By Luanne Rice
New York Times bestselling writer Luanne Rice made her effective debut with this delicately drawn yet emotionally strong portrait of a woman’s outstanding trip of the guts and soul–a undying tale of affection, sisterhood, and the wish that emerges even out of heartbreak....
Una Cavan doesn’t think in ghosts. yet ghosts appear to think in her. at the very least, her father’s ghost does, strolling into and out of her existence as casually as though he have been coming into and exiting a room. Una has consistently believed the Cavan ladies had the ability of witches, and from the seashores of Connecticut to the bustle of latest York urban they’ve shared the distinctive unbreakable bond of sisters. No guy has been capable of come among them…until Lily marries the “perfect” guy and starts to float away and Margo will get engaged. With one other failed dating in the back of her, and a thriving occupation as an actress prior to her, Una wonders if she’s destined to be alone–or if there isn’t anything extra, whatever magical that existence has in shop for her. Then an unforeseen come upon supplies her the reply she’s been seeking….
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Well, sure. I mean, say you’re sailing an upwind leg, and you’re heelin’ as far as you can go, and you have to—relieve yourself. What’s a lady going to do? She can’t hang over the side the way a guy can. And no one would ever want her to. ” He shrugged his wide shoulders. “I mean, pissin’s not all. It’s not the most important thing. Sure, there are some lady racers, but none you’d want to share your bunk with. You need muscles to sail, Una. ” “I know that,” I said solemnly. It was clear that Alastair considered his use of “lady” instead of “girl” a concession to my feminist sensibilities.
The camera is not kind. If I gain a pound in life, it looks like two on television. I must move with extreme grace, with perfect posture, as if I had a bowl of raspberries balanced on the crown of my head. Right on the crown. I must not spill one piece of fruit. I envision the bowl: it is blue-and-white Canton china, made in a dynasty so long ago that the bones of its maker have turned to dust and sunk to the center of the earth. If you try to dig to China, that is what you will find. Dance class helps me make the grace, the posture, the thinness possible.
I looked around the room. It was spare, with tall ceilings and windows, furnished with castoffs. Wicker chairs that had once rocked on my parents’ porch in Connecticut, low mahogany tables that had belonged to my grandmother, bookcases filled with books I had had since childhood. I loved living in Chelsea, but that gray November morning I realized that I had been living in that apartment ever since I had started on Beyond the Bridge. I could afford something much better if I wanted it. The boulder of change, dislodged that day in Newport, had gathered momentum.