Monday, February 27, 2012

A Sweethaven Summer by Courtney Walsh

Suzanne's daughter, Campbell, journeys there in search of answers to her questions about her mother's history.

Suzanne's three friends-Lila, Jane, and Meghan-were torn apart by long-buried secrets and heartbreak. Though they haven't spoken in years, each has pieces of a scrapbook they made together in Sweethaven. Suzanne's letters have lured them all back to the idyllic lakeside town, where they meet Campbell and begin to remember what was so special about their long Sweethaven summers.

As the scrapbook reveals secrets one by one, old wounds are mended, lives are changed, and friendships are restored-just as Suzanne intended.


My Review:
Take your summer vacation early by visiting Sweethaven. What a wonderful book that brings the small town alive. In addition, the characters are those I'd befriend.

Four girlfriends have drifted apart for over twenty years. Now, through a scrapbook's clues, they meet again to rediscover the magic of forgiveness. New loves and friendships are formed and long buried secrets are revealed.

This is a good read.

Thank you to Bonnie at Christian Fiction Blog Alliance and Guidepost Books for my copy.

If you would like to read the first chapter, click here.

If you would like to buy a copy, click here.

Saturday, February 25, 2012

Dogwood by Chris Fabry

In the small town of Dogwood, West Virginia, Karin has buried her shattered dreams by settling for a faithful husband whose emotional distance from her deep passions and conflicts leaves her isolated. Loaded with guilt, she tries to raise three small children and “do life” the best she can.

Will returns to Dogwood intent on pursuing the only woman he has ever loved—only to find there is far more standing in his way than lost years in prison. The secrets of Will and Karin's past begin to emerge through Danny Boyd, a young boy who wishes he hadn't survived the tragedy that knit those two together as well as tore them apart. The trigger that will lay their pain bare and force them to face it rather than flee is the unlikely figure of Ruthie Bowles, a withered, wiry old woman who leads Karin so deep into her anger against God that it forces unexpected consequences.

The book released in August 2008 and was awarded the 2009 Christy Award in the Contemporary Standalone category.


My Review:
This plot reminds me of a beautifully colored tapestry. Chapters are written in the voices of the different characters, allowing the reader a glimpse of the total plot. This is one of those novels that by the time the last page has been turned, I find myself a bit frustrated that I had no more to read.

I recommend this one! Discussion questions are included.

Tuesday, February 21, 2012

Not in the Heart by Chris Fabry

Truman Wiley used to report news stories from around the world, but now the most troubling headlines are his own. He's out of work, out of touch with his family, out of his home. But nothing dogs him more than his son's failing heart.

With mounting hospital bills and Truman's penchant for gambling his savings, the situation seems hopeless . . . until his estranged wife throws him a lifeline—the chance to write the story of a death row inmate, a man convicted of murder who wants to donate his heart to Truman's son.

As the execution clock ticks down, Truman uncovers disturbing evidence that points to a different killer. For his son to live, must an innocent man die? Truman's investigation draws him down a path that will change his life, his family, and the destinies of two men forever.


My Review:
This novel grabbed my attention from the beginning. Truman Wiley, a jobless professional reporter, addicted to gambling, faces a mountain of bills--some because of his seriously ill son, who desperately needs a heart transplant. His marriage and his relationships are in shreds.

Truman has one chance to make a turn-around. He can write the story of a condemned killer who is willing to offer his heart to Truman's son. Truman digs for the truth, and wrestles with releasing it.

I found this intricate plot compelling. Reading Group questions included.

Thank you to FirstWildCard and Audra Jennings, The B&B Media Group for my review copy.

And now, the first chapter:


30 days before execution


The trouble with my wife began when she needed Jesus and I
needed a cat. Life can be that way. That’s part of the reason I was on Sanibel
Island in the cottage I had always dreamed of owning and she was in Tallahassee
tending to the sick son of our youth. But it’s more complicated. There was more
troubling me than religion or people who think problems can be solved with a
leap of faith.


Said cottage was a tiny house that seems to be the rage
among those who believe we are warming the planet with each exhale. I didn’t
buy it because of that, but I recycle my Coors Light cans. My little
contribution to the cause. Lately it’s been a hefty contribution. There was one
bedroom in the back and a little bathroom, a walk-through kitchen, and a living
area that I used as an office. Murrow usually sat in the window looking out at
the beach with as much interest as I have in paying both of my mortgages. It’s
not that I don’t want to pay. I can’t.


I was on the bed, surfing news sites, fueling the ache about
my lack of direction and lack of a job. The satellite TV company disconnected
me a few months ago, so I got my news online from the unprotected network of a
neighbor who can’t encrypt his wireless router.


I could see the downsizing coming in every area of the
conglomerate media company. I knew it would hit the newsroom, but I always
thought when the music stopped, I would have a chair. What I got was severance,
a pat on the back, and a shelf full of awards I stuffed into a suitcase that
sat in the attic of a cottage I couldn’t afford.


I closed my laptop and told Murrow I’d be back, as if she
cared, and walked barefoot out the front door and down the long, wooden
stairway to the beach. I bought this cottage for these long, head-clearing
walks. The sound of the waves crashing against doubts and fears. The smell of
the ocean and its salty cycle of life and death.


A mom and a dad dressed in white strolled along the beach
with two kids who squealed every time the water came close.


I walked the other way.


The phone rang as I passed a dead seagull. Not a good omen.


“Tru, it’s me.”


The woman of my dreams. The woman of my nightmares.
Everything good and bad about my life. The “I do” that “I didn’t.”


“Ellen. What’s up?”


“How are you?” She said it with a measure of compassion, as
if she weren’t holding back years of boiling anger. As if she didn’t have
something else she wanted to ask me and wasn’t just setting the stage for the
coup de grâce.


“I’m good. Just taking a walk on the beach.”


Wish you weren’t here. Wish you
weren’t still in my head. Wish you hadn’t called. Wish the last twenty years
were something I could bury in the sand. What were you thinking marrying a guy
like me? My life is a sand castle and my days are wind and water.


“Hear anything back yet? Any offers?”


“There’s nothing plural about my job prospects. Not even
singular. I did hear from the Fox station in Des Moines yesterday. They went
with somebody with longer hair and bigger lungs.”


She spoke with a wry smile. “It’s only a matter of time; you
know that.”


“Right. It’s always been a matter of time, hasn’t it?”


She let the irony hang there between us, and I could picture
her in her wedding dress and without it. Then the first time we met in the
university newsroom, big glasses and frilly blouse. Hair that smelled like the
ocean and felt like silk. A sharp wit, infectious laugh, and the tenacity of a
bloodhound on every story she covered. I thought we were always going to be on
the same page, but somehow I kept chasing headlines and she moved to the Life
section.


“I have something that might interest you,” she said.


“How old is she?” I’m not always a smart aleck with the
people I love. When I’m asleep, they tell me I don’t say much of anything.


“It’s not a she. It’s a he with a pretty good story. A great
story. A life changer.”


“Not into guys.”


She sighed and plowed ahead. “Have you heard of Terrelle
Conley?”


That was like asking a history major if she’d ever heard of
Alexis de Tocqueville. “I know he’s facing the needle.”


“Right. Next month.”


“Wonder what his last meal will be. How do they choose that
anyway? Shrimp and steak or lobster bisque? Macaroni and cheese? How can you
enjoy a meal knowing you only have hours left? Or what movie to watch? What
would you choose?”


“I know his wife, Oleta. She wants somebody to write the
story from his perspective. The whole family does.”


I laughed. “In thirty days or less.”


“They’ve scraped up some money. Not much, but it could
probably help.”


“How much is ‘probably’?”


“I don’t know exactly, but I was thinking you could call
Gina and find out if—”


“I’m not with Gina or the agency anymore. She dropped me.
Said it was a hard decision on their part. I guess they took a vote.”


“I’m sorry.”


“Just another bump in the literary highway. I don’t think writing
is my thing, anyway.” I said it halfheartedly, coaxing some kind of compliment.


“You’re a great writer,” she obliged. “You haven’t had as
many opportunities lately, but . . .”


“I haven’t had any politicians who want to be president or
sports stars who’ve been accused of steroids approach me in a few years. That’s
what you mean,” I said. “Where did you meet Olatha?”


“Oleta. I met her at church.”


Groan. How did I know that was coming?


I paused at a sand castle that had been constructed with
several five-gallon buckets. Towels and chairs had been abandoned for the
moment. Water filled the moat, and I heard laughter from a bungalow perched
like a lighthouse above. A couple in love.


“You must have some idea of how much.”


“A few thousand. We didn’t talk about that. The important
thing . . . it’s not just an opportunity for you. It’s for
Aiden.”


“Now you’re really getting cryptic. You want to back up?”


“Terrelle’s wife is in a study group with me. She’s known
about Aiden’s condition for years. Always asks for updates. Terrelle came up
with the idea—he wants to be a donor. A second chance for Aiden.”


I should have been doing cartwheels. Our eighteen-year-old
son could get a new lease on life? Instead, I was skeptical, like any good
journalist. “Ellen, there’s no chance. Do you know how long something like that
would take?”


“It’s been in process for a while.”


“Why didn’t you tell me?”


“You haven’t exactly been available.”


“The prison system, the authorities, they’ll never let
this—”


“The governor is taking it seriously. I’ve heard he’s
working with the legislature. It’s not a done deal, but there’s a chance.”


The governor. The hair rose on the back of my neck.


“Ellen, there’s some law firm in Tallahassee salivating at
all the appeals and counterappeals that are going to happen. This is less than
a long shot.”


“Yeah, but right now it’s looking like a pretty good long
shot.” There was emotion in her voice and for the first time I noticed noise in
the background.


“Where are you?”


She swallowed hard and I imagined her wiping away a tear. My
wife has had plenty of practice.


“At the hospital again,” she said. “ICU.”


I cursed under my breath and away from the phone. Not just
because of all the hospital bills I knew were coming my way, but also because
this was my son. I’ll be honest—the bills were the first thing I thought of,
but picturing him hooked up to tubes and needles again crushed me.


“How is he?”


“Not good. They’re monitoring him. Same story.”


“How long have you been there?”


“Since late last night. He was having trouble breathing.
Lots of pain. He asks about you.”


Guilt. She had to get that in there, didn’t she?


“Tell him to hang in there, okay?”


“Come see him. It would mean so much.”


“Yeah. I will.” I said it fast, though I knew I’d have to
launder all the cat hair from my clothes because Aiden’s deathly allergic to
cats just like I’m allergic to the inside of the death chamber.


Someone spoke over the intercom near her and the sound took
me back to those first days when I wasn’t as scared of hospitals. Back then I
could watch a movie or a TV show with a medical setting. Now I can’t even watch
the TV promos. My chest gets tight and the smell of alcohol and Betadine and
the shape of needles invades, mingling with the cries of a young child in pain
and another memory of a man on a gurney.


We discovered Aiden’s heart malady by accident. Ellen was
into natural food, natural medicine, whole-grain seaweed sandwiches and eggs
that came from free-range chickens who had bedtime stories read to them each
night before they settled into their nests. Natural childbirth with a midwife.
All that stuff. She was convinced antibiotics were the forbidden fruit, so she
didn’t run to the HMO every time our kids were sick. But something told her to
take Abby in for some chest congestion she couldn’t get rid of. Aiden was with
her, and on a lark the doctor placed the stethoscope on his chest.


Ellen cried when she tried to explain the look on the
woman’s face. They’d missed it when he was born.


That sent us on a crash course of congenital heart defects
and a series of surgeries and treatments that would change our lives. Ellen
hates hospitals as much as I do, but you do what you must for your kids.


“Terrelle has the same blood type,” Ellen said. “He’s about
the same size as Aiden, maybe a little smaller, which is good.”


“Ellen, you know this is not going to happen, right? There
are so many hoops and holes. They don’t let doctors execute people.”


“There are guidelines, but they don’t have a problem
harvesting organs from an already-deceased donor.”


“Anybody who’s pro-life will howl. I thought you were
pro-life.”


“I am, but this is something Terrelle wants.”


“Doesn’t matter. They harvest organs from prisoners in
China, but we’re not in China.” Though you wouldn’t know it by shopping at
Walmart.


“I know all that. But I also know my son is going to die.
And Terrelle and his wife want something good to come out of their tragedy.
They asked if you would write his story. I got to thinking that maybe . . .”


She broke a little and hearing her cry felt like some lonely
prayer drifting away and hitting the empty shores of heaven. Not that I believe
there is one, but you know, metaphorically speaking.


“You were thinking what?” I said.


“Maybe all of this is not really for Aiden. Maybe all we’ve
been through in the last eighteen years is for somebody else. If they deny
Terrelle’s request and Aiden doesn’t make it, maybe writing this story will
make a difference for someone down the road.”


Her altruism was more than I could handle. “Look, I don’t
care about all the people with sick kids. I don’t care about prisoners who want
to make up for their crimes. I don’t care about protesters or the politicians
who’ve found a wedge issue. I just want my son to live. Is that asking too
much?”


The emotion surprised me and I noticed the family in white
had changed direction but now quickly herded their children away from me.


It was Ellen’s turn to sound collected. “Do you have time to
work on something like that in the next thirty days? It would at least pay a
few bills.”


“If they’re trying to get a stay of execution, they need to
go straight to the press. Forget a book deal, forget a magazine exposé—it’s
already too late. Get somebody at one of the local stations to pick it up and
run with it—”


“Tru, they don’t want a stay. He wants to give his heart to
Aiden. And somebody has to get the story down before it’s over. No matter how
it goes, this will make a great story.”


I was already mulling titles in my head. A Heart from Death Row. Change of Heart. Pitter-Pat. Life in
Vein. Aorta Made a Better Choice.


She continued, “They know your history. What you’ve seen.
How you’re against the death penalty and why. For all your faults, Tru, you’re
the best reporter I’ve ever known. You get to the heart of the story like
nobody else. I think you should consider it.”


The Heart of the Story. Another
good title. I could tell she was buttering me up. I love being buttered up by
lovely women. But I hate the complications of life with beautiful women.


“I don’t write evangelical tracts.”


“Why are you so stubborn?” she whisper-screamed at me. Her
voice had an echo like she had moved into the bathroom or stairwell. “Why do
you have to look at this as some kind of spiritual conspiracy against you
instead of a gift? This is being handed to you on a platter. Don’t push it
away. I don’t care if you agree with them about God. You didn’t agree with
every sports figure or politician.”


“The only way I know how to do this job is to ferret out the
truth and tell it. Flat out. The way I see it. And if you’re expecting me to
throw in the third verse of a hymn every other chapter and quote the Gospel of
Terrelle, I can’t do that. Call somebody from the Christian right.”


“Tru, it’s because of who you are and how you tell the story
that they want you. Just talk with her. Let her explain. If you don’t like the
situation, they’ll go somewhere else. But they have to act quickly.”


The sun was coming down behind me and the wind picked up off
the water. I could smell the first hint of an impending storm. Or maybe I
forgot my deodorant.


“I’ll think about it.”


I hadn’t been gone that long, but as I walked up the
stairs, I heard a vehicle pulling away from the house. The taillights had
disappeared into the distance by the time I made it to my front door.


Murrow was still in the window, looking down on me with that
superior look. Humans are such a waste of oxygen,
she seemed to say. Maybe she was right. Maybe we are a waste of oxygen and the
best thing would be for us to be wiped from the planet. But something inside
said that wasn’t true. Something inside pushed me to keep moving, like an ant
dragging a piece of grass along the sidewalk until a strong wind blows it away.
The ant picks up another and starts over. I get exhausted just watching them.


On the front door was a legal document stating that whereby
and forthwith said mortgage company had begun said process with an intent to
foreclose and otherwise vacate said occupant’s tail onto the street to wit and
wheretofore so help them God, amen. I had received several such letters in the
mail, filing them carefully, hoping the rising tide of foreclosures would save
my little cottage until I got a new job.


I ripped the notice down and used it to wipe the sand from
my feet. And then a thought struck. A horrible, no-good, bad thought. The
newspaper. They published my name with each intent to foreclose. That meant
others would know where I was. Others, as in people I owed. Bad people.


Another car passed, slowly. Tinted windows. A low rumble of
expensive metal and fuel.


I hurried to the back of the little house and pulled out
every suitcase I could find and stowed everything of value. Books. Pictures of
me with newsmakers. Cloudy memories of trips abroad, war zones, interviews with
generals and dignitaries who went on to fame or perished in motorcades that
didn’t make it through IEDs.


It was hard not to sit and absorb the memories, but the
passing car gave urgency. I jammed every journal and notebook in with the
pictures, then put one suitcase with clothes in the trunk of my car and took
the rest on my shoulder down the sandy path to the Grahams’ house. Sweet
people. He retired from the Air Force and they moved for the sun and salty air.
Both should have died long ago from arthritis and other maladies, but they were
out walking the beach every day like two faithful dogs, paw in paw.


Jack and Millie were on the front porch, and I asked if I
could borrow some space in their garage for a suitcase or two. “I need to take
a trip. Someone new will be living in my house.”


“Relatives coming?”


“No, someone from the Bank of America wants it.”


Millie struggled to get out of her rocker and stood by a
white column near the front door. “If you need help, Truman, we’d be glad to.”


Jack nodded and the gesture almost brought tears to my eyes.
“How much are you short?” he said.


“Just a spot in the garage is all I need.”


“What about your cat?” Millie said.


“Murrow’s going with me.”


“If we can do anything at all . . . ,”
Jack’s voice trailed.


“I appreciate it. I appreciate both of you. Thanks for your
kindness.”


“We pray for Aiden every day,” Millie said.


The garage was spotless. Everything hanging up or neatly
placed on shelves. I should have joined the Air Force. In the back I found an
empty space near some gardening tools. I shook Jack’s hand gently and gave
Millie a hug. I only turned and looked at them once as I walked back to the
house. They stood like sentinels, the fading light of the sun casting a golden
glow around them and their house.


When Murrow saw the cat carrier, she bolted under the sofa
and I threatened to sell her to the local Chinese restaurant. An open can of
StarKist and my tender, compassionate voice helped coax her into the carrier,
and we were off.


I texted my wife: Will call your
friend tomorrow. Can I use Abby’s room?


The phone buzzed in my shirt pocket as I drove along the
causeway into darkening clouds. Key under frog. No
cats.
The next text gave Oleta’s number and a short message. You were made for this story.


Maybe she was right. Maybe I was the one for this job. One
loser telling the story of his kindred spirit. I sure didn’t have anything
better to do. But with the window down and my hand out, being pushed back by
the cool air, it felt less like the start of a new chapter and more like the
end of one.



Monday, February 20, 2012

Into the Free by Julie Cantrell

Just a girl. The only one strong enough to break the cycle.

Young Millie Reynolds must confront the past and overcome her family's long history of destructive choices before finding her own path to freedom. Millie Reynolds knows firsthand the shame of family secrets. With an abusive father and a "nothing mama," she craves a place of true belonging.

Over time, the gypsies that travel through town each spring offer acceptance. Then tragedy strikes and Millie leaves her world of poverty to join a prominent family on the other side of town. There, with the help of unlikely sources, Millie uncovers painful truths about her family's past as she struggles to face a God she believes has abandoned her.

When unconditional love is offered, Millie learns the power of forgiveness and finally discovers where she belongs.


My Review:
I loved this coming-of-age story! The writing is lyrical. It's the first from Julie Cantrell; I'm certain we'll hear more from her.

Written in the first-person point of view of Millie, a nine-year-old Mississippi girl who experiences the underbelly of life, and therefore becomes an "old soul" as described by her mother. The reader peeks into Millie's frustrating life with an abusive father and a "nothing mama." Family secrets offers some comfort along with more pain as they are revealed. Millie grows into a young lady of seventeen, relying on comfort from a sweet gum tree she names "Sweetie." From her perch in the upper branches, she hides and observes. She believes that she is alone in a Godless world.

Note: Reader's Guide included, along with an interview with the author.

Thank you to Bonnie at Christian Fiction Blog Alliance and David C. Cook for my copy.

If you would like to read the first chapter, click here.

If you would like to buy a copy, click here.

Sunday, February 19, 2012

When the Hurt Runs Deep by Kay Arthur

Healing and Hope for Life's Desperate Moments

Does your grief or disappointment seem overwhelming? At some point in life, every one of us will face the dark pain of heartache and despair, a hurt that pierces so deep we're left gasping with questions:

Why me? Why now?
What have I done to deserve this?
Will the pain ever go away?
How can God just stand by and let this happen?
What do I have left to hope for?

Writing from insights she has gained, not only through her own valleys of deep hurt but also from years of study and counseling others through their pain, Kay Arthur points the way toward genuine healing. With candor, grace, and vulnerability, she invites you to join her on a journey toward wholeness as you exchange your fears and frustrations, hurts and disappointments for a hope that will never disappoint. Learn powerful principles to guide you to the light of redemption and hope.


My Review:
Into every life some rain must fall, and we all will have or have already experienced pain. I found that Kay Arthur has had her share of storms too. This makes her capable to advising how to cope. Using the Bible, Arthur talks about a variety of hurts.

I especially found her discussion of suicide quite informative when helping loved ones cope with the deep hurt of this loss.

A Study Guide and Meditation Journal are included.

Thank you to Laura Tucker at WaterBrook Press for my copy.

Saturday, February 18, 2012

Heart of Gold by Robin Lee Hatcher

Against Shannon's wishes, love stakes its claim in her heart. Will she discover treasure or treachery?

When Shannon Adair accompanies her minister father to the western gold rush town of Grand Coeur, she's certain she'll never be happy away from her beloved Virginia, even though the South is still gripped in civil war.

Wells Fargo driver Matthew Dubois isn't sure the lovely Shannon belongs in Idaho Territory either, but he is a desperate man. His widowed sister is dying and leaving her young son, Todd, in his care. Matthew wants to return to driving coach for the express company soon-so he'll have to find a wife to look after the boy when he's away.

Shannon is determined not to lose her heart to a man who is neither a Southerner nor a gentleman. But love stakes its claim. Now, will her heart survive learning the truth behind the courtship?


My Review:
After her mother's death, Shannon Adair and her minister father, move from Virginia to a small, dirty town in Idaho. She disdains it; nothing is as good as it was at "home," and she longs to return. However, bit by bit Shannon begins to appreciate her new home and to learn to live with people of all races.

The characters are believable. I enjoyed this plot. There are enough twists to keep me reading. I recommend this one!

Reading Group Guide included.

Thank you to Booksneeze/Thomas Nelson for my copy.

Sunday, February 12, 2012

When the Smoke Clears by Lynette Eason

Deadly Reunions, Book One

As a member of the North Cascades Smokejumpers, Alexia Allen always takes care of the equipment that keeps her safe. So when she nearly dies in a fire due to equipment failure, she knows something is up. Ordered to take time off while the investigation continues, Alexia makes a last-minute decision to recuperate at her mother's home and attend her high school reunion.

Yet trouble seems to be following her, and within hours of arriving home she's involved with murder, arson--and a handsome detective. But the conflicts ahead are nothing compared to the ghosts of her past. As she strives to remember and forgive her family history, she must also decide if the secret she's been guarding for the last ten years must finally come to light.


My Review:
I enjoyed trying to figure out why Alexis Allen has run-ins with crimes--crimes against her! She sure lives in a dangerous world. She leaves her childhood home directly after her high school graduation. The reader discovers her reasons for the quick getaway. The story opens ten years later when Alexis runs out of air while rescuing a child from a fire, only to find tiny holes in her air hose. While her superiors investigate the cause, Alexis is able to come home to visit her mother in the hospital due to unknown causes and her brother nowhere to be found. These mysteries are later solved.

However, I must point out that all mysteries are not solved within the covers of this novel. I suppose the author wants to have readers hungry for the next book in the series when perhaps, other pieces of the puzzle will be brought to light. No fair, I say!

Nonetheless, I had a good time reading this first in the series, and I look forward to reading the next in the series.

Thank you to Donna Hausler at The Baker Publishing Group/Revell for my copy. Available February, 2012 at your favorite bookseller from Revell, a division of Baker Publishing Group.

Tuesday, February 7, 2012

Giveaway! Far From Here by Nicole Baart

How long do you hold on to hope?

Danica Greene has always hated flying, so it was almost laughable that the boy of her dreams was a pilot. She married him anyway and she and Etsell settled into a happy life in the small Iowa town where they grew up. But when the opportunity to spend three weeks in Alaska helping a pilot friend presents itself, Etsell accepts and their idyllic world is turned upside down.

Ell is gone only a few days when his plane mysteriously vanishes shortly after takeoff, leaving Danica in a free fall. Etsell is gone, but what exactly does gone mean? Is she a widow? An abandoned wife? Or will Etsell find his way home to her? Danica is forced to search for the truth in her marriage and treks to Alaska to grapple with the unanswerable questions about her husband’s mysterious disappearance. But when she learns that Ell wasn’t flying alone, the bits and pieces of the careful life that she had constructed for them in Iowa take to the wind.


My Review:
Here is a romance with a twist. Through flashbacks, the author tells the story of Danica and Etsell (Dani and Ell)--meeting, falling in love, and marrying while quite young. Ten years into marriage, and Ell, a man who loves flying a small aircraft, leaves Dani, who has a white-knuckle fear of flying, for a three-week business trip in Alaska, and goes missing. The characters are fleshed out so well that connections are made with this reader. The author is adept in bringing characters to life.

The story is compelling; I became anxious to find out how the plot ends. The conclusion, although somewhat expected, felt abrupt. This is one of those books, the reader did not want to end.

Some profanity is used.

Reading Group Guide is included. If you're in a book club, this one will definitely help the discussion.

Thank you to Anne Staszalek from AuthorsOnTheWeb for my copy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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