This collection of excerpts from upcoming mystery and suspense titles is here again! As always, there are generous excerpts and descriptions of each of the featured titles. There is also information on each of the authors.
Readers will find their own favorites. I know that I want to read What the Neighbors Saw and The Trade Off. Think about the macabre head in Speak of the Dead; the story sounds intriguing.
This is a great way to learn about new books and it is free.
Many thanks to NetGalley and Minotaur for this title. All opinions are my own.
Phaedra Patrick has become one of my favorite authors. I very much enjoyed both The Messy Lives of Book People and The Secrets of Love Story Bridge, so was very excited to read this forthcoming book.
Patrick’s talent for creating wonderful settings and people with whom readers will enjoy spending time are very present here. Much of the story takes place at a small, Italian, old fashioned hotel. This spot contrasts with a much more modern hotel that is nearby. Readers can decide where they might rather be as they read the story.
Protagonist Ginny has, for many years, had a radio show in which she offered help to others as a kind of agony aunt. To her surprise, Ginny learns that there are issues in her own life when her husband says that he wants to separate. This occurs just as Ginny had been planning a romantic getaway for them.
Needless to say, Ginny is distraught. When she finds that she cannot get a refund, the plot leads her to invite some of her listeners on her trip to Italy. They then stay at the hotel mentioned above.
The travelers include an elderly widow grieving her special needs daughter, a teacher whose mother is unwell, a man who has lost his best friend (a dog), and a property developer. Readers also get to know the hotel owner and his daughter.
One of the plot threads has to do with what happens when Ginny, posing as Jenny, and Aidan (her husband) start to communicate without Aidan knowing that he already intimately knows “Jenny.” Will they want to try again? What will happen to the other characters, all of whom become quite close to one another as they visit museums, hike, quilt, eat and do other activities together? Readers will enjoy finding out.
This book is recommended to those who enjoy women’s fiction. Those who know the author will be delighted to read another one of her books. Those new to Patrick are in for a treat.
Many thanks to NetGalley and HTP for this title. All opinions are my own.
Phaedra Patrick has become one of my favorite authors. I very much enjoyed both The Messy Lives of Book People and The Secrets of Love Story Bridge, so was very excited to read this forthcoming book.
Patrick’s talent for creating wonderful settings and people with whom readers will enjoy spending time are very present here. Much of the story takes place at a small, Italian, old fashioned hotel. This spot contrasts with a much more modern hotel that is nearby. Readers can decide where they might rather be as they read the story.
Protagonist Ginny has, for many years, had a radio show in which she offered help to others as a kind of agony aunt. To her surprise, Ginny learns that there are issues in her own life when her husband says that he wants to separate. This occurs just as Ginny had been planning a romantic getaway for them.
Needless to say, Ginny is distraught. When she finds that she cannot get a refund, the plot leads her to invite some of her listeners on her trip to Italy. They then stay at the hotel mentioned above.
The travelers include an elderly widow grieving her special needs daughter, a teacher whose mother is unwell, a man who has lost his best friend (a dog), and a property developer. Readers also get to know the hotel owner and his daughter.
One of the plot threads has to do with what happens when Ginny, posing as Jenny, and Aidan (her husband) start to communicate without Aidan knowing that he already intimately knows “Jenny.” Will they want to try again? What will happen to the other characters, all of whom become quite close to one another as they visit museums, hike, quilt, eat and do other activities together? Readers will enjoy finding out.
This book is recommended to those who enjoy women’s fiction. Those who know the author will be delighted to read another one of her books. Those new to Patrick are in for a treat.
Many thanks to NetGalley and HTP for this title. All opinions are my own.
It is hard to believe that this is the thirty-first book in the long running series. I have loved spending time with Harry ( former postmistress), Fair (vet and husband to Harry) and Susan (close friend) in Crozet, Virginia the whole time. And, of course, don’t forget those highly intelligent animals who work so hard to help their humans.
For those who are not already acquainted with the series, there is a treat in store. Brown helps readers out by including a detailed list of characters that will bring them up to speed.
As this book opens, Christmas is approaching and Harry finds that she has a lot to do. She wasn’t planning to add solving murders to her list of tasks but, of course, she must as there are a number of them and she is not a person to stand by idly. Note that the story has elements of both past and present. There are drugs and a new dog here as well.
The delight in reading a book by Rita Mae Brown is being entertained by an author who has mastered her craft. The illustrations add an extra bonus .
Recommended to those who enjoy domestic mysteries and those that feature animals.
Many thanks to Random House Publishing Group for this title. All opinions are my own.
Pub date: 28 March 2023
PS: If you want to start at the beginning, look for Wish You Were Here.
It is a real treat to be part of the blog tour for this third title in Alka Joshi’s series. Her fans will be delighted while new readers may discover a new favorite author. Many thanks to HTP, Sophie James and Justine Sha for this opportunity.
About the book and author:
THE PERFUMIST OF PARIS
Author: Alka Joshi
ISBN:9780778386148
Publication Date: March 28, 2023
Publisher: MIRA Books
BIO:
Born in India and raised in the U.S. since she was nine, Alka Joshi has a BA from Stanford University and an MFA from California College of Arts. Joshi’s debut novel, The Henna Artist, immediately became a NYT bestseller, a Reese Witherspoon Bookclub pick, was Longlisted for the Center for Fiction First Novel Prize, & is in development as a TV series. Her second novel, The Secret Keeper of Jaipur (2021), is followed by The Perfumist of Paris (2023).Find her online at www.alkajoshi.com.
BOOK SUMMARY:
“A stunning portrait of a woman blossoming into her full power…this is Alka Joshi’s best book yet!” —Kate Quinn, New York Times bestselling author of The Diamond Eye
From the author of Reese’s Book Club Pick The Henna Artist, the final chapter in Alka Joshi’s New York Times bestselling Jaipur trilogy takes readers to 1970s Paris, where Radha’s budding career as a perfumer must compete with the demands of her family and the secrets of her past.
Paris, 1974. Radha is now living in Paris with her husband, Pierre, and their two daughters. She still grieves for the baby boy she gave up years ago, when she was only a child herself, but she loves being a mother to her daughters, and she’s finally found her passion—the treasure trove of scents.
She has an exciting and challenging position working for a master perfumer, helping to design completely new fragrances for clients and building her career one scent at a time. She only wishes Pierre could understand her need to work. She feels his frustration, but she can’t give up this thing that drives her.
Tasked with her first major project, Radha travels to India, where she enlists the help of her sister, Lakshmi, and the courtesans of Agra—women who use the power of fragrance to seduce, tease and entice. She’s on the cusp of a breakthrough when she finds out the son she never told her husband about is heading to Paris to find her—upending her carefully managed world and threatening to destroy a vulnerable marriage.
The Jaipur Trilogy
Book 1: The Henna Artist Book 2: The Secret Keeper of Jaipur Book 3: The Perfumist of Paris
I pick up on the first ring; I know it’s going to be her. She always calls on his birthday. Not to remind me of the day he came into this world but to let me know I’m not alone in my remembrance.
“Jiji?” I keep my voice low. I don’t want to wake Pierre and the girls.
“Kaisa ho, choti behen?” my sister says. I hear the smile in her voice, and I respond with my own. It’s lovely to hear Lakshmi’s gentle Hindi here in my Paris apartment four thousand miles away. I’d always called her Jiji—big sister—but she hadn’t always called me choti behen. It was Malik who addressed me as little sister when I first met him in Jaipur eighteen years ago, and he wasn’t even related to Jiji and me by blood. He was simply her apprentice. My sister started calling me choti behen later, after everything in Jaipur turned topsy-turvy, forcing us to make a new home in Shimla.
Today, my sister will talk about everything except the reason she’s calling. It’s the only way she’s found to make sure I get out of bed on this particular date, to prevent me from spiraling into darkness every year on the second of September, the day my son, Niki, was born.
She started the tradition the first year I was separated from him, in 1957. I was just fourteen. Jiji arrived at my boarding school with a picnic, having arranged for the headmistress to excuse me from classes. We had recently moved from Jaipur to Shimla, and I was still getting used to our new home. I think Malik was the only one of us who adjusted easily to the cooler temperatures and thinner air of the Himalayan mountains, but I saw less of him now that he was busy with activities at his own school, Bishop Cotton.
I was in history class when Jiji appeared at the door and beckoned me with a smile. As I stepped outside the room, she said, “It’s such a beautiful day, Radha. Shall we take a hike?” I looked down at my wool blazer and skirt, my stiff patent leather shoes, and wondered what had gotten into her. She laughed and told me I could change into the clothes I wore for nature camp, the one our athletics teacher scheduled every month. I’d woken with a heaviness in my chest, and I wanted to say no, but one look at her eager face told me I couldn’t deny her. She’d cooked my favorite foods for the picnic. Makki ki roti dripping with ghee. Palak paneer so creamy I always had to take a second helping. Vegetable korma. And chole, the garbanzo bean curry with plenty of fresh cilantro.
That day, we hiked Jakhu Hill. I told her how I hated math but loved my sweet old teacher. How my roommate, Mathilde, whistled in her sleep. Jiji told me that Madho Singh, Malik’s talking parakeet, was starting to learn Punjabi words. She’d begun taking him to the Community Clinic to amuse the patients while they waited to be seen by her and Dr. Jay. “The hill people have been teaching him the words they use to herd their sheep, and he’s using those same words now to corral patients in the waiting area!” She laughed, and it made me feel lighter. I’ve always loved her laugh; it’s like the temple bells that worshippers ring to receive blessings from Bhagwan.
When we reached the temple at the top of the trail, we stopped to eat and watched the monkeys frolicking in the trees. A few of the bolder macaques eyed our lunch from just a few feet away. As I started to tell her a story about the Shakespeare play we were rehearsing after school, I stopped abruptly, remembering the plays Ravi and I used to rehearse together, the prelude to our lovemaking. When I froze, she knew it was time to steer the conversation into less dangerous territory, and she smoothly transitioned to how many times she’d beat Dr. Jay at backgammon.
“I let Jay think he’s winning until he realizes he isn’t,” Lakshmi grinned.
I liked Dr. Kumar (Dr. Jay to Malik and me), the doctor who looked after me when I was pregnant with Niki—here in Shimla. I’d been the first to notice that he couldn’t take his eyes off Lakshmi, but she’d dismissed it; she merely considered the two of them to be good friends. And here he and my sister have been married now for ten years! He’s been good for her—better than her ex-husband was. He taught her to ride horses. In the beginning, she was scared to be high off the ground (secretly, I think she was afraid of losing control), but now she can’t imagine her life without her favorite gelding, Chandra.
So lost am I in memories of the sharp scents of Shimla’s pines, the fresh hay Chandra enjoys, the fragrance of lime aftershave and antiseptic coming off Dr. Jay’s coat, that I don’t hear Lakshmi’s question. She asks again. My sister knows how to exercise infinite patience—she had to do it often enough with those society ladies in Jaipur whose bodies she spent hours decorating with henna paste.
I look at the clock on my living room wall. “Well, in another hour, I’ll get the girls up and make their breakfast.” I move to the balcony windows to draw back the drapes. It’s overcast today, but a little warmer than yesterday. Down below, a moped winds its way among parked cars on our street. An older gentleman, keys jingling in his palm, unlocks his shop door a few feet from the entrance to our apartment building. “The girls and I may walk a ways before we get on the Métro.”
“Won’t the nanny be taking them to school?”
Turning from the window, I explain to Jiji that we had to let our nanny go quite suddenly and the task of taking my daughters to the International School has fallen to me.
“What happened?”
It’s a good thing Jiji can’t see the color rise in my cheeks. It’s embarrassing to admit that Shanti, my nine-year-old daughter, struck her nanny on the arm, and Yasmin did what she would have done to one of her children back in Algeria: she slapped Shanti. Even as I say it, I feel pinpricks of guilt stab the tender skin just under my belly button. What kind of mother raises a child who attacks others? Have I not taught her right from wrong? Is it because I’m neglecting her, preferring the comfort of work to raising a girl who is presenting challenges I’m not sure I can handle? Isn’t that what Pierre has been insinuating? I can almost hear him say, “This is what happens when a mother puts her work before family.” I put a hand on my forehead. Oh, why did he fire Yasmin before talking to me? I didn’t even have a chance to understand what transpired, and now my husband expects me to find a replacement. Why am I the one who must find the solution to a problem I didn’t cause?
My sister asks how my work is going. This is safer ground. My discomfort gives way to excitement. “I’ve been working on a formula for Delphine that she thinks is going to be next season’s favorite fragrance. I’m on round three of the iteration. The way she just knows how to pull back on one ingredient and add barely a drop of another to make the fragrance a success is remarkable, Jiji.”
I can talk forever about fragrances. When I’m mixing a formula, hours can pass before I stop to look around, stretch my neck or step outside the lab for a glass of water and a chat with Celeste, Delphine’s secretary. It’s Celeste who often reminds me that it’s time for me to pick up the girls from school when I’m between nannies. And when I do have someone to look after the girls, Celeste casually asks what I’m serving for dinner, reminding me that I need to stop work and get home in time to feed them. On the days Pierre cooks, I’m only too happy to stay an extra hour before finishing work for the day. It’s peaceful in the lab. And quiet. And the scents—honey and clove and vetiver and jasmine and cedar and myrrh and gardenia and musk—are such comforting companions. They ask nothing of me except the freedom to envelop another world with their essence. My sister understands. She told me once that when she skated a reed dipped in henna paste across the palm, thigh or belly of a client to draw a Turkish fig or a boteh leaf or a sleeping baby, everything fell away—time, responsibilities, worries.
My daughter Asha’s birthday is coming up. She’s turning seven, but I know Jiji won’t bring it up. Today, my sister will refrain from any mention of birthdays, babies or pregnancies because she knows these subjects will inflame my bruised memories. Lakshmi knows how hard I’ve worked to block out the existence of my firstborn, the baby I had to give up for adoption. I’d barely finished grade eight when Jiji told me why my breasts were tender, why I felt vaguely nauseous. I wanted to share the good news with Ravi: we were going to have a baby! I’d been so sure he would marry me when he found out he was going to be a father. But before I could tell him, his parents whisked him away to England to finish high school. I haven’t laid eyes on him since. Did he know we’d had a son? Or that our baby’s name is Nikhil?
I wanted so much to keep my baby, but Jiji said I needed to finish school. At thirteen, I was too young to be a mother. What a relief it was when my sister’s closest friends, Kanta and Manu, agreed to raise the baby as their own and then offered to keep me as his nanny, his ayah. They had the means, the desire and an empty nursery. I could be with Niki all day, rock him, sing him to sleep, kiss his peppercorn toes, pretend he was all mine. It took me only four months to realize that I was doing more harm than good, hurting Kanta and Manu by wanting Niki to love only me.
When I was first separated from my son, I thought about him every hour of every day. The curl on one side of his head that refused to settle down. The way his belly button stuck out. How eagerly his fat fingers grasped the milk bottle I wasn’t supposed to give him. Having lost her own baby, Kanta was happy to feed Niki from her own breast. And that made me jealous—and furious. Why did she get to nurse my baby and pretend he was hers? I knew it was better for him to accept her as his new mother, but still. I hated her for it.
I knew that as long as I stayed in Kanta’s house, I would keep Niki from loving the woman who wanted to nurture him and was capable of caring for him in the long run. Lakshmi saw it, too. But she left the decision to me. So I made the only choice I could. I left him. And I tried my best to pretend he never existed. If I could convince myself that the hours Ravi Singh and I spent rehearsing Shakespeare—coiling our bodies around each other as Othello and Desdemona, devouring each other into exhaustion—had been a dream, surely I could convince myself our baby had been a dream, too.
And it worked. On every day but the second of September.
Ever since I left Jaipur, Kanta has been sending envelopes so thick I know what they contain without opening them: photos of Niki the baby, the toddler, the boy. I return each one, unopened, safe in the knowledge that the past can’t touch me, can’t splice my heart, can’t leave me bleeding.
The last time I saw Jiji in Shimla, she showed me a similar envelope addressed to her. I recognized the blue paper, Kanta’s elegant handwriting—letters like g and y looping gracefully—and shook my head. “When you’re ready, we can look at the photos together,” Jiji said.
This book is the fourth in a fun, light mystery series featuring Mia Carina. This time she is back in Queens and involved in her family’s (legitimate) business, the running of a catering hall. Mia becomes embroiled in lots of mayhem both with her family and in her work.
Work wise, Mia is involved with a film shoot. She is not impressed with the reality show wannabes that this brings in. Alongside this, Mia’s cousin is marrying into a family that doesn’t even care about food! Also, she is hoping that someone special might “pop the question.” And, of course, as if that were not enough, there is a murder with a certain family member as suspect.
Readers will quickly turn the pages in this one. Traditional mystery fans should give it a look.
Many thanks to NetGalley and Kensington Books for this title. All opinions are my own.
Many have contributed to this title which features 500 destinations that are welcoming to queer travelers. Included are destinations in North America, Latin America and the Caribbean, Europe, Africa, the Middle East and Asia, and Australia, so pretty much anywhere one could want to go . As the introduction notes, “you deserve to go on the trip of your dreams; to experience radiant queer joy; to be celebrated.” The main contributor to this book wants this experience for all.
Readers would be wise to pay attention to the Travel Tips section. We still live in a world where caution may be needed and preparation and knowledge matter. After this are the many destinations.
Each location has a brief entry. There are also many photographs throughout this title. Overall entries are for a particular experience as, for example, Haircuts for Anyone, in Montreal. In the pages surrounding this entry are other Montreal destinations. All in all, there are 500 from around the world as noted above. Each includes a Best Time to Go and Best for (whom) note.
This book is worth a look when planning a trip. It offers suggestions of many places to explore.
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! 