer to wash the planes or do whatever odd jobs she could for a penny, while watching planes go up. Always hoping to get a ride, but so far out of luck. Though not for a lack of trying. She had been pestering Mr. Ryan for months now. “Paying customers only,” was his standard response. “Or students.” But so far, all students were men. A sixteen-year-old girl had no business in a cockpit.
Ryan Flying Company and School of Aviation was on the edge of the Dutch Flats alongside the San Diego Bay and the Marine Corps Recruit Depot, a long Spanish-style building with a tall bell tower in the middle. Palm trees neatly lined up in front like green soldiers at attention. When the tide pulled out, you could smell salty brine and decaying sea life. The hangar was modern and clean, but it was plopped on a brown expanse of hard-packed mud that kicked up dust when dry. Of late, the place had become a magnet for all things aviation.
Mr. Ryan had begun letting other people park their planes here free of charge, and customers flocked for the sightseeing tours.
On a warm Sunday in March, after surviving a long sermon at church with her mother, Livy beelined it to the airfield. A new pilot had been hired for the tours and she was hoping he might be a softy, and maybe, just maybe, she could persuade him to take her up. Such a gloomy and gusty day, with dark clouds threatening rain, meant less people taking a tour. It also happened that Mr. Ryan was in Los Angeles for the week, and what he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him.
Livy was hunched over, wiping down the wheels of Mr. Hall’s biplane, when she heard the incoming engine. She stood up to watch the wobbly machine approach. A storm was brewing to the south, you could taste it in the air, and that always made the pilots nervous. She watched the plane make a precarious drop before leveling off, and then come in for a hard landing. As soon as he came to a stop, the new pilot hopped out of the plane, waiting for his customer and holding a hand out when she finally disembarked. A red-haired woman in heels, face white as chalk.
Livy walked over, wiping her hands on her overalls. “How was it up there today?”
The woman staggered past Livy without even a glance. “Never again.”
The pilot trailed behind his passenger and shrugged. “What can I say? Usually, they’re begging for more.”
Once the woman left, zooming off in a shiny Model T, Livy moseyed over to the hangar and stood in the doorway. The pilot was at the counter drinking a Coke and studying a clipboard. With his goggles pulled up on his head, his thick blond hair stood out in all directions, as though he’d stuck his hand in an electric socket.
Livy cleared her throat.
He looked up. “Can I help you?” he asked.
“I’m Olivia West. I work here.”
More like volunteer and hope that people would pay her, but she could dream.
“Oh, right. Mr. Ryan said you might be here. I’m Heath Hazeltine, new pilot.” He was staring oddly at her, and for a second she wondered if she might have grease on her face, like she often did while working here, but then he said with a shake of his head, “I was expecting something different.”
“I come in on the weekends, wipe down planes and other odd jobs,” she said, for some reason feeling like she had to explain, then added, “I’m learning to fly.”
That was a stretch, too, but she did always listen to the pilots talk, watch how they got the propellers spinning and closely observe the takeoffs and landings. She knew which part of the runway was more rutted with potholes, and which angle was best for approach.
He cocked his head slightly. “That so?”
“It is.”
One side of his mouth turned up, just a hint. “I didn’t know women could fly airplanes, let alone teenage girls.”
Livy felt her whole face go red. “I’ll be seventeen in four months. And I’ll bet I know more about airplanes and weather than you do, especially down here in San Diego.”
All she really knew about him was that he’d come from Los Angeles and had flown in Hollywood some, doing stunts. No one had mentioned anything about him being so young. She had been picturing some old guy with a sun-beaten face and graying hair.
“Feisty. I like it,” he said.
She stood on her tippy toes and straightened up, all five feet three inches. Though her thick curls tucked under the hat added some extra height. “Take me up, and I’ll teach you a thing or two.”
He laughed. “What can you teach me?”
When he smiled, his whole face changed, making him seem even younger and a little less arrogant—and painfully handsome. Livy felt a swoosh in her stomach and her cheeks tingled. He couldn’t have been much older than twenty, and yet there was a certain worldliness about him. She found herself wanting to impress him.
“Like I said, I know everything there is to know about this area. What have you got to lose?” she said.
He looked at his watch. “My new job, for one. And I have another tour in twenty minutes, so even if I wanted to, I couldn’t. Want to help me patch that big pothole in the runway?”
None of the other pilots ever offered to fill the potholes, they always figured someone else would do it. The mud stuck to everything and gave off a rank odor, and a lot of them saw it as beneath them.
“How about I go fill those holes for you, and you take me up after your tour,” she said.
She thought he was going to refuse her, like Mr. Ryan always did, but instead he nodded and said, “You’re on.”
Disbelief flooded through her. “Really?”
“Really. Now get out there before my next customer arrives.”
But the passengers never showed up, most likely on account of the weather, and the books were empty after that. Heath helped Livy up onto the wing with a big, rough hand and a rock-solid arm. He moved like a man who was extremely comfortable in his own skin, as though the world rotated on his time. Livy decided that he was the perfect man for the job. You wanted your first time up to be memorable, but also to be survivable. Confidence was an asset.
“Sure you want to do this? Those clouds look formidable,” he said.
Livy had noticed the band of charcoal clouds at sea, heralding the foul weather moving up from Mexico. A sudden chill came over her, and she tried to blot out the memory that always accompanied storms blowing in. The dark thing that would always be with her, always haunt the recesses of her mind. Blinding salt spray, cold waves smashing over the bow and washing everything from the deck, the sound of her name being stolen by the whipping wind. Olivia! The last moments of his chafed hand holding on to hers. Her heart began to squeeze in on itself, but she willed the thoughts away.
This storm was likely to be a bad one, but hell if she was going to blow her only chance to fly. Timed right, they’d be able to outrun it.
“Positive. From the looks of it, we have about thirty-seven minutes before that front hits here. Just head north along the coast and we should be back in time.”
She climbed into her seat, and he leaned in and tightened the belt on her waist. “Thirty-seven, huh? Not thirty-six?” he said, close enough that she caught a whiff of mint and salt water.
When he pulled away, their eyes met. Chocolate brown with flecks of fire. Her first instinct was to look away, but instead, she held his gaze.
“Nope, thirty-seven. Let’s go, we’re wasting time,” she said. “Oh, and you’ll probably want to come in from the east on your approach. The wind will swing around coming in off the ocean when it moves in.”
When he stepped back, he almost fell off the wing, catching himself on the wire. They both laughed, breaking whatever strange thing it was that had just passed between them. Without another word, he hopped in and started up the engine. After a few sputters, it chugged to life. Livy slid her goggles on, and made sure her cap was strapped tight. The whole plane buzzed, sending vibrations from the tips of her toes to the crown of her head. As they bounced down the runway, gathering speed, she could hardly believe her luck.
One, two, three. Liftoff.
The shift from clunky and earthbound to weightlessness was unmistakable. Everything went light and buoyant and yet Livy was pinned to her seat as the plane went up. It was a steep climb and all she could see was sky in front of her. She let her head fall back and closed her eyes, imagining herself as an albatross soaring. The hum from the wires that held the wings together grew louder the faster they went. Heath let out a holler and Livy found herself half laughing, half crying. It was even more wonderful than she’d imagined.
When they banked to the right and leveled out some, she saw that she had a bird’s eye view of San Diego Bay, Coronado Island and the city itself—white buildings, red roofs and palm trees. The wind from earlier had died down, leaving an eerie stillness in its wake. They flew toward the cliffs of Point Loma and beyond that, the blue Pacific. There were none of the usual bumps and drops that everyone talked about. It was smooth sailing and she was in awe.
Sara Ackerman is the Hawai’i born, bestselling author of The Codebreaker’s Secret, Radar Girls, Red Sky Over Hawaii, The Lieutenant’s Nurse, and Island of Sweet Pies and Soldiers.
Sara’s books have been labeled “unforgettable” by Apple Books, “empowering & deliciously visceral” by Book Riot, and New York Times bestselling authors Kate Quinn and Madeline Martin have praised Sara’s novels as “fresh and delightful” and “brilliantly written.” Amazon chose Radar Girls as a best book of the month, and ALA Booklist gave The Codebreaker’s Secret a starred review.
Find out more about Sara and her books at www.ackermanbooks.com and follow her on Instagram @saraackermanbooks and on FB @ackermanbooks.
I am delighted to be on the blog tour for this cozy mystery. Many thanks to the publisher and Rachel’s Random Resources for this opportunity.
About the book:
Death at St Jude’s
The Isle of Wight has always felt like a safe place to live for keen dog-walker and reluctant sleuth Susan. But after being involved in the investigation of a troubling crime near her old home, Susan decides to move to the peaceful village of Bishopstone.
Susan loves the sense of community and immediately throws herself into village life, volunteering at the local primary school and joining the choir of St Jude’s. So, when there is an altercation at the meeting of the choir committee, followed by a shocking accident involving head teacher Lawrence, Susan is dismayed to realise her powers of deduction may be needed again.
There is a dangerous criminal hiding in plain sight and with the police reluctant to help, Susan must put together the pieces of the fiendish puzzle to flush out a killer before they strike again.
A brand new cosy mystery from the author of the bestselling The House Party. Perfect for fans of Frances Evesham, Faith Martin and LJ Ross.
My thoughts:
I was drawn to this title by the cover. It perfectly reflects the setting and the atmosphere of this novel. Death at St. Jude’s will be enjoyed by readers who like traditional mysteries with good characters and an interesting plots.
Mary Grand writes gripping, page-turning suspense novels, with a dark and often murderous underside. She grew up in Wales, was for many years a teacher of deaf children and now lives on the Isle of Wight.
I am delighted to be on the blog tour for this novel. It is one that I really enjoyed. (my thoughts are below). Many thanks to the team at HTP for this opportunity.
The Framed Women of Ardemore House
Author: Brandy Schillace
Publication Date: February 13, 2024
ISBN: 9781335014030, Hardcover
Publisher: Hanover Square Press
Price $30.00
Book Summary:
An abandoned English manor. A peculiar missing portrait. A cozy, deviously clever murder mystery, perfect for fans of Richard Osman and Anthony Horowitz.
Jo Jones has always had a little trouble fitting in. As a neurodivergent, hyperlexic book editor and divorced New Yorker transplanted into the English countryside, Jo doesn’t know what stands out more: her Americanisms or her autism.
After losing her job, her mother, and her marriage all in one year, she couldn’t be happier to take possession of a possibly haunted (and clearly unwanted) family estate in North Yorkshire. But when the body of the moody town groundskeeper turns up on her rug with three bullets in his back, Jo finds herself in potential danger—and she’s also a potential suspect. At the same time, a peculiar family portrait vanishes from a secret room in the manor, bearing a strange connection to both the dead body and Jo’s mysterious family history.
With the aid of a Welsh antiques dealer, the morose local detective, and the Irish innkeeper’s wife, Jo embarks on a mission to clear herself of blame and find the missing painting, unearthing a slew of secrets about the town—and herself—along the way. And she’ll have to do it all before the killer strikes again…
“Compulsively readable….This cozy mystery offers humor and heart along with expertly crafted plot and a refreshingly unique voice.” —Bust Magazine, Ellia Bisker
“Twisty, engaging, and thoroughly unexpected.” –DEANNA RAYBOURN, New York Times bestselling author of KILLERS OF A CERTAIN AGE
“The intricate plot and memorable local characters here are a delight.” –BOOKLIST
Start reading…you will want to keep going
The Framed Women of Ardemore House
CHAPTER ONE
The house was enormous. Jo didn’t know enough about local architecture to date it, but the walls stretched up in the damp air, big and dark and lichen flecked. Windows had been boarded up; they wept black mildew creases over sandstone sills. Staring through the car window, Jo dropped her eyes down to the stairs, flanked by columns where Jo imagined regal statues might have stood. Or ought to have stood.
“It’s…a castle,” she whispered.
“It is most certainly not a castle,” said Rupert Selkirk, solicitor of Selkirk and Associates, in the driver’s seat beside her. “Not even the largest house in Abington.”
Solicitor. Jo rolled the word around in her mouth. She’d pocket it for later rumination; it was nice to have a word for chewing on. It suggested antique leather chairs and brass lampstands, felt safer than divorce lawyer, and didn’t trigger the same sort of gut gripe. Rupert looked exactly as a solicitor ought to, with a high forehead, disappearing hairline, and two very bushy eyebrows. He also drove a puddle-green sedan with the steering wheel on the wrong side of Jo’s expectations. She wondered if the sense of dislocation would fade with the jet lag. It hadn’t exactly improved her first impressions. She forgot to introduce herself, forgot the handshake, stared in absolute stunned silence at the landscape as they drove.
Online pictures had suggested something endlessly green, but the reality was wet and ragged, browned out from the end of winter and laced at the edges with naked tree branches. Jo squinted into the distance, taking in the brackish heath, then trees, then fog. A cluster of trees appeared, lanky pin oaks and a few copper beeches. A crumbling dry-stone wall snaked away from decayed posts; no fence, but the remnants of one. She let her eyes wander its length to a dark smudge of woodland and black bark dotted with lichen. The rest of the hill loomed treeless, stark, and scarred by eruptions of additional stone. Moors, she thought. Endless and rolling with dry heather and wet peat.
Jo had pressed herself to the glass, ignoring the steam prints she made. She hadn’t brought much with her—certainly not her books. But Wuthering Heights might have been a good choice. Relaxation breathing had never been much use to her; whenever she consciously thought about autonomic responses, they went all wrong. So she mentally recited the opening lines of the novel as the car grumbled to a halt in the shadow of Ardemore House. As for Rupert, he was repeating himself.
“—Not a castle. The house is wider than it is deep, mostly to take advantage of the south-facing aspect.” Seeing the blank look on Jo’s face, he tried again. “In England, south-facing gardens get the most sun. That’s where you’ll find the Ardemore Gardens. They were the highlight of the property, once. Overgrown now, I’m afraid.” Rupert swept his hand across the horizon as if bisecting it. “Everything east of here is rented for grazing livestock. There is also, as you know, the cottage. It helps defray the tax burden.”
Tax burden. She might want to hold on to those words, too.
“Emery Lane, my assistant, will be drawing up papers while we walk the property,” he said. Jo was starting to run out of processing space, internally. She felt a hiccup of emotion and press-ganged it into a smile.
“Papers?”
“For you to sign. To take over the property as your inheritance.”
The smile failed. Better say something like yes, good. Quite. Exactly the thing. But Rupert got there first, offering her a hand out of the passenger seat.
“Your mother always spoke very warmly of you, by the way. I was very sorry to hear of her passing.”
At these words, Jo quietly abandoned her pursuit of professionalism.
“Y-yeah. I got the card. Thanks.”
Rupert was still looking at her. She could tell, but wasn’t about to look back. She took in the house, instead, this not-castle that rose straight out of bracken and into a cloud bank.
“I want to go inside,” she said. Rupert joined her across the weedy lawn.
“I thought we would see the cottage first. It’s at least habitable.”
He didn’t seem to understand; Jo was standing in front of Wuthering Heights, and no, she did not want to go poke around a cottage. Not yet.
“Inside,” she said. “Please.” Rupert sighed.
“All right. But have proper expectations. This property has been vacant for a century, at least since at least 1908.”
Now in front of the door, Jo furrowed her brow as Rupert hunted for the right key. That was a surprise, actually. And it didn’t make sense.
“But you said my uncle Aiden had the property? In your email—”
“Ah, but he did not live on-site. Had a flat in York, and—” Rupert stopped abruptly and stumbled back. Jo followed his gaze to see a pair of bright eyes peering back at them through the glass.
“Jesus!”
“Tut, now.” Rupert waved his hand airily. “That’s only Sid Randles, caretaker.”
A moment later, and the man himself opened the door. Lean, lanky, all arms, legs, and a shock of red hair. Attractive in the way of highwaymen and pirates, he was either a very well-kept forty-something, or thirty gone to seed. He was also blocking the way.
“Here’s a surprise,” he said. “This the American, then?”
“Jones,” Jo corrected. “It’s Jo Jones now. I mean, again.” Jo faltered slightly, then dutifully stuck her hand out. Sid tucked an industrial-grade flashlight under his arm and gave her a shake, then squeezed her palm.
“Sounds like an alias,” he said.
“Jo Jones was an American Jazz drummer of the Count Basie Orchestra rhythm section from 1934 to 1948,” Jo said, then puckered her lips as if that would bring the words back. Sid eyed her a minute, then let out a yelp of laughter, and not very kindly.
“Ms. Jones would like a tour. Sid, will you do the honors, please?” Rupert checked his wristwatch. “I need to take this call and there’s no signal inside.” He turned away, and Sid grinned at Jo, one crooked canine slipping over his lip like a storybook fox.
“There’s no electricity,” he said.
“I figured that’s why you have the flashlight,” Jo said, pointing. Imagining him as Reynard from the French fables had done wonders for her confidence. She could almost imagine the swish of his irritated tail.
“Fine, fine. Come on in.” He backed into the hall. “Hope you don’t mind the smell.”
It would be hard to miss it. A puff of musty air assaulted Jo’s nostrils on entering—a wet, rotten odor. The windows were boarded, and in the slanted peek-a-boo light she could just make out the ghost of a table, a phantom of chairs in the foyer. Sid swept the light across the hall from a dust-webbed staircase to a grand room that opened off their left.
“You’ll want to pay respects to the Lord and Lady,” he said, then marched her through the pocket doors. The smell was stronger in here, sharper and more tangible. Then, her heart leapt; she’d caught a glimpse of distant book spines.
“It’s a library?” she asked.
“Yeah. A rotten one.” Sid played the flashlight beam along the mantel of a marble fireplace. “But up there, see ’em? That would be Lord William Ardemore. And his wife, Gwen, of course.”
The portraits were too large, and the beam of the light too small, but she could make out a frowning man with deep set eyes and a woman with a rosebud mouth, who might have suitably graced a Victorian cookie tin. Family members she had never known.
“Damned odd, those two.” Sid flicked the light between them. “Just up and vanished from the place.”
Jo sucked a breath. Did everyone know more about them than she did?
“What do you mean? Vanished how?”
“I mean just that.” He played the light against his own face, campfire style. “Just up sticks and gone. Fired everybody, too, didn’t they? Oh, they’d been toast of the town, like.” He did an awful falsetto: “Jobs for the big garden and big bloody house. Then poof. Like they were running from something.”
Jo was watching carefully for signs of a joke. There didn’t appear to be any, so then she waited for him to carry on. Except he didn’t. She studied him for a few silent seconds, until he gave another bark of laughter.
“Nothin’ to say about that, eh? Well, the old Lord and Lady are the least of your worries, anyhow. There’s a hole in the roof upstairs, an honest to God hole. Between you and me? Be cheaper to pull the house down than to fix it up.”
Jo pursed her lips so hard she felt teeth.
“I just got it! I can’t tear it down!”
Sid only shrugged at her outburst.
“Fair, I guess. But what do you plan to do with it, then? Look around.”
Jo did not, in fact, have an answer to that. Sid apparently meant it rhetorically, anyway, since he was now herding her toward the door.
Brandy Schillace, PhD, is a historian of medicine and the critically acclaimed author of Death’s Summer Coat: What Death and Dying Teach Us About Life and Living and Clockwork Futures: The Science of Steampunk. The editor-in-chief of the journal Medical Humanities, she previously worked as a professor of literature and in research and public engagement at the Dittrick Medical History Center and Museum. Brandy also hosts the Peculiar Book Club Podcast, a twice-monthly show.
The Framed Women of Ardemore House, featuring an autistic protagonist caught at the center of a murder mystery, is her fiction debut. Brandy is also autistic, though has not (to her knowledge) been a suspect in a murder investigation. Find her at https://brandyschillace.com/
The cover of this book, its title and the book’s description all drew me in and made me very eager to read this one. It did not disappoint. I think that The Women of Ardemore House will be adored by those who enjoy a twisty plot and an interesting protagonist.
As in The Maid (Nita Prose),, the main character, inheritor of Ardemore House, sleuth, and keen observer is neurodiverse. This leads to Jo being hyperlexic as just one of her talents. But, readers will enjoy spending time with Jo for many reasons, not just her autism. (It has been noted that the author also is neurodiverse, leading her to be well able to describe Jo’s world.)
Jo is coming out of a difficult period when the story opens. She is recently divorced and has been badly used by her publisher ex. Jo has also experienced the death of her mother. So, when she learns that she has an inheritance in England, Jo is ready to try out the ex-pat life. She arrives to find the requisite decaying country pile and its small cottage, a rather strange caretaker and a portrait…but it disappears.
When caretaker Sid is murdered, the story moves toward solving the case. This gives readers the opportunity to know all those working the case as well as the people in the village.
Who killed Sid? Why? Will Jo find happiness in Britain? Readers will turn the pages as they wait to find out.
I recommend this title. Mystery fans could not do better as they start reading in 2024.
Many thanks to NetGalley and the team at Harlequin Trade Publishing for this title. All opinions are my own.
Annabelle Hirsch has compiled an idiosyncratic and interesting collection of objects here. They place a firm spotlight on women and their place(s) in history. Dip in or read in order. Either way this is a fascinating book with entries that offered pause for thought.
The time period that is covered is immense. The first entry is from 30,000 years ago. What makes this healed femur significant? The answer is perhaps surprising.
For each entry readers find an illustration and a short essay/reflection. I had many favorites.
This is a book to savor rather than devour. It is worth a reader’s time.
Many thanks to NetGalley and Crown Publishing for this title. All opinions are my own.
Mary Lennox; does any reader ever forget her? This story of her transformation and growth has stood the test of time. The enchantment of the garden has remained irresistible for generations.
There is no greater treat than introducing a child to the magic of a book. This gorgeous edition of The Secret Garden is perfect for doing exactly that. The illustrations are many, vibrant and enticing.
Remember that there is magic here for adults as well. I definitely want the hard copy of this edition for myself!
Many thanks to NetGalley and Chronicle Books for this title. All opinions are my own.
Joyce's mystery and fiction book reviews with some non-fiction too! 