2008, ISBN: 9780002235709

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Ivy Books. Very Good. 4.19 x 1.12 x 6.79 inches. Mass Market Paperback. 2005. 512 pages. Cover worn<br>Bestselling author Nicole Jordan weaves a breathtakingly sensuous story of lo… Plus…

Ivy Books. Very Good. 4.19 x 1.12 x 6.79 inches. Mass Market Paperback. 2005. 512 pages. Cover worn<br>Bestselling author Nicole Jordan weaves a breathtakingly sensuous story of love and passion between the v aliant Ariane of Claredon and the fierce knight who loses his hea rt to her. . . . For five turbulent years Ariane has dutifully p repared herself for marriage to King Henry's most trusted vassal, the legendary Norman knight Ranulf de Vernay. But cruel circumst ance has branded Ariane's father a traitor to the crown. And now Ranulf is returning to Claredon, not as a bridegroom . . . but as a conqueror. Survivor of a hellish youth, Ranulf knows well the treacheries of noblewomen-and mistrusts the regal, defiant beaut y to whom he was once betrothed. But while he shields his wounded heart with impenetrable armor, she sears his soul with sensuous fire. Ranulf may have vowed to claim her lands and her body as hi s prize, but ultimately it is the mighty warrior who must surrend er to Ariane's proud, determined passion-and her remarkable heali ng love. Editorial Reviews Review Ms. Jordan proves herself a m arvelous storyteller. -Rendezvous From the Back Cover Bestsellin g author Nicole Jordan weaves a breathtakingly sensuous story of love and passion between the valiant Ariane of Claredon and the f ierce knight who loses his heart to her. . . . For five turbulen t years Ariane has dutifully prepared herself for marriage to Kin g Henry's most trusted vassal, the legendary Norman knight Ranulf de Vernay. But cruel circumstance has branded Ariane's father a traitor to the crown. And now Ranulf is returning to Claredon, no t as a bridegroom . . . but as a conqueror. Survivor of a hellis h youth, Ranulf knows well the treacheries of noblewomen-and mist rusts the regal, defiant beauty to whom he was once betrothed. Bu t while he shields his wounded heart with impenetrable armor, she sears his soul with sensuous fire. Ranulf may have vowed to clai m her lands and her body as his prize, but ultimately it is the m ighty warrior who must surrender to Ariane's proud, determined pa ssion-and her remarkable healing love. About the Author Nicole J ordan is the nationally bestselling author of numerous historical romances. She recently moved with her real-life hero to the Rock y Mountains of Utah, where she is at work on her next sizzling ta le of dangerous rakes and bold adventurers during the Regency era . You can e-mail her via her website at www.NicoleJordanAuthor.co m. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Vern ay Keep, Normandy: November 1154 The warm lips nuzzling his bare skin no longer had the power to arouse him, nor did the cool, si lken hair trailing provocatively over his naked back. Ranulf lay sprawled on his stomach upon the musky linen sheets, sated and sp ent, his body glistening with sweat after his exertions. Pleasing two lusty wenches at once taxed even a man of his strength and s tamina. Yet Layla continued her merciless assault with mouth and tongue, her lush, opulent curves pressing erotically against him , her nails sending delicate shivers racing along his spine, her teeth intermittently nipping his buttocks with a sharpness that w as just short of pain. Enough, he muttered huskily-a command he lacked the energy to enforce. When she bent to offer a luscious breast to him, teas- ing her dusky nipple against his mouth, Ranu lf patiently averted his head. When she threaded her fingers thro ugh his raven hair and tugged insistently, he merely caught her w rist and pried loose her grip. It was only when Layla scraped her nails in a deliberate path over his scarred back that he finally reacted; she knew quite well such probing of his scars was forbi dden, even though he had been unable to break her of the habit. Cease, wench. At his sharp tone, the ripe young body at his othe r side flinched, and Ranulf had to murmur gently to Flore and str oke her soothingly till she curled against him once more. For te mperament, he much preferred the petite, fair-haired Flore to the voluptuous Layla, whose ebony tresses were as dark as his own. F lore was a sweetly submissive Norman wench, always eager to do hi s bidding, whereas the foreign Layla had a grasping, querulous na ture. Only because of her exquisite skills did he humor the beaut iful Saracen. I seek simply to pleasure you, lord, she said petu lantly in her thick, honeyed accents. You know well Layla pleases you far better than any other. Ranulf could not dispute her cla im. Stolen from her family and enslaved in an infidel brothel, La yla had been trained in the sexual arts of the East, and knew wel l how to satisfy a man and bring his desire to a fever pitch. If he also gained a bitter measure of satisfaction in possessing th e exotic concubine his detested father had brought back from the Holy Land . . . well then, he would not deny himself the pleasure , even if he was perforce required to bear with Layla's sharp ton gue and acid jealousy. He could have chosen from a dozen peasant wenches just as eager to warm his bed, and yet tonight he had nee ded the fierce release the Saracen could bring him. He needed to forget. Summoning Flore at the same time only increased the odds that he would find respite from the demons that shadowed him. Yo u are cruel to Layla, lord, she complained, running her tongue ov er her pouting lower lip. Methinks thrice is enough, Ranulf reto rted, his tone dry, even for a woman of your passion. In answer, she captured his hand and held it to the satiny flesh of her gen erous breast. You dislike my passion? You desire Layla no longer? Ranulf grinned unwillingly as he gave her taut nipple a playful squeeze. You would have to geld me to quench my desire for you, wench. But it is time for you to seek your own pallet. When Layla made to protest, Ranulf raised his powerful body up on one elbow . You know my wishes. I sleep alone. In truth, he was not singli ng her out for punishment by sending her away. His solitary slumb er was a self-imposed rule. Though he took great pleasure in the female body, he rarely lingered with a woman. Too much sensual in dulgence bred softness in a warrior; a knight who cavorted too of ten grew lazy and careless. When Layla refused to budge, Ranulf gave her bare flank a mild cuff, which made her squeal in mock pr otest. Defiantly, she lay back upon the dishevelled pillows, gaz ing up at him with languorous, seductive eyes. Provocatively her long fingers played over her sumptuous breasts, caressing the dus ky crimson nipples in erotic invitation, while her lush thighs sp read for his masculine appreciation. Once more, lord, I beg you. . . . Despite her disobedience, Ranulf gave a rough chuckle. He was sated enough at the moment to be amused at her tactics, and w ise enough to relent. Sometimes it behooved a man to let a wench win small victories so that she yielded more readily in important matters. Once more, then. His fingers splayed over the smooth m ound between her thighs, shaved bare in the Saracen style . . . p arting the damp, passion-flushed lips, seeking the tender nubbin that was a woman's delight. Layla drew a sharp breath and closed her eyes, while her legs opened wide, giving his stroking finger s full access to her heated, dewy center. With controlled experti se, he caressed the slick flesh, sliding slowly inside the hot, s leek moistness. Layla quivered with arousal. In merely moments a throaty moan of rapture escaped her; her head fell back in ecstas y as she arched her supple back, her voluptuous, golden body undu lating in the flickering candlelight. Ranulf viewed her breathle ss, writhing response with gratification. Layla deserved to be re warded for her earlier exquisite ministrations. She had provided him comfort tonight; it was only fair he reciprocate. Indeed, for the past fortnight-ever since he'd returned home to Vernay to co ol his heels and await a summons from Duke Henry-Layla had succor ed him frequently. He should feel more remorse, perhaps, at relax ing his own strict custom of self-denial. Yet if he indulged his lust more often than usual when occupying Vernay Keep, it was bec ause the diversion helped keep the memories at bay. Restlessly, Ranulf lifted his gaze from the panting woman in his bed to glanc e beyond the open bed curtains. The solar at Vernay, where the lo rd slept and spent his leisure, remained a cold, stark, spartan c hamber, devoid of comforts other than a roaring fire in the heart h and an occasional tapestry draping the stone walls to thwart th e chill. He had refused to change a single appointment since his father's tenancy, perversely determined to preserve the bitter ev idence of his past. Yet he was lord here now, Ranulf reminded hi mself. The honor of Vernay belonged to him, given to him in fief by Duke Henry, along with a charter of nobility that had reinstat ed him to his rightful rank. He was a disinherited, landless cast off no longer. For all his present power and wealth, though, he could not quell the unease that always assaulted him in this cham ber-the place where his father had flayed the flesh from his back . Even now, his skin turned clammy with dread each time he entere d these apartments, for he could not help recalling the terror an d pain of his youth. He had no need even to shut his eyes to reme mber crouching there against the far wall as a child, naked and t rembling, waiting to endure the punishment of a vengeful sire. No t even the current consolation of heated female flesh could compl etely drive away the memories-although it made up in some measure for the countless hours of fear and torment he had suffered here . The distant blare of the night watchman's horn brought Ranulf' s head up like a wolf scenting the wind. At his sudden tensing, L ayla's eyes flew open. Nay! My lord . . . you cannot cease. . . . Her demanding tone was sharp and insistent-and breathless as we ll. He smiled faintly as his brutal memories faded. We have time . And they would. Any new arrival must first await the lowering of the drawbridge, then ride through the outer and inner baileys before seeking entrance to Vernay's tower. He had the leisure to bring Layla to fulfillment. Yet even before the grateful, sobbi ng woman had collapsed against him, Ranulf's thoughts had already moved ahead to review his plans. If the new arrival was indeed t he duke's messenger with a summons, it meant King Stephen had die d and Henry was preparing to claim his rightful crown as king of England. And since Henry was certain to be met with resistance, h e would need to raise adequate forces to ensure the successful as sumption of power. Ranulf felt anticipation swell at the promise d conflict. Not only was he willing to supply the knight's fees h e owed his liege, he was impatient to take up arms for Henry. He had remained idle too long, his battle sword and lance growing ru sty with disuse. For the past three months and more, peace had re igned in Normandy. There had been no rebellions, no skirmishes, n ot even a nearby tourney where he could hone his skills and exhau st his frustrations in the melee or increase his wealth by captur ing enemy knights for ransom. For the past fortnight all had bee n in readiness for the forthcoming journey: the armor polished, t he weapons sharpened, and the baggage wains staged for loading. H is knights and men-at-arms had engaged in daily practice, sparrin g in swordplay, tilting at the quintains, shooting archery butts, and yet, they too were restless at the delay and eager to begin the campaign. And now it seemed the moment was at hand. As Ranu lf expected, a lengthy interval passed before a rap sounded on th e iron-banded door-time which he spent attending to Flore's pleas ure in reward for her sweetness and patience. At his command to e nter, Ranulf's vassal, Payn FitzOsbern, strode into the solar, ha lf-dressed in an unlaced tunic and grinning broadly. Duke Henry? Ranulf queried as he eased his body over the Saracen wench to si t on the edge of the massive bed. Aye, the duke-soon to be king of England. He rides for the coast in two days' time and expects us to accompany him. Payn made no apparent attempt to keep the gl ee from his tone. The messenger would speak with you. Flashing h is own grin, Ranulf solicitously twitched the linen sheet up over the two nude women in his bed. Bid him enter. The messenger had obviously ridden hard from the duke's court, for his cloak was s pattered with mud, while grime and weariness lined his face. He c onfirmed what Payn had already announced, adding more details abo ut the departure plans and composition of Henry's forces, and war ning of the resistance expected from the late King Stephen's supp orters in England. Satisfied, Ranulf dismissed the man with orde rs to seek food and rest in the hall, then strode naked to the ta ble where refreshment awaited. Pouring wine from a flagon into tw o pewter cups, he handed one to Payn and raised his own. On to E ngland, then! Aye, on to England! May we find a vast supply of E nglish rebels to vanquish-before your impatience renders your tem per even more vile than of late. I? Ranulf's black eyebrow rose in amused mockery. My disposition has been sweet as honey. His v assal gave a snort of laughter. And what of the three quintains y ou destroyed yesterday? Had their straw forms been infidels, we w ould have freed the Holy Land by now! I vow I've encountered wild boars less dangerous than you after you've been caged here at Ve rnay for any length. Ranulf's sole response was a shrug as he dr ained his cup. Perhaps. Yet I see you have been laboring at a cu re for your foul mood. Payn grinned wickedly as, with a nod of hi s head, he indicated the women in his lord's bed. By the rood, tw o wenches at once, Ranulf? Could you not save some for the rest o f us? Ranulf surveyed the handsome, chestnut-haired knight with wry amusement. I much doubt you lacked for company yourself. Nay , but for some reason I find utterly unfathomable, females seem t o favor you, despite your black scowl. Simply because I take the time to ensure their pleasure instead of seeking merely my own. At Payn's grimace, it was Ranulf's turn to grin. Less selfishness would stand you in good stead, my friend. Doubtless you are rig ht. Tilting his head back, Payn swallowed the remainder of his wi ne, then glanced at Ra- nulf with a measure of slyness. And wise, as well. Best get your fill of your lemans now while you still c an. Your bride will be none too pleased to share you after the we dding. A lady of her rank will expect you to devote your attentio ns to her, at least in the beginning. Ranul, Ivy Books, 2005, 3, Gallery Books. Very Good. 5.50(w) x 5.50(h) x 0.60(d). Hardcover. 2008. 144 pages. <br>WHEN SEVERE ILLNESS OR DEATH STRIKES A MEMBER OF Y OUR FAMILY OR COMMUNITY, DO YOU WANT TO HELP BUT WORRY THAT YOU'L L MAKE MATTERS WORSE? YOUR SUPPORT AND AID CAN MAKE A DIFFERENCE - FAR MORE THAN YOU REALIZE. You'll discover in What Should I Say, What Can I Do? ? Practical advice on what to do at hospita ls and funerals ? The right words of comfort to offer ? The bes t ways to offer financial help ? Ideas for special gifts that wi ll keep memories of the deceased alive ? Different activities to do with your bereaved friend ? Staying in touch and showing you r love through the years ., Gallery Books, 2008, 3, Random House. Good. 5.94 x 9.13 x 1.22 inches. Paperback. 2006. 422 pages. Text tanned<br>This magnificent novel by one of Americ a's finest writers is the epic of one man's remarkable journey, s et in nineteenth-century America against the background of a vani shing people and a rich way of life. At the age of twelve, under the Wind moon, Will is given a horse, a key, and a map, and sent alone into the Indian Nation to run a trading post as a bound bo y. It is during this time that he grows into a man, learning, as he does, of the raw power it takes to create a life, to find a ho me. In a card game with a white Indian named Featherstone, Will w ins - for a brief moment - a mysterious girl named Claire, and hi s passion and desire for her spans this novel. As Will's destiny intertwines with the fate of the Cherokee Indians - including a C herokee Chief named Bear - he learns how to fight and survive in the face of both nature and men, and eventually, under the Corn T assel Moon, Will begins the fight against Washington City to pres erve the Cherokee's homeland and culture. And he will come to kno w the truth behind his belief that only desire trumps time. Bri lliantly imagined, written with great power and beauty by a maste r of American fiction, Thirteen Moons is a stunning novel about a man's passion for a woman, and how loss, longing and love can sh ape a man's destiny over the many moons of a life. From the Hard cover edition. Editorial Reviews From Bookmarks Magazine Critic s voiced great expectations for Thirteen Moons, coming nearly ten years after Charles Frazier's National Book Award-winning Cold M ountain (1997). Unfortunately, this second novel fails to achieve the same uniform critical acclaim. Certainly, similarities betwe en the two books abound, including a deep appreciation for the So uthern Appalachian landscape, a protagonist embarking on a life-d efining odyssey, an elegiac tone, and swatches of excellent prose . Here, Frazier frames Will's story against America's transition from a frontier society into an industrial nation. Despite some p raise, reviewers generally agree that Thirteen Moons is an airier production (New York Times), with perhaps more clichés, less con vincing characterizations and relationships, and a less wieldy pl ot. What critics do agree on, however, is the excellent period de tail and research that makes Frazier a first-rate chronicler of A merican history. Copyright © 2004 Phillips & Nelson Media, Inc. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of t his title. From Publishers Weekly Starred Review. Once in a grea t while, all of the elements of an audio book come together to cr eate a near-perfect experience for the listener. Frazier's follow -up to his 1997 National Book Award-winner, Cold Mountain, is ano ther saga of enduring love. It's no small gift to work with great material, and Patton transforms the text into a tale that sounds as if it were meant to be read aloud. It's a story to be told by the fire over the course of a long winter, just as the narrator Will Cooper and his adoptive Cherokee father, Bear, swap yarns wh ile they are hunkered down until the end of the snow season. Patt on's voice has an unidentifiable Southern lilt, which nicely fits a novel vaguely set in the Southern Appalachian Mountains. Patto n makes the correct choice not to individualize each character's voice as this is so much Cooper's tale. Bluegrass melodies played by Ryan Scott and Christina Courtin enhance the production. The CDs have been thoughtfully designed, with the numbers circling ea ch disc like a moon. This attention to detail makes for a beautif ul production of a love story that listeners will not put down an d will want to replay. Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved --This text refers to an out of print or una vailable edition of this title. From Booklist In one of the most anticipated novels of the current publishing season, Frazier, au thor of the widely applauded Cold Mountain (1997), remains true t o the historical fiction vein. The author's second outing finds g rounding in a timeless theme: a grand old man remembering his glo ry days. As a teenager during the James Monroe administration, Wi ll Cooper is sent off, in an indentured situation, into the wilde rness of the Indian Nation to run a trading post. From a mixed-ra ce Indian, he wins a girl with whom he will be besotted for the r est of his life, and his passion will extend into personal involv ement in Indian affairs, to the highest level of politics. Thus F razier also remains faithful to the theme of his previous novel: the odyssey, especially one man's path through trials and tribula tions to be by the side of the woman he loves. And he remains fai thful to a method that marked Cold Mountain in readers' memories: a proliferation of detail about customs and costumes, about food and recreation--pretty much what everything looked and smelled l ike. Unfortunately, for the first fourth of the book, there is to o much detail for the plot to easily bear. But, finally, the char acters are able to step out from behind this blanket of particula rs and incidentals and make the story work. Expect considerable d emand, of course. Brad Hooper Copyright © American Library Associ ation. All rights reserved --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. Review Gorgeous...Thirteen Moons calls Cold Mountain to mind in its wonder at the natural w orld; its pacificist undercurrents; its dismay at the dismantling of what matters, and its convication that one love, no matter ho w tortured and inexplicable, can be life-defining...fascinating.. .vivid and alive. -Newsweek Thirteen Moons brings this vanished world thrillingly to life... One of the great Native American, an d American stories, and a great gift to all of us, from one of ou r very best writers. -Kirkus Reviews, starred review There are t hings so masterful words can't do them justice. Frazier's writing falls in that category...With Thirteen Moons, he's doing importa nt work filling in the gaps, helping restore the roots, of our kn owledge of our own history. -Asheville Citizen-Times Fascinatin g...Reading Thirteen Moons is an intoxicating experience...This i s 21st-century literary fiction at its very best. -BookPage Thi rteen Moons is rare in many ways and occupies a literary plane of such height that reviewing it is not really salient....Thirteen Moons has the power to inspire great performances from succeeding generations of writers....For those who simply value the literar y experience, Thirteen Moons will provide the immense satisfactio n of taking a literary journey of magnitude. Whether on a plane, in an office or curled in a window seat, readers who absorb Will' s story will find their own lives enriched....Thirteen Moons belo ngs to the ages. -Los Angeles Times Magical...the history lesson in Thirteen Moons is fascinating and moving...You will find much to admire and savor in Thirteen Moons. -USA Today Verdict: A po werhouse second act....a brilliant success...Frazier's second act should convince everyone that he's here to stay. It is a powerfu l, dramatic, often surprising and memorable novel. -Atlanta Journ al Constitution Thirteen Moons is a boisterous, confident novel that draws from the epic tradition... Frazier is a natural storyt eller, and throughout his picaresque tale are grand themes and eu logies -Boston Globe Warm hearted...Frazier is a remarkably meti culous and tasteful writer...Thirteen Moons is a worthy successor to the first novel and a highly readable book. -Seattle Times T o Charles Frazier, words are playthings. Like very few other cont emporary American novelists, he puts them together in such a way that they can transform an otherwise mundane moment, scene or con versation into one that is transcendent....No sophomore jinx here . Reading a Frazier novel is like listening to a fine symphony. H e's a maestro whose pen is his baton, beckoning the best that eac h sentence has to offer. And just as you wouldn't rush a conducto r, you should take the time to savor Frazier's work, to take in e ach thought, to relish the turn of phrase or the imagery of a cra ftsman. -Denver Post Two for two...Here is a book brimming with vivid, adventurous incident...Charles Frazier set himself a daunt ing challenge with this book. He set out to write a historical no vel that was retrospective and meditative, yet still vibrant and immediate with life. Thirteen Moons succeeds in classy fashion. - Raleigh News & Observer If current fiction is anything to go by, it's hard for a novelist to make Santayana's puzzle pieces - lyr icism, comedy, tragedy - fit together, as they do in real life an d real history. Frazier has done it...Thirteen Moons makes you fe el that change that happened so long before our own time, and mak es you mourn it. -Newsday Thirteen Moons is a fitting successor to Cold Mountain...fans of Frazier's debut will be cheered to dis cover that the new book is another compulsively readable work of historical fiction. -St. Louis Post-Dispatch If there is any dou bt that Frazier is an incredibly gifted storyteller - and not jus t a lucky name or a one-hit wonder - it will be put to rest with the publication of Thirteen Moons. Within 10 pages, this long-awa ited new novel bears the reader swiftly out of the waking world i nto its own imagined universe like nothing else published this ye ar. -Minneapolis Star Tribune Forget the sophomore jinx. Frazier demonstrates that Cold Mountain was no one-hit wonder with this fully realized historical novel again set in the South....Again, Frazier shows himself a master of landscape and language, both of ten fresh and surprising in his telling. -Seattle Post-Intelligen cer Thirteen Moons contains achingly beautiful passages of snowf alls, fog-wrapped rivers and moonlit forests. There are ribald an d hilarious events, too, including a description of the Cherokee Booger Dance that is a masterpiece of satire. The love affair bet ween Cooper and Claire threads its way through this pseudo-histor ic epic like a brilliant, scarlet ribbon. There is also a melanch oly refrain that celebrates a wondrous time and place that is gon e and will never return. -Smoky Mountain News Fiction of the hig hest order...Another indelible character. Charles Frazier has a k nack for them. -Charlotte Observer What a story!... Frazier's cr eation, Will Cooper, is utterly charismatic....Frazier's genius l ies in his ability to convey emotions that feel pure and genuine. ..It was worth the wait. -Dayton Daily News From the Hardcover e dition. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edit ion of this title. About the Author Charles Frazier grew up in t he mountains of North Carolina. Cold Mountain, his highly acclaim ed first novel, was an international bestseller, and won the Nati onal Book Award in 1997. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. From The Washington Post Cha rles Frazier is an intelligent, occasionally witty author who wri tes incredibly long-winded, sentimental, soporific novels. His fi rst, Cold Mountain, published nine years ago, was the most unlike ly bestseller since Oldest Living Confederate Widow Tells All (19 89), by his fellow North Carolinian Allan Gurganus, and the most improbable National Book Award winner since John O'Hara's Ten Nor th Frederick half a century ago. Now Frazier weighs in with Thirt een Moons, which manages to be even longer and even duller than C old Mountain. No doubt it too will be a huge bestseller. That F razier's success parallels Gurganus's is purely coincidental, but it's just about impossible not to remark upon the oddness of the coincidence. As a rule, the American book-buying public has only a limited appetite for Southern-fried fiction, yet Frazier and G urganus somehow have tapped into it. They deal (Frazier somewhat more skillfully than Gurganus) in what a North Carolina newspaper editor of my long-ago acquaintance used to call shucks-'n'-nubbi ns, which is loosely defined as tiny ears of corn. Frazier's corn is anything but tiny -- more than 400 pages of it in the case of Thirteen Moons -- but it's corn all the same. Reading Frazier is like sitting by the cracker barrel for hour after hour and lis tening to an amiable but impossibly gassy guy who talks real slow , says I reckon a whole lot and never shuts up. His novels have l ittle structure and not much in the way of plot; in Cold Mountain he gave us the wounded Confederate soldier, Inman, limping his w ay back to his gal, Ada, in the North Carolina mountains, and in Thirteen Moons it's the ancient Will Cooper reminiscing about his nine decades and his Cherokee buddies and the gal, Claire, whom he managed to love and lose. He is a far less interesting man tha n Frazier obviously believes him to be, which is a little surpris ing because he's based on a very interesting historical figure. Will Cooper is not William Holland Thomas, Frazier says in an au thor's note, and then coyly adds, though they do share some DNA. Actually, they share a whole lot. William Holland Thomas was born in North Carolina in 1805, was almost immediately orphaned, work ed as a boy in a general store in the mountains, taught himself t he law, worked to secure the right of the Cherokees to remain in their territory as Andrew Jackson sought to drive all Indians wes tward, served in the state senate and organized a company of Cher okee soldiers on behalf of the Confederacy. All of which is exact ly what Will Cooper does in Thirteen Moons; where fact and fictio n part is that Thomas married and had children while Cooper remai ns single, and Thomas's mental condition gradually deteriorated a fter the Civil War while Cooper remains alert, if rather tired, t o the novel's end. In other words, in Thirteen Moons Frazier es sentially has fictionalized history. Nothing wrong with that: hap pens all the time. But the novel provides less imagination and in vention than readers are likely to expect; it reads more like a d utifully researched (check out that author's note) graduate schoo l paper than a work of fiction. It also is chock-a-block with hom espun aphorisms that aren't exactly full of original wisdom: One of the few welcome lessons age teaches is that only desire trumps time, and Grief is a haunting, and Writers can tell any lie that leaps into their heads, and Our worst pain is confined within ou r own skin, and We are not made strong enough to stand up against endle, Random House, 2006, 2.5, Candlewick. Very Good. 5 x 0.7 x 7.25 inches. Hardcover. 2002. 169 pages.<br>A funny, in-your-face novel starring an unlikely te enage pair - a sheltered cinemaphile with cerebral palsy and the tattooed, straight-talking stoner who steals his heart. For sixt een-year-old Ben Bancroft - a kid with cerebral palsy, no parents , and an overprotective grandmother - the closest thing to happin ess is hunkering alone in the back of the Rialto Theatre watching Bride of Frankenstein for the umpteenth time. Of course he waits for the lights to dim before making an entrance, so that his own lurching down the aisle doesn't look like an ad for Monster Week . The last person he wants to run into is drugged-up Colleen Mino u, resplendent in ripped tights, neon miniskirt, and an impressiv e array of tattoos. But when Colleen climbs into the seat beside him and rests a woozy head on his shoulder, Ben has that unmistak able feeling that his life is about to change. With unsparing h umor and a keen flair for dialogue, Ron Koertge captures the rare repartee between two lonely teenagers on opposite sides of the s ocial divide. It's the tale of a self-deprecating protagonist who learns that kindred spirits can be found for the looking - and t hat the incentive to follow your passion can be set into motion b y something as simple as a human touch. Editorial Reviews Amazo n.com Review Colleen Minou is a hard-core stoner, a girl whose mo tto is, I'll get high and do anything. Ben Bancroft is a movie-ad dicted preppie who suffers from cerebral palsy, the resident spaz , invisible as the sign that says NO RUNNING, the one no one pays attention to. Together, they form the most unlikely couple since Dharma and Greg. He's Brooks Brothers, she's Salvation Army. He' s never even smoked a cigarette, she's got 20 different chemicals running through her veins. But when these two lonely teens meet one night at Ben's favorite hang, the Rialto (a classic film thea tre that smells like butter from the Paleozoic), sparks fly. At l east for Ben they do. Maybe it's because Colleen's the first girl to ever really notice him, to have the nerve to tease him about his disability instead of pretend it's not there. For once, Ben i s actually more interested in his real life than a movie. Colleen takes him clubbing, lights his first joint, even challenges him to direct his own movie. But when Ben, in turn, dares her to stay straight, Colleen admits that, despite his devotion, she still n eeds the drugs to smooth out the edges. Is Ben capable of convinc ing her otherwise? If not, how will he ever be cured of his Colle en addiction? Author of the acclaimed Brimstone Journals, Ron Ko ertge's wry depiction of this car wreck of a relationship is shar ply observed and wholly original. Teen readers will have a tough time turning the last page of this oddly endearing, screwball lov e story. (Ages 13 and older) --Jennifer Hubert From Publishers Weekly erhaps not since Harold and Maude has there been such a li kable unlikely romance. Since I've been pretty much treading wate r all day, the marquee of the Rialto Theatre looks like the prow of a ship coming to save me, begins narrator Ben Bancroft, a 16-y ear-old who has cerebral palsy. Koertge's (The Brimstone Journals ) opening scene sets in motion the novel's key elements: Ben's bl ack humor and his love for movies, both of which keep him afloat, and his chance face-to-face meeting there with Colleen Minou, a drug addict (who looks like Helena Bonham Carter in Fight Club... pretty in an edgy, ruined way). After Ben meets a new neighbor w ho happens to have made a short documentary for a film class (the novel, after all, is set in Los Angeles), he starts one of his o wn, High School Confidential. Thanks to Ben's nc. From Publisher s Weekly erhaps not since Harold and Maude has there been such a likable unlikely romance. Since I've been pretty much treading wa ter all day, the marquee of the Rialto Theatre looks like the pro w of a ship coming to save me, begins narrator Ben Bancroft, a 16 -year-old who has cerebral palsy. Koertge's (The Brimstone Journa ls) opening scene sets in motion the novel's key elements: Ben's black humor and his love for movies, both of which keep him afloa t, and his chance face-to-face meeting there with Colleen Minou, a drug addict (who looks like Helena Bonham Carter in Fight Club. .. pretty in an edgy, ruined way). After Ben meets a new neighbor who happens to have made a short documentary for a film class (t he novel, after all, is set in Los Angeles), he starts one of his own, High School Confidential. Thanks to Ben's nc. From School Library Journal Grade 9 & Up--Sixteen-year-old Ben Bancroft has c erebral palsy, no parents, an overprotective grandmother, and a p retty sorry life as far as he's concerned. He finds solace sittin g alone in the back of the Rialto Theatre, watching old horror mo vies. One day, when he's watching Bride of Frankenstein for the u mpteenth time, Colleen Minou, a notorious basket case and druggie at Ben's high school, plops down in the seat next to him and pro ceeds to place her woozy head on his shoulder. Thus begins the un easy friendship between the odd pair. Ben's grandmother is horrif ied by this foulmouthed, thoroughly tattooed flake who dresses in miniskirts and tights, but he is too taken with her to care. The friendship between Ben and Colleen evolves and eventually blosso ms into romance and then a sexual relationship. Both teens are de sperately searching for self-acceptance, and they each make valia nt attempts to help the other find it. The generous friendship of his neighbor and mentor also nudges Ben out of his shell and giv es him a means of self-expression through filmmaking. Koertge dis plays his usual flair for creating believable characters, genuine dialogue, and some wonderfully humorous moments. Ben's apprehens ion and awkwardness with Colleen and her almost complete obliviou sness to everything in the world around her rings true. Their nee d for a sense of belonging and their efforts to find it in one an other are themes to which readers will certainly relate. Edward S ullivan, White Pine School, TN Copyright 2002 Cahners Business In formation, Inc. From Booklist (*Starred Review*) Gr. 8-12. Benja min Bancroft, a 16-year-old with cerebral palsy, strikes up a sta rtling friendship with Colleen Minou, the school's infamous drugg ie, much to his prim grandmother's horror. Colleen is an unlikely self-esteem booster and aphrodisiac, talking, teasing, then touc hing, kissing, and seducing Ben. And he has a surprising effect o n her: she becomes less abrasive and even occasionally sober. Sto ner and Spaz are good for each other. This is vintage Koertge. Fu nny, touching, and surprising, it is a hopeful yet realistic view of things as they are and as they could be. Few authors write be tter dialogue than Koertge, and he is at his best in this short, fast-moving novel, using Ben and Colleen's repartee to reveal bot h their longings and insecurities. The temptation will be to comp are this with Terry Trueman's Stuck in Neutral (2000), yet that w ould be unfair to both books. This is a realistic story, and Ben is high-functioning, a teenager we often see at school, the movie s, in the workplace. The first-person narrative is Ben's, but the human face, the fully developed personality of Ben Bancroft, is revealed through Colleen's drug-enhanced innocence and acceptance . Didactic? No. Revealing and consciousness raising? Absolutely. Buy several copies. Frances Bradburn Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved Review I like this book a lot, and I LOVE Ben. We need all the truth we can handle about kids l ike Ben and Colleen, and Ron Koertge's writing feels deeply, some times painfully, true, - Terry Trueman, author of STUCK IN NEUTRA L, a Michael L. Printz Honor Book 2000 - None About the Author R on Koertge is the author of several acclaimed novels, including T HE BRIMSTONE JOURNALS. Of STONER & SPAZ, he says, My wife works w ith the disabled. One night she came home and told me about a you ng man she'd been working with. He had C.P. and a terrific sense of humor. Coincidentally, that day I had talked to a former stude nt of mine who'd recently been in rehab for substance abuse. What would happen, I wondered, if those two knew each other? Two mont hs later-the first draft of STONER & SPAZ. Ron Koertge lives in S outh Pasadena, California. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. A ll rights reserved. For a couple of days I don't see Colleen. Whi ch disappoints me. Which reminds me of why I am what I am: a bit player in the movie of life. Listed at the tag end of the credits : Crippled Kid. Before Thug #1 but after Handsome Man in Copy Sho p. Then my phone rings and I lunge for it. It has to be her. Nobo dy calls me. I mean that. Nobody. My answering machine probably h as cobwebs in it. Without saying hello or anything, she asks, I w as talking to some kids at school about you. What happened to you r mom? I fall back on the bed, relieved and excited. Nobody knows . She just split. I roll onto my side. Turn on AMC. Check out how John Ford shoots this scene so it looks like John Wayne is about a hundred feet tall. As I watch, I hear the raspy sound of a Bic lighter, then her quick intake of breath. I thought John Wayne a ctually was a hundred feet tall. The Searchers is still really po pular. Do you know the story? Ethan totally devotes his life to f inding this niece of his that the Comanches kidnapped. I guess mo st people like the idea of somebody who'll just look for them and look for them and never give up no matter how long it takes. My father disappeared, too. When? Like about a second after I was bo rn, I guess. Even John Wayne couldn't find that son of a bitch. Y ou don't want to go look for him ever? No way. Do you want to fin d your mom? Sometimes. Around the holidays, usually. When it's ju st Grandma and me and a turkey as big as a VW. Do you know Ms. Jo hnson? The sociology teacher? And resident feminist. She says som etimes women split because they have to. She says sometimes they have to be true to themselves. So it's not always because some ki d is dragging his foot around the house? That's when Grandma knoc ks softly on my half-open door. I turn my back on her and whisper into the phone, Looks like I better go. Colleen whispers back, M e, too, if I want to keep up with my regimen of self-destructive behavior. Grandma leads me into the living room. This is never a good sign. I hope I didn't disturb you, Benjamin. That's okay. I was just talking to a, uh, friend. How nice! I can almost see the exclamation point, and it means she's surprised I have a friend. I'm not getting into that. Did you want to talk to me? Yes, I sp oke to the new neighbor this morning. She seems very pleasant, an d I thought it would be a nice gesture if we invited her for brun ch. She holds out an envelope, one of her ritzy cream-colored one s. It's a bit on the short-notice side, but I've got leukemia nex t week, then UNICEF, and before you know it the whole Tournament of Roses thing begins in earnest. Our phone number's right at the bottom in case she isn't home, but I believe she is. You want me to take this over now? It's barely dark. I don't think she'd be alarmed. Then she looks down at my sweats, the ones she sends to the cleaners. In old-fashioned cartoons there are always rich wom en looking at things through these glasses-on-a-stick. That is my grandma. She pretty much looks at everything like she has glasse s-on-a-stick. Including me. Especially me. Would you mind changin g, dear, since you're going to go out-of-doors? For somebody with C.P., changing clothes is no piece of cake. The good side has to help the bad side, so it takes a little while. And if I'm not ca reful, I'll get all my clothes off and see myself in the mirror. And that is something I try never to do. Fifteen minutes later, I 'm standing on the curb, still sweating from the struggle. God, I hate getting dressed. It always reminds me of how I am. A couple of SUVs glide by, both of them driven by the littlest mommies in the world, like there's some place called Inverse Proportion Mot ors and the smaller you are, the bigger the car you have to buy. Lurching across the empty street, I wave at Mr. and Mrs. Armstron g, who sit on their porch every evening and stare at the Neighbor hood Watch sign with its sinister cloaked figure. I make my way u p the walk of 1003 between borders of purple lobelia. The lights are on. Music seeps out from under the oak door. Just in case the doorbell's broken, I tap with the little bridle that hangs from the brass horse's head. When I hear footsteps I announce, Hi, I'm a neighbor. From across the street. The door opens. A woman in a striped caftan says, Yes, can I help you? Her black hair is shor t and shot through with gray. She has quick-looking eyes and shar p features. If some people look smoothed by hand, this lady is ma chine made. I tell her my name and why I've come. Marcie Sorrels. She's holding a drink with her right hand, so she sticks out the other one. I show her my bad arm, the fingers curled into a path etic little fist. Not a stroke, I hope. C.P. But not dyskinetic. No, spastic. Ah, well, you were lucky. That's the title of my aut obiography: Ben, the Lucky Spaz. She opens the door wider. Why do n't you come inside and be hard on yourself? All of a sudden, I j ust want to throw Grandma's envelope at her feet and get out of t here. What does she know? I think. Who does she think she is, any way? And then I wonder if I'm having a heart attack, because I've never thrown anything at anybody in my life, not even a baseball . Well, for sure not a baseball. Where does all that emotion come from? Is it just from hanging around Colleen, who's so famous fo r going off on teachers she has a permanent seat in detention? S TONER & SPAZ by Ron Koertge. Copyright (c) 2002 by Ron Koertge. P ublished by Candlewick Press, Inc., Cambridge, MA. ., Candlewick, 2002, 3, Zondervan Publishing House. Good. Paperback. 1990. 285 pages. Cover worn <br>If there is a loving God, then why is i t that ... ? You've heard that question, perhaps asked it yourse lf. No matter how you complete it, at its root lies the issue of pain. Does God order our suffering? Does he decree an abusive ch ildhood, orchestrate a jet crash, steer a tornado through a commu nity? Or did he simply wind up the world's mainspring and now is watching from a distance? In this Gold Medallion Award--winning book, Philip Yancey reveals a God who is neither capricious nor u nconcerned. Using examples from the Bible and from his own experi ences, Yancey looks at pain---physical, emotional, and spiritual- --and helps us understand why we suffer. Where Is God When It Hur ts? will speak to those for whom life sometimes just doesn't make sense. And it will help equip anyone who wants to reach out to s omeone in pain but just doesn't know what to say. ., Zondervan Publishing House, 1990, 2.5, Collins. Good. 142 x 224mm. Paperback. 1989. 352 pages. dj worn.<br>The Casteel family saga continues for Heav en's daughter Annie. When her parents are tragically killed in a car accident Annie is taken to Farthinggale Manor, a place she ha s always dreamt of visiting. But on her arrival Annie quickly rea lizes it is a cold and dark place, still hiding many family secre ts.SEASON OF DARKNESSHeaven's daughter Annie, a sweet and loving young woman,has known the sort of happy home that always seemed o ut of her mother's reach. But a terrible, tragic car accident cha nges all that.When her mysterious great-grandfather' Tony Tattert on takes her to Farthinggale Manor, he promises to look after all her needs. But Annie pines for her lost family, most especially for Luke, her half-brother, the loving confidant of her childhood . Soon she becomes lost in the despair of the decaying mansion.Th en Annie discovers the secret cottage owned by Tony'sbrother Troy , and the mystery deepens... Editorial Reviews Review Praise fo r Virginia Andrews:Beautifully written, macabre and thoroughly na sty... it is evocative of the nasty fairy tales like Little Red R iding Hood and The Babes in the Wood, with a bit of Victorian Got hic thrown in. ... What does shine through is her ability to see the world through a child's eyes' Daily ExpressMakes horror irres istible' Glasgow Sunday MailA gruesome saga... the storyline is c ompelling, many millions have no wish to put this down' Ms London There is strength in her books - the bizarre plots matched with t he pathos of the entrapped' The Times --This text refers to an ou t of print or unavailable edition of this title. Excerpt. ® Repr inted by permission. All rights reserved. Prologue For as long a s I could remember, the only person I could share my deepest secr ets with was Luke Casteel, Jr. It was as if I were truly alive on ly when he was with me, and in my secret putaway heart, I knew he felt the same way, even though he had never dared say anything a bout it. I wanted to look at him, look into his soft dark sapphir e eyes forever and ever and tell him what I really felt, but the words were forbidden. He was my half brother. But there was one way I could look continually at him and he at me without either o f us being self-conscious about it or feeling someone would disco ver our secret, and that was whenever I painted him. He was alway s a willing subject: With the easel between us and my world of ar t serving as a window, I could stare closely at his perfectly sha ped, high-cheeked, bronze face and I could capture the way those unruly, jet-black strands of hair always fell over his forehead. Luke had my aunt Fanny's hair, but my father's deep blue eyes an d perfect nose. There was strength in the lines of his mouth and in his sharp, smooth jawline. I couldn't help seeing the clear re semblances to my father, and even to myself. He had the same tall , lean build Daddy had and kept his shoulders back the same way. The resemblances always saddened me because they reminded me that Luke wasn't simply my half brother, he was my illegitimate half brother, born out of a passionate indiscretion between Daddy and my aunt Fanny, my mother's sister, something we all understood wa s best kept unmentioned. We tried to leave it behind us, stuffed away in the shadows, even though we both knew people whispered a nd gossiped about us in Winnerrow. Although my family was the mos t prominent in Winnerrow, we were a very odd family indeed. Luke, Jr. lived with his mother, who had been married twice: once to a man much older who had died, and once to a man much younger, who had divorced her. Everyone in Winnerrow remembered the court he aring over who would win custody of Mommy's and Aunt Fanny's half brother Drake, after their father Luke and his new wife Stacie w ere killed in a car accident. Drake was only about five at the ti me. The argument was settled out of court, with Mommy getting cus tody and Aunt Fanny getting a lot of money. Drake hated to hear a bout it, and more than once got into a fight at school when some boy teased him about being bought and paid for. Mother said Drake had her father's temper anyway. He was handsome, muscular, and v ery athletic, as well as very bright and determined. Now he was a student getting his M.B.A. at Harvard Business College. Even tho ugh he was really my uncle, I always thought of him as a big brot her. Mommy and Daddy raised him as they would raise a son. Most everyone in Winnerrow knew about Mommy, how she was born and rais ed in the Willies, how her mother had died giving birth to her, h ow she had lived in a shack most of her young life, and then gone off to live with her mother's rich family, the Tattertons. She lived at Farthinggale Manor, or Farthy, as she often called it wh enever I could get her to talk about it, which wasn't very often. But Luke and I talked about it. Farthinggale Manor...it loomed high in our imaginations...this magical, yet sinister place, a c astle filled with a thousand secrets, some of which we just knew had to do with us. It was still the home of the mysterious Tony T atterton, the man who had married my great-grandmother and who st ill ran the great Tatterton Toy empire, now only loosely associat ed with our Willies Toy factory. For reasons Mother would not dis cuss, she refused to have anything to do with him, even though he never failed to send us all birthday and Christmas cards. He had sent me dolls from everywhere in the world every birthday for as long as I could remember. At least she let me keep them...precio us little Chinese dolls that had long, straight black hair, and d olls from Holland and Norway and Ireland with colorful costumes a nd beautiful, sparkling faces. Luke and I wanted to know more ab out Tony Tatterton and Farthy. Even Drake was very curious, altho ugh he didn't talk about it half as much as Luke and I did. If on ly our home, Hasbrouck House, was as open and revealing about the family's past as it was on holidays when Mommy and Daddy's frien ds and their families wandered freely through it. There were so m any lingering questions. What finally had brought my parents back here from the rich, lavish world of Farthinggale Manor? Why did my mother want so much to return to Winnerrow where she had been considered lower than everyone because she was a Casteel from the Willies? Even when she had been a teacher here, she hadn't been fully accepted by the rich, snobby townspeople. So many secrets haunted the shadows around us, hanging in the corners of our mind s like old cobwebs. For as long as I could remember, I felt somet hing was supposed to be told to me about myself, but no one had t old it: not my mother, not my father, and not my uncle Drake. I s ensed it in the silences that sometimes fell between my parents a nd between them and me, especially between my mother and me. I w ished I could come to a clear, clean canvas and lift my paintbrus h and pull the truth out of the blank white sheet before me. Mayb e that was why I had always been obsessed with my painting. Hardl y a day passed when I didn't paint something. It was as much a pa rt of me as...as breathing. One: Family Secrets Oh no! Drake ex claimed, coming up behind me without my realizing it because I wa s so involved in my painting. Not another picture of Farthinggale Manor with Luke, Jr. gaping out a window at the rolling clouds. Drake rolled his eyes and pretended to go into a faint. Luke sat up quickly and brushed the strands of hair off his forehead. Whe never anything embarrassed or unnerved him, he always went to his hair. I turned slowly, intending to scowl at Drake the way Miss Marbleton, Luke's and my English teacher, would every time anyone misbehaved or spoke out of turn; but Drake wore his impish smile , and his coal-black eyes glimmered like two dew-covered stones. I couldn't make myself angry at a face like that. He was so hands ome, but no matter how often he shaved, he had a dark cloud in hi s complexion. My mother was always running her hand over his chee ks affectionately and telling him to shave away the porcupine qui lls. Drake, I said softly, practically pleading with him not to say anything more that might embarrass Luke and me. Well, it's t rue, Annie, isn't it? Drake persisted. You must have done a half dozen pictures like this with Luke inside of Farthy or walking ab out the grounds. And Luke wasn't ever there! He raised his voice to clearly remind us that he had been. I tilted my head to the si de the way my mother did when something suddenly occurred to her. Was Drake jealous of my using Luke as an artistic subject? It ne ver occurred to me to ask him to pose because he rarely sat still long enough for me to paint his likeness. My pictures of Farthy are never the same, I cried defensively. How can they be? I'm wo rking only from my own imagination and the little tidbits I've be en able to pick up here and there from Daddy and Mommy. You woul d think anyone would realize that, Luke remarked, his eyes remain ing fixed on his English literature textbook. Drake widened his s mile. What, has the great Buddha spoken? Drake's eyes danced wit h glee. Whenever he could get Luke to rise to one of his taunts, he was happy. Drake, please. I'm losing my mood, I pleaded, and an artist has to seize the moment and hold it the way you would h old a baby bird...softly, but firmly. I didn't mean to sound so p retentious, but there was nothing I hated more than Luke and Drak e getting into an argument. My beseeching eyes and pleas worked. Drake's face softened. He turned back to me, his posture relaxed . Mother always said Drake strode through Winnerrow with a Castee l's pride. Because he was six feet two with broad shoulders, a na rrow waist, and muscular arms, that wasn't hard to imagine. I'm sorry. I just thought I could wrench Plato here away for a while. We need a ninth man for softball over at the school, he added. Luke looked up from his textbook, genuinely surprised at the invi tation, his eyes small and inquiring. Was Drake sincere? Since he had come home for his spring break, he had spent almost all his time with his older friends. Well, I... Luke looked to me. I had to study for this unit test, Luke explained quickly, and I thoug ht while Annie was painting me... Sure, sure, I understand, Eins tein. Einstein, Drake repeated, gesturing toward Luke, his voice dripping with sarcasm. It's not all books, you know, he said, spi nning to face him again. This time his face was serious. A lot of it has to do with getting to know people, getting them to like y ou, respect you. That's the secret of success. More executives ar e coming off the playing fields than out of the classrooms, he le ctured, waving his long, right forefinger. Luke said nothing in r esponse. He ran his fingers through his hair and fixed that stoic al, yet piercing, analytical gaze on Drake, something Drake could n't stand. Ah...why I am wasting my breath? Drake turned to my p ainting again. I told you that Farthy was gray, not blue, he cor rected softly. You were only five at the time you were there and you said yourself, you were hardly there. Maybe you forgot, Luke said, quickly coming to my defense. You don't forget the color of a building as big as that! Drake exclaimed, pulling in the cor ners of his mouth. No matter how young you are at the time or how short you stay. Well, you once told us there were two outside p ools and then Logan finally corrected that, telling us there was only one outside, but one indoors, Luke continued. When it came to Farthy, both he and I were as exacting as we could be, cherish ing whatever small details and truths we knew. So little had been given to us about it. Is that so, Sherlock Holmes? Drake replie d, his eyes growing smaller, colder. He didn't like being correct ed, especially by Luke. Well, I never said there were two outside pools; I just said there were two pools. You just don't listen w hen I tell you something. It amazes me you're doing so well in sc hool. What'd ya do, cheat? Drake, please! I exclaimed, grasping his wrist and squeezing softly. Well, he doesn't listen. Unless it's you who does the talking, he added, smiling, content because he had struck a sensitive spot. Luke blushed, his blue eyes swin ging my way briefly before he turned away, his face turning sad. I looked beyond him, just over the first rise in the Willies at a wisp of a cloud that the wind had molded into the shape of a te ar. Suddenly I felt like crying myself and it wasn't only because of the conflict between Drake and Luke. It wasn't the first time this melancholy mood had come over me like a dark cloud passing over the sun. What I did realize was that the sad feelings often stimulated my desire to paint. Painting brought me relief, a sens e of balance and peace. I was creating the world I wanted, the wo rld I saw with inner eyes. I could make it forever spring or make winter dazzling and beautiful. I felt like a magician, conjuring something special in my mind and then bringing it to life on the empty canvas. While I was sketching in my latest image of Farthy , I felt my heart grow lighter and the world around me grow warme r and warmer, as if I were lifting a shadow off myself. Now becau se Drake had really interrupted the mood, my sadness returned. I realized Drake and Luke were both staring at me, their faces tro ubled by my gray expression. I fought back the urge to cry, and s miled through the shadow over my face. Maybe each of my painting s of Farthinggale Manor are different because it changes, I final ly said in a voice barely above a whisper. Luke's eyes widened an d a smile rippled across his soft lips. He knew what that tone in my voice meant. We were about to play the fantasy game, to let o ur imaginations wander recklessly about and be unafraid to say wh at other seventeen- and eighteen-year-old teenagers would find si lly. But the game was more than that. When we played it, we coul d say things to each other that we were afraid to say otherwise. I could be his princess and he my prince. We could tell each othe r what we felt in our hearts, pretending it wasn't us but imagina ry people who were speaking. Neither of us blushed or looked away . Drake shook his head. He, too, knew what was coming. Oh no, he said, you two don't still do this. He covered his face in mock e mbarrassment. I ignored him, stepped away and continued. Maybe Farthy is like the seasons -- gray and dismal in the winter and b right blue and warm in the summer. I was lookin, Collins, 1989, 2.5<

2005, ISBN: 9780002235709

Anchor Books. Very Good. 19 x 13cm. Paperback. 2003. 353 pages. <br>NATIONAL BOOK AWARD WINNER ? NATIONAL BESTSELLER ? An astonishing novel that traces the lives of a Scottish fami… Plus…

Anchor Books. Very Good. 19 x 13cm. Paperback. 2003. 353 pages. <br>NATIONAL BOOK AWARD WINNER ? NATIONAL BESTSELLER ? An astonishing novel that traces the lives of a Scottish family over a decade as they confront the joys and longings, fulfillment s and betrayals of love in all its guises. In June of 1989 Paul McLeod, a newspaper publisher and recent widower, travels to Gre ece, where he falls for a young American artist and reflects on t he complicated truth about his marriage.... Six years later, ag ain in June, Paul's death draws his three grown sons and their fa milies back to their ancestral home. Fenno, the eldest, a wry, in trospective gay man, narrates the events of this unforeseen reuni on. Far from his straitlaced expatriate life as a bookseller in G reenwich Village, Fenno is stunned by a series of revelations tha t threaten his carefully crafted defenses.... Four years farther on, in yet another June, a chance meeting on the Long Island sho re brings Fenno together with Fern Olitsky, the artist who once c aptivated his father. Now pregnant, Fern must weigh her guilt abo ut the past against her wishes for the future and decide what fam ily means to her. In prose rich with compassion and wit, Three Junes paints a haunting portrait of love's redemptive powers. Ed itorial Reviews From The New Yorker This enormously accomplished début novel is a triptych that spans three summers, across a dec ade, in the disparate lives of the McLeod family. The widowed fat her, a newspaper publisher who maintains the family manse in Scot land, is chary, dogged, and deceptively mild. Fenno, the eldest s on, runs an upscale bookshop in the West Village, and his most in timate relationship--aside from almost anonymous grapplings with a career house-sitter named Tony--is with a parrot called Felicit y. One of Fenno's younger brothers is a Paris chef whose wife tur ns out pretty daughters like so many brioches; the other is a vet erinarian whose wife wants Fenno to help them have a baby. Glass is interested in how risky love is for some people, and she write s so well that what might seem like farce is rich, absorbing, and full of life. Copyright ® 2005 The New Yorker Review Enormous ly accomplished....rich, absorbing, and full of life. -The New Yo rker A warm, wise debut. . . . Three Junes marks a blessed event for readers of literary fiction everywhere.-San Francisco Chroni cle Julia Glass's talent sends chills up my spine; Three Junes i s a marvel.-Richard Russo, author of Empire Falls Three Junes al most threatens to burst with all the life it contains. Glass's ab ility to illuminate and deepen the mysteries of her characters' l ives is extraordinary. - Michael Cunningham, author of The Hours 'Three Junes' brilliantly rescues, then refurbishes, the traditi onal plot-driven novel. . . Glass has written a generous book abo ut family expectations-but also about happiness. - The New York T imes Book Review Gorgeous. . .'Three Junes' goes after the big i ssues without a trace of fustiness and gives us a memorable hero. - Los Angeles Times Book Review 'Three Junes' is a novel that b ursts with the lives of its characters. They move into our hearts , taking up permanent residence, the newest members of the reader 's family of choice.-Times-Picayune Fiercely realized. . .luxuri ant in its emotional comprehension and the idea, or promise, that anything might happen.-Boston Globe Radiant...an intimate liter ary triptych of lives pulled together and torn apart.-Chicago Tri bune Sophisticated . . . Engrossing . . . Catches the surprisin g twists and turns in family relationships, amid love, loss, hope and regret.-Seattle Post-Intelligencer The sort of sparkling d ebut that marks a writer as one to watch. -Daily News The fluid , evolving nature of family history is at the heart of this assur ed first novel.-Time Out New York This first novel treats family ties, erotic longing, small children and prolonged deaths from A IDS and cancer with a subtlety that grows from scrupulous unsenti mentality.-Newsday Formidable. . . The traditional novel of soci al relations is very much alive in Three Junes. Virginia Woolf an d Elizabeth Bowen, among other exemplars, would surely approve.-K irkus Reviews Brimming with a marvelous cast of intricate charac ters set in an assortment of scintillating backdrops, Glass's phi losophically introspective novel is highly intelligent and well-w ritten.-Booklist Review Enormously accomplished....rich, absorbi ng, and full of life. -The New Yorker A warm, wise debut. . . . Three Junes marks a blessed event for readers of literary fiction everywhere.-San Francisco Chronicle Julia Glass's talent sends chills up my spine; Three Junes is a marvel.-Richard Russo, autho r of Empire Falls Three Junes almost threatens to burst with all the life it contains. Glass's ability to illuminate and deepen t he mysteries of her characters' lives is extraordinary. - Michael Cunningham, author of The Hours 'Three Junes' brilliantly rescu es, then refurbishes, the traditional plot-driven novel. . . Glas s has written a generous book about family expectations-but also about happiness. - The New York Times Book Review Gorgeous. . .' Three Junes' goes after the big issues without a trace of fustine ss and gives us a memorable hero. - Los Angeles Times Book Review 'Three Junes' is a novel that bursts with the lives of its char acters. They move into our hearts, taking up permanent residence, the newest members of the reader's family of choice.-Times-Picay une Fiercely realized. . .luxuriant in its emotional comprehensi on and the idea, or promise, that anything might happen.-Boston G lobe Radiant...an intimate literary triptych of lives pulled tog ether and torn apart.-Chicago Tribune Sophisticated . . . Engro ssing . . . Catches the surprising twists and turns in family rel ationships, amid love, loss, hope and regret.-Seattle Post-Intell igencer The sort of sparkling debut that marks a writer as one to watch. -Daily News The fluid, evolving nature of family hist ory is at the heart of this assured first novel.-Time Out New Yor k This first novel treats family ties, erotic longing, small chi ldren and prolonged deaths from AIDS and cancer with a subtlety t hat grows from scrupulous unsentimentality.-Newsday Formidable. . . The traditional novel of social relations is very much alive in Three Junes. Virginia Woolf and Elizabeth Bowen, among other e xemplars, would surely approve.-Kirkus Reviews Brimming with a m arvelous cast of intricate characters set in an assortment of sci ntillating backdrops, Glass's philosophically introspective novel is highly intelligent and well-written.-Booklist From the Insid e Flap An astonishing first novel that traces the lives of a Scot tish family over a decade as they confront the joys and longings, fulfillments and betrayals of love in all its guises. In June of 1989 Paul McLeod, a newspaper publisher and recent widower, tr avels to Greece, where he falls for a young American artist and r eflects on the complicated truth about his marriage. . ..Six year s later, again in June, Paul?s death draws his three grown sons a nd their families back to their ancestral home. Fenno, the eldest , a wry, introspective gay man, narrates the events of this unfor eseen reunion. Far from his straitlaced expatriate life as a book seller in Greenwich Village, Fenno is stunned by a series of reve lations that threaten his carefully crafted defenses. . .. Four y ears farther on, in yet another June, a chance meeting on the Lon g Island shore brings Fenno together with Fern Olitsky, the artis t who once captivated his father. Now pregnant, Fern must weigh h er guilt about the past against her wishes for the future and dec ide what family means to her. In prose rich with compassion and w it,Three Junes paints a haunting portrait of love?s redemptive po wers. From the Back Cover An astonishing first novel that traces the lives of a Scottish family over a decade as they confront th e joys and longings, fulfillments and betrayals of love in all it s guises. In June of 1989 Paul McLeod, a newspaper publisher and recent widower, travels to Greece, where he falls for a young Am erican artist and reflects on the complicated truth about his mar riage. . ..Six years later, again in June, Paul's death draws his three grown sons and their families back to their ancestral home . Fenno, the eldest, a wry, introspective gay man, narrates the e vents of this unforeseen reunion. Far from his straitlaced expatr iate life as a bookseller in Greenwich Village, Fenno is stunned by a series of revelations that threaten his carefully crafted de fenses. . .. Four years farther on, in yet another June, a chance meeting on the Long Island shore brings Fenno together with Fern Olitsky, the artist who once captivated his father. Now pregnant , Fern must weigh her guilt about the past against her wishes for the future and decide what family means to her. In prose rich wi th compassion and wit, Three Junes paints a haunting portrait of love's redemptive powers. About the Author Julia Glass is the a uthor of the best-selling Three Junes, winner of the 2002 Nationa l Book Award for Fiction; her previous novels include, most recen tly, And the Dark Sacred Night and The Widower's Tale. A teacher of fiction and a recipient of fellowships from the National Endow ment for the Arts, the New York Foundation for the Arts, and the Radcliffe Institute for Advanced Study, Glass lives with her fami ly in Marblehead, Massachusetts. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permis sion. All rights reserved. Chapter 1 Paul chose greece for its p redictable whiteness: the blanching heat by day, the rush of star s at night, the glint of the lime-washed houses crowding its coas t. Blinding, searing, somnolent, fossilized Greece. Joining a to ur-that was the gamble, because Paul is not a gregarious sort. He dreads fund-raisers and drinks parties, all occasions at which h e must give an account of himself to people he will never see aga in. Yet there are advantages to the company of strangers. You can tell them whatever you please: no lies perhaps, but no affecting truths. Paul does not fabricate well (though once, foolishly, he believed that he could), and the single truth he's offered these random companions-that recently he lost his wife-brought down a flurry of theatrical condolence. (A hand on his at the breakfast table in Athens, the very first day: Time, time, and more time. L et Monsignor Time do his tedious, devious work. Marjorie, a breat hy schoolmistress from Devon.) Not counting Jack, they are ten. Paul is one of three men; the other two, Ray and Solly, are appen ded to wives. And then, besides Marjorie, there are two pairs of women traveling together, in their seventies at least: a surprisi ngly spry quartet who carry oversize binoculars with which they o gle everything and everyone, at appallingly close range. Seeing t he sights, they wear identical, brand-new hiking boots; to the gr oup's communal dinners, cork-soled sandals with white crocheted t ops. Paul thinks of them as the quadruplets. In the beginning, t here was an all-around well-mannered effort to mingle, but then, sure as sedimentation, the two married couples fell together and the quadruplets reverted more or less to themselves. Only Marjori e, trained by profession to dole out affection equally, continues to treat everyone like a new friend, and with her as their muse, the women coddle Paul like an infant. His room always has the be st view, his seat on the boat is always in shade; the women alway s insist. The husbands treat him as though he were vaguely leprou s. Jack finds the whole thing amusing: Delightful, watching you c ringe. Jack is their guide: young and irreverent, thank God. Reve rence would send Paul over the edge. Even this far from home the re are reminders, like camera flashes or shooting pains. On the s treets, in the plazas, on the open-decked ferries, he is constant ly sighting Maureen: any tall lively blonde, any sunstruck girl w ith a touch of the brazen. German or Swedish or Dutch, there she is, again and again. Today she happens to be an American, one of two girls at a nearby table. Jack has noticed them too, Paul can tell, though both men pretend to read their shared paper-day befo re yesterday's Times. By no means beautiful, this girl, but she h as a garish spirit, a laugh she makes no effort to stifle. She we ars an eccentrically wide-brimmed hat, tied under her chin with a feathery scarf. (Miss Forties Nostalgic, Maureen would have pegg ed her. These gals think they missed some grand swinging party.) Little good the hat seems to have done her, though: she is sunbur nt geranium pink, her arms crazed with freckles. The second girl is the beauty, with perfect pale skin and thick cocoa-colored hai r; Jack will have an eye on that one. The girls talk too loudly, but Paul enjoys listening. In their midtwenties, he guesses, ten years younger than his sons. Heaven. I am telling you exquisite, says the dark-haired girl in a husky, all-knowing voice. A sensua l sort of coup de foudre. You go up on donkeys? Where? the blond e answers eagerly. This dishy farmer rents them. He looks like G iancarlo Giannini. Those soulful sad-dog eyes alone are worth the price of admission. He rides alongside and whacks them with a st ick when they get ornery. Whacks them? Oh just prods them a lit tle, for God's sake. Nothing inhumane. Listen-I'm sure the ones t hat hump olives all day really get whacked. By donkey standards, these guys live like royalty. She rattles through a large canvas satchel and pulls out a map, which she opens across the table. Th e girls lean together. Valley of the Butterflies! The blonde poi nts. Jack snorts quietly from behind his section of the Times. D on't tell the dears, but it's moths. Paul folds his section and lays it on the table. He is the owner and publisher of the Yeoman , the Dumfries-Galloway paper. When he left, he promised to call in every other day. He has called once in ten and felt grateful n ot to be needed. Paging through the news from afar, he finds hims elf tired of it all. Tired of Maggie Thatcher, her hedgehog eyes, her vacuous hair, her cotton-mouthed edicts on jobs, on taxes, o n terrorist acts. Tired of bickering over the Chunnel, over untap ped oil off the Isle of Mull. Tired of rainy foggy pewtered skies . Here, too, there are clouds, but they are inconsequential, each one benign as a bridal veil. And wind, but the wind is warm, mak ing a cheerful fuss of the awning over the tables, carrying loose napkins like birds to th, Anchor Books, 2003, 3, Collins. Good. 142 x 224mm. Paperback. 1989. 352 pages. dj worn.<br>The Casteel family saga continues for Heav en's daughter Annie. When her parents are tragically killed in a car accident Annie is taken to Farthinggale Manor, a place she ha s always dreamt of visiting. But on her arrival Annie quickly rea lizes it is a cold and dark place, still hiding many family secre ts.SEASON OF DARKNESSHeaven's daughter Annie, a sweet and loving young woman,has known the sort of happy home that always seemed o ut of her mother's reach. But a terrible, tragic car accident cha nges all that.When her mysterious great-grandfather' Tony Tattert on takes her to Farthinggale Manor, he promises to look after all her needs. But Annie pines for her lost family, most especially for Luke, her half-brother, the loving confidant of her childhood . Soon she becomes lost in the despair of the decaying mansion.Th en Annie discovers the secret cottage owned by Tony'sbrother Troy , and the mystery deepens... Editorial Reviews Review Praise fo r Virginia Andrews:Beautifully written, macabre and thoroughly na sty... it is evocative of the nasty fairy tales like Little Red R iding Hood and The Babes in the Wood, with a bit of Victorian Got hic thrown in. ... What does shine through is her ability to see the world through a child's eyes' Daily ExpressMakes horror irres istible' Glasgow Sunday MailA gruesome saga... the storyline is c ompelling, many millions have no wish to put this down' Ms London There is strength in her books - the bizarre plots matched with t he pathos of the entrapped' The Times --This text refers to an ou t of print or unavailable edition of this title. Excerpt. ® Repr inted by permission. All rights reserved. Prologue For as long a s I could remember, the only person I could share my deepest secr ets with was Luke Casteel, Jr. It was as if I were truly alive on ly when he was with me, and in my secret putaway heart, I knew he felt the same way, even though he had never dared say anything a bout it. I wanted to look at him, look into his soft dark sapphir e eyes forever and ever and tell him what I really felt, but the words were forbidden. He was my half brother. But there was one way I could look continually at him and he at me without either o f us being self-conscious about it or feeling someone would disco ver our secret, and that was whenever I painted him. He was alway s a willing subject: With the easel between us and my world of ar t serving as a window, I could stare closely at his perfectly sha ped, high-cheeked, bronze face and I could capture the way those unruly, jet-black strands of hair always fell over his forehead. Luke had my aunt Fanny's hair, but my father's deep blue eyes an d perfect nose. There was strength in the lines of his mouth and in his sharp, smooth jawline. I couldn't help seeing the clear re semblances to my father, and even to myself. He had the same tall , lean build Daddy had and kept his shoulders back the same way. The resemblances always saddened me because they reminded me that Luke wasn't simply my half brother, he was my illegitimate half brother, born out of a passionate indiscretion between Daddy and my aunt Fanny, my mother's sister, something we all understood wa s best kept unmentioned. We tried to leave it behind us, stuffed away in the shadows, even though we both knew people whispered a nd gossiped about us in Winnerrow. Although my family was the mos t prominent in Winnerrow, we were a very odd family indeed. Luke, Jr. lived with his mother, who had been married twice: once to a man much older who had died, and once to a man much younger, who had divorced her. Everyone in Winnerrow remembered the court he aring over who would win custody of Mommy's and Aunt Fanny's half brother Drake, after their father Luke and his new wife Stacie w ere killed in a car accident. Drake was only about five at the ti me. The argument was settled out of court, with Mommy getting cus tody and Aunt Fanny getting a lot of money. Drake hated to hear a bout it, and more than once got into a fight at school when some boy teased him about being bought and paid for. Mother said Drake had her father's temper anyway. He was handsome, muscular, and v ery athletic, as well as very bright and determined. Now he was a student getting his M.B.A. at Harvard Business College. Even tho ugh he was really my uncle, I always thought of him as a big brot her. Mommy and Daddy raised him as they would raise a son. Most everyone in Winnerrow knew about Mommy, how she was born and rais ed in the Willies, how her mother had died giving birth to her, h ow she had lived in a shack most of her young life, and then gone off to live with her mother's rich family, the Tattertons. She lived at Farthinggale Manor, or Farthy, as she often called it wh enever I could get her to talk about it, which wasn't very often. But Luke and I talked about it. Farthinggale Manor...it loomed high in our imaginations...this magical, yet sinister place, a c astle filled with a thousand secrets, some of which we just knew had to do with us. It was still the home of the mysterious Tony T atterton, the man who had married my great-grandmother and who st ill ran the great Tatterton Toy empire, now only loosely associat ed with our Willies Toy factory. For reasons Mother would not dis cuss, she refused to have anything to do with him, even though he never failed to send us all birthday and Christmas cards. He had sent me dolls from everywhere in the world every birthday for as long as I could remember. At least she let me keep them...precio us little Chinese dolls that had long, straight black hair, and d olls from Holland and Norway and Ireland with colorful costumes a nd beautiful, sparkling faces. Luke and I wanted to know more ab out Tony Tatterton and Farthy. Even Drake was very curious, altho ugh he didn't talk about it half as much as Luke and I did. If on ly our home, Hasbrouck House, was as open and revealing about the family's past as it was on holidays when Mommy and Daddy's frien ds and their families wandered freely through it. There were so m any lingering questions. What finally had brought my parents back here from the rich, lavish world of Farthinggale Manor? Why did my mother want so much to return to Winnerrow where she had been considered lower than everyone because she was a Casteel from the Willies? Even when she had been a teacher here, she hadn't been fully accepted by the rich, snobby townspeople. So many secrets haunted the shadows around us, hanging in the corners of our mind s like old cobwebs. For as long as I could remember, I felt somet hing was supposed to be told to me about myself, but no one had t old it: not my mother, not my father, and not my uncle Drake. I s ensed it in the silences that sometimes fell between my parents a nd between them and me, especially between my mother and me. I w ished I could come to a clear, clean canvas and lift my paintbrus h and pull the truth out of the blank white sheet before me. Mayb e that was why I had always been obsessed with my painting. Hardl y a day passed when I didn't paint something. It was as much a pa rt of me as...as breathing. One: Family Secrets Oh no! Drake ex claimed, coming up behind me without my realizing it because I wa s so involved in my painting. Not another picture of Farthinggale Manor with Luke, Jr. gaping out a window at the rolling clouds. Drake rolled his eyes and pretended to go into a faint. Luke sat up quickly and brushed the strands of hair off his forehead. Whe never anything embarrassed or unnerved him, he always went to his hair. I turned slowly, intending to scowl at Drake the way Miss Marbleton, Luke's and my English teacher, would every time anyone misbehaved or spoke out of turn; but Drake wore his impish smile , and his coal-black eyes glimmered like two dew-covered stones. I couldn't make myself angry at a face like that. He was so hands ome, but no matter how often he shaved, he had a dark cloud in hi s complexion. My mother was always running her hand over his chee ks affectionately and telling him to shave away the porcupine qui lls. Drake, I said softly, practically pleading with him not to say anything more that might embarrass Luke and me. Well, it's t rue, Annie, isn't it? Drake persisted. You must have done a half dozen pictures like this with Luke inside of Farthy or walking ab out the grounds. And Luke wasn't ever there! He raised his voice to clearly remind us that he had been. I tilted my head to the si de the way my mother did when something suddenly occurred to her. Was Drake jealous of my using Luke as an artistic subject? It ne ver occurred to me to ask him to pose because he rarely sat still long enough for me to paint his likeness. My pictures of Farthy are never the same, I cried defensively. How can they be? I'm wo rking only from my own imagination and the little tidbits I've be en able to pick up here and there from Daddy and Mommy. You woul d think anyone would realize that, Luke remarked, his eyes remain ing fixed on his English literature textbook. Drake widened his s mile. What, has the great Buddha spoken? Drake's eyes danced wit h glee. Whenever he could get Luke to rise to one of his taunts, he was happy. Drake, please. I'm losing my mood, I pleaded, and an artist has to seize the moment and hold it the way you would h old a baby bird...softly, but firmly. I didn't mean to sound so p retentious, but there was nothing I hated more than Luke and Drak e getting into an argument. My beseeching eyes and pleas worked. Drake's face softened. He turned back to me, his posture relaxed . Mother always said Drake strode through Winnerrow with a Castee l's pride. Because he was six feet two with broad shoulders, a na rrow waist, and muscular arms, that wasn't hard to imagine. I'm sorry. I just thought I could wrench Plato here away for a while. We need a ninth man for softball over at the school, he added. Luke looked up from his textbook, genuinely surprised at the invi tation, his eyes small and inquiring. Was Drake sincere? Since he had come home for his spring break, he had spent almost all his time with his older friends. Well, I... Luke looked to me. I had to study for this unit test, Luke explained quickly, and I thoug ht while Annie was painting me... Sure, sure, I understand, Eins tein. Einstein, Drake repeated, gesturing toward Luke, his voice dripping with sarcasm. It's not all books, you know, he said, spi nning to face him again. This time his face was serious. A lot of it has to do with getting to know people, getting them to like y ou, respect you. That's the secret of success. More executives ar e coming off the playing fields than out of the classrooms, he le ctured, waving his long, right forefinger. Luke said nothing in r esponse. He ran his fingers through his hair and fixed that stoic al, yet piercing, analytical gaze on Drake, something Drake could n't stand. Ah...why I am wasting my breath? Drake turned to my p ainting again. I told you that Farthy was gray, not blue, he cor rected softly. You were only five at the time you were there and you said yourself, you were hardly there. Maybe you forgot, Luke said, quickly coming to my defense. You don't forget the color of a building as big as that! Drake exclaimed, pulling in the cor ners of his mouth. No matter how young you are at the time or how short you stay. Well, you once told us there were two outside p ools and then Logan finally corrected that, telling us there was only one outside, but one indoors, Luke continued. When it came to Farthy, both he and I were as exacting as we could be, cherish ing whatever small details and truths we knew. So little had been given to us about it. Is that so, Sherlock Holmes? Drake replie d, his eyes growing smaller, colder. He didn't like being correct ed, especially by Luke. Well, I never said there were two outside pools; I just said there were two pools. You just don't listen w hen I tell you something. It amazes me you're doing so well in sc hool. What'd ya do, cheat? Drake, please! I exclaimed, grasping his wrist and squeezing softly. Well, he doesn't listen. Unless it's you who does the talking, he added, smiling, content because he had struck a sensitive spot. Luke blushed, his blue eyes swin ging my way briefly before he turned away, his face turning sad. I looked beyond him, just over the first rise in the Willies at a wisp of a cloud that the wind had molded into the shape of a te ar. Suddenly I felt like crying myself and it wasn't only because of the conflict between Drake and Luke. It wasn't the first time this melancholy mood had come over me like a dark cloud passing over the sun. What I did realize was that the sad feelings often stimulated my desire to paint. Painting brought me relief, a sens e of balance and peace. I was creating the world I wanted, the wo rld I saw with inner eyes. I could make it forever spring or make winter dazzling and beautiful. I felt like a magician, conjuring something special in my mind and then bringing it to life on the empty canvas. While I was sketching in my latest image of Farthy , I felt my heart grow lighter and the world around me grow warme r and warmer, as if I were lifting a shadow off myself. Now becau se Drake had really interrupted the mood, my sadness returned. I realized Drake and Luke were both staring at me, their faces tro ubled by my gray expression. I fought back the urge to cry, and s miled through the shadow over my face. Maybe each of my painting s of Farthinggale Manor are different because it changes, I final ly said in a voice barely above a whisper. Luke's eyes widened an d a smile rippled across his soft lips. He knew what that tone in my voice meant. We were about to play the fantasy game, to let o ur imaginations wander recklessly about and be unafraid to say wh at other seventeen- and eighteen-year-old teenagers would find si lly. But the game was more than that. When we played it, we coul d say things to each other that we were afraid to say otherwise. I could be his princess and he my prince. We could tell each othe r what we felt in our hearts, pretending it wasn't us but imagina ry people who were speaking. Neither of us blushed or looked away . Drake shook his head. He, too, knew what was coming. Oh no, he said, you two don't still do this. He covered his face in mock e mbarrassment. I ignored him, stepped away and continued. Maybe Farthy is like the seasons -- gray and dismal in the winter and b right blue and warm in the summer. I was lookin, Collins, 1989, 2.5<

1994, ISBN: 9780002235709

Edition reliée

New York: G.P. Putnam's Sons, 1994. G. P. Putnam's Sons, 1994. with complete number line (1-10) on colyright page. Hard Cover. Condition: Very Good to Fine. A tight, clean, sound copy wi… Plus…

New York: G.P. Putnam's Sons, 1994. G. P. Putnam's Sons, 1994. with complete number line (1-10) on colyright page. Hard Cover. Condition: Very Good to Fine. A tight, clean, sound copy with bright, white paper covered boards quarter bound in white cloth with metallic red lettering and a graphic on the spine . Boards clean with sharp corners & edges. Red endsheets & bright Pages tightly bound. Dust Jacket Condition: Very Good to fine. Crisp corners and edges. Book appears never read. Synopsis: The main character of this modern fairy tale novel is a woman who sees a beautiful and innnocent man who is mistaken for a beast by others. She rescues him and takes him home with her to the tiny island where the community she lives in is trying to lead a perfect suburban life that is close, but not too close, to nature. By the author of "Property Of," "The Drowning Season," "Angel Landing," "White Horses," "Fortune's Daughter," "Illumination Night," "At Risk," "Seventh Heaven," and "Turtle Moon." 254p. Size: Approx. 6 1/4" x 9 1/4" tall.. First Edition. Hard Cover. Very Good to Fine/Very Good to Fine., G.P. Putnam's Sons, 1994, 3, Collins. Good. 142 x 224mm. Paperback. 1989. 352 pages. dj worn.<br>The Casteel family saga continues for Heav en's daughter Annie. When her parents are tragically killed in a car accident Annie is taken to Farthinggale Manor, a place she ha s always dreamt of visiting. But on her arrival Annie quickly rea lizes it is a cold and dark place, still hiding many family secre ts.SEASON OF DARKNESSHeaven's daughter Annie, a sweet and loving young woman,has known the sort of happy home that always seemed o ut of her mother's reach. But a terrible, tragic car accident cha nges all that.When her mysterious great-grandfather' Tony Tattert on takes her to Farthinggale Manor, he promises to look after all her needs. But Annie pines for her lost family, most especially for Luke, her half-brother, the loving confidant of her childhood . Soon she becomes lost in the despair of the decaying mansion.Th en Annie discovers the secret cottage owned by Tony'sbrother Troy , and the mystery deepens... Editorial Reviews Review Praise fo r Virginia Andrews:Beautifully written, macabre and thoroughly na sty... it is evocative of the nasty fairy tales like Little Red R iding Hood and The Babes in the Wood, with a bit of Victorian Got hic thrown in. ... What does shine through is her ability to see the world through a child's eyes' Daily ExpressMakes horror irres istible' Glasgow Sunday MailA gruesome saga... the storyline is c ompelling, many millions have no wish to put this down' Ms London There is strength in her books - the bizarre plots matched with t he pathos of the entrapped' The Times --This text refers to an ou t of print or unavailable edition of this title. Excerpt. ® Repr inted by permission. All rights reserved. Prologue For as long a s I could remember, the only person I could share my deepest secr ets with was Luke Casteel, Jr. It was as if I were truly alive on ly when he was with me, and in my secret putaway heart, I knew he felt the same way, even though he had never dared say anything a bout it. I wanted to look at him, look into his soft dark sapphir e eyes forever and ever and tell him what I really felt, but the words were forbidden. He was my half brother. But there was one way I could look continually at him and he at me without either o f us being self-conscious about it or feeling someone would disco ver our secret, and that was whenever I painted him. He was alway s a willing subject: With the easel between us and my world of ar t serving as a window, I could stare closely at his perfectly sha ped, high-cheeked, bronze face and I could capture the way those unruly, jet-black strands of hair always fell over his forehead. Luke had my aunt Fanny's hair, but my father's deep blue eyes an d perfect nose. There was strength in the lines of his mouth and in his sharp, smooth jawline. I couldn't help seeing the clear re semblances to my father, and even to myself. He had the same tall , lean build Daddy had and kept his shoulders back the same way. The resemblances always saddened me because they reminded me that Luke wasn't simply my half brother, he was my illegitimate half brother, born out of a passionate indiscretion between Daddy and my aunt Fanny, my mother's sister, something we all understood wa s best kept unmentioned. We tried to leave it behind us, stuffed away in the shadows, even though we both knew people whispered a nd gossiped about us in Winnerrow. Although my family was the mos t prominent in Winnerrow, we were a very odd family indeed. Luke, Jr. lived with his mother, who had been married twice: once to a man much older who had died, and once to a man much younger, who had divorced her. Everyone in Winnerrow remembered the court he aring over who would win custody of Mommy's and Aunt Fanny's half brother Drake, after their father Luke and his new wife Stacie w ere killed in a car accident. Drake was only about five at the ti me. The argument was settled out of court, with Mommy getting cus tody and Aunt Fanny getting a lot of money. Drake hated to hear a bout it, and more than once got into a fight at school when some boy teased him about being bought and paid for. Mother said Drake had her father's temper anyway. He was handsome, muscular, and v ery athletic, as well as very bright and determined. Now he was a student getting his M.B.A. at Harvard Business College. Even tho ugh he was really my uncle, I always thought of him as a big brot her. Mommy and Daddy raised him as they would raise a son. Most everyone in Winnerrow knew about Mommy, how she was born and rais ed in the Willies, how her mother had died giving birth to her, h ow she had lived in a shack most of her young life, and then gone off to live with her mother's rich family, the Tattertons. She lived at Farthinggale Manor, or Farthy, as she often called it wh enever I could get her to talk about it, which wasn't very often. But Luke and I talked about it. Farthinggale Manor...it loomed high in our imaginations...this magical, yet sinister place, a c astle filled with a thousand secrets, some of which we just knew had to do with us. It was still the home of the mysterious Tony T atterton, the man who had married my great-grandmother and who st ill ran the great Tatterton Toy empire, now only loosely associat ed with our Willies Toy factory. For reasons Mother would not dis cuss, she refused to have anything to do with him, even though he never failed to send us all birthday and Christmas cards. He had sent me dolls from everywhere in the world every birthday for as long as I could remember. At least she let me keep them...precio us little Chinese dolls that had long, straight black hair, and d olls from Holland and Norway and Ireland with colorful costumes a nd beautiful, sparkling faces. Luke and I wanted to know more ab out Tony Tatterton and Farthy. Even Drake was very curious, altho ugh he didn't talk about it half as much as Luke and I did. If on ly our home, Hasbrouck House, was as open and revealing about the family's past as it was on holidays when Mommy and Daddy's frien ds and their families wandered freely through it. There were so m any lingering questions. What finally had brought my parents back here from the rich, lavish world of Farthinggale Manor? Why did my mother want so much to return to Winnerrow where she had been considered lower than everyone because she was a Casteel from the Willies? Even when she had been a teacher here, she hadn't been fully accepted by the rich, snobby townspeople. So many secrets haunted the shadows around us, hanging in the corners of our mind s like old cobwebs. For as long as I could remember, I felt somet hing was supposed to be told to me about myself, but no one had t old it: not my mother, not my father, and not my uncle Drake. I s ensed it in the silences that sometimes fell between my parents a nd between them and me, especially between my mother and me. I w ished I could come to a clear, clean canvas and lift my paintbrus h and pull the truth out of the blank white sheet before me. Mayb e that was why I had always been obsessed with my painting. Hardl y a day passed when I didn't paint something. It was as much a pa rt of me as...as breathing. One: Family Secrets Oh no! Drake ex claimed, coming up behind me without my realizing it because I wa s so involved in my painting. Not another picture of Farthinggale Manor with Luke, Jr. gaping out a window at the rolling clouds. Drake rolled his eyes and pretended to go into a faint. Luke sat up quickly and brushed the strands of hair off his forehead. Whe never anything embarrassed or unnerved him, he always went to his hair. I turned slowly, intending to scowl at Drake the way Miss Marbleton, Luke's and my English teacher, would every time anyone misbehaved or spoke out of turn; but Drake wore his impish smile , and his coal-black eyes glimmered like two dew-covered stones. I couldn't make myself angry at a face like that. He was so hands ome, but no matter how often he shaved, he had a dark cloud in hi s complexion. My mother was always running her hand over his chee ks affectionately and telling him to shave away the porcupine qui lls. Drake, I said softly, practically pleading with him not to say anything more that might embarrass Luke and me. Well, it's t rue, Annie, isn't it? Drake persisted. You must have done a half dozen pictures like this with Luke inside of Farthy or walking ab out the grounds. And Luke wasn't ever there! He raised his voice to clearly remind us that he had been. I tilted my head to the si de the way my mother did when something suddenly occurred to her. Was Drake jealous of my using Luke as an artistic subject? It ne ver occurred to me to ask him to pose because he rarely sat still long enough for me to paint his likeness. My pictures of Farthy are never the same, I cried defensively. How can they be? I'm wo rking only from my own imagination and the little tidbits I've be en able to pick up here and there from Daddy and Mommy. You woul d think anyone would realize that, Luke remarked, his eyes remain ing fixed on his English literature textbook. Drake widened his s mile. What, has the great Buddha spoken? Drake's eyes danced wit h glee. Whenever he could get Luke to rise to one of his taunts, he was happy. Drake, please. I'm losing my mood, I pleaded, and an artist has to seize the moment and hold it the way you would h old a baby bird...softly, but firmly. I didn't mean to sound so p retentious, but there was nothing I hated more than Luke and Drak e getting into an argument. My beseeching eyes and pleas worked. Drake's face softened. He turned back to me, his posture relaxed . Mother always said Drake strode through Winnerrow with a Castee l's pride. Because he was six feet two with broad shoulders, a na rrow waist, and muscular arms, that wasn't hard to imagine. I'm sorry. I just thought I could wrench Plato here away for a while. We need a ninth man for softball over at the school, he added. Luke looked up from his textbook, genuinely surprised at the invi tation, his eyes small and inquiring. Was Drake sincere? Since he had come home for his spring break, he had spent almost all his time with his older friends. Well, I... Luke looked to me. I had to study for this unit test, Luke explained quickly, and I thoug ht while Annie was painting me... Sure, sure, I understand, Eins tein. Einstein, Drake repeated, gesturing toward Luke, his voice dripping with sarcasm. It's not all books, you know, he said, spi nning to face him again. This time his face was serious. A lot of it has to do with getting to know people, getting them to like y ou, respect you. That's the secret of success. More executives ar e coming off the playing fields than out of the classrooms, he le ctured, waving his long, right forefinger. Luke said nothing in r esponse. He ran his fingers through his hair and fixed that stoic al, yet piercing, analytical gaze on Drake, something Drake could n't stand. Ah...why I am wasting my breath? Drake turned to my p ainting again. I told you that Farthy was gray, not blue, he cor rected softly. You were only five at the time you were there and you said yourself, you were hardly there. Maybe you forgot, Luke said, quickly coming to my defense. You don't forget the color of a building as big as that! Drake exclaimed, pulling in the cor ners of his mouth. No matter how young you are at the time or how short you stay. Well, you once told us there were two outside p ools and then Logan finally corrected that, telling us there was only one outside, but one indoors, Luke continued. When it came to Farthy, both he and I were as exacting as we could be, cherish ing whatever small details and truths we knew. So little had been given to us about it. Is that so, Sherlock Holmes? Drake replie d, his eyes growing smaller, colder. He didn't like being correct ed, especially by Luke. Well, I never said there were two outside pools; I just said there were two pools. You just don't listen w hen I tell you something. It amazes me you're doing so well in sc hool. What'd ya do, cheat? Drake, please! I exclaimed, grasping his wrist and squeezing softly. Well, he doesn't listen. Unless it's you who does the talking, he added, smiling, content because he had struck a sensitive spot. Luke blushed, his blue eyes swin ging my way briefly before he turned away, his face turning sad. I looked beyond him, just over the first rise in the Willies at a wisp of a cloud that the wind had molded into the shape of a te ar. Suddenly I felt like crying myself and it wasn't only because of the conflict between Drake and Luke. It wasn't the first time this melancholy mood had come over me like a dark cloud passing over the sun. What I did realize was that the sad feelings often stimulated my desire to paint. Painting brought me relief, a sens e of balance and peace. I was creating the world I wanted, the wo rld I saw with inner eyes. I could make it forever spring or make winter dazzling and beautiful. I felt like a magician, conjuring something special in my mind and then bringing it to life on the empty canvas. While I was sketching in my latest image of Farthy , I felt my heart grow lighter and the world around me grow warme r and warmer, as if I were lifting a shadow off myself. Now becau se Drake had really interrupted the mood, my sadness returned. I realized Drake and Luke were both staring at me, their faces tro ubled by my gray expression. I fought back the urge to cry, and s miled through the shadow over my face. Maybe each of my painting s of Farthinggale Manor are different because it changes, I final ly said in a voice barely above a whisper. Luke's eyes widened an d a smile rippled across his soft lips. He knew what that tone in my voice meant. We were about to play the fantasy game, to let o ur imaginations wander recklessly about and be unafraid to say wh at other seventeen- and eighteen-year-old teenagers would find si lly. But the game was more than that. When we played it, we coul d say things to each other that we were afraid to say otherwise. I could be his princess and he my prince. We could tell each othe r what we felt in our hearts, pretending it wasn't us but imagina ry people who were speaking. Neither of us blushed or looked away . Drake shook his head. He, too, knew what was coming. Oh no, he said, you two don't still do this. He covered his face in mock e mbarrassment. I ignored him, stepped away and continued. Maybe Farthy is like the seasons -- gray and dismal in the winter and b right blue and warm in the summer. I was lookin, Collins, 1989, 2.5<

2004, ISBN: 9780002235709

Gollancz. Very Good. 4.33 x 0.79 x 6.97 inches. Paperback. 2004. 336 pages. <br>Rufus O'Niall is dead and the green nazi occupatio n has been defeated: but at a huge cost to the… Plus…

Gollancz. Very Good. 4.33 x 0.79 x 6.97 inches. Paperback. 2004. 336 pages. <br>Rufus O'Niall is dead and the green nazi occupatio n has been defeated: but at a huge cost to the three extraordinar y people who saved England from the dark. Shattered and deeply ch anged by the sacrifices each of them had to make, Fiorinda, Axe a nd Sage are in hiding from their friends and fans on the Pacific coast of Mexico when they're tracked down by an emissary of Fred Eiffrich, President of the United States. He's got an offer they can't refuse. It's about a movie, allegedly ...Sage finds himself drawn to an old flame. Ax has to fight dirty, for the future and against the might of a collapsing superpower. And Fiorinda, the magical daughter of the monster, whose memories of utter horror a re threatening her sanity, struggles with a deadly addiction. The Bold As Love adventure continues, spinning a web of daring, drea d and enchantment, in a world that could almost be ours. ., Gollancz, 2004, 3, Collins. Good. 142 x 224mm. Paperback. 1989. 352 pages. dj worn.<br>The Casteel family saga continues for Heav en's daughter Annie. When her parents are tragically killed in a car accident Annie is taken to Farthinggale Manor, a place she ha s always dreamt of visiting. But on her arrival Annie quickly rea lizes it is a cold and dark place, still hiding many family secre ts.SEASON OF DARKNESSHeaven's daughter Annie, a sweet and loving young woman,has known the sort of happy home that always seemed o ut of her mother's reach. But a terrible, tragic car accident cha nges all that.When her mysterious great-grandfather' Tony Tattert on takes her to Farthinggale Manor, he promises to look after all her needs. But Annie pines for her lost family, most especially for Luke, her half-brother, the loving confidant of her childhood . Soon she becomes lost in the despair of the decaying mansion.Th en Annie discovers the secret cottage owned by Tony'sbrother Troy , and the mystery deepens... Editorial Reviews Review Praise fo r Virginia Andrews:Beautifully written, macabre and thoroughly na sty... it is evocative of the nasty fairy tales like Little Red R iding Hood and The Babes in the Wood, with a bit of Victorian Got hic thrown in. ... What does shine through is her ability to see the world through a child's eyes' Daily ExpressMakes horror irres istible' Glasgow Sunday MailA gruesome saga... the storyline is c ompelling, many millions have no wish to put this down' Ms London There is strength in her books - the bizarre plots matched with t he pathos of the entrapped' The Times --This text refers to an ou t of print or unavailable edition of this title. Excerpt. ® Repr inted by permission. All rights reserved. Prologue For as long a s I could remember, the only person I could share my deepest secr ets with was Luke Casteel, Jr. It was as if I were truly alive on ly when he was with me, and in my secret putaway heart, I knew he felt the same way, even though he had never dared say anything a bout it. I wanted to look at him, look into his soft dark sapphir e eyes forever and ever and tell him what I really felt, but the words were forbidden. He was my half brother. But there was one way I could look continually at him and he at me without either o f us being self-conscious about it or feeling someone would disco ver our secret, and that was whenever I painted him. He was alway s a willing subject: With the easel between us and my world of ar t serving as a window, I could stare closely at his perfectly sha ped, high-cheeked, bronze face and I could capture the way those unruly, jet-black strands of hair always fell over his forehead. Luke had my aunt Fanny's hair, but my father's deep blue eyes an d perfect nose. There was strength in the lines of his mouth and in his sharp, smooth jawline. I couldn't help seeing the clear re semblances to my father, and even to myself. He had the same tall , lean build Daddy had and kept his shoulders back the same way. The resemblances always saddened me because they reminded me that Luke wasn't simply my half brother, he was my illegitimate half brother, born out of a passionate indiscretion between Daddy and my aunt Fanny, my mother's sister, something we all understood wa s best kept unmentioned. We tried to leave it behind us, stuffed away in the shadows, even though we both knew people whispered a nd gossiped about us in Winnerrow. Although my family was the mos t prominent in Winnerrow, we were a very odd family indeed. Luke, Jr. lived with his mother, who had been married twice: once to a man much older who had died, and once to a man much younger, who had divorced her. Everyone in Winnerrow remembered the court he aring over who would win custody of Mommy's and Aunt Fanny's half brother Drake, after their father Luke and his new wife Stacie w ere killed in a car accident. Drake was only about five at the ti me. The argument was settled out of court, with Mommy getting cus tody and Aunt Fanny getting a lot of money. Drake hated to hear a bout it, and more than once got into a fight at school when some boy teased him about being bought and paid for. Mother said Drake had her father's temper anyway. He was handsome, muscular, and v ery athletic, as well as very bright and determined. Now he was a student getting his M.B.A. at Harvard Business College. Even tho ugh he was really my uncle, I always thought of him as a big brot her. Mommy and Daddy raised him as they would raise a son. Most everyone in Winnerrow knew about Mommy, how she was born and rais ed in the Willies, how her mother had died giving birth to her, h ow she had lived in a shack most of her young life, and then gone off to live with her mother's rich family, the Tattertons. She lived at Farthinggale Manor, or Farthy, as she often called it wh enever I could get her to talk about it, which wasn't very often. But Luke and I talked about it. Farthinggale Manor...it loomed high in our imaginations...this magical, yet sinister place, a c astle filled with a thousand secrets, some of which we just knew had to do with us. It was still the home of the mysterious Tony T atterton, the man who had married my great-grandmother and who st ill ran the great Tatterton Toy empire, now only loosely associat ed with our Willies Toy factory. For reasons Mother would not dis cuss, she refused to have anything to do with him, even though he never failed to send us all birthday and Christmas cards. He had sent me dolls from everywhere in the world every birthday for as long as I could remember. At least she let me keep them...precio us little Chinese dolls that had long, straight black hair, and d olls from Holland and Norway and Ireland with colorful costumes a nd beautiful, sparkling faces. Luke and I wanted to know more ab out Tony Tatterton and Farthy. Even Drake was very curious, altho ugh he didn't talk about it half as much as Luke and I did. If on ly our home, Hasbrouck House, was as open and revealing about the family's past as it was on holidays when Mommy and Daddy's frien ds and their families wandered freely through it. There were so m any lingering questions. What finally had brought my parents back here from the rich, lavish world of Farthinggale Manor? Why did my mother want so much to return to Winnerrow where she had been considered lower than everyone because she was a Casteel from the Willies? Even when she had been a teacher here, she hadn't been fully accepted by the rich, snobby townspeople. So many secrets haunted the shadows around us, hanging in the corners of our mind s like old cobwebs. For as long as I could remember, I felt somet hing was supposed to be told to me about myself, but no one had t old it: not my mother, not my father, and not my uncle Drake. I s ensed it in the silences that sometimes fell between my parents a nd between them and me, especially between my mother and me. I w ished I could come to a clear, clean canvas and lift my paintbrus h and pull the truth out of the blank white sheet before me. Mayb e that was why I had always been obsessed with my painting. Hardl y a day passed when I didn't paint something. It was as much a pa rt of me as...as breathing. One: Family Secrets Oh no! Drake ex claimed, coming up behind me without my realizing it because I wa s so involved in my painting. Not another picture of Farthinggale Manor with Luke, Jr. gaping out a window at the rolling clouds. Drake rolled his eyes and pretended to go into a faint. Luke sat up quickly and brushed the strands of hair off his forehead. Whe never anything embarrassed or unnerved him, he always went to his hair. I turned slowly, intending to scowl at Drake the way Miss Marbleton, Luke's and my English teacher, would every time anyone misbehaved or spoke out of turn; but Drake wore his impish smile , and his coal-black eyes glimmered like two dew-covered stones. I couldn't make myself angry at a face like that. He was so hands ome, but no matter how often he shaved, he had a dark cloud in hi s complexion. My mother was always running her hand over his chee ks affectionately and telling him to shave away the porcupine qui lls. Drake, I said softly, practically pleading with him not to say anything more that might embarrass Luke and me. Well, it's t rue, Annie, isn't it? Drake persisted. You must have done a half dozen pictures like this with Luke inside of Farthy or walking ab out the grounds. And Luke wasn't ever there! He raised his voice to clearly remind us that he had been. I tilted my head to the si de the way my mother did when something suddenly occurred to her. Was Drake jealous of my using Luke as an artistic subject? It ne ver occurred to me to ask him to pose because he rarely sat still long enough for me to paint his likeness. My pictures of Farthy are never the same, I cried defensively. How can they be? I'm wo rking only from my own imagination and the little tidbits I've be en able to pick up here and there from Daddy and Mommy. You woul d think anyone would realize that, Luke remarked, his eyes remain ing fixed on his English literature textbook. Drake widened his s mile. What, has the great Buddha spoken? Drake's eyes danced wit h glee. Whenever he could get Luke to rise to one of his taunts, he was happy. Drake, please. I'm losing my mood, I pleaded, and an artist has to seize the moment and hold it the way you would h old a baby bird...softly, but firmly. I didn't mean to sound so p retentious, but there was nothing I hated more than Luke and Drak e getting into an argument. My beseeching eyes and pleas worked. Drake's face softened. He turned back to me, his posture relaxed . Mother always said Drake strode through Winnerrow with a Castee l's pride. Because he was six feet two with broad shoulders, a na rrow waist, and muscular arms, that wasn't hard to imagine. I'm sorry. I just thought I could wrench Plato here away for a while. We need a ninth man for softball over at the school, he added. Luke looked up from his textbook, genuinely surprised at the invi tation, his eyes small and inquiring. Was Drake sincere? Since he had come home for his spring break, he had spent almost all his time with his older friends. Well, I... Luke looked to me. I had to study for this unit test, Luke explained quickly, and I thoug ht while Annie was painting me... Sure, sure, I understand, Eins tein. Einstein, Drake repeated, gesturing toward Luke, his voice dripping with sarcasm. It's not all books, you know, he said, spi nning to face him again. This time his face was serious. A lot of it has to do with getting to know people, getting them to like y ou, respect you. That's the secret of success. More executives ar e coming off the playing fields than out of the classrooms, he le ctured, waving his long, right forefinger. Luke said nothing in r esponse. He ran his fingers through his hair and fixed that stoic al, yet piercing, analytical gaze on Drake, something Drake could n't stand. Ah...why I am wasting my breath? Drake turned to my p ainting again. I told you that Farthy was gray, not blue, he cor rected softly. You were only five at the time you were there and you said yourself, you were hardly there. Maybe you forgot, Luke said, quickly coming to my defense. You don't forget the color of a building as big as that! Drake exclaimed, pulling in the cor ners of his mouth. No matter how young you are at the time or how short you stay. Well, you once told us there were two outside p ools and then Logan finally corrected that, telling us there was only one outside, but one indoors, Luke continued. When it came to Farthy, both he and I were as exacting as we could be, cherish ing whatever small details and truths we knew. So little had been given to us about it. Is that so, Sherlock Holmes? Drake replie d, his eyes growing smaller, colder. He didn't like being correct ed, especially by Luke. Well, I never said there were two outside pools; I just said there were two pools. You just don't listen w hen I tell you something. It amazes me you're doing so well in sc hool. What'd ya do, cheat? Drake, please! I exclaimed, grasping his wrist and squeezing softly. Well, he doesn't listen. Unless it's you who does the talking, he added, smiling, content because he had struck a sensitive spot. Luke blushed, his blue eyes swin ging my way briefly before he turned away, his face turning sad. I looked beyond him, just over the first rise in the Willies at a wisp of a cloud that the wind had molded into the shape of a te ar. Suddenly I felt like crying myself and it wasn't only because of the conflict between Drake and Luke. It wasn't the first time this melancholy mood had come over me like a dark cloud passing over the sun. What I did realize was that the sad feelings often stimulated my desire to paint. Painting brought me relief, a sens e of balance and peace. I was creating the world I wanted, the wo rld I saw with inner eyes. I could make it forever spring or make winter dazzling and beautiful. I felt like a magician, conjuring something special in my mind and then bringing it to life on the empty canvas. While I was sketching in my latest image of Farthy , I felt my heart grow lighter and the world around me grow warme r and warmer, as if I were lifting a shadow off myself. Now becau se Drake had really interrupted the mood, my sadness returned. I realized Drake and Luke were both staring at me, their faces tro ubled by my gray expression. I fought back the urge to cry, and s miled through the shadow over my face. Maybe each of my painting s of Farthinggale Manor are different because it changes, I final ly said in a voice barely above a whisper. Luke's eyes widened an d a smile rippled across his soft lips. He knew what that tone in my voice meant. We were about to play the fantasy game, to let o ur imaginations wander recklessly about and be unafraid to say wh at other seventeen- and eighteen-year-old teenagers would find si lly. But the game was more than that. When we played it, we coul d say things to each other that we were afraid to say otherwise. I could be his princess and he my prince. We could tell each othe r what we felt in our hearts, pretending it wasn't us but imagina ry people who were speaking. Neither of us blushed or looked away . Drake shook his head. He, too, knew what was coming. Oh no, he said, you two don't still do this. He covered his face in mock e mbarrassment. I ignored him, stepped away and continued. Maybe Farthy is like the seasons -- gray and dismal in the winter and b right blue and warm in the summer. I was lookin, Collins, 1989, 2.5<

1989, ISBN: 9780002235709

Collins. Good. 142 x 224mm. Paperback. 1989. 352 pages. dj worn.<br>The Casteel family saga continues for Heav en's daughter Annie. When her parents are tragically killed in a … Plus…

Collins. Good. 142 x 224mm. Paperback. 1989. 352 pages. dj worn.<br>The Casteel family saga continues for Heav en's daughter Annie. When her parents are tragically killed in a car accident Annie is taken to Farthinggale Manor, a place she ha s always dreamt of visiting. But on her arrival Annie quickly rea lizes it is a cold and dark place, still hiding many family secre ts.SEASON OF DARKNESSHeaven's daughter Annie, a sweet and loving young woman,has known the sort of happy home that always seemed o ut of her mother's reach. But a terrible, tragic car accident cha nges all that.When her mysterious great-grandfather' Tony Tattert on takes her to Farthinggale Manor, he promises to look after all her needs. But Annie pines for her lost family, most especially for Luke, her half-brother, the loving confidant of her childhood . Soon she becomes lost in the despair of the decaying mansion.Th en Annie discovers the secret cottage owned by Tony'sbrother Troy , and the mystery deepens... Editorial Reviews Review Praise fo r Virginia Andrews:Beautifully written, macabre and thoroughly na sty... it is evocative of the nasty fairy tales like Little Red R iding Hood and The Babes in the Wood, with a bit of Victorian Got hic thrown in. ... What does shine through is her ability to see the world through a child's eyes' Daily ExpressMakes horror irres istible' Glasgow Sunday MailA gruesome saga... the storyline is c ompelling, many millions have no wish to put this down' Ms London There is strength in her books - the bizarre plots matched with t he pathos of the entrapped' The Times --This text refers to an ou t of print or unavailable edition of this title. Excerpt. ® Repr inted by permission. All rights reserved. Prologue For as long a s I could remember, the only person I could share my deepest secr ets with was Luke Casteel, Jr. It was as if I were truly alive on ly when he was with me, and in my secret putaway heart, I knew he felt the same way, even though he had never dared say anything a bout it. I wanted to look at him, look into his soft dark sapphir e eyes forever and ever and tell him what I really felt, but the words were forbidden. He was my half brother. But there was one way I could look continually at him and he at me without either o f us being self-conscious about it or feeling someone would disco ver our secret, and that was whenever I painted him. He was alway s a willing subject: With the easel between us and my world of ar t serving as a window, I could stare closely at his perfectly sha ped, high-cheeked, bronze face and I could capture the way those unruly, jet-black strands of hair always fell over his forehead. Luke had my aunt Fanny's hair, but my father's deep blue eyes an d perfect nose. There was strength in the lines of his mouth and in his sharp, smooth jawline. I couldn't help seeing the clear re semblances to my father, and even to myself. He had the same tall , lean build Daddy had and kept his shoulders back the same way. The resemblances always saddened me because they reminded me that Luke wasn't simply my half brother, he was my illegitimate half brother, born out of a passionate indiscretion between Daddy and my aunt Fanny, my mother's sister, something we all understood wa s best kept unmentioned. We tried to leave it behind us, stuffed away in the shadows, even though we both knew people whispered a nd gossiped about us in Winnerrow. Although my family was the mos t prominent in Winnerrow, we were a very odd family indeed. Luke, Jr. lived with his mother, who had been married twice: once to a man much older who had died, and once to a man much younger, who had divorced her. Everyone in Winnerrow remembered the court he aring over who would win custody of Mommy's and Aunt Fanny's half brother Drake, after their father Luke and his new wife Stacie w ere killed in a car accident. Drake was only about five at the ti me. The argument was settled out of court, with Mommy getting cus tody and Aunt Fanny getting a lot of money. Drake hated to hear a bout it, and more than once got into a fight at school when some boy teased him about being bought and paid for. Mother said Drake had her father's temper anyway. He was handsome, muscular, and v ery athletic, as well as very bright and determined. Now he was a student getting his M.B.A. at Harvard Business College. Even tho ugh he was really my uncle, I always thought of him as a big brot her. Mommy and Daddy raised him as they would raise a son. Most everyone in Winnerrow knew about Mommy, how she was born and rais ed in the Willies, how her mother had died giving birth to her, h ow she had lived in a shack most of her young life, and then gone off to live with her mother's rich family, the Tattertons. She lived at Farthinggale Manor, or Farthy, as she often called it wh enever I could get her to talk about it, which wasn't very often. But Luke and I talked about it. Farthinggale Manor...it loomed high in our imaginations...this magical, yet sinister place, a c astle filled with a thousand secrets, some of which we just knew had to do with us. It was still the home of the mysterious Tony T atterton, the man who had married my great-grandmother and who st ill ran the great Tatterton Toy empire, now only loosely associat ed with our Willies Toy factory. For reasons Mother would not dis cuss, she refused to have anything to do with him, even though he never failed to send us all birthday and Christmas cards. He had sent me dolls from everywhere in the world every birthday for as long as I could remember. At least she let me keep them...precio us little Chinese dolls that had long, straight black hair, and d olls from Holland and Norway and Ireland with colorful costumes a nd beautiful, sparkling faces. Luke and I wanted to know more ab out Tony Tatterton and Farthy. Even Drake was very curious, altho ugh he didn't talk about it half as much as Luke and I did. If on ly our home, Hasbrouck House, was as open and revealing about the family's past as it was on holidays when Mommy and Daddy's frien ds and their families wandered freely through it. There were so m any lingering questions. What finally had brought my parents back here from the rich, lavish world of Farthinggale Manor? Why did my mother want so much to return to Winnerrow where she had been considered lower than everyone because she was a Casteel from the Willies? Even when she had been a teacher here, she hadn't been fully accepted by the rich, snobby townspeople. So many secrets haunted the shadows around us, hanging in the corners of our mind s like old cobwebs. For as long as I could remember, I felt somet hing was supposed to be told to me about myself, but no one had t old it: not my mother, not my father, and not my uncle Drake. I s ensed it in the silences that sometimes fell between my parents a nd between them and me, especially between my mother and me. I w ished I could come to a clear, clean canvas and lift my paintbrus h and pull the truth out of the blank white sheet before me. Mayb e that was why I had always been obsessed with my painting. Hardl y a day passed when I didn't paint something. It was as much a pa rt of me as...as breathing. One: Family Secrets Oh no! Drake ex claimed, coming up behind me without my realizing it because I wa s so involved in my painting. Not another picture of Farthinggale Manor with Luke, Jr. gaping out a window at the rolling clouds. Drake rolled his eyes and pretended to go into a faint. Luke sat up quickly and brushed the strands of hair off his forehead. Whe never anything embarrassed or unnerved him, he always went to his hair. I turned slowly, intending to scowl at Drake the way Miss Marbleton, Luke's and my English teacher, would every time anyone misbehaved or spoke out of turn; but Drake wore his impish smile , and his coal-black eyes glimmered like two dew-covered stones. I couldn't make myself angry at a face like that. He was so hands ome, but no matter how often he shaved, he had a dark cloud in hi s complexion. My mother was always running her hand over his chee ks affectionately and telling him to shave away the porcupine qui lls. Drake, I said softly, practically pleading with him not to say anything more that might embarrass Luke and me. Well, it's t rue, Annie, isn't it? Drake persisted. You must have done a half dozen pictures like this with Luke inside of Farthy or walking ab out the grounds. And Luke wasn't ever there! He raised his voice to clearly remind us that he had been. I tilted my head to the si de the way my mother did when something suddenly occurred to her. Was Drake jealous of my using Luke as an artistic subject? It ne ver occurred to me to ask him to pose because he rarely sat still long enough for me to paint his likeness. My pictures of Farthy are never the same, I cried defensively. How can they be? I'm wo rking only from my own imagination and the little tidbits I've be en able to pick up here and there from Daddy and Mommy. You woul d think anyone would realize that, Luke remarked, his eyes remain ing fixed on his English literature textbook. Drake widened his s mile. What, has the great Buddha spoken? Drake's eyes danced wit h glee. Whenever he could get Luke to rise to one of his taunts, he was happy. Drake, please. I'm losing my mood, I pleaded, and an artist has to seize the moment and hold it the way you would h old a baby bird...softly, but firmly. I didn't mean to sound so p retentious, but there was nothing I hated more than Luke and Drak e getting into an argument. My beseeching eyes and pleas worked. Drake's face softened. He turned back to me, his posture relaxed . Mother always said Drake strode through Winnerrow with a Castee l's pride. Because he was six feet two with broad shoulders, a na rrow waist, and muscular arms, that wasn't hard to imagine. I'm sorry. I just thought I could wrench Plato here away for a while. We need a ninth man for softball over at the school, he added. Luke looked up from his textbook, genuinely surprised at the invi tation, his eyes small and inquiring. Was Drake sincere? Since he had come home for his spring break, he had spent almost all his time with his older friends. Well, I... Luke looked to me. I had to study for this unit test, Luke explained quickly, and I thoug ht while Annie was painting me... Sure, sure, I understand, Eins tein. Einstein, Drake repeated, gesturing toward Luke, his voice dripping with sarcasm. It's not all books, you know, he said, spi nning to face him again. This time his face was serious. A lot of it has to do with getting to know people, getting them to like y ou, respect you. That's the secret of success. More executives ar e coming off the playing fields than out of the classrooms, he le ctured, waving his long, right forefinger. Luke said nothing in r esponse. He ran his fingers through his hair and fixed that stoic al, yet piercing, analytical gaze on Drake, something Drake could n't stand. Ah...why I am wasting my breath? Drake turned to my p ainting again. I told you that Farthy was gray, not blue, he cor rected softly. You were only five at the time you were there and you said yourself, you were hardly there. Maybe you forgot, Luke said, quickly coming to my defense. You don't forget the color of a building as big as that! Drake exclaimed, pulling in the cor ners of his mouth. No matter how young you are at the time or how short you stay. Well, you once told us there were two outside p ools and then Logan finally corrected that, telling us there was only one outside, but one indoors, Luke continued. When it came to Farthy, both he and I were as exacting as we could be, cherish ing whatever small details and truths we knew. So little had been given to us about it. Is that so, Sherlock Holmes? Drake replie d, his eyes growing smaller, colder. He didn't like being correct ed, especially by Luke. Well, I never said there were two outside pools; I just said there were two pools. You just don't listen w hen I tell you something. It amazes me you're doing so well in sc hool. What'd ya do, cheat? Drake, please! I exclaimed, grasping his wrist and squeezing softly. Well, he doesn't listen. Unless it's you who does the talking, he added, smiling, content because he had struck a sensitive spot. Luke blushed, his blue eyes swin ging my way briefly before he turned away, his face turning sad. I looked beyond him, just over the first rise in the Willies at a wisp of a cloud that the wind had molded into the shape of a te ar. Suddenly I felt like crying myself and it wasn't only because of the conflict between Drake and Luke. It wasn't the first time this melancholy mood had come over me like a dark cloud passing over the sun. What I did realize was that the sad feelings often stimulated my desire to paint. Painting brought me relief, a sens e of balance and peace. I was creating the world I wanted, the wo rld I saw with inner eyes. I could make it forever spring or make winter dazzling and beautiful. I felt like a magician, conjuring something special in my mind and then bringing it to life on the empty canvas. While I was sketching in my latest image of Farthy , I felt my heart grow lighter and the world around me grow warme r and warmer, as if I were lifting a shadow off myself. Now becau se Drake had really interrupted the mood, my sadness returned. I realized Drake and Luke were both staring at me, their faces tro ubled by my gray expression. I fought back the urge to cry, and s miled through the shadow over my face. Maybe each of my painting s of Farthinggale Manor are different because it changes, I final ly said in a voice barely above a whisper. Luke's eyes widened an d a smile rippled across his soft lips. He knew what that tone in my voice meant. We were about to play the fantasy game, to let o ur imaginations wander recklessly about and be unafraid to say wh at other seventeen- and eighteen-year-old teenagers would find si lly. But the game was more than that. When we played it, we coul d say things to each other that we were afraid to say otherwise. I could be his princess and he my prince. We could tell each othe r what we felt in our hearts, pretending it wasn't us but imagina ry people who were speaking. Neither of us blushed or looked away . Drake shook his head. He, too, knew what was coming. Oh no, he said, you two don't still do this. He covered his face in mock e mbarrassment. I ignored him, stepped away and continued. Maybe Farthy is like the seasons -- gray and dismal in the winter and b right blue and warm in the summer. I was lookin, Collins, 1989, 2.5<