2020, ISBN: 9781400073962

Edition reliée

Universal Studios Home Entertainment, 1999-05-03. VHS. Good/Good. 7x4x1. No Stock Photos! We photograph every item. former library copy in good condition in clamshell case. The 1995 A… Plus…

Universal Studios Home Entertainment, 1999-05-03. VHS. Good/Good. 7x4x1. No Stock Photos! We photograph every item. former library copy in good condition in clamshell case. The 1995 Academy award-winning film Babe was Australian-made and featured the latest in talking animal anima-tronics. It told the heart-warming story of a sheepherding pig named Babe and his rise to community fame. The film was a tremendous hit, both financially and critically. Babe: Pig in the City is the higher budgeted American-made sequel that picks up where the original left off. It was directed by George Miller (Mad Max trilogy) who produced the original Babe film, and received a lot of criticism for being much darker than the original. The story owes more to George Orwell's Animal Farm or Charles Dickens' Oliver Twist than the original film. Having triumphed at the National Sheepdog trials, Babe returns home a hero. But after farmer Hoggett (James Cromwell) suffers from a farming accident, Mrs. Hoggett, a naive portly woman, is left to work the ranch alone. It's not long before the bank comes knocking. Desperate to save her farm from foreclosure, she accepts an offer for Babe to perform his sheepherding abilities at an overseas state fair. Babe, Mrs. Hoggett, Ferdinand the duck, and the singing mice travel across the ocean to a surreal metropolis, where they suddenly become stranded and separated. Soon Babe is performing with circus apes, being chased by wild strays (sounding a lot like Marlon Brando in The Godfather), and making a new wheelchair-bound canine friend (voiced by Adam Goldberg). He also is anointed leader of the animal community. What Babe lacks in street smarts he makes up for in honest goodness as he teaches audiences yet again that "an unprejudiced heart can mend a broken world." Arthur Borman, Rovi, Universal Studios Home Entertainment, 1999-05-03, 2.5, Zaffre Publishing. Paperback. Used; Good. Simply Brit – welcome to our online used book store, where affordability meets great quality. Dive into a world of captivating reads without breaking the bank. We take pride in offering a wide selection of used books, from classics to hidden gems, ensuring there’s something for every literary palate. All orders are shipped within 24 hours and our lightning fast-delivery within 48 hours coupled with our prompt customer service ensures a smooth journey from ordering to delivery. Discover the joy of reading with us, your trusted source for affordable books that do not compromise on quality. 03/10/2016, Zaffre Publishing, 2.5, Zaffre Publishing, 03/10/2016. Paperback. Used; Good. **WE SHIP WITHIN 24 HRS FROM LONDON, UK, 98% OF OUR ORDERS ARE RECEIVED WITHIN 7-10 DAYS. We believe you will be completely satisfied with our quick and reliable service. All orders are dispatched as swiftly as possible! Buy with confidence! Greener Books., Zaffre Publishing, 03/10/2016, 2.5, Zaffre, 2016. Paperback. Good. Slightly creased cover. Ammareal gives back up to 15% of this book's net price to charity organizations., Zaffre, 2016, 2.5, Vintage Books. Good. 5.08 x 1.62 x 7.79 inches. Paperback. 2006. 618 pages. Cover worn <br>What is it to be human? This question, as in Birdsong, is at the heart of Human Traces. The story begin s in Brittany where a young, poor boy somehow passes his medical exams and goes to Paris, where he attends the lectures of Charcot , the Parisian neurologist who set the world on its head in the 1 870s. With a friend, he sets up a clinic in the mysterious mounta in district of Carinthia in south-east Austria. If The Girl at t he Lion d'Or was a simple three-movement symphony, Birdsong an op era, Charlotte Gray a complex four-movement symphony and On Green Dolphin Street a concerto, then Human Traces is a Wagnerian gran d opera. From the Hardcover edition. Editorial Reviews Review Faulks is beyond doubt a master. -Financial Times One of the mos t impressive novelists of his generation. -Sunday Telegraph From the Hardcover edition. About the Author Sebastian Faulks is bes t known for his French trilogy, The Girl at the Lion d'Or, Birdso ng and Charlotte Gray. He has also worked extensively as a journa list. From the Hardcover edition. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permi ssion. All rights reserved. I An evening mist, salted by the wes tern sea, was gathering on the low hills - reed-spattered rises r unning up from the rocks then back into the gorse- and bracken-co vered country - and on to the roads that joined the villages, whe re lamps and candles flickered behind the shutters of the grey st one houses. It was poor country - so poor, remarked the Curé, who had recently arrived from Angers, that the stones of the shore c alled out for God's mercy. With the mist came sputtering rain, ma de invisible by the extinguished light, as it exploded like flung gravel at the windows, while stronger gusts made the shivering p ine trees shed their needles on the dark, sanded earth. Jacques Rebière listened to the sounds from outside as he looked through the window of his bedroom; for a moment, a dim moon allowed him t o see clouds foaming in the darkness. The weather reminded him, o ften, that it was not just he, at sixteen years old, who was youn g, but all mankind: a species that took infant steps on the drift s and faults of the earth. Between the ends of his dirtied finge rs, Jacques held a small blade which, over the course of several days, he had whetted to surgical sharpness. He pulled a candle cl oser. From downstairs he could hear the sound of his father's voi ce in reluctant negotiation. The house was at the top of a narro w street that ran off the main square of Sainte Agnès. Behind it, the village ended and there were thick woods - Monsieur Rebière' s own property - where Jacques was meant to trap birds and rabbit s and prevent other villagers doing likewise. The garden had an o rchard of pear and apple trees whose fruits were collected and se t to keep in one of the outbuildings. Rebière's was a house of ma ny stores: of sheds with beaten earth underfoot and slatted woode n shelves; of brick-floored cellars with stone bins on which the cobwebs closed the access to the bottles; of barred pantry and la tched larder with shelves of nuts and preserved fruits. The keys were on a ring in the pocket of Rebière's waistcoat. Although bor n no more than sixty years earlier, he was known as 'old Rebière' , perhaps for the arthritic movement of his knees, when he heaved himself up from his chair and straightened the joints beneath hi s breeches. He preferred to do business standing up; it gave the transaction a temporary air, helping to convince the other party that bargaining time was short. Old Rebière was a forester who w orked as the agent for a landowner from Lorient. Over the years h e had done some business on his own account, acquiring some parce ls of land, three cottages that the heirs did not want to keep, s ome fields and woodland. Most of his work was no more than that o f bailiff or rent collector, but he liked to try to negotiate pri vate deals with a view to becoming a businessman in his own right . Born in the year after Waterloo, he had lived under a republic, three kings and an emperor; twice mayor of the local town, he ha d found it made little difference which government was in Paris, since so few edicts devolved from the distant centre to his own B reton world. The parlour of the house had smoke-stained wooden p anelling and a white stone chimneypiece decorated with the carved head of a wild boar. A small fire was smouldering in the grate a s Rebière attempted to conclude his meeting with the notary who h ad come to see him. He never invited guests into his study but pr eferred to speak to them in this public room, as though he might later need witnesses to what had passed between them. His second wife sat in her accustomed chair by the door, sewing and listenin g. Rebière's tactic was to say as little as possible; he had foun d that silence, accompanied by pained inhalation, often induced n ervousness in the other side. His contributions, when they were u navoidable, were delivered in a reluctant murmur, melancholy, ful l of a weariness at a world that had obliged him to agree terms s o self-wounding. 'I am not a peasant,' he told his son. 'I am no t one of those men you see portrayed at the theatre in Paris, who buries his gold in a sock and never buys a bonnet for his wife. I am a businessman who understands the modern world.' From upsta irs, Jacques could still hear his father's business murmur. It wa s true that he was not a peasant, though his parents had been; tr ue too, that he was not the miser of the popular imagination, tho ugh partly because the amount of gold he had to hoard was not gre at enough: forty years of dealing had brought him a modest return , and perhaps, thought Jacques, this was why his father had forbi dden him to study any further. From the age of thirteen, he had b een set to work, looking after the properties, mending roofs and fences, clearing trees while his father travelled to Quimper and Vannes to cultivate new acquaintances. Jacques looked back to hi s table, not wanting to waste the light of the wax candle he had begged from Tante Mathilde in place of the dingy ox-tallow which was all his father would allow him. He took the blade and began, very carefully, to make a shallow incision in the neck of a frog he had pinned, through its splayed feet, to the untreated wood. H e had never attempted the operation before and was anxious not to damage what lay beneath the green skin, moist from the saline in which he had kept it. The frog was on its front, and Jacques's b lade travelled smoothly up over the top of its head and stopped b etween the bulging eyes. He then cut two semicircular flaps to jo in at the nape of the neck and pushed back the pouches of peeled skin, with their pearls of eyes. Beneath his delicate touch he co uld see now that there was little in the way of protection for th e exposed brain. He took out a magnifying glass. What is a frog' s fury? he thought, as he gazed at the tiny thinking organ his kn ife had exposed. It was beautiful. What does it feel for its spaw n or its mate or the flash of water over its skin? The brain of a n amphibian is a poor thing, the Curé had warned him; he promised that soon he would acquire the head of a cow from the slaughterh ouse, and then they would have a more instructive time. Yet Jacqu es was happy with his frog's brain. From the side of the table he took two copper wires attached at the other end to a brass rod t hat ran through a cork which was in turn used to seal a glass bot tle coated inside and out with foil. 'Jacques! Jacques! It's tim e for dinner. Come to the table!' It was Tante Mathilde's voice; clearly Jacques had not heard the notary depart. He set down the electrodes and blew out the candle, then crossed the landing to the top of the almost-vertical wooden staircase and groped his wa y down by the familiar indentations of the plaster wall. His gran dmother came into the parlour carrying a tureen of soup, which sh e placed on the table. Rebière and his wife, known to Jacques as Tante Mathilde, were already sitting down. Rebière drummed his kn ife impatiently on the wood while Grandmère ladled the soup out w ith her shaking hand. 'Take a bowl out to . . .' Rebière jerked his head in the direction of the door. 'Wait,' said Grand-mère. 'There's some rabbit, too.' Rebière rolled his eyes with impatie nce as the old woman went out to the scullery again and returned with a second bowl that she handed to Jacques. He carried both di shes carefully to the door and took a lantern to light his way ou t into the darkness, watching his feet on the shiny cobbles of th e yard. At the stable, he set down the food and pulled back the t op half of the door; he peered in by the light of the flame and f elt his nostrils fill with a familiar sensation. 'Olivier? Are y ou there? I've brought dinner. There's no bread again, but there' s soup and some rabbit. Olivier?' There was a sudden noise from the horse, like the rumbling clatter of a laden table being overt urned, as she shifted in the stall. 'Olivier? Please. It's raini ng. Where are you?' Wary of the horse, who lashed out with her h ind legs if frightened, Jacques freed the bolt of the door himsel f and made his way into the ripe darkness of the stable. Sitting with his back to the wall, his legs spread wide apart on the dun g-strewn ground, was his brother. 'I've brought your dinner. How are you?' Jacques squatted down next to him. Olivier stared st raight ahead, as though unaware that anyone was there. Jacques to ok his brother's hand and wrapped the fingers round the edge of t he soup bowl, noticing what could be smears of excrement on the n ails. Olivier moved his head from side to side, thrusting it back hard against the stable wall. He muttered something Jacques coul d not make out and began to scrape at his inner forearm as if try ing to rid himself of a bothersome insect. Jacques took a spoonf ul of the soup and held it up to Olivier's face. Gently, he prise d open his lips and pushed the metal inwards. It was too dark to see how much went into his mouth and how much trickled down his t angled beard. 'They want me to come, they keep telling me. But w hy should I go, when they know everything already?' 'Who, Olivie r? Who does?' Their eyes met. Jacques felt himself summed up and dismissed from Olivier's mental presence. 'Are you cold? Do you want more blankets?' Olivier became earnest.'Yes, yes, that's i t, you've got to keep warm, you've to wrap up now the winter's co ming. Look. Look at this.' He held up the frayed horse blanket be neath which he slept and examined it closely, as though he had no t seen it before or had suddenly been struck by its workmanship. Then his vigour was quenched again and his gaze became still. J acques took his hand. 'Listen, Olivier. It's nearly a year now th at you've been in here. Do you think you could try again? Why don 't you come out for a few minutes? I could help.' 'They don't wa nt me.' 'You always say that. But perhaps they'd be happy to hav e you back in the house.' 'They won't let me go.' Jacques nodde d. Olivier was clearly talking of a different 'they', and he was too frightened to contradict or to press him. He had been a child when Olivier, four years the older, started to drift away from h is family; it began when, previously a lively and sociable youth, he took to passing the evenings alone in his room studying the B ible and drawing up a chart of 'astral influences'. Jacques was f ascinated by the diagrams, which Olivier had done in his clever d raughtsman's hand, using pens he had taken from the hôtel de vill e, where he worked as a clerk. Jacques's experiences had usually come to him first through the descriptions of Olivier, who natur ally anticipated all of them. Mathematics at school were a jumble of pointless signs, he said, that made you want to cry out; bein g beaten by the master's ruler on the knuckles hurt more than bei ng kicked on the shin by the broody mare. Olivier had never been to Paris, but Vannes, he told Jacques, was so huge that you got l ost the moment you let your concentration go; and it was full of women who looked at you in a strange way. When changes came to yo ur body, Olivier said, you noticed nothing, no hairs bursting the skin, no wrench in your voice; the only difference was that you felt urgent, tense, all the time, as though about to leap a strea m or jump from a high rock. Olivier's chart of astral influences therefore looked to Jacques like another early glimpse of a univ ersal human experience granted to him by his elder brother. Olivi er had been right about everything else: in Vannes, Jacques kept himself orientated at all times, like a dog sniffing the wind; he liked mathematics, though he saw what Oliver had meant. He avoid ed the master's beatings. 'Where is God in this plan?' he had sa id, pointing with his finger. 'I see the planets and their influe nce and this character, here, whatever his name is. But in the Bi ble, it says that-' 'God is here, in your head.And here.' Olivie r pointed to the chart. 'But it's a secret.' 'I don't understand ,' said Jacques. 'If this is Earth here, this is Saturn, and here are the rings of Jupiter and this is the body you've discovered, the one that regulates the movements of people, then what are th ese lines here? Are these the souls of the dead going up to Heave n?' 'Those are the rays of influence. They emanate from space, f ar beyond anything we can see. These are what control you.' 'Ray s?' 'Of course. Like rays of light, or invisible waves of sound. The universe is bombarded with them.You can't hear them.You can' t see them.' 'Does everyone know about them? All grown-ups?' 'N o.' 'How do you know about them? Who told you?' 'I have been to ld.' Jacques looked away. Over the weeks, he discovered that Oli vier's system of cosmic laws and influences was invulnerably coge nt; there was in fact something of the weary sage in his manner w hen he answered yet another of Jacques's immature questions about it, while its ability to adapt made it i, Vintage Books, 2006, 2.5, 'Lucy Dillon's books never fail to make me happy' Jenny Colgan Sometimes the cracks in your heart can be mended in unexpected ways . . . If Lorna's learned one thing, it's that courage is something you paint on like red lipstick, even when you're panicking inside. And right now, with the keys to the town's gallery in her hand, Lorna feels about as courageous as the anxious little dachshund trembling beside her. Sick of life in the big city, Lorna's come home to fulfil her dream of running a successful art gallery. Desperate for change, Lorna just wants a fresh start but can she find it in Longhampton? This is where her tight-knit family shattered into pieces. It's where her doubts about herself took root and where she first fell in love and had her heart broken. It's everything she was running away from. But life and love can surprise you and all Lorna has to do to let the light in is open her heart . . . An uplifting and inspiring novel about second chances and soon to be realised dreams. Perfect for fans of Jojo Moyes, Veronica Henry and Lucy Diamond. ____________________ AUTHORS AND READERS LOVE THIS BOOK- 'Full of love, truth, art and dogs. I absolutely loved it.'Katie Fforde 'Heart-gripping narrative' 'A beautiful, insightful and tender story. I felt bereft for having finished it' Milly Johnson 'Could not put it down' UNEXPECTED LESSONS IN LOVE, THE NEW NOVEL FROM LUCY DILLON, IS COMING IN 2020 AND AVAILABLE FOR PRE-ORDER NOW.., 0, WaterBrook. Very Good. 5.48 x 0.76 x 8.26 inches. Paperback. 2009. 352 pages. <br>The first book in the Ada's House series, The Hope of Refuge is a moving story of love, hope, and new beginnings fr om New York Times bestselling author Cindy Woodsmall. The widow ed mother of a little girl, Cara Moore is struggling against pove rty, fear, and a relentless stalker. When her stalker ransacks he r home, Cara and her daughter, Lori, flee New York City for an Am ish community, eager for a fresh start. But she discovers that lo ng-held secrets about her family history ripple beneath the surfa ce of Dry Lake, Pennsylvania, and it's no place for an outsider. One Amish man, Ephraim Mast, dares to fulfill the command he beli eves that he received from God--Be me to her--despite how it thre atens his way of life. While Ephraim tries to do what he believes is right, will he be shunned and lose everything, including the guarded single mother who simply longs for a better life? A comp lete opposite of the hard, untrusting Cara, Ephraim's sister Debo rah also finds her dreams crumbling when the man she has pledged to build a life with begins withdrawing from Deborah and his comm unity, including his mother, Ada Stoltzfus. Can the run-down hous e that Ada envisions transforming unite them toward a common purp ose--or will it push Mahlon away forever? Editorial Reviews Rev iew Praise for The Hope of Refuge What a beautiful story of hope and renewal! Cindy Woodsmall's The Hope of Refuge is an honest a nd moving portrayal that rings with authenticity. It warmed my he art long after I finished reading and reminded me that new beginn ings are possible, truth frees, and love can make all things new, if only we can learn to trust again. -Marlo Schalesky, award-wi nning author of If Tomorrow Never Comes and Beyond the Night Cin dy Woodsmall's The Hope of Refuge takes the reader on an emotiona l journey into the heart of Amish country and the heart of a very human heroine. A compelling novel of love lost and found with re alistic characters from two very different worlds which become, b eautifully, one. -Karen Harper, New York Times bestselling author of Deep Down Praise for Cindy Woodsmall A skillfully written s tory of forgiveness and redemption. Woodsmall's authentic charact ers illustrate beautifully how wounded souls can indeed be mended . -Susan Meissner, author of The Shape of Mercy and White Picket Fences Cindy Woodsmall writes real--real people, real conflicts, real emotions. When you open her book, you enter her world and l ive the story with the characters. -Kim Vogel Sawyer, author of W here Willows Grow and Waiting for Summer's Return Reaching deep into the heart of the reader, Cindy Woodsmall pens a beautifully lyrical story.... She paints a vivid backdrop of Amish and Mennon ite cultures with fascinating detail and memorable clarity. Fans of this genre will be thrilled to discover this new author. -Tame ra Alexander, bestselling author of Rekindled Like the stitches on a well-loved quilt, love and faith hold together Cindy Woodsma ll's When the Soul Mends, the brilliantly written third story in the Sisters of the Quilt series. With deft plotting and character s that seem to jump off the page, this novel offers the timeless truth that forgiveness is the balm which heals all wounds and a b lanket for the soul. -Kathleen Y'Barbo, author of The Confidentia l Life of Eugenia Cooper What a vibrant, strong, emotional story ! -Gayle Roper, author of Allah's Fire and the Seaside Seasons s eries Cindy Woodsmall' s characters wrapped themselves around my heart and wouldn't let go. -Deborah Raney, author of A Vow to C herish and Remember to Forget About the Author CINDY WOODSMALL i s a New York Times and CBA best-selling author of eighteen works of fiction and a non-fiction book. Coverage of Cindy's writing ha s been featured on ABC Nightline and the front page of the Wall S treet Journal. She lives outside Atlanta with her husband, just a short distance from her two sons and grandchildren. Excerpt. ? Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Pr o l o g u e Mama , can you tell me yet? Cara held her favorite toy, stroking the s mall plastic horse as if it might respond to her tender touch. Th e brown ridges, designed to look like fur, had long ago faded to tan. Mama held the well-worn steering wheel in silence while she drove dirt roads Cara had never seen before. Dust flew in throug h the open windows and clung to Cara's sweaty face, and the vinyl seat was hot to the touch when she laid her hand against it. Mam a pressed the brake pedal, slowing the car to a near stop as they crossed another bridge with a roof over it. A covered bridge, Ma ma called it. The bumpiness of the wooden planks jarred Cara, mak ing her bounce like she was riding a cardboard box down a set of stairs. Mama reached across the car seat and ran her hand down t he back of Cara's head, probably trying to smooth out one of her cowlicks. No matter how short Mama cut her hair, she always said the unruly mop won the battle. We're going to visit a...a friend of mine. She's Amish. She placed her index finger on her lips. I need you to do as the mother of Jesus did when it came to precio us events. She treasured them in her heart and pondered them. You 've grown so much since you turned eight, and you're a big girl, but you can't draw pictures or write words about it in your diary , and you can't ever tell your father, okay? Sunlight bore down on them again as they drove out of the covered bridge. Cara searc hed the fields for horses. Are we going to your hiding place? Ca ra had a hiding place, one her mother had built for her inside th e wall of the attic.They had tea parties in there sometimes when there was money for tea bags and sugar. And when Daddy needed qui et, her mother would silently whisk her to that secret room. If h er mama didn't return for her by nightfall, she'd sleep in there. Mama nodded. I told you every girl needs a fun place she can ge t away to for a while, right? Cara nodded. Well, this is mine. We'll stay for a couple of days, and if you like it, maybe we'll move here one day-just us girls. Cara wondered if Mama was so ti red of the bill collectors hounding her and Daddy that she was th inking of sneaking away and not even telling him where she was go ing. The familiar feeling returned-that feeling of her insides be ing Jell-O on a whirlybird ride. She clutched her toy horse even tighter and looked out the window, imagining herself on a stallio n galloping into a world where food was free and her parents were happy. After they topped another hill, her mother slowed the ve hicle and pulled into a driveway. Mama turned off the car. Look a t this place, Cara. That old white clapboard house has looked the same since I used to come here with my mama. The shutters hung crooked and didn't have much paint left on them. It's really smal l, and the shutters make it look like ghosts live here. Her mama laughed. It's called a Daadi Haus, which means it's just for gra ndparents once their children are grown. They only need a small k itchen, bedroom, and bathroom. This one has been here for many ye ars. You're right-the shutters do make it look dilapidated. Come on. Seconds after Cara pushed the passenger door shut, an old w oman stepped out from between tall rows of corn. She stared at th em as if they were aliens, and Cara wondered if her mama really d id know these people. The woman wore a long burgundy dress and no shoes. The wrinkles covering her face looked like a roadmap. The lines took on new twists as she frowned. Though it was July and too hot for a toboggan cap, she had on a black one anyway. Gross mammi Levina, Ich bin kumme bsuche. Ich hab aa die Cara mitgebroc ht. Startled, Cara looked up at her mama.What language did she j ust speak? Mama wasn't even good at pig Latin. The old woman rel eased her apron, and several ears of corn fell to the ground. She hurried up to Mama. Yvonne? Tears brimmed in Mama's eyes, and s he nodded. The older woman squealed, long and loud, before she hu gged Mama. A lanky boy came running from the rows. Levina, was i ss letz? He stopped short, watching the two women for a moment be fore looking at Cara. As he studied her, she wondered if she loo ked as odd to him as he did to her. She hadn't seen a boy in long black pants since winter ended, and she'd never seen one wear su spenders and a straw hat.Why would he work a garden in a Sunday d ress shirt? He snatched up the ears of corn the woman had droppe d, walked to a wooden wheelbarrow, and dumped them. Cara picked u p the rest of the ears and followed him. You got a name? Ephraim . I can be lots of help if you'll let me. Ya ever picked corn b efore? Cara shook her head. No, but I can learn. He just stood there, watching her. She held out her horse to him. Isn't she a beauty? He shrugged. Looks a little worn to me. Cara slid the h orse into her pocket. Ephraim frowned. Can I ask you a question? She nodded. Are you a boy or a girl? The question didn't both er her. She got it all the time at school from new teachers or on es who didn't have her in their classes. They referred to her as a young man until they realized she wasn't a boy. She'd learned t o make it work for her, like the time she slipped right past the teacher who was the lavatory monitor and went into the boys' bath room to teach JakeMerrow a lesson about stealing her milk money. She got her money back, and he never told a soul that a girl gave him a fat lip. If I say I'm a boy, will ya let me help pick corn ? Ephraim laughed in a friendly way. You know, I once had a worn horse like the one you showed me. I kept him in my pocket too, u ntil I lost him. Cara shoved the horse deeper into her pocket. Y ou lost him? He nodded. Probably down by the creek where I was f ishing. Do you fish? She shook her head. I've never seen a creek . Never seen one?Where are you from? New York City. My mama had to borrow a car for us to get beyond where the subway ends. Wel l, if you're here when the workday is done, I'll show you the cre ek. We got a rope swing, and if your mama will let you, you can s wing out and drop into the deep part. How long are you here for? She looked around the place. Her mama and the old woman were sit ting under a shade tree, holding hands and talking. Across the ro ad was a barn, and she could see a horse inside it. Green fields went clear to the horizon. She took a deep breath. The air smelle d delicious, like dirt, but not city dirt. Like growing-food dirt .Maybe this was where her horse took her when she dreamed. The co rnstalks reached for the sky, and her chest felt like little shoe s were tap-dancing inside it. She should have known that if her m ama liked something, it was worth liking. A couple of days, I th ink. Ch a p t e r 1 Twenty years later Sunlight streamed throug h the bar's dirty windows as the lunch crowd filled the place. Ca ra set two bottles of beer on the table in front of the familiar faces. The regulars knew the rules: all alcoholic drinks were pai d for upon delivery.One of the men held a five-dollar bill toward her but kept his eyes on the television. The other took a long d rink while he slid a hundred-dollar bill across the table. She s tared at the money, her heart pounding with desire.Mac kept most of the tip money the waitresses earned, and she'd never been give n anything larger than a twenty in her life. The money the custom er slid across the table wasn't just cash but power. It held the ability to fix Lori something besides boiled potatoes for every m eal next week. Would he even notice if I short changed him from such a large amount? Lines of honesty became blurry as the fight to remain hidden stole everything but mere existence. And her da ughter. Cara loathed that she couldn't apply for government help and that she had to uproot every few months to stay a few steps ahead of a maniac. Moving always cost money. Fresh security depos its on ever increasing rent. Working time lost as she searched fo r another job- each one more pathetic than the one before it. I'l l get your change. All of it. She took the money. Cara. Mac's g ruff voice sailed across the room. From behind the bar, he motion ed for her. Phone! He shook the receiver at her. Kendal says it's an emergency. Every sound echoing inside the wood-and-glass roo m ceased. She hurried toward him, snaking around tables filled wi th people. Keep it short.Mac passed the phone to her and returne d to serving customers. Kendal, what's wrong? He found us. Her friend's usually icy voice shook, and Cara knew that she was more frightened than she'd been the other times. How could he after all they'd done to hide? We got a letter at our new place? No.Wo rse. Kendal's voice quaked. He was here. Broke the lock and came inside looking for you. He ransacked the place. He what? He's g etting bolder, Cara. We have to call the police. You know we ca n't... Kendal dropped the sentence, and Cara heard her crying. O ne of the waitresses plunked a tray of dirty dishes onto the coun ter. Get off the phone, princess. Cara plugged her index finger into her ear, trying desperately to think. Where's Lori? I'm sur e they moved her to after-school care. Through the phone line, Ca ra heard a car door slam. They didn't own a car. A male voice as ked, Where to? Cara gripped the phone tighter. What's going on? Kendal sobbed. I'm sorry. I can't take this anymore. All we do i s live in fear and keep moving. He's...he's not after me. You kn ow he's trying to isolate me from everyone. Please, Kendal. I... I'm sorry. I can't help you anymore, Kendal whispered. The cab's waiting. Disbelief settled over her. How long ago did he break i n? From behind Cara, a shadow fell across the bar, engulfing her . Hi, Care Bear. She froze. Watching the silhouette, she noted h ow tiny she was in comparison. Mike's thick hand and wrist thudd ed a book onto the bar beside her. She watched him remove his han d, revealing her diary. You left me no choice about busting into your place. I was looking for answers about why you keep running off. She swallowed a wave of fear and faced him but couldn't fin d her voice. Johnny's dead. Now you're here...with me. His mass ive body loomed over her. I'd be willing to forget that you ever picked that loser. We could start fresh. Come on, beautiful, I ca n help you. Help me? The only person Mike wanted to help was him self-right int, WaterBrook, 2009, 3<

2009, ISBN: 9781400073962

Modern Library. Very Good. 5.11 x 0.73 x 8 inches. Paperback. 2002. "335 pages. <br>Introduction by Terry Tempest Williams Afterword by T. H. Watkins &#65279;Called a &qu… Plus…

Modern Library. Very Good. 5.11 x 0.73 x 8 inches. Paperback. 2002. "335 pages. <br>Introduction by Terry Tempest Williams Afterword by T. H. Watkins &#65279;Called a ""magnificently crafted story . . . brimming with wisdom"" by Howard Frank Mosher in The Washin gton Post Book World, Crossing to Safety has, since its publicati on in 1987, established itself as one of the greatest and most ch erished American novels of the twentieth century. Tracing the liv es, loves, and aspirations of two couples who move between Vermon t and Wisconsin, it is a work of quiet majesty, deep compassion, and powerful insight into the alchemy of friendship and marriage. Editorial Reviews Review "" A superb book. . . . Nothing in th ese lives is lost or wasted, suffering becomes an enriching bened iction, and life itself a luminous experience."" -- Doris Grumbac h ""A superb book. . . . Nothing in these lives is lost or waste d, suffering becomes an enriching benediction, and life itself a luminous experience.""--Doris Grumbach From the Inside Flap Call ed a ?magnificently crafted story . . . brimming with wisdom? by Howard Frank Mosher in The Washington Post Book World, Crossing t o Safety has, since its publication in 1987, established itself a s one of the greatest and most cherished American novels of the t wentieth century. Tracing the lives, loves, and aspirations of tw o couples who move between Vermont and Wisconsin, it is a work of quiet majesty, deep compassion, and powerful insight into the al chemy of friendship and marriage. From the Back Cover Called a " "magnificently crafted story . . . brimming with wisdom"" by Howa rd Frank Mosher in ""The Washington Post Book World, ""Crossing t o Safety has, since its publication in 1987, established itself a s one of the greatest and most cherished American novels of the t wentieth century. Tracing the lives, loves, and aspirations of tw o couples who move between Vermont and Wisconsin, it is a work of quiet majesty, deep compassion, and powerful insight into the al chemy of friendship and marriage. About the Author Terry Tempes t Williams is the author of many books, including Refuge: An Unna tural History of Family and Place; Red: Passion and Patience in t he Desert; and Finding Beauty in a Broken World. A recipient of a Guggenheim Fellowship and a Lannan Literary Fellowship in creati ve nonfiction, she lives in southern Utah. T. H. Watkins (1936-2 000) was the first Wallace Stegner Distinguished Professor of Wes tern American Studies at Montana State University, and was the au thor of twenty-eight books. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter 1 Floating upward through a confus ion of dreams and memory, curving like a trout through the rings of previous risings, I surface. My eyes open. I am awake. Catara ct sufferers must see like this when the bandages are removed aft er the operation: every detail as sharp as if seen for the first time, yet familiar too, known from before the time of blindness, the remembered and the seen coalescing as in a stereoscope. It i s obviously very early. The light is no more than dusk that leaks past the edges of the blinds. But I see, or remember, or both, t he uncurtained windows, the bare rafters, the board walls with no thing on them except a calendar that I think was here the last ti me we were, eight years ago. What used to be aggressively sparta n is shabby now. Nothing has been refreshed or added since Charit y and Sid turned the compound over to the children. I should feel as if I were waking up in some Ma-and-Pa motel in hard-times cou ntry, but I don't. I have spent too many good days and nights in this cottage to be depressed by it. There is even, as my eyes ma ke better use of the dusk and I lift my head off the pillow to lo ok around, something marvelously reassuring about the room, a war mth even in the gloom. Associations, probably, but also color. Th e unfinished pine of the walls and ceilings has mellowed, over th e years, to a rich honey color, as if stained by the warmth of th e people who built it into a shelter for their friends. I take it as an omen; and though I remind myself why we are here, I can't shake the sense of loved familiarity into which I just awoke. Th e air is as familiar as the room. Standard summer-cottage taint o f mice, plus a faint, not-unpleasant remembrance of skunks under the house, but around and through those a keenness as of seven th ousand feet. Illusion, of course. What smells like altitude is la titude. Canada is only a dozen miles north, and the ice sheet tha t left its tracks all over this region has not gone for good, but only withdrawn. Something in the air, even in August, says it wi ll be back. In fact, if you could forget mortality, and that use d to be easier here than in most places, you could really believe that time is circular, and not linear and progressive as our cul ture is bent on proving. Seen in geological perspective, we are f ossils in the making, to be buried and eventually exposed again f or the puzzlement of creatures of later eras. Seen in either geol ogical or biological terms, we don't warrant attention as individ uals. One of us doesn't differ that much from another, each gener ation repeats its parents, the works we build to outlast us are n ot much more enduring than anthills, and much less so than coral reefs. Here everything returns upon itself, repeats and renews it self, and present can hardly be told from past. Sally is still s leeping. I slide out of bed and go barefooted across the cold woo den floor. The calendar, as I pass it, insists that it is not the one I remember. It says, accurately, that it is 1972, and that t he month is August. The door creaks as I ease it open. Keen air, gray light, gray lake below, gray sky through the hemlocks whose tops reach well above the porch. More than once, in summers past , Sid and I cut down some of those weedlike trees to let more lig ht into the guest cottage. All we did was destroy some individual s, we never discouraged the species. The hemlocks like this steep shore. Like other species, they hang on to their territory. I c ome back in and get my clothes off a chair, the same clothes I wo re from New Mexico, and dress. Sally sleeps on, used up by the lo ng flight and the five-hour drive up from Boston. Too hard a day for her, but she wouldn't hear of breaking the trip. Having been summoned, she would come. For a minute I stand listening to her breathing, wondering if I dare go out and leave her. But she is d eeply asleep, and should stay that way for a while. No one is goi ng to be coming around at this hour. This early piece of the morn ing is mine. Tiptoeing, I go out onto the porch and stand exposed to what, for all my senses can tell me, might as well be 1938 as 1972. No one is up in the Lang compound. No lights through the trees, no smell of kindling smoke on the air. I go out the spongy woods path past the woodshed and into the road, and there I meet the sky, faintly brightening in the east, and the morning star a s steady as a lamp. Down under the hemlocks I thought it overcast , but out here I see the bowl of the sky pale and spotless. My f eet take me up the road to the gate, and through it. Just inside the gate the road forks. I ignore the Ridge House road and choose instead the narrow dirt road that climbs around the hill to the right. John Wightman, whose cottage sits at the end of it, died f ifteen years ago. He will not be up to protest my walking in his ruts. It is a road I have walked hundreds of times, a lovely lost tunnel through the trees, busy this morning with birds and littl e shy rustling things, my favorite road anywhere. Dew has soaked everything. I could wash my hands in the ferns, and when I pick a leaf off a maple branch I get a shower on my head and shoulders . Through the hardwoods along the foot of the hill, through the b elt of cedars where the ground is swampy with springs, through th e spruce and balsam of the steep pitch, I go alertly, feasting my eyes. I see coon tracks, an adult and two young, in the mud, and maturing grasses bent like croquet wickets with wet, and spotted orange Amanitas, at this season flattened or even concave and ho lding water, and miniature forests of club moss and ground pine a nd ground cedar. There are brown caves of shelter, mouse and hare country, under the wide skirts of spruce. My feet are wet. Off in the woods I hear a Peabody bird tentatively try out a song he seems to have half forgotten. I look to the left, up the slope of the hill, to see if I can catch a glimpse of Ridge House, but se e only trees. Then I come out on the shoulder of the hill, and t here is the whole sky, immense and full of light that has drowned the stars. Its edges are piled with hills. Over Stannard Mountai n the air is hot gold, and as I watch, the sun surges up over the crest and stares me down. We didn't come back to Battell Pond t his time for pleasure. We came out of affection and family solida rity, as adopted members of the clan, and because we were asked f or and expected. But I can't feel somber now, any more than I cou ld when I awoke in the shabby old guest cottage. Quite the revers e. I wonder if I have ever felt more alive, more competent in my mind and more at ease with myself and my world, than I feel for a few minutes on the shoulder of that known hill while I watch the sun climb powerfully and confidently and see below me the unchan ged village, the lake like a pool of mercury, the varying greens of hayfields and meadows and sugarbush and black spruce woods, al l of it lifting and warming as the stretched shadows shorten. Th ere it was, there it is, the place where during the best time of our lives friendship had its home and happiness its headquarters. When I come in I find Sally sitting up, the blind closest to th e bed--the one she can reach--raised to let a streak of sun into the room. She is drinking a cup of coffee from the thermos and ea ting a banana from the fruit basket that Hallie left when she put us to bed last night. ""Not breakfast,"" Hallie said. ""Just ha zari. We'll come and get you for brunch, but we won't come too ea rly. You'll be tired and off your clock. So sleep in, and we'll c ome and get you about ten. After brunch we' ll go up and see Mom, and later in the afternoon she's planned a picnic on Folsom Hill ."" ""A picnic?"" Sally said. ""Is she well enough to go on a pi cnic? If she's doing it for us, she shouldn't."" ""That's the wa y she's arranged it,"" Hallie said. ""She said you'd be tired, an d to let you rest, and if she says you'll be tired, you might as well be tired. If she plans a picnic, you'd better want a picnic. No, she'll be all right. She saves her strength for the things t hat matter to her. She wants it like old times."" I let up the o ther two blinds and lighten the dim room. ""Where'd you go?"" Sal ly asks. ""Up the old Wightman road."" I pour myself coffee and sit down in the wicker chair that I remember as part of the furn iture of the Ark. From the bed Sally watches me. ""How was it?"" ""Beautiful. Quiet. Good earthy smells. It hasn't changed."" "" I wish I could have been along."" ""I'll take you up later in th e car."" ""No, we'll be going up to the picnic, that's enough."" She sips her coffee, watching me over the rim of the cup. ""Isn' t it typical? At death's door, and she wants it like old times, a nd orders everybody to make it that way. And worries about us bei ng tired. Ah, she's going to leave a hole! There's been a hole, e ver since we. . . . Did you feel any absences?"" ""No absences. Presences."" ""I'm glad. I can' t imagine this place without the m in it. Both of them."" Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter 1 Floating upward through a confusion of dreams and memory, curving like a trout through the rings of p revious risings, I surface. My eyes open. I am awake. Cataract s ufferers must see like this when the bandages are removed after t he operation: every detail as sharp as if seen for the first time , yet familiar too, known from before the time of blindness, the remembered and the seen coalescing as in a stereoscope. It is ob viously very early. The light is no more than dusk that leaks pas t the edges of the blinds. But I see, or remember, or both, the u ncurtained windows, the bare rafters, the board walls with nothin g on them except a calendar that I think was here the last time w e were, eight years ago. What used to be aggressively spartan is shabby now. Nothing has been refreshed or added since Charity an d Sid turned the compound over to the children. I should feel as if I were waking up in some Ma-and-Pa motel in hard-times country , but I don't. I have spent too many good days and nights in this cottage to be depressed by it. There is even, as my eyes make b etter use of the dusk and I lift my head off the pillow to look a round, something marvelously reassuring about the room, a warmth even in the gloom. Associations, probably, but also color. The un finished pine of the walls and ceilings has mellowed, over the ye ars, to a rich honey color, as if stained by the warmth of the pe ople who built it into a shelter for their friends. I take it as an omen; and though I remind myself why we are here, I can't shak e the sense of loved familiarity into which I just awoke. The ai r is as familiar as the room. Standard summer-cottage taint of mi ce, plus a faint, not-unpleasant remembrance of skunks under the house, but around and through those a keenness as of seven thousa nd feet. Illusion, of course. What smells like altitude is latitu de. Canada is only a dozen miles north, and the ice sheet that le ft its tracks all over this region has not gone for good, but onl y withdrawn. Something in the air, even in August, says it will b e back. In fact, if you could forget mortality, and that used to be easier here than in most places, you could really believe tha t time is circular, and not linear and progressive as our culture is bent on proving. Seen in geological perspective, we are fossi ls in the making, to be buried and eventually exposed again for t he puzzlement of creatures of later eras. Seen in either geo, Modern Library, 2002, 3, WaterBrook. Very Good. 5.48 x 0.76 x 8.26 inches. Paperback. 2009. 352 pages. <br>The first book in the Ada's House series, The Hope of Refuge is a moving story of love, hope, and new beginnings fr om New York Times bestselling author Cindy Woodsmall. The widow ed mother of a little girl, Cara Moore is struggling against pove rty, fear, and a relentless stalker. When her stalker ransacks he r home, Cara and her daughter, Lori, flee New York City for an Am ish community, eager for a fresh start. But she discovers that lo ng-held secrets about her family history ripple beneath the surfa ce of Dry Lake, Pennsylvania, and it's no place for an outsider. One Amish man, Ephraim Mast, dares to fulfill the command he beli eves that he received from God--Be me to her--despite how it thre atens his way of life. While Ephraim tries to do what he believes is right, will he be shunned and lose everything, including the guarded single mother who simply longs for a better life? A comp lete opposite of the hard, untrusting Cara, Ephraim's sister Debo rah also finds her dreams crumbling when the man she has pledged to build a life with begins withdrawing from Deborah and his comm unity, including his mother, Ada Stoltzfus. Can the run-down hous e that Ada envisions transforming unite them toward a common purp ose--or will it push Mahlon away forever? Editorial Reviews Rev iew Praise for The Hope of Refuge What a beautiful story of hope and renewal! Cindy Woodsmall's The Hope of Refuge is an honest a nd moving portrayal that rings with authenticity. It warmed my he art long after I finished reading and reminded me that new beginn ings are possible, truth frees, and love can make all things new, if only we can learn to trust again. -Marlo Schalesky, award-wi nning author of If Tomorrow Never Comes and Beyond the Night Cin dy Woodsmall's The Hope of Refuge takes the reader on an emotiona l journey into the heart of Amish country and the heart of a very human heroine. A compelling novel of love lost and found with re alistic characters from two very different worlds which become, b eautifully, one. -Karen Harper, New York Times bestselling author of Deep Down Praise for Cindy Woodsmall A skillfully written s tory of forgiveness and redemption. Woodsmall's authentic charact ers illustrate beautifully how wounded souls can indeed be mended . -Susan Meissner, author of The Shape of Mercy and White Picket Fences Cindy Woodsmall writes real--real people, real conflicts, real emotions. When you open her book, you enter her world and l ive the story with the characters. -Kim Vogel Sawyer, author of W here Willows Grow and Waiting for Summer's Return Reaching deep into the heart of the reader, Cindy Woodsmall pens a beautifully lyrical story.... She paints a vivid backdrop of Amish and Mennon ite cultures with fascinating detail and memorable clarity. Fans of this genre will be thrilled to discover this new author. -Tame ra Alexander, bestselling author of Rekindled Like the stitches on a well-loved quilt, love and faith hold together Cindy Woodsma ll's When the Soul Mends, the brilliantly written third story in the Sisters of the Quilt series. With deft plotting and character s that seem to jump off the page, this novel offers the timeless truth that forgiveness is the balm which heals all wounds and a b lanket for the soul. -Kathleen Y'Barbo, author of The Confidentia l Life of Eugenia Cooper What a vibrant, strong, emotional story ! -Gayle Roper, author of Allah's Fire and the Seaside Seasons s eries Cindy Woodsmall' s characters wrapped themselves around my heart and wouldn't let go. -Deborah Raney, author of A Vow to C herish and Remember to Forget About the Author CINDY WOODSMALL i s a New York Times and CBA best-selling author of eighteen works of fiction and a non-fiction book. Coverage of Cindy's writing ha s been featured on ABC Nightline and the front page of the Wall S treet Journal. She lives outside Atlanta with her husband, just a short distance from her two sons and grandchildren. Excerpt. ? Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Pr o l o g u e Mama , can you tell me yet? Cara held her favorite toy, stroking the s mall plastic horse as if it might respond to her tender touch. Th e brown ridges, designed to look like fur, had long ago faded to tan. Mama held the well-worn steering wheel in silence while she drove dirt roads Cara had never seen before. Dust flew in throug h the open windows and clung to Cara's sweaty face, and the vinyl seat was hot to the touch when she laid her hand against it. Mam a pressed the brake pedal, slowing the car to a near stop as they crossed another bridge with a roof over it. A covered bridge, Ma ma called it. The bumpiness of the wooden planks jarred Cara, mak ing her bounce like she was riding a cardboard box down a set of stairs. Mama reached across the car seat and ran her hand down t he back of Cara's head, probably trying to smooth out one of her cowlicks. No matter how short Mama cut her hair, she always said the unruly mop won the battle. We're going to visit a...a friend of mine. She's Amish. She placed her index finger on her lips. I need you to do as the mother of Jesus did when it came to precio us events. She treasured them in her heart and pondered them. You 've grown so much since you turned eight, and you're a big girl, but you can't draw pictures or write words about it in your diary , and you can't ever tell your father, okay? Sunlight bore down on them again as they drove out of the covered bridge. Cara searc hed the fields for horses. Are we going to your hiding place? Ca ra had a hiding place, one her mother had built for her inside th e wall of the attic.They had tea parties in there sometimes when there was money for tea bags and sugar. And when Daddy needed qui et, her mother would silently whisk her to that secret room. If h er mama didn't return for her by nightfall, she'd sleep in there. Mama nodded. I told you every girl needs a fun place she can ge t away to for a while, right? Cara nodded. Well, this is mine. We'll stay for a couple of days, and if you like it, maybe we'll move here one day-just us girls. Cara wondered if Mama was so ti red of the bill collectors hounding her and Daddy that she was th inking of sneaking away and not even telling him where she was go ing. The familiar feeling returned-that feeling of her insides be ing Jell-O on a whirlybird ride. She clutched her toy horse even tighter and looked out the window, imagining herself on a stallio n galloping into a world where food was free and her parents were happy. After they topped another hill, her mother slowed the ve hicle and pulled into a driveway. Mama turned off the car. Look a t this place, Cara. That old white clapboard house has looked the same since I used to come here with my mama. The shutters hung crooked and didn't have much paint left on them. It's really smal l, and the shutters make it look like ghosts live here. Her mama laughed. It's called a Daadi Haus, which means it's just for gra ndparents once their children are grown. They only need a small k itchen, bedroom, and bathroom. This one has been here for many ye ars. You're right-the shutters do make it look dilapidated. Come on. Seconds after Cara pushed the passenger door shut, an old w oman stepped out from between tall rows of corn. She stared at th em as if they were aliens, and Cara wondered if her mama really d id know these people. The woman wore a long burgundy dress and no shoes. The wrinkles covering her face looked like a roadmap. The lines took on new twists as she frowned. Though it was July and too hot for a toboggan cap, she had on a black one anyway. Gross mammi Levina, Ich bin kumme bsuche. Ich hab aa die Cara mitgebroc ht. Startled, Cara looked up at her mama.What language did she j ust speak? Mama wasn't even good at pig Latin. The old woman rel eased her apron, and several ears of corn fell to the ground. She hurried up to Mama. Yvonne? Tears brimmed in Mama's eyes, and s he nodded. The older woman squealed, long and loud, before she hu gged Mama. A lanky boy came running from the rows. Levina, was i ss letz? He stopped short, watching the two women for a moment be fore looking at Cara. As he studied her, she wondered if she loo ked as odd to him as he did to her. She hadn't seen a boy in long black pants since winter ended, and she'd never seen one wear su spenders and a straw hat.Why would he work a garden in a Sunday d ress shirt? He snatched up the ears of corn the woman had droppe d, walked to a wooden wheelbarrow, and dumped them. Cara picked u p the rest of the ears and followed him. You got a name? Ephraim . I can be lots of help if you'll let me. Ya ever picked corn b efore? Cara shook her head. No, but I can learn. He just stood there, watching her. She held out her horse to him. Isn't she a beauty? He shrugged. Looks a little worn to me. Cara slid the h orse into her pocket. Ephraim frowned. Can I ask you a question? She nodded. Are you a boy or a girl? The question didn't both er her. She got it all the time at school from new teachers or on es who didn't have her in their classes. They referred to her as a young man until they realized she wasn't a boy. She'd learned t o make it work for her, like the time she slipped right past the teacher who was the lavatory monitor and went into the boys' bath room to teach JakeMerrow a lesson about stealing her milk money. She got her money back, and he never told a soul that a girl gave him a fat lip. If I say I'm a boy, will ya let me help pick corn ? Ephraim laughed in a friendly way. You know, I once had a worn horse like the one you showed me. I kept him in my pocket too, u ntil I lost him. Cara shoved the horse deeper into her pocket. Y ou lost him? He nodded. Probably down by the creek where I was f ishing. Do you fish? She shook her head. I've never seen a creek . Never seen one?Where are you from? New York City. My mama had to borrow a car for us to get beyond where the subway ends. Wel l, if you're here when the workday is done, I'll show you the cre ek. We got a rope swing, and if your mama will let you, you can s wing out and drop into the deep part. How long are you here for? She looked around the place. Her mama and the old woman were sit ting under a shade tree, holding hands and talking. Across the ro ad was a barn, and she could see a horse inside it. Green fields went clear to the horizon. She took a deep breath. The air smelle d delicious, like dirt, but not city dirt. Like growing-food dirt .Maybe this was where her horse took her when she dreamed. The co rnstalks reached for the sky, and her chest felt like little shoe s were tap-dancing inside it. She should have known that if her m ama liked something, it was worth liking. A couple of days, I th ink. Ch a p t e r 1 Twenty years later Sunlight streamed throug h the bar's dirty windows as the lunch crowd filled the place. Ca ra set two bottles of beer on the table in front of the familiar faces. The regulars knew the rules: all alcoholic drinks were pai d for upon delivery.One of the men held a five-dollar bill toward her but kept his eyes on the television. The other took a long d rink while he slid a hundred-dollar bill across the table. She s tared at the money, her heart pounding with desire.Mac kept most of the tip money the waitresses earned, and she'd never been give n anything larger than a twenty in her life. The money the custom er slid across the table wasn't just cash but power. It held the ability to fix Lori something besides boiled potatoes for every m eal next week. Would he even notice if I short changed him from such a large amount? Lines of honesty became blurry as the fight to remain hidden stole everything but mere existence. And her da ughter. Cara loathed that she couldn't apply for government help and that she had to uproot every few months to stay a few steps ahead of a maniac. Moving always cost money. Fresh security depos its on ever increasing rent. Working time lost as she searched fo r another job- each one more pathetic than the one before it. I'l l get your change. All of it. She took the money. Cara. Mac's g ruff voice sailed across the room. From behind the bar, he motion ed for her. Phone! He shook the receiver at her. Kendal says it's an emergency. Every sound echoing inside the wood-and-glass roo m ceased. She hurried toward him, snaking around tables filled wi th people. Keep it short.Mac passed the phone to her and returne d to serving customers. Kendal, what's wrong? He found us. Her friend's usually icy voice shook, and Cara knew that she was more frightened than she'd been the other times. How could he after all they'd done to hide? We got a letter at our new place? No.Wo rse. Kendal's voice quaked. He was here. Broke the lock and came inside looking for you. He ransacked the place. He what? He's g etting bolder, Cara. We have to call the police. You know we ca n't... Kendal dropped the sentence, and Cara heard her crying. O ne of the waitresses plunked a tray of dirty dishes onto the coun ter. Get off the phone, princess. Cara plugged her index finger into her ear, trying desperately to think. Where's Lori? I'm sur e they moved her to after-school care. Through the phone line, Ca ra heard a car door slam. They didn't own a car. A male voice as ked, Where to? Cara gripped the phone tighter. What's going on? Kendal sobbed. I'm sorry. I can't take this anymore. All we do i s live in fear and keep moving. He's...he's not after me. You kn ow he's trying to isolate me from everyone. Please, Kendal. I... I'm sorry. I can't help you anymore, Kendal whispered. The cab's waiting. Disbelief settled over her. How long ago did he break i n? From behind Cara, a shadow fell across the bar, engulfing her . Hi, Care Bear. She froze. Watching the silhouette, she noted h ow tiny she was in comparison. Mike's thick hand and wrist thudd ed a book onto the bar beside her. She watched him remove his han d, revealing her diary. You left me no choice about busting into your place. I was looking for answers about why you keep running off. She swallowed a wave of fear and faced him but couldn't fin d her voice. Johnny's dead. Now you're here...with me. His mass ive body loomed over her. I'd be willing to forget that you ever picked that loser. We could start fresh. Come on, beautiful, I ca n help you. Help me? The only person Mike wanted to help was him self-right int, WaterBrook, 2009, 3<

2011, ISBN: 9781400073962

Awa Press. Good. 129 x 178mm. Paperback. 2011. 165 pages. <br>On February 22, 2011, journalist Jane Bowron had b een living back in her hometown of Christchurch for three years w he… Plus…

Awa Press. Good. 129 x 178mm. Paperback. 2011. 165 pages. <br>On February 22, 2011, journalist Jane Bowron had b een living back in her hometown of Christchurch for three years w hen the city was struck by a magnitude 6.3 earthquake - just five months after a 7.1 earthquake. The first quake had caused damage but no fatalities. This time it was the ultimate horror story. C ountless city buildings crashed to the ground and many people wer e killed. Others were trapped in rubble and raging fires. Whole s uburbs were decimated as houses collapsed, hillsides fell away, a nd the ground liquefied into oceans of silt. As the historic city lay in ruins Bowron managed to find a phone, call her newspaper, and deliver a moving human account of the scene around her. For the next three months, she continued to send regular dispatches o f everyday life being lived in the most extraordinary of circumst ances as she and everyone else in Christchurch struggled to cope with grief, loss and the new reality. Brilliantly written and suf fused with unexpected humour, Bowron's stories have become a mode rn classic - a rare and priceless account of how human beings can survive and overcome even the most terrible of tragedies in the most ordinary of ways. ., Awa Press, 2011, 2.5, WaterBrook. Very Good. 5.48 x 0.76 x 8.26 inches. Paperback. 2009. 352 pages. <br>The first book in the Ada's House series, The Hope of Refuge is a moving story of love, hope, and new beginnings fr om New York Times bestselling author Cindy Woodsmall. The widow ed mother of a little girl, Cara Moore is struggling against pove rty, fear, and a relentless stalker. When her stalker ransacks he r home, Cara and her daughter, Lori, flee New York City for an Am ish community, eager for a fresh start. But she discovers that lo ng-held secrets about her family history ripple beneath the surfa ce of Dry Lake, Pennsylvania, and it's no place for an outsider. One Amish man, Ephraim Mast, dares to fulfill the command he beli eves that he received from God--Be me to her--despite how it thre atens his way of life. While Ephraim tries to do what he believes is right, will he be shunned and lose everything, including the guarded single mother who simply longs for a better life? A comp lete opposite of the hard, untrusting Cara, Ephraim's sister Debo rah also finds her dreams crumbling when the man she has pledged to build a life with begins withdrawing from Deborah and his comm unity, including his mother, Ada Stoltzfus. Can the run-down hous e that Ada envisions transforming unite them toward a common purp ose--or will it push Mahlon away forever? Editorial Reviews Rev iew Praise for The Hope of Refuge What a beautiful story of hope and renewal! Cindy Woodsmall's The Hope of Refuge is an honest a nd moving portrayal that rings with authenticity. It warmed my he art long after I finished reading and reminded me that new beginn ings are possible, truth frees, and love can make all things new, if only we can learn to trust again. -Marlo Schalesky, award-wi nning author of If Tomorrow Never Comes and Beyond the Night Cin dy Woodsmall's The Hope of Refuge takes the reader on an emotiona l journey into the heart of Amish country and the heart of a very human heroine. A compelling novel of love lost and found with re alistic characters from two very different worlds which become, b eautifully, one. -Karen Harper, New York Times bestselling author of Deep Down Praise for Cindy Woodsmall A skillfully written s tory of forgiveness and redemption. Woodsmall's authentic charact ers illustrate beautifully how wounded souls can indeed be mended . -Susan Meissner, author of The Shape of Mercy and White Picket Fences Cindy Woodsmall writes real--real people, real conflicts, real emotions. When you open her book, you enter her world and l ive the story with the characters. -Kim Vogel Sawyer, author of W here Willows Grow and Waiting for Summer's Return Reaching deep into the heart of the reader, Cindy Woodsmall pens a beautifully lyrical story.... She paints a vivid backdrop of Amish and Mennon ite cultures with fascinating detail and memorable clarity. Fans of this genre will be thrilled to discover this new author. -Tame ra Alexander, bestselling author of Rekindled Like the stitches on a well-loved quilt, love and faith hold together Cindy Woodsma ll's When the Soul Mends, the brilliantly written third story in the Sisters of the Quilt series. With deft plotting and character s that seem to jump off the page, this novel offers the timeless truth that forgiveness is the balm which heals all wounds and a b lanket for the soul. -Kathleen Y'Barbo, author of The Confidentia l Life of Eugenia Cooper What a vibrant, strong, emotional story ! -Gayle Roper, author of Allah's Fire and the Seaside Seasons s eries Cindy Woodsmall' s characters wrapped themselves around my heart and wouldn't let go. -Deborah Raney, author of A Vow to C herish and Remember to Forget About the Author CINDY WOODSMALL i s a New York Times and CBA best-selling author of eighteen works of fiction and a non-fiction book. Coverage of Cindy's writing ha s been featured on ABC Nightline and the front page of the Wall S treet Journal. She lives outside Atlanta with her husband, just a short distance from her two sons and grandchildren. Excerpt. ? Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Pr o l o g u e Mama , can you tell me yet? Cara held her favorite toy, stroking the s mall plastic horse as if it might respond to her tender touch. Th e brown ridges, designed to look like fur, had long ago faded to tan. Mama held the well-worn steering wheel in silence while she drove dirt roads Cara had never seen before. Dust flew in throug h the open windows and clung to Cara's sweaty face, and the vinyl seat was hot to the touch when she laid her hand against it. Mam a pressed the brake pedal, slowing the car to a near stop as they crossed another bridge with a roof over it. A covered bridge, Ma ma called it. The bumpiness of the wooden planks jarred Cara, mak ing her bounce like she was riding a cardboard box down a set of stairs. Mama reached across the car seat and ran her hand down t he back of Cara's head, probably trying to smooth out one of her cowlicks. No matter how short Mama cut her hair, she always said the unruly mop won the battle. We're going to visit a...a friend of mine. She's Amish. She placed her index finger on her lips. I need you to do as the mother of Jesus did when it came to precio us events. She treasured them in her heart and pondered them. You 've grown so much since you turned eight, and you're a big girl, but you can't draw pictures or write words about it in your diary , and you can't ever tell your father, okay? Sunlight bore down on them again as they drove out of the covered bridge. Cara searc hed the fields for horses. Are we going to your hiding place? Ca ra had a hiding place, one her mother had built for her inside th e wall of the attic.They had tea parties in there sometimes when there was money for tea bags and sugar. And when Daddy needed qui et, her mother would silently whisk her to that secret room. If h er mama didn't return for her by nightfall, she'd sleep in there. Mama nodded. I told you every girl needs a fun place she can ge t away to for a while, right? Cara nodded. Well, this is mine. We'll stay for a couple of days, and if you like it, maybe we'll move here one day-just us girls. Cara wondered if Mama was so ti red of the bill collectors hounding her and Daddy that she was th inking of sneaking away and not even telling him where she was go ing. The familiar feeling returned-that feeling of her insides be ing Jell-O on a whirlybird ride. She clutched her toy horse even tighter and looked out the window, imagining herself on a stallio n galloping into a world where food was free and her parents were happy. After they topped another hill, her mother slowed the ve hicle and pulled into a driveway. Mama turned off the car. Look a t this place, Cara. That old white clapboard house has looked the same since I used to come here with my mama. The shutters hung crooked and didn't have much paint left on them. It's really smal l, and the shutters make it look like ghosts live here. Her mama laughed. It's called a Daadi Haus, which means it's just for gra ndparents once their children are grown. They only need a small k itchen, bedroom, and bathroom. This one has been here for many ye ars. You're right-the shutters do make it look dilapidated. Come on. Seconds after Cara pushed the passenger door shut, an old w oman stepped out from between tall rows of corn. She stared at th em as if they were aliens, and Cara wondered if her mama really d id know these people. The woman wore a long burgundy dress and no shoes. The wrinkles covering her face looked like a roadmap. The lines took on new twists as she frowned. Though it was July and too hot for a toboggan cap, she had on a black one anyway. Gross mammi Levina, Ich bin kumme bsuche. Ich hab aa die Cara mitgebroc ht. Startled, Cara looked up at her mama.What language did she j ust speak? Mama wasn't even good at pig Latin. The old woman rel eased her apron, and several ears of corn fell to the ground. She hurried up to Mama. Yvonne? Tears brimmed in Mama's eyes, and s he nodded. The older woman squealed, long and loud, before she hu gged Mama. A lanky boy came running from the rows. Levina, was i ss letz? He stopped short, watching the two women for a moment be fore looking at Cara. As he studied her, she wondered if she loo ked as odd to him as he did to her. She hadn't seen a boy in long black pants since winter ended, and she'd never seen one wear su spenders and a straw hat.Why would he work a garden in a Sunday d ress shirt? He snatched up the ears of corn the woman had droppe d, walked to a wooden wheelbarrow, and dumped them. Cara picked u p the rest of the ears and followed him. You got a name? Ephraim . I can be lots of help if you'll let me. Ya ever picked corn b efore? Cara shook her head. No, but I can learn. He just stood there, watching her. She held out her horse to him. Isn't she a beauty? He shrugged. Looks a little worn to me. Cara slid the h orse into her pocket. Ephraim frowned. Can I ask you a question? She nodded. Are you a boy or a girl? The question didn't both er her. She got it all the time at school from new teachers or on es who didn't have her in their classes. They referred to her as a young man until they realized she wasn't a boy. She'd learned t o make it work for her, like the time she slipped right past the teacher who was the lavatory monitor and went into the boys' bath room to teach JakeMerrow a lesson about stealing her milk money. She got her money back, and he never told a soul that a girl gave him a fat lip. If I say I'm a boy, will ya let me help pick corn ? Ephraim laughed in a friendly way. You know, I once had a worn horse like the one you showed me. I kept him in my pocket too, u ntil I lost him. Cara shoved the horse deeper into her pocket. Y ou lost him? He nodded. Probably down by the creek where I was f ishing. Do you fish? She shook her head. I've never seen a creek . Never seen one?Where are you from? New York City. My mama had to borrow a car for us to get beyond where the subway ends. Wel l, if you're here when the workday is done, I'll show you the cre ek. We got a rope swing, and if your mama will let you, you can s wing out and drop into the deep part. How long are you here for? She looked around the place. Her mama and the old woman were sit ting under a shade tree, holding hands and talking. Across the ro ad was a barn, and she could see a horse inside it. Green fields went clear to the horizon. She took a deep breath. The air smelle d delicious, like dirt, but not city dirt. Like growing-food dirt .Maybe this was where her horse took her when she dreamed. The co rnstalks reached for the sky, and her chest felt like little shoe s were tap-dancing inside it. She should have known that if her m ama liked something, it was worth liking. A couple of days, I th ink. Ch a p t e r 1 Twenty years later Sunlight streamed throug h the bar's dirty windows as the lunch crowd filled the place. Ca ra set two bottles of beer on the table in front of the familiar faces. The regulars knew the rules: all alcoholic drinks were pai d for upon delivery.One of the men held a five-dollar bill toward her but kept his eyes on the television. The other took a long d rink while he slid a hundred-dollar bill across the table. She s tared at the money, her heart pounding with desire.Mac kept most of the tip money the waitresses earned, and she'd never been give n anything larger than a twenty in her life. The money the custom er slid across the table wasn't just cash but power. It held the ability to fix Lori something besides boiled potatoes for every m eal next week. Would he even notice if I short changed him from such a large amount? Lines of honesty became blurry as the fight to remain hidden stole everything but mere existence. And her da ughter. Cara loathed that she couldn't apply for government help and that she had to uproot every few months to stay a few steps ahead of a maniac. Moving always cost money. Fresh security depos its on ever increasing rent. Working time lost as she searched fo r another job- each one more pathetic than the one before it. I'l l get your change. All of it. She took the money. Cara. Mac's g ruff voice sailed across the room. From behind the bar, he motion ed for her. Phone! He shook the receiver at her. Kendal says it's an emergency. Every sound echoing inside the wood-and-glass roo m ceased. She hurried toward him, snaking around tables filled wi th people. Keep it short.Mac passed the phone to her and returne d to serving customers. Kendal, what's wrong? He found us. Her friend's usually icy voice shook, and Cara knew that she was more frightened than she'd been the other times. How could he after all they'd done to hide? We got a letter at our new place? No.Wo rse. Kendal's voice quaked. He was here. Broke the lock and came inside looking for you. He ransacked the place. He what? He's g etting bolder, Cara. We have to call the police. You know we ca n't... Kendal dropped the sentence, and Cara heard her crying. O ne of the waitresses plunked a tray of dirty dishes onto the coun ter. Get off the phone, princess. Cara plugged her index finger into her ear, trying desperately to think. Where's Lori? I'm sur e they moved her to after-school care. Through the phone line, Ca ra heard a car door slam. They didn't own a car. A male voice as ked, Where to? Cara gripped the phone tighter. What's going on? Kendal sobbed. I'm sorry. I can't take this anymore. All we do i s live in fear and keep moving. He's...he's not after me. You kn ow he's trying to isolate me from everyone. Please, Kendal. I... I'm sorry. I can't help you anymore, Kendal whispered. The cab's waiting. Disbelief settled over her. How long ago did he break i n? From behind Cara, a shadow fell across the bar, engulfing her . Hi, Care Bear. She froze. Watching the silhouette, she noted h ow tiny she was in comparison. Mike's thick hand and wrist thudd ed a book onto the bar beside her. She watched him remove his han d, revealing her diary. You left me no choice about busting into your place. I was looking for answers about why you keep running off. She swallowed a wave of fear and faced him but couldn't fin d her voice. Johnny's dead. Now you're here...with me. His mass ive body loomed over her. I'd be willing to forget that you ever picked that loser. We could start fresh. Come on, beautiful, I ca n help you. Help me? The only person Mike wanted to help was him self-right int, WaterBrook, 2009, 3<

2009, ISBN: 9781400073962

WaterBrook. Very Good. 5.48 x 0.76 x 8.26 inches. Paperback. 2009. 352 pages. <br>The first book in the Ada's House series, The Hope of Refuge is a moving story of love, hope, … Plus…

WaterBrook. Very Good. 5.48 x 0.76 x 8.26 inches. Paperback. 2009. 352 pages. <br>The first book in the Ada's House series, The Hope of Refuge is a moving story of love, hope, and new beginnings fr om New York Times bestselling author Cindy Woodsmall. The widow ed mother of a little girl, Cara Moore is struggling against pove rty, fear, and a relentless stalker. When her stalker ransacks he r home, Cara and her daughter, Lori, flee New York City for an Am ish community, eager for a fresh start. But she discovers that lo ng-held secrets about her family history ripple beneath the surfa ce of Dry Lake, Pennsylvania, and it's no place for an outsider. One Amish man, Ephraim Mast, dares to fulfill the command he beli eves that he received from God--Be me to her--despite how it thre atens his way of life. While Ephraim tries to do what he believes is right, will he be shunned and lose everything, including the guarded single mother who simply longs for a better life? A comp lete opposite of the hard, untrusting Cara, Ephraim's sister Debo rah also finds her dreams crumbling when the man she has pledged to build a life with begins withdrawing from Deborah and his comm unity, including his mother, Ada Stoltzfus. Can the run-down hous e that Ada envisions transforming unite them toward a common purp ose--or will it push Mahlon away forever? Editorial Reviews Rev iew Praise for The Hope of Refuge What a beautiful story of hope and renewal! Cindy Woodsmall's The Hope of Refuge is an honest a nd moving portrayal that rings with authenticity. It warmed my he art long after I finished reading and reminded me that new beginn ings are possible, truth frees, and love can make all things new, if only we can learn to trust again. -Marlo Schalesky, award-wi nning author of If Tomorrow Never Comes and Beyond the Night Cin dy Woodsmall's The Hope of Refuge takes the reader on an emotiona l journey into the heart of Amish country and the heart of a very human heroine. A compelling novel of love lost and found with re alistic characters from two very different worlds which become, b eautifully, one. -Karen Harper, New York Times bestselling author of Deep Down Praise for Cindy Woodsmall A skillfully written s tory of forgiveness and redemption. Woodsmall's authentic charact ers illustrate beautifully how wounded souls can indeed be mended . -Susan Meissner, author of The Shape of Mercy and White Picket Fences Cindy Woodsmall writes real--real people, real conflicts, real emotions. When you open her book, you enter her world and l ive the story with the characters. -Kim Vogel Sawyer, author of W here Willows Grow and Waiting for Summer's Return Reaching deep into the heart of the reader, Cindy Woodsmall pens a beautifully lyrical story.... She paints a vivid backdrop of Amish and Mennon ite cultures with fascinating detail and memorable clarity. Fans of this genre will be thrilled to discover this new author. -Tame ra Alexander, bestselling author of Rekindled Like the stitches on a well-loved quilt, love and faith hold together Cindy Woodsma ll's When the Soul Mends, the brilliantly written third story in the Sisters of the Quilt series. With deft plotting and character s that seem to jump off the page, this novel offers the timeless truth that forgiveness is the balm which heals all wounds and a b lanket for the soul. -Kathleen Y'Barbo, author of The Confidentia l Life of Eugenia Cooper What a vibrant, strong, emotional story ! -Gayle Roper, author of Allah's Fire and the Seaside Seasons s eries Cindy Woodsmall' s characters wrapped themselves around my heart and wouldn't let go. -Deborah Raney, author of A Vow to C herish and Remember to Forget About the Author CINDY WOODSMALL i s a New York Times and CBA best-selling author of eighteen works of fiction and a non-fiction book. Coverage of Cindy's writing ha s been featured on ABC Nightline and the front page of the Wall S treet Journal. She lives outside Atlanta with her husband, just a short distance from her two sons and grandchildren. Excerpt. ? Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Pr o l o g u e Mama , can you tell me yet? Cara held her favorite toy, stroking the s mall plastic horse as if it might respond to her tender touch. Th e brown ridges, designed to look like fur, had long ago faded to tan. Mama held the well-worn steering wheel in silence while she drove dirt roads Cara had never seen before. Dust flew in throug h the open windows and clung to Cara's sweaty face, and the vinyl seat was hot to the touch when she laid her hand against it. Mam a pressed the brake pedal, slowing the car to a near stop as they crossed another bridge with a roof over it. A covered bridge, Ma ma called it. The bumpiness of the wooden planks jarred Cara, mak ing her bounce like she was riding a cardboard box down a set of stairs. Mama reached across the car seat and ran her hand down t he back of Cara's head, probably trying to smooth out one of her cowlicks. No matter how short Mama cut her hair, she always said the unruly mop won the battle. We're going to visit a...a friend of mine. She's Amish. She placed her index finger on her lips. I need you to do as the mother of Jesus did when it came to precio us events. She treasured them in her heart and pondered them. You 've grown so much since you turned eight, and you're a big girl, but you can't draw pictures or write words about it in your diary , and you can't ever tell your father, okay? Sunlight bore down on them again as they drove out of the covered bridge. Cara searc hed the fields for horses. Are we going to your hiding place? Ca ra had a hiding place, one her mother had built for her inside th e wall of the attic.They had tea parties in there sometimes when there was money for tea bags and sugar. And when Daddy needed qui et, her mother would silently whisk her to that secret room. If h er mama didn't return for her by nightfall, she'd sleep in there. Mama nodded. I told you every girl needs a fun place she can ge t away to for a while, right? Cara nodded. Well, this is mine. We'll stay for a couple of days, and if you like it, maybe we'll move here one day-just us girls. Cara wondered if Mama was so ti red of the bill collectors hounding her and Daddy that she was th inking of sneaking away and not even telling him where she was go ing. The familiar feeling returned-that feeling of her insides be ing Jell-O on a whirlybird ride. She clutched her toy horse even tighter and looked out the window, imagining herself on a stallio n galloping into a world where food was free and her parents were happy. After they topped another hill, her mother slowed the ve hicle and pulled into a driveway. Mama turned off the car. Look a t this place, Cara. That old white clapboard house has looked the same since I used to come here with my mama. The shutters hung crooked and didn't have much paint left on them. It's really smal l, and the shutters make it look like ghosts live here. Her mama laughed. It's called a Daadi Haus, which means it's just for gra ndparents once their children are grown. They only need a small k itchen, bedroom, and bathroom. This one has been here for many ye ars. You're right-the shutters do make it look dilapidated. Come on. Seconds after Cara pushed the passenger door shut, an old w oman stepped out from between tall rows of corn. She stared at th em as if they were aliens, and Cara wondered if her mama really d id know these people. The woman wore a long burgundy dress and no shoes. The wrinkles covering her face looked like a roadmap. The lines took on new twists as she frowned. Though it was July and too hot for a toboggan cap, she had on a black one anyway. Gross mammi Levina, Ich bin kumme bsuche. Ich hab aa die Cara mitgebroc ht. Startled, Cara looked up at her mama.What language did she j ust speak? Mama wasn't even good at pig Latin. The old woman rel eased her apron, and several ears of corn fell to the ground. She hurried up to Mama. Yvonne? Tears brimmed in Mama's eyes, and s he nodded. The older woman squealed, long and loud, before she hu gged Mama. A lanky boy came running from the rows. Levina, was i ss letz? He stopped short, watching the two women for a moment be fore looking at Cara. As he studied her, she wondered if she loo ked as odd to him as he did to her. She hadn't seen a boy in long black pants since winter ended, and she'd never seen one wear su spenders and a straw hat.Why would he work a garden in a Sunday d ress shirt? He snatched up the ears of corn the woman had droppe d, walked to a wooden wheelbarrow, and dumped them. Cara picked u p the rest of the ears and followed him. You got a name? Ephraim . I can be lots of help if you'll let me. Ya ever picked corn b efore? Cara shook her head. No, but I can learn. He just stood there, watching her. She held out her horse to him. Isn't she a beauty? He shrugged. Looks a little worn to me. Cara slid the h orse into her pocket. Ephraim frowned. Can I ask you a question? She nodded. Are you a boy or a girl? The question didn't both er her. She got it all the time at school from new teachers or on es who didn't have her in their classes. They referred to her as a young man until they realized she wasn't a boy. She'd learned t o make it work for her, like the time she slipped right past the teacher who was the lavatory monitor and went into the boys' bath room to teach JakeMerrow a lesson about stealing her milk money. She got her money back, and he never told a soul that a girl gave him a fat lip. If I say I'm a boy, will ya let me help pick corn ? Ephraim laughed in a friendly way. You know, I once had a worn horse like the one you showed me. I kept him in my pocket too, u ntil I lost him. Cara shoved the horse deeper into her pocket. Y ou lost him? He nodded. Probably down by the creek where I was f ishing. Do you fish? She shook her head. I've never seen a creek . Never seen one?Where are you from? New York City. My mama had to borrow a car for us to get beyond where the subway ends. Wel l, if you're here when the workday is done, I'll show you the cre ek. We got a rope swing, and if your mama will let you, you can s wing out and drop into the deep part. How long are you here for? She looked around the place. Her mama and the old woman were sit ting under a shade tree, holding hands and talking. Across the ro ad was a barn, and she could see a horse inside it. Green fields went clear to the horizon. She took a deep breath. The air smelle d delicious, like dirt, but not city dirt. Like growing-food dirt .Maybe this was where her horse took her when she dreamed. The co rnstalks reached for the sky, and her chest felt like little shoe s were tap-dancing inside it. She should have known that if her m ama liked something, it was worth liking. A couple of days, I th ink. Ch a p t e r 1 Twenty years later Sunlight streamed throug h the bar's dirty windows as the lunch crowd filled the place. Ca ra set two bottles of beer on the table in front of the familiar faces. The regulars knew the rules: all alcoholic drinks were pai d for upon delivery.One of the men held a five-dollar bill toward her but kept his eyes on the television. The other took a long d rink while he slid a hundred-dollar bill across the table. She s tared at the money, her heart pounding with desire.Mac kept most of the tip money the waitresses earned, and she'd never been give n anything larger than a twenty in her life. The money the custom er slid across the table wasn't just cash but power. It held the ability to fix Lori something besides boiled potatoes for every m eal next week. Would he even notice if I short changed him from such a large amount? Lines of honesty became blurry as the fight to remain hidden stole everything but mere existence. And her da ughter. Cara loathed that she couldn't apply for government help and that she had to uproot every few months to stay a few steps ahead of a maniac. Moving always cost money. Fresh security depos its on ever increasing rent. Working time lost as she searched fo r another job- each one more pathetic than the one before it. I'l l get your change. All of it. She took the money. Cara. Mac's g ruff voice sailed across the room. From behind the bar, he motion ed for her. Phone! He shook the receiver at her. Kendal says it's an emergency. Every sound echoing inside the wood-and-glass roo m ceased. She hurried toward him, snaking around tables filled wi th people. Keep it short.Mac passed the phone to her and returne d to serving customers. Kendal, what's wrong? He found us. Her friend's usually icy voice shook, and Cara knew that she was more frightened than she'd been the other times. How could he after all they'd done to hide? We got a letter at our new place? No.Wo rse. Kendal's voice quaked. He was here. Broke the lock and came inside looking for you. He ransacked the place. He what? He's g etting bolder, Cara. We have to call the police. You know we ca n't... Kendal dropped the sentence, and Cara heard her crying. O ne of the waitresses plunked a tray of dirty dishes onto the coun ter. Get off the phone, princess. Cara plugged her index finger into her ear, trying desperately to think. Where's Lori? I'm sur e they moved her to after-school care. Through the phone line, Ca ra heard a car door slam. They didn't own a car. A male voice as ked, Where to? Cara gripped the phone tighter. What's going on? Kendal sobbed. I'm sorry. I can't take this anymore. All we do i s live in fear and keep moving. He's...he's not after me. You kn ow he's trying to isolate me from everyone. Please, Kendal. I... I'm sorry. I can't help you anymore, Kendal whispered. The cab's waiting. Disbelief settled over her. How long ago did he break i n? From behind Cara, a shadow fell across the bar, engulfing her . Hi, Care Bear. She froze. Watching the silhouette, she noted h ow tiny she was in comparison. Mike's thick hand and wrist thudd ed a book onto the bar beside her. She watched him remove his han d, revealing her diary. You left me no choice about busting into your place. I was looking for answers about why you keep running off. She swallowed a wave of fear and faced him but couldn't fin d her voice. Johnny's dead. Now you're here...with me. His mass ive body loomed over her. I'd be willing to forget that you ever picked that loser. We could start fresh. Come on, beautiful, I ca n help you. Help me? The only person Mike wanted to help was him self-right int, WaterBrook, 2009, 3<

2009, ISBN: 9781400073962

WaterBrook, Taschenbuch, 352 Seiten, Publiziert: 2009-08-11T00:00:01Z, Produktgruppe: Buch, Hersteller-Nr.: 993960, 0.73 kg, Verkaufsrang: 819703, Zeitgenössisch, Liebesromane, Kategorien… Plus…

WaterBrook, Taschenbuch, 352 Seiten, Publiziert: 2009-08-11T00:00:01Z, Produktgruppe: Buch, Hersteller-Nr.: 993960, 0.73 kg, Verkaufsrang: 819703, Zeitgenössisch, Liebesromane, Kategorien, Bücher, Amisch, Fremdsprachige Bücher, Featured Categories, Englische Bücher, 7c9a6c79-19ea-4dea-90da-d7d47042d341_2301, 7c9a6c79-19ea-4dea-90da-d7d47042d341_0, Arborist Merchandising Root, acc906d0-2585-4921-a56f-3ff277850936_4901, acc906d0-2585-4921-a56f-3ff277850936_0, Special Features Stores, Taschenbücher, acc906d0-2585-4921-a56f-3ff277850936_4201, WaterBrook, 2009<