Different and good.
Good Swedish noir
Good, old fashioned romantic suspense. Very enjoyable
Start of a good series
part of a good series
Part of another good series
Monthly Mystery Deals
Some e book bargains for 12.6.22
This has a similar theme to JoJo Moyes’s Giver of Stars, but I may have liked this one better.
Enjoyed and reviewed by me
Ditto
From one of my favorite series
A blog tour: The Opportunist by Elyse Friedman
As I adore mysteries, I am delighted to be part of this blog tour for Elyse Friedman’s new book. Many thanks to HTP Books, Justine Sha, and Sophie James for this opportunity.
Book info:
The Opportunist
Author: Elyse Friedman
ISBN: 9780778386957
Paperback Original
Publication Date: December 6, 2022
Publisher: MIRA
Buy Links:
Social Links:
Twitter: @elysefriedman
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/elysefriedman/?hl=en
Author Bios:
Elyse Friedman is a critically acclaimed author, screenwriter, poet and playwright. Her work has been short-listed for the Trillium Book Award, Toronto Book Award, ReLit Award and Tom Hendry Award. She has also won a Foreword Book of the Year Award, as well as the 2019 TIFF-CBC Films Screenwriter Jury Prize and the 2020 TIFF-CBC Screenwriter Award. Elyse lives in Toronto.
Book Summary:
A deliciously sly, compulsively readable tale about greed, power and the world’s most devious family.
When Alana Shropshire’s seventy-six-year-old father, Ed, starts dating Kelly, his twenty-eight-year-old nurse, a flurry of messages arrive from Alana’s brothers, urging her to help “protect Dad” from the young interloper. Alana knows that what Teddy and Martin really want to protect is their father’s fortune, and she tells them she couldn’t care less about the May–December romance. Long estranged from her privileged family, Alana, a hardworking single mom, has more important things to worry about.
But when Ed and Kelly’s wedding is announced, Teddy and Martin kick into hyperdrive and persuade Alana to fly to their father’s West Coast island retreat to perform one simple task in their plan to make the gold digger go away. Kelly, however, proves a lot more wily than expected, and Alana becomes entangled in an increasingly dangerous scheme full of secrets and surprises. Just how far will her siblings go to retain control?
Smart, entertaining and brimming with shocking twists and turns, The Opportunist is both a thrill ride of a story and a razor-sharp view of who wields power in the world.
“The rich are different and Elyse Friedman brings the receipts in this twisty story of familial double crossings. The Opportunist is a visceral joy to read and Friedman’s storytelling has more levels than a superyacht. She never hides from the staggering truth that money, in fact, changes everything.” — Emily Schultz, author of Little Threats and The Blondes
“The Opportunist is a wry and unsettling novel featuring one of the most conniving families ever committed to paper. It’s a dark Highsmithian treat about love and greed and murder, and it will make your screwed-up family look like the von Trapps. I devoured it in one sitting. Highly recommended.” — Michael Redhill, author of Bellevue Square
“In The Opportunist, family brings unavoidable dangers. So does money. So does our memory of who we used to be. For her part, Elyse Friedman brings wit and pace and plenty of surprises to a novel you think you’ve figured out at least three or four times, but each time you’ll be thrilled when proven wrong.” — Andrew Pyper, author of The Residence and The Demonologist
Try it:
When the calls started up again, Alana ignored them. Ditto the texts and emails, including ones with red exclamation points attached. She had a part-time job that felt full-time and a daughter who required around-the-clock care. She had neither the hours nor the inclination to delve into family drama. And she already knew why her brothers were so desperate to reach her. The younger of the two, Martin, had been messaging sporadically for months about the “skank” their father had taken up with—a nurse, hired by the eldest, Teddy, to tend to the old man’s needs as he grew increasingly infirm and cranky. Nurse Kelly, a woman forty-eight years their father’s junior, a gold digger, obviously, and a clever one according to Martin. Pretty sure she had him at the first sponge bath. Alana was more amused than disturbed. She told her brothers she couldn’t care less. She had more important things to worry about. Eventually, they stopped contacting her.
Then a few weeks ago an oversize envelope had arrived in Alana’s mailbox. Thick creamy paper, her name embossed in swirling gold script—an invitation to the wedding of Edward Shropshire Sr. and Kelly McNutt. Ha! Clever indeed. She felt a fizz of satisfaction, even as she braced for the onslaught from her siblings, who would be outraged at the prospect of losing any portion of their massive inheritance. Alana hated her father and felt nothing but disdain for her brothers. She had no interest in “protecting the family investments” or “presenting a united front” or “having Dad’s back” or any of the increasingly urgent drivel that trickled in from her greedy siblings. She had been estranged from her father for decades and had no stake in this game. It was frankly a shock that she had been invited to the wedding. It must have been Kelly McNutt who insisted on that. The calls, texts and emails started up again with renewed fervor. When Alana finally concluded that her brothers would not leave her in peace until she responded, she composed a simple three-word text, not exactly a family joke, but something they would recognize and understand: BEYOND OUR CONTROL. She added a laughing-so-hard-I’m-crying emoji and sent it to Teddy and Martin.
She stopped hearing from them after that.
It was a rough night. Lily’s BiPAP alarm had gone off twice. She could breathe without the machine, but not as well, and Alana was programmed to leap into action from the deepest slumber. The first time it sounded, around 1:00 a.m., it was a mask-fit alarm. A quick adjustment and back
to bed. The second was more annoying: a leak alarm at 4:28 that took forever to rectify—no matter how much she fiddled, the alarm kept sounding. She finally got it fixed and Lily was able to get back to sleep, but Alana couldn’t. She lay in bed, her brain churning. At 5:40 she got up, made coffee, and bolted two cinnamon buns in quick succession, an act she immediately regretted, even as she was scraping the last bits of hard white icing from the aluminum pan into her mouth.
It was a workday, so she woke Lily early, helped her dress, and did her hair in French braids. Ramona was coming for the day and Lily liked to look nice for her favorite support worker. Unlike Alana, Ramona was big into girlie stuff: hair, nails, fashion. She would give Lily mani-pedis, and they would flip through Harper’s Bazaar and Teen Vogue and critique the outfits. Ramona had been with them since Lily was three years old, and Alana trusted her completely. She was hugely competent and a ton of fun. Lily was an earnest child, but when Ramona was around, she let herself be silly and boisterous. It would not be unusual for Alana to come home and find them both with teased-up hair and full-on glitter makeup, binge-watching RuPaul’s Drag Race. Ramona was what Lily called “chill.” Pretty much the opposite of Alana, who was always stressed out and exhausted.
“What time will you be home?” Lily asked.
“If all goes well, five thirty.”
“When does all ever go well?”
Alana laughed. “It’s rare, but it has been known to happen. I was home on time twice last week.”
“True.”
“And you have Ramona.”
“OK. But try.”
“I always try, lovey. But if someone shows up out of the blue at four thirty, I can’t just leave. I have to help them.”
“I know.”
Alana worked part-time at the RedTree Shelter, which offered emergency housing for victims of domestic abuse. It was a foolish job for her to have: low-paying and high stress. Not what she needed in practically her only hours away from managing Lily’s health. She should have taken employment that was easy on the soul, like flower arranging—some vaguely pleasant, not overly cerebral activity that would give her time to refresh and restore. She often fantasized about becoming a professional dog walker or making perfect heart shapes in foamy coffees all day, but she stayed with RedTree. It was important work that made her feel a little better about herself. She sometimes wondered if her motivations were selfish at root.
When Ramona arrived, Alana kissed Lily goodbye and left for work. On her third try she managed to get her Stone Age Honda Odyssey to start and was backing out of the drive when a Lexus pulled in behind her, blocking her way. She tapped the horn—a polite “I’m actually leaving here” signal. Nothing. The car just sat there. She honked again, harder, wondering why it always seemed to be a Lexus or a Mercedes or a BMW that cut her off in traffic, or jumped its turn at a four-way stop, or blocked her driveway when she was trying to get to work, for fuck’s sake. She curbed an impulse to ram her SUV into the shiny roadster, and instead left the Honda running while she strode toward the offending vehicle, getting ready to unleash years of pent-up luxury-car-inspired fury on the entitled asshole behind the wheel. But before she could bang her fist on the tinted window, it slid down smoothly, revealing her brother Martin talking on a cell phone. He had it resting flat on an upturned palm held in front of his face. “OK,” he said. “I know. I’ll take care of it.”
“What the hell, Martin? I have to go to work.” It had been years since she had seen him, but he looked pretty much the same—a slightly higher hairline, maybe a few extra pounds. He was still conventionally handsome, fair and blue-eyed with their father’s chiseled chin, but he now had the slightly puffy face of a drinker, the lightning-bolt blood vessels on the side of his nose. He smelled faintly of good cologne with a top note of leather from the luxury rental car’s seats.
He gave Alana the “I’ll-just-be-one-second” finger. “Listen, Damian, I gotta go. I’ll call you in an hour.” Martin pocketed the phone and smiled at his sister. “Sorry about that.”
“What are you doing here?”
“You didn’t get my texts? I need to speak to you. You have a minute?”
“Not at the moment, no.”
“I flew across the country to talk to you. You can’t give me two minutes of your time?”
“I have to go to work, Martin. If you want to ride with me, you’re welcome to. Just let me out, then you can park in the drive and Uber back.”
Martin eyed the dented Odyssey that was belching out exhaust. “Why don’t I drive you and give you cash to cab home?”
“No, thanks.”
He smiled tightly. “Fine.”
Alana returned to the SUV to wait for her brother. When Martin climbed in, he was carrying a stiff white envelope with a button-and-string closure and an airport gift-shop bag.
“Here, I got this for…your daughter.”
“Her name is Lily.”
“I know that. Of course…you named her after Lillian.”
A demented-looking doll with stiff blond ringlets stuck out of the tissue paper.
“Thanks,” said Alana. “She’s a little old for dolls though.”
“Oh. How old is she now?”
“Eleven.”
“Wow. Time flies. But I thought…”
“What?”
“You know… I figured she’d still be into dolls.”
“She’s not slow, Martin. Her brain is fine.”
“Oh. So…?”
“She has a rare form of muscular dystrophy. Well, rare for girls, common for boys.”
“Right.”
“She’s inside, by the way. You want to meet your niece?”
Her brother looked confused and pained, as if she’d asked if he wanted to donate a kidney or breastfeed a cat. “I thought you were in a hurry?”
“I am. I’m just messing with you.” Alana eased the Odyssey out of the driveway. She knew Martin wouldn’t want to meet Lily. And she didn’t want Martin to meet Lily.
“Can you turn the AC on?” Martin fanned himself with the white envelope. “It’s so freaking humid in this city.”
“Sorry, it’s busted.” Alana opened the rear windows to
let in more air but felt a perverse pleasure in depriving her brother of climate control.
“So, look, I understand you don’t care about Dad’s wedding—”
“I really don’t and I’m not going.”
“I don’t give a shit if you go or don’t go, but I’m here to tell you that you should care, actually.”
“And why is that?”
“Because this Kelly woman is seriously messing with Dad’s head.”
“His head or his assets?”
“Both. She’s got him wound around her finger. They’re in the process of setting up a charitable foundation.”
“And that’s a bad thing because…?”
“Because guess who’s going to run it and have access to three hundred million dollars?”
“Kelly McNutt?”
“Yes, Kelly McFucking Nutt. It’s a problem. This girl is dangerous.” A harp gliss sounded from Martin’s pocket. He switched his phone to silent mode.
“Well, it’s not my problem. And anyway, how do you know she won’t use the funds charitably and wisely?”
“Very funny.”
“I’m serious.”
“The same way I know that a twenty-eight-year-old nurse doesn’t fall madly in love with her seventy-six-year-old patient.”
Alana shrugged. “Unlikely, but you never know. I saw his picture in Forbes a few weeks ago. He still looks like Charlton Heston on steroids. Maybe she has daddy issues.”
“It would have to be more like granddaddy issues. I doubt she gets off on adult diapers.”
“He wears diapers?”
“He’s been incontinent for years.”
“Hmm.”
“You must have seen a pre-stroke picture in Forbes.”
“Dad had a stroke?”
“Yes. I told you that last year, Alana.”
“You did?”
“Jesus. Don’t you read your emails?”
“Sometimes the family stuff slips through.”
“Anyway, between that and the prostate surgery, I doubt he can even get it up for Miss McNutt.”
“OK, you know what? I don’t want to talk about this. I’m sorry you and Teddy are going to lose a chunk of your inheritance. But I’m sure there’s more than enough to go around.”
“Yeah, in a perfect world, we’d all be satisfied with our piece of the pie. He’s had playthings before, right? And wasted money on them. But this is different. This one is setting off alarm bells. She isn’t satisfied with having the run of the house and getting a Ferrari and—”
“He bought her a Ferrari?” Alana laughed.
“An 812 GTS. I don’t even want to tell you what that costs.”
“Like how much?”
“A lot.”
“Like a hundred Gs?”
“Try four times that.”
“Whoa.”
“Yeah. You think she’d be happy with the lifestyle, right? And some agreed-upon sum in a prenup that would effectively let her retire in high style eight years out of college. But no. Apparently, there isn’t going to be a prenup because he trusts her.”
“Really? That’s surprising.”
“I know. This is what I’m saying. Because she makes him exercise and eat his greens, he actually believes she has his best interests at heart. The woman is very savvy, and basically on a mission to alienate us from Dad. She’s been trying to discredit us from the beginning. And she’s subtle about it. She’s supersmart. He’s already given her power of attorney for personal care. How long before she’s in charge of his property too?”
Q and A:
Q&A with Elyse Friedman
Why do you choose to write thrillers vs. other genres?
The Opportunist is my first thriller and my most murder-y book. My previous novels were all literary fiction. I guess I wanted to try my hand at a thriller, because I love reading them, and I thought it would be fun to write one. I was right. I had a blast dreaming up all the twists and turns. It was like putting together an intricate puzzle. And Kelly, the feistiest character I’ve ever come up with, was a joy to write.
How did you come up with the idea for your novel?
The idea for The Opportunist started with a story I’d heard when I was a teenager, about a girl who lived in my neighborhood. I can’t go into detail because I don’t want to give away any of the plot points in the book, but the story shocked me and stuck with me. It was the seed from which the plot grew.
Have you ever actually scared yourself by what you’ve written?
There were certain passages in The Opportunist that made my stomach flip as I was writing them. And there is one scene at the end of the book when the main character, Alana, is alone in a sauna, that had me on edge.
What’s the scariest experience you’ve ever had? …and/or written about?
When I was thirteen, I was hanging out with some friends at Ontario Place’s Children’s Village. This was basically a two-and-a-half-acre playground that looked like something out of that reality show Wipeout—there were all kinds of obstacles to run through, or things to climb on or dangle from. I was moving through an area of hanging foam bags that swung this way and that, when I was grabbed from behind by a young man. He wrapped his arms around me, pinning my arms to my torso, and wouldn’t let go. I screamed at him, my friends screamed at him, and soon a bunch of strangers were screaming at him to let me go. But he wouldn’t. People tried to pull him off me, but he was giant and strong and refused to release his grip. In retrospect, I think he was on meth. It was pretty frightening. It lasted for several minutes and took three men to peel him off of me.
The author
New from Algonquin-Spotlight on Factory Girls by Michelle Gallen
From the publisher:
Description
A funny, fierce, and unforgettable read about a young woman working a summer job in a shirt factory in Northern Ireland, while tensions rise both inside and outside the factory walls.
It’s the summer of 1994, and all smart-mouthed Maeve Murray wants are good final exam results so she can earn her ticket out of the wee Northern Irish town she has grown up in during the Troubles. She hopes she will soon be in London studying journalism—away from her crowded home, the silence and sadness surrounding her sister’s death, and most of all, away from the violence of her divided community.
As a first step, Maeve’s taken a job in a shirt factory working alongside Protestants with her best friends. But getting the right exam results is only part of Maeve’s problem—she’s got to survive a tit-for-tat paramilitary campaign, iron 100 shirts an hour all day every day, and deal with the attentions of Handy Andy Strawbridge, her slick and untrustworthy English boss. Then, as the British loyalist marching season raises tensions among the Catholic and Protestant workforce, Maeve realizes something is going on behind the scenes at the factory. What seems to be a great opportunity to earn money turns out to be a crucible in which Maeve faces the test of a lifetime. Seeking justice for herself and her fellow workers may just be Maeve’s one-way ticket out of town.
Bitingly hilarious, clear-eyed, and steeped in the vernacular of its time and place, Factory Girls tackles questions of wealth and power, religion and nationalism, and how young women maintain hope for themselves and the future during divided, violent times.
Editorial Reviews
Review
“Factory Girls is full of the stuff that we’re starting to expect of Michelle Gallen; wild, hilariously angry characters, and language that is vital, bang-on, and seriously funny.”―Roddy Doyle, Booker Prize-winning author of Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha and Love
“Michelle Gallen’s Factory Girls pulses with dark, irreverent humor. Set in a place where dreams are laughable at best, dangerous at worst, it’s a big F you to the only world these characters know. And yet, there’s vulnerability here. Hope, too. I loved it.”―Mary Beth Keane, New York Times bestselling author of Ask Again, Yes
“This novel is a wonder; the heroine is cheeky, the humor dark, the dialect thick, the sorrow palpable.”―Library Journal, starred review
“Gallen fluidly juxtaposes the pedestrian worries of small-town life against the Troubles of the mid-1990s… For fans of Derry Girls and the plucky heroines of Marian Keyes.”―Booklist, starred review
“A blistering comedy.”―People Magazine
Learn:
Why Dance Matters
by Mindy Aloff
#WhyDanceMatters #NetGalley
Anyone who loves dance will enjoy this title. The author looks at this art form from many perspectives; while many think first of ballet or modern dance, dance can also be part of traditions outside a theater, as in religion and ritual, as the author points out. Ms. Aloff takes on a wide portfolio in this title. She understands the full impact that dance can have upon both dancers and viewers.
On a lighter note, I also enjoyed many of the stories that the author shares. For example, find out why a ballerina said that she always takes a cab if she has to travel more than one block.
The holidays are approaching. Think of promising this title as a gift to a dance aficionado in the new year. They will then have the opportunity to spend time exploring why dance matters so much.
Many thanks to NetGalley and Yale University Press for this title. All opinions are my own.
Pub date: 17 January 2023
| PRICE | $26.00 (USD) |
| PAGES | 280 |
Who’s there? Knock-Knock Jokes & Silly Stories for Kids by May C Gigglin
#KnockKnockJokesSillyStoriesforKids #NetGalley
This book will appeal to kids in the early elementary school years. It is filled with Knock-Knock Jokes and other jokes as well. They are all part of a long standing tradition of this type of humor.
Cheer up a kid that you know. They will then tell you many jokes as they practice their reading skills.
Many thanks to NetGalley and Zeitgeist for this title. All opinions are my own.
| EDITION | Ebook |
| ISBN | 9780593435755 |
| PRICE | $1.99 (USD) |
| PAGES | 160 |
A blog tour for The Sunshine Girls by Molly Fader
Women’s fiction readers, here is one to read. Many thanks to HTP Books, Justine Sha and Sophie James for this opportunity.
About the book:
THE SUNSHINE GIRLS
Author: Molly Fader
ISBN: 9781335453488
Publication Date: December 6, 2022
Publisher: Graydon House
Buy Links:
BookShop: https://bookshop.org/p/books/the-sunshine-girls-original-molly-fader/18408170?ean=9781335453488
Harlequin: https://www.harlequin.com/shop/books/9781335453488_the-sunshine-girls.html
Barnes & Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-sunshine-girls-molly-fader/1140810565?ean=9781335453488
Books-A-Million: https://www.booksamillion.com/p/Sunshine-Girls/Molly-Fader/9781335453488?id=8292090795540
Author Website: https://mollyfader.com/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/molly.fader
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/mokeefeauthor/
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/18435981.Molly_Fader?from_search=true&from_srp=true
Author Bio:
MOLLY FADER is the USA Today bestselling and award-winning author of The McAvoy Sisters Book of Secrets, The Bitter and Sweet of Cherry Season, and more than 40 romance novels under the pennames Molly O’Keefe and M. O’Keefe. She grew up outside of Chicago and now lives in Toronto.
Book Summary:
A cross between Firefly Lane and The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo, a dual-narrative about two sisters who realize their mother isn’t who they’d always thought when a legendary movie star shows up at her funeral, unraveling the sweeping story of a friendship that begins at a nursing school in Iowa in 1967 and onward as it survives decades of change, war, fame—and the secrets they kept from each other and for each other.
A moment of great change sparks the friendship of a lifetime…
1967, Iowa: Nursing school roommates BettyKay and Kitty don’t have much in common. A farmer’s daughter, BettyKay has risked her family’s disapproval to make her dreams come true away from her rural small town. Cosmopolitan Kitty has always relied on her beauty and smarts to get by, and to hide a devastating secret from the past that she can’t seem to outrun. Yet the two share a determination to prove themselves in a changing world, forging an unlikely bond on a campus unkind to women.
Before their first year is up, tragedy strikes, and the women’s paths are forced apart. But against all odds, a decades-long friendship forms, persevering through love, marriage, failure, and death, from the jungles of Vietnam to the glamorous circles of Hollywood. Until one snowy night leads their relationship to the ultimate crossroads.
Fifty years later, two estranged sisters are shocked when a famous movie star shows up at their mother’s funeral. Over one rollercoaster weekend, the women must reckon with a dazzling truth about their family that will alter their lives forever…
Try it:
Clara
Greensboro, Iowa
2019
There were too many lilies. Clara wasn’t an authority on flowers or funerals. But, it was like a flower shop—that only sold lilies—had exploded in the blue room of Horner’s Funeral Home.
This was what happened when everyone adored you. They buried you under a mountain of your favorite flower—in this case, stargazers with their erotic pink hearts and sinus-piercing pollen—before they actually buried you.
And it was just a cosmic kick in the pants that Clara Beecher was allergic to her mother’s favorite flowers.
“Clara!” Mrs. Place, her eighth-grade language arts teacher, clasped Clara’s hands in her bony grip. Mrs. Place had not changed at all. She was the kind of woman who seemed middle-aged at seventeen and just waited for time to catch up. “Your mother was so proud of you. You and your sister, you were her pride and joy.”
“That’s nice of you to say,” Clara said, keenly aware of her sister, Abbie, across the room doing the sorts of things that would make a mother proud.
“At book club, she’d go on and on about you and the important work you were doing in the city and, well, most of it went right over my head,” Mrs. Place said. There was nothing complicated about Clara’s work; Mom just lied about it so, as a former hippie, she didn’t have to say the words my daughter is a corporate shill. “But you could tell she was just so proud.”
Clara pulled her hand free in time to grab a tissue from one of the many boxes scattered around the room and held it to her allergy-induced, dripping nose. “Thank you,” she said through the tissue.
“Everyone is going to miss Betts,” Mrs. Place said. “So much. There’s not a part of this town that she wasn’t involved in. Church, the library. Park board. Community gardens.”
Like an invasive species. Invite her to something and she’d soon be running the show.
Grief is making you sharp. That was something her mother would say. If she wasn’t dead.
The Blue Room of Horner Funeral Home was hot and wall-to-lily packed with people coming to pay their respects to one of Greensboro’s favorite citizens.
BettyKay Beecher had lived her whole adult life in this tiny town, and the town had shown up bearing casseroles and no-bake cheesecakes for the reception after the burial, wearing their Sunday best, armed with their favorite BettyKay stories.
She sat with my dad when he was dying.
She helped us figure out the insurance paperwork when our son was in his accident.
They were all mourning. The whole room and the hallway outside and the people still sitting in their cars in the parking lot. People were crying real tears, huddling, sobbing—actually sobbing—in corners. And all Clara could think was:
Did they know?
Had Mom, in true fashion, told the entire town the secret she’d kept from her own daughters for nearly forty years? The bombshell, life-rearranging, ugly secret she’d blurted, exasperated and furious with Clara in their last phone call?
Would they be mourning so hard if they knew?
Clara sneezed.
“Oh, bless you, honey,” Mrs. Place said.
“It’s just allergies.” Clara folded up the tissues before putting them in the pocket of her new black Marco Zanini suit with the sash tie and the sky blue silk lining. She’d thought the lining might be a bit much for a funeral, but that was before she knew about the lilies.
And don’t get her started on all the men wearing camouflage. To a funeral. Were they all going hunting after this?
“She’s with your father now. I hope you find comfort in that.”
“I do, thank you.” It was, as it always had been in Greensboro, Iowa, easier to lie.
Another person came up with another story about BettyKay Beecher. “Is that your sister?” She pointed across the room after sharing an anecdote about their time together in the Army Nurse Corps. “Abbie?”
Abbie was surrounded by her friends from childhood—who used to be Clara’s friends from childhood, not that it mattered—who kept bringing her mugs that were not filled with coffee. Abbie’s cheeks were flushed and her eyes were bright and she was half-drunk, crying and hugging and not at all bothered by the lilies.
“Yep. That’s my sister,” Clara said, ushering the woman toward Abbie and not even feeling bad about it. “She’d love to hear your story.”
Three years ago, they’d stood in this exact same room, mourning their father, Willis Beecher. It was hard to be home and not see him in the corners of rooms. She couldn’t drink rum or Constant Comment tea and not miss him. The smell of patchouli could bring her to tears. A sob rose up in her throat like a fist, and her knees were suddenly loose. She put a hand against the table so she didn’t crumple onto the floor.
I’m an orphan. Me and Abbie—orphans.
She was a full-grown adult. A corporate lawyer (about to make junior partner, fingers crossed) who billed at $700 an hour. She had a condo on Lakeshore and a good woman who loved her. Abbie had two kids of her own, a husband of twenty-five years and kept slices of homemade lemon loaf in the freezer that she could pop in a toaster in case someone stopped by for coffee. They were far from orphans.
But she couldn’t shake the thought.
Clara found the side door and stepped out.
The wind was icy, blowing across the farmland to the west, picking up the smell of fries and burgers from The Starlite Room, only to press her flat against the yellow brick. She felt the cotton-silk blend of her suit snag on the brick.
The first few days of March were cold, too cold to be out here without a jacket, but the freshness woke her up. Spring hadn’t committed to Iowa yet and the cornfields were still brown, lying in wait, like everything else in Greensboro, for the last blizzard to come hammering down from the Dakotas.
Her phone buzzed. She left it in her pocket.
Horner’s Funeral Home was on the other side of town from the Greensboro University, and St. Luke’s School of Nursing’s white clock tower was just visible over the trees. The university had all the flags lowered to half-mast for the week. It was a nice touch. Mom had been a student there and then a teacher and for the last twenty years, an administrator.
She closed her eyes, letting the wind do its work.
“Hey.”
Clara felt her sister lean back against the wall next to her, smelling of vanilla and Pinot Grigio.
“Hey,” she said, eyes still closed.
“The lilies—”
“Yeah.”
“You okay?”
Clara hummed in her throat, a sound that wasn’t yes or no. That was, in fact, the exact sound of the exhausted limbo the last few days had put her in.
“Me neither,” Abbie said. “It just… I feel like I’m missing something, you know? Like I’m walking around all wrong.”
Clara felt the same. Being BettyKay Beecher’s daughter was a part of her identity she didn’t always carry comfortably, but it was there.
“Where’s Vickie?” Abbie asked, and Clara caught herself from flinching at the sound of her girlfriend’s name.
“She wishes she could be here but she has a case in front of the Illinois Supreme Court.”
She felt Abbie’s doubt, the way she wanted to probe and pick.
“Did you have to blow up that picture so damn big?” Clara asked, before Abbie could get to her follow-up questions.
All around the funeral home were pictures of the Beecher family. And—God knows why—Abbie had decided to blow up to an obscene size, the picture of their mother that was on the back of her book: Pray for Me: The Diary of an Army Nurse in Vietnam. In it BettyKay was a fresh-faced twenty-two-year- old, with a helmet-shaped brunette bob wearing an olive green United States Army Nurse Corps uniform.
“Darn.”
“What?”
“Fiona’s turning into a little parrot, so we don’t swear anymore. We say ‘effing’ and ‘darn’ and ‘poop.’”
“That’s effing nonsense.”
“Probably.” Clara could hear the smile in her sister’s voice. “And yes, I did. I love that picture of Mom. She looks so brave.”
Clara thought she looked terrified.
“Max and Fiona don’t understand what’s happening,” Abbie said. “They keep asking why Gran is lying down.”
Clara’s laugh was wet with the lingering allergic reaction to the flowers. “That’s awful.”
“Denise from the hospital keeps trying to get the kids to touch Mom’s hand. So they can feel how cold she is and then they’ll understand.”
“What will it make them understand?”
“That she’s dead.”
“That’s morbid even for Denise.” They were both laughing, which felt alien but sweet.
“She says it will give them closure.”
Abbie reached out and grabbed her hand. Clara started to pull away, but Abbie didn’t let go.
I should tell her. Part of her even wanted to. To share the burden of information like they were kids again. And Abbie, who liked the view from the perch her reputation as a Beecher in this town gave her, would tell Clara it wasn’t true. Couldn’t possibly be. That Mom had been wrong. Angry. Something.
Some excuse to keep everything the way it was.
That was why Clara couldn’t tell her. Because Abbie had to live in this town side by side with the memory of Mom. Bringing Abbie into it would make her sister’s life harder.
“Abbie, don’t get upset but I am going to leave after the reception at the church.” There. Done. Band-Aid-style.
“And go where?” Abbie asked.
“Back home.”
And here comes the look. “Chicago? You’re kidding.”
“We have a new client—”
“You’re leaving?” Accidentally Clara caught Abbie’s furious gaze and wished she hadn’t. She could see her sister’s rage and her grief and it felt worse than her own.
“I’ll be back,” Clara lied.
“Bullshit.” So much for not swearing.
“Abbie—”
“You know. I should have expected this. You show up last-minute in your car and your ugly suit—”
“Hey!”
“With your nose in the air—”
“I’ll pay to have the house boxed up.”
Abbie sucked in so much air Clara went light-headed from the lack of oxygen around her.
“Can we please not make this a big deal?” she asked.
“What did I ever do to you, Clara? To make it so easy for you to leave me behind?”
The wind caught the side door as it opened, banging against the brick with a sound that made Clara and Abbie jump like they’d been caught smoking.
Ben, Abbie’s husband, stuck his head out and Abbie stepped forward. Ben was a good-looking guy in a gentle giant kind of way. Constantly rumpled, but usually smiling. He reminded Clara of a very good Labrador retriever.
She wanted to pat his head and give him a treat. And then yell at him for tracking mud across the rug.
“There you are,” he said.
“I was just getting some air,” Abbie said, with surprising defensiveness. “Is everything okay?”
“There’s…” Ben glanced over his shoulder and made a face, bewildered and somehow joyful in a way that made Clara and Abbie push off the wall. It was his mother-in-law’s funeral after all. Joy was a strange sentiment.
“What?” Clara asked.
“Well, I think you should come in and see for yourself.”
Ben held the door while Abbie and Clara walked back into the packed room. Everyone was silent now, pressed to the walls and corners in little clumps, whispering in that painfully familiar way out of the corners of their mouths and behind their hands. There was a path down the center of the room right to Mom’s casket, where she lay with her arms crossed, wearing her favorite green dress and way too much blush.
Standing at the casket, was a woman. A stranger.
Everything about her screamed not from around here. She wore an elegant long black skirt and a pair of boots with low heels of rich black leather. A gray sweater (Ralph Lauren Collection cashmere or Clara would eat her own boots) with a black belt around her trim waist. Her hair was long and silvery blond, the kind that appeared natural but Clara would put money on the fact that it cost a lot and took a lot of time to keep that way.
She kind of…glittered.
“Who is that?”
“You don’t recognize her?” Ben whispered between Abbie and Clara’s shoulders, his breath smelling of coffee and cough drops.
Something about the woman did seem familiar, polished.
“Is she from the publishing company?” she asked Abbie.
“I don’t think so. They sent a cheesecake.”
“That morning show Mom did sometimes, in Des Moines? Ramona?”
“Ramona Rodriguez died, like, ten years ago.”
Clara should know this woman. But her mother’s funeral was throwing her off.
“Are you kidding me? You really don’t recognize her?” Ben asked. “It’s Kitty Devereaux.”
Excerpted from The Sunshine Girls by Molly Fader. Copyright © 2022 by Molly Fader. Published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
Learn more:
How do come up with your themes?
That’s a really interesting question! I don’t sit down to write a book with themes in mind. They kind of arrive as i’m writing. The premise of the book is usually the start. In the case of The Sunshine Girls, the first scene – of the two sisters at their mother’s funeral when a iconic actress walks in and tells the sister’s they don’t know the truth about their mother – came to me fully formed. After that it was a matter of trying to figure out how two radically different women would meet and become friends.
The themes of women’s rights and reproductive rights flowed out of their friendship and the time period (the 1960’s). Once the theme becomes obvious to me it’s a matter of trying to make it subtle to the reader so they don’t feel completely overwhelmed.
What is the attraction to writing/reading about women’s friendships?
Because they’re the best! They’re fascinating. They’re blood thirsty and supportive and compassionate and judgemental. I love friendship stories that are real – with all that resentment and love that I’ve experienced in my friendships. I think there’s so much chemistry in friendships, not unlike falling in love. You know when you meet a person and you click and it feels like you’ve known them forever. I love it.
Which comes first: characters or plot?
They kind of feed each other for me. I usually get the opening scene in my head and then I have to figure out who the characters are and then they inform the plot and then the characters have to change and grow and that informs the plot some more. So, it’s a chicken and egg type situation for my books.
Have you ever been writing a novel and realized the theme is very much like something you’ve experienced?
There’s always a lot of my life in my books – in big and small ways. I see myself in every character in this book except maybe Kitty. For The Sunshine Girls I really used details and events from my mother’s life. She was at nursing school in Iowa in the 1960’s – and she and her best friend traded buttons as a practical joke for years. Having that kind of authenticity made the story come to life for me as I was writing it.
A blog tour: Angels of Resistance by Noelle Salazar
I am delighted to be part of the blog tour for this historical fiction title. Many thanks to HTP and Justine Sha and Sophie James for this opportunity. This looks like a very interesting book.
ANGELS OF THE RESISTANCE: A WWII NOVEL
Author: Noelle Salazar
ISBN: 9780778386797
Publication Date: November 29, 2022
Publisher: MIRA
Buy Links:
Harlequin: https://www.harlequin.com/shop/books/9780778386797_angels-of-the-resistance.html
Barnes & Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/angels-of-the-resistance-noelle-salazar/1141412268?ean=9780778386797
Books-A-Million: https://www.booksamillion.com/p/Angels-Resistance/Noelle-Salazar/9780778386797?id=8292090795540
Author Website: https://www.noellesalazar.com/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/noellesalazar
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/noelle__salazar/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/noelle_salazar
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/18424925.Noelle_Salazar
Author Bio:
| Noelle Salazar was born and raised in the Pacific Northwest, where she’s been a Navy recruit, a medical assistant, an NFL cheerleader, and always a storyteller. When she’s not writing, she can be found dodging raindrops and daydreaming of her next book. Her first novel, The Flight Girls, was an instant bestseller, a Forbes, Woman’s World & Hypable book of the month and a BookBub Top Recommended book from readers. Angels of Haarlem is her second novel. Noelle lives in Bothell, Washington, with her husband and two children. |
Book Summary:
The second WWII novel by Noelle Salazar, bestselling author of the THE FLIGHT GIRLS, follows two teenage sisters in the Netherlands who are recruited as part of the Dutch Resistance effort against the Nazis. Inspired by true events, this moving story about ordinary young women who become extraordinary heroes will appeal to fans of Pam Jenoff and Kate Quinn.
Netherlands, 1940. In the small town of Haarlem, fourteen-year-old Lien lives a simple life with her mother and sister in a farmhouse on the outskirts of the city. Elsewhere in Europe bombs are falling, but the pall on their house is more from the recent loss of their baby sister as a result of an accident Lien believes she could have prevented than from the oncoming war. Until the Nazis invade the Netherlands and their lives are overturned once more.
Recruited by their late father’s friend, Lien’s older sister Elif reluctantly joins the Dutch resistance movement. Spurred by the injustice of the Nazis’ treatment of Dutch citizens as well as a terrifying bombing of their small town, and forever seeking atonement for her baby sister’s death, Lien begs to join as well. The sisters’ youthful, innocent looks and ability to disappear into a crowd make them the perfect resistance soldiers. Together with a handful of like-minded youth, including the gallant Charlie with whom Lien forms an instant connection, the sisters are trained and begin to carry out missions, from distributing and collecting information to moving Jewish families from hiding places to luring and killing influential Nazis. The toll of the war and their work is evident in their collective psyches, and Lien starts to make mistakes that could cost her and her newfound friends their lives. Until one very personal mission shows her that the atonement she desperately seeks for her sister’s death cannot be found at the end of the barrel of a pistol, but must be found from within her heart.
Try it:
Haarlem, Netherlands
April 1940
Sunlight dappled through the green leaves, scattering golden light across the blanket where I sat, my back against the trunk of a tall birch tree, while I kept watch over the Aberman children.
The rain that had kept me up the night before, pummeling the roof above the third floor bedroom I shared with my older sister, scented the air with the smell of damp grass, stone, and bark. I breathed in, soothed by its familiarity, and yawned, my eyes blurring with exhaustion as I tried to stay present. Too many late nights and early mornings were beginning to take their toll, and the clatter of dice being shaken and rolled by tiny hands before me, accompanied by laughter, shouts of outrage, and harrumphs of frustration, were almost soothing, lulling me into a false sense of security.
I glanced down at the book in my hand and the paragraph I’d read at least a dozen times without retaining one word. Unfortunately, sometimes running from my own thoughts by feeding my brain new information didn’t work. Guilt and fear, it turned out, loved a quiet moment, whispering in my ears at night as I tried to sleep, and nudging at me while I sat at my desk in class, trying to focus on what the teacher said. Which was why I’d decided two months ago that I needed noise. Noise would distract me and help me escape the thoughts running through my mind.
Going, doing, and helping was what led me to taking the Saturday afternoon childcare job. It was why I’d suddenly began offering to run errands or clean for my mother, rather than complaining when she asked. It was why I’d begun staying after school, poring over books I knew I’d be assigned to read the following year in an attempt to get a head start. I’d been determined to become a barrister like my father had been since I was a little girl, and the extra studying filled my head with new and complicated words, lofty ideas, and imaginings of grandeur—which were a much-needed diversion from my otherwise too quiet world. And Haarlem, our sweet little city by the sea, was more than just quiet. It was practically silent, as if all sound emitted was whisked from our homes and carried by the near-constant wind out across the water where it dissipated into the gray clouds above.
“You cheated!”
“I did not!”
I blinked, startled out of my thoughts, and turned my attention to Isaak and Lara, whose earlier mirth had become something less friendly. At six and eight years old, I knew their moments of getting along would become less and less frequent as their interests changed and their peers’ desires began pressuring them in other directions. But for now, they still got along for the most part. Until someone inevitably cheated at a game.
“Lien,” Lara, the younger of the two whined, her wide brown eyes staring up at me, “Isaak cheated.”
“I didn’t!” the older boy protested, his mop of brown curls vibrating with his insistence.
I crossed my arms over my chest, becoming a miniature version of my father when he’d been alive as he’d solved similar skirmishes between me and my elder sister, Elif.
“Well,” I said. “I wasn’t watching to say either way so what shall we do? Quit? It would be a shame. You were both having such a good time. Perhaps have the roll in question rolled again? What would be fair to the two of you?”
Like my father had always done, I gave both participants a choice, rather than accusing or taking sides. If they were having fun, the one at fault would usually feel bad and acquiesce, so as not to ruin the day.
Isaak huffed. “I’ll roll again,” he said.
I hid my smile. Isaak nearly always cheated; Lara was just finally catching on. Keeping my expression thoughtful, I nodded.
“Sounds like a sensible plan,” I said, and then shot to my feet as a sudden shriek split the air in two.
I leaped over their game and stood at the edge of the blanket, a human barrier between whatever trouble was brewing and the children I was responsible for.
“What was that?” Lara asked beside me.
Without looking, I corralled her behind me, my eyes scanning the park around us.
Haarlemmerhout Park covered sixty hectares of land in the southern part of the city. Beech, horse chestnut, linden, and silver maple trees towered above lush green blankets of grass and mossy winding paths where lovers were often caught stealing a kiss by young families out for leisurely bicycle rides. In a park so big, on any given day, one could find a spot to spend several hours in and not be bothered by others. It was strange enough to hear sounds besides ours, but sounds of distress were especially surprising.
Movement on the other side of some nearby shrubbery caught my eye, and I glanced over my shoulder.
“Isaak,” I said. “Watch your sister for a moment. I’ll be right back.”
Heart thudding in my chest, I marched across the soft, damp grass, intent to stop whatever danger was in motion. But as I rounded the tangle of budding green plants, all I saw were two boys in the middle of the walking path bent and staring at a small lump on the ground between them.
One of the boys prodded the lump with a stick and the lump shifted and lifted its small head, hollering again at his aggressor. I sucked in a breath, pinpricks of anger and sorrow mixing behind my eyes, making them burn.
“Stop that!” I yelled, trying to make all 162 centimeters of me look taller than they did. “Get away from that bird!”
Two pairs of wide eyes met mine, and then the stick was dropped as the two boys ran off and out of sight.
I hurried to the bird, tears clouding my eyes.
“Hello, little love,” I whispered, looking for an obvious injury. “Did those mean boys hurt you?”
He eyed me from where he lay, and I chewed my lip as I looked him over best I could without touching him. The wing I could see seemed intact, his spindly legs curled into little enraged fists.
“Is he okay?”
I wiped my eyes and glanced up at Lara, who was standing with her brother beside me, their small faces pinched with worry, dark eyes full of concern.
“I’m not sure,” I said, and pointed. “This wing looks okay, but I can’t see the other one without moving him.”
“Should we take it somewhere?” Isaak asked.
I sniffled and leaned back, getting hold of myself before my emotions erupted from the place I kept them shoved inside. It was only a bird after all. Not worth the tremors of despair threatening to burst.
“No,” I said. “But maybe we could move him out of the way.” I pointed to the shrubbery beside us. “Why don’t the two of you build him a little nest over there?”
As they ran off to gather leaves and small branches, I stared down at the creature.
“I’m sorry you’re hurt,” I whispered, my eyes once more filling with tears.
There was something so awful about seeing a creature, fragile and vulnerable, unable to help itself, left to the devices—or torture—of others. To feel and be so powerless…
“We’re done,” Isaak said, kneeling beside me, his cheeks pink from the effort. “Are you crying?”
I shrugged.
“It’s just a bird, Lien.”
I pursed my lips. “It’s a living creature, Isaak,” I said, my voice soft. “We should always do everything we can to help others. Even if they’re just birds.”
I pulled the scarf from my neck and stared down at the gull. “You ready?” I asked him, and then swooped the fabric over it and wrapped my hands gently around its body.
“Do you think it will live?” Isaak asked as I set the bird in the nest.
A glimmer of sadness pressed at my heart. I knew that sometimes even when the best efforts were made and all the prayers were whispered, they were still not enough.
“I hope so,” I said, setting the grumbling fowl on the nest the kids had made. “The two of you did a great job. It’s a handsome nest. He should be very grateful.”
“He doesn’t sound it,” Lara said, and I managed a laugh.
We watched the gull for a while longer as he warily eyed us back and shifted his small body on the pile of foliage and sticks, and then I shepherded the children back to the blanket and their games.
“Play with us,” Isaak said, holding up a well-loved deck of cards.
I nodded and took a seat, happy for the distraction.
As the afternoon passed, the children, easily bored, moved on from card games to running through the grass, twirling until they were dizzy, and a game of tag until, tired out, they lay side by side, Isaak reading and Lara drawing, while I opened my math book and studied for an exam the following Monday.
A breeze kicked up and I shivered, noticing the light around us had changed from golden hued to dismal. I glanced at the sky to find the sun, tired from her brief exertion, had pulled up her blanket of clouds and disappeared beneath a dark gray cover, giving the cold wind permission to sweep in and scatter the papers Lara was busy drawing on.
“Hurry,” I said, and the three of us took off in different directions, chasing down pictures of dogs, horses, and trees, all the while laughing as papers somersaulted and cartwheeled across the vast lawn.
As I pulled a gangly giraffe drawing from the branches of a budding shrub, and a rotund elephant from a springy bed of moss, I heard the telltale buzz of a plane in the distance. I searched around me for more drawings and then lifted my eyes to the clouds again, listening as the sound amplified, the airplane coming into view, heading in our direction.
“Kids,” I said, my voice a warning. I gestured for them to come closer and then took hold of their arms and pulled them beneath the cover of a tall birch tree.
“It’s just a plane,” Lara said.
But no plane was just a plane when a war was going on.
Lara pulled on my arm and I gave her what I hoped was a smile as a light rain began to fall, tapping on the leaves above us before sliding off and peppering us with drops.
The planes had come more and more often in the past several weeks, but I’d never given them much thought before today. Had never felt even a glimmer of fear, assuming they were headed to France or England where the war was actively happening. But for some reason today, the sight and sound of this one put me on edge and the closer it got, the harder my heart beat.
The drops of rain grew in size with every second I stood with my eyes glued to the plane, watching and waiting, but for what I didn’t know. And then I saw a door open.
“Isaak,” I said. “Lara.” I pushed them behind me, causing Isaak to trip over a large root. He recovered and grasped my hand, his eyes wide with fear as I placed my body in front of theirs, the rumble of the engine above like thunder, shaking the air around us.
But no guns discharged as it flew by. No bombs were dropped. No damage was done at all, save for the fraying of my nerves and a cascade of fluttering white.
“What is it?” Lara asked.
We watched as the wind caught and scattered the overturning debris, sending it floating through the air across what looked like the whole of the city.
“I don’t know,” I said, letting go of their hands and taking a step forward, watching as one of the items landed softly on top of a shrub near where our blanket was laid out.
Isaak reached it first, snatching it from where it lay and turning it over, a frown on his handsome face.
“What’s it mean?” he asked, handing the paper over to me.
I took it and frowned. Vibrant blues, reds, and whites glared back at me as I tried to make sense of what I was seeing. A white bird on a flag. A drawing of a young, blond man in uniform with a large drum strapped over his shoulder, and words. Dutch words with a German message that sent a shiver down my spine.
I swallowed, my fingers trembling as I held the paper. Because they weren’t just a German message. They were a Nazi message.
A Nazi invitation.
“For the good of your conscience,” it read. “The Waffen SS is calling you.”
My fingers tightened, crumpling the paper. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen one of these garish signs. I’d spotted them a couple of times over the past several months, adhered to light posts and once, shockingly, in the window of a small shop. Was this where they had come from? Or was this a new tactic? Were we to be inundated regularly with this raining down of terrible requests for our men to join the German forces?
Of course, I knew all about the war Germany had started. It was all anyone talked about since the news the year before that Hitler had invaded Poland had come not so much as a shock as it had with a sigh of acceptance. And when England and France quickly declared war on Germany in retaliation, no one was surprised. Scores of Jews had been entering the Netherlands for the past two years in hopes that our neutrality during the Great War would extend to whatever this war turned out to be. But the poster in my hands made me worry that perhaps they were wrong. Perhaps this time we wouldn’t be so lucky.
Because if we were to stay neutral, what was that plane doing here?
“What’s it say?” Lara repeated her brother’s question, reaching for the poster.
“Nothing.” I folded it and shoved it in my coat pocket. “It’s trash.” I checked my watch, noticing a thread had come loose on the worn, too-big brown band, making it sag on my wrist. I tucked it inside the cuff of my sweater. “We should get you two home. Your parents will worry if we’re late.”
The three of us packed away the items we’d brought in a cloth bag, and then I stood by trying to quell my impatience as I watched the two of them take the corners of the blanket and try to fold it into a neat square.
“Here,” Isaak said, handing me the lumpy heap with a proud smile.
I grinned as I tucked it under my arm and took a last look around for stray toys, papers, and drawing implements.
“Ready?” I asked, and the two nodded. “Shall we check on our bird friend before we go?”
“Yes,” they said in delighted unison.
The gull was just as we’d left it, and in fact looked to have made himself more at home, burrowing deeper into his new nest of leaves and twigs, his narrow beak nestled down into his puffed white chest.
“See?” I whispered, glancing at the children crouched beside me. “I told you you made him a handsome home. Look how happy he is.”
Convinced the bird would live, we walked across the grass to the sidewalk. I glanced at the sky and then moved in closer, making sure I was at most an arm’s length away from both kids should I need to protect either of them from an oncoming bicyclist or any other dangers that might befall them.
I knew how fast the unthinkable could transpire. I’d seen it happen before.
“That was a bad one,” Lara said as we walked.
“What was a bad one?” I asked, looking around to see what she was talking about.
“The plane,” she said. “It was a bad one. I saw the spiders.”
Spiders. It was what she called the Nazi insignia.
I nodded. They were the bad ones indeed. I’d never felt that more than I did now, a seed of doom planting itself in the pit of my stomach as I wondered if that plane, its engine noise still reverberating through my body, was just the beginning of something more. The warning crack of thunder before a storm.
Excerpted from Angels of the Resistance by Noelle Salazar. Copyright © 2022 by Noelle Salazar. Published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
Some e book bargains for 12.5.22
Book Review: “We All Want Impossible Things,” by Catherine Newman – The New York Times
In her novel “We All Want Impossible Things,” Catherine Newman achieves the near-impossible: a story about death, with humor.
— Read on www.nytimes.com/2022/11/04/books/review/we-all-want-impossible-things-catherine-newman.html
Joyce's mystery and fiction book reviews with some non-fiction too! 