SS Book Club: Book 1&2 Poll

[wbarker]

When the poll goes up, please vote on your top 2 so we can get the first two books chosen!

Ok everyone, I'm starting by posting information on the books first - I'll include the title, author, info from Amazon.com, and an excerpt if I can find it. I'm going to post each book in a different post, so give me a bit to get the poll up - thanks! :)

PS - My hope is to get 2 books picked via the poll so we can find them and get our hands on them. We can always change it later, but I thought that might be easier for some.

I'm going to list a majority of Mystery/Thriller as that was the most popular genre, but I'm going to include a few others as well.

[mood4amelody]

Yay!!!!!!!! Thanks for doing such a great job Wendi!!! :D

[wbarker]

Murder on a Girls' Night Out: A Southern Sisters Mystery
by Anne George

Synopsis (from Barnes & Noble.com)


A Different Kind of Sister Act

Patricia Anne -- "Mouse" -- is respectful, respectable, and demure, a perfect example of genteel Southern womanhood. Mary Alice -- "Sister" -- is big, brassy, flamboyant, and bold. Together they have a knack for finding themselves in the center of some of Birmingham's most unfortunate unpleasantness.

Country Western is red hot these days, so overimpulsive Mary Alice thinks it makes perfect sense to buy the Skoot 'n' Boot bar -- since that's where the many-times-divorced "Sister" and her boyfriend du jour like to hang out anyway. Sensible retired schoolteacher Patricia Anne is inclined to disagree -- especially when they find a strangled and stabbed dead body dangling in the pub's wishing well. The sheriff has some questions for Mouse and her sister Sister, who were the last people, besides the murderer, of course, to see the ill-fated victim alive. And they had better come up with some answers soon -- because a killer with unfinished business has begun sending them some mighty threatening messages...


Publishers Weekly
A refreshingly different heroine, retired Alabama schoolteacher Patricia Anne Hollowell, is drawn into a murder investigation after her colorful sister, Mary Alice, buys a country-western club. When the previous owner is found gruesomely murdered, the suspects include the club's cook, one of Patricia Anne's former prize students. Sprightly dialogue and a humorous eye for detail get this mystery off to a promising start. However, once the offbeat characters are introduced, they and their relationships fail to change or deepen. The dialogue becomes repetitive, and the telling domestic observations lapse into trivia. Clues accumulate more through coincidence than through investigation, with the conclusion weighed down by a welter of implausible connections and old secrets. (Feb.)

Excerpt

Chapter One
Mary Alice flung her purse on my kitchen table, where it landed with a crash, pulled a stool over to the counter and perched on it. "Perched" may not be the right word, since Mary Alice weighs two hundred and fifty pounds. The stool groaned and splayed, but it held. I began to breath again.

"I have decided," she announced, "that I am not going gentle into that good night."

"Thank God," I said. "We were all worried about you. Last year when you dyed your hair Hot Tart--""Cinnamon Red."

"Well, whatever. We all said, 'There she goes gentle.

Mary Alice giggled. She's sixty-five years old, but she still giggles like a young girl. And men still love it.

"That was a little much." She patted her hair. "This is just plain old Light Golden Blond. It's what you ought to use, Patricia Anne."

"Too much trouble." The timer went off on the stove and I took out a batch of oatmeal cookies.

"It would charge Fred's batteries."

"There's nothing wrong with Fred's batteries." I went around her to get a spatula and opened the drawer too hard, banging it against my leg. How long had it taken her to get to me this time? One minute? No record. In the sixty years we have been sisters, I figure the record is somewhere below zero, into the negative integers of time. Absolute proof of the theory of relativity.

"Well, your hair sure could use some help."

I scooped up a hot cookie and handed it to her. Bum, baby, bum.

Mary Alice blew on the cookie. A couple of crumbs fell on her turquoise T-shirt, which declared "Tough Old Bird" and which had a pelican with a yellow beak peeking around the words. Given the expanse andjiggle of Mary Alice's chest, that bird was having a rough flight. "Hand me a paper towel," she said. I tore one off and gave it to her. She sank her small teeth into the cookie. "Ummm," she said. "Ummm."

"Good?"

"Ummm."

I put the plate by her. "You want some tea?"

"Ummm." She reached for a second cookie. "Mouse," she said, "these are great."

I banged the ice into the glasses. Mouse. The old childhood nickname.

Mary Alice looked up. "I'm sorry. It just slipped out."

I sighed. "It doesn't matter."

"And mice are little and cute."

"And can bite."

"Yeah. I'd forgotten about that." Mary Alice has a crescent scar on her leg where I bit her when I was three and she wouldn't let me play with her Shirley Temple doll. Daddy had liked to tell the story and said he thought they were going to have to wait until it thundered to get me to turn loose, a reference to snapping turtles. He and Mother had called me Mouse, too, though. And say what you please, if Mary Alice and I hadn't been born at home, I know they would have been at the hospital having the records checked to make sure we hadn't been mixed up. Whereas Mary Alice had been born a brunette with olive skin, I had been a wispy blonde and pale. She had been healthy and boisterous; 1, sickly and quiet. My big teeth should have been hers. You name it; if it could be different, it was.

"I know a woman named Jean Poole," Mary Alice said. I smiled. We had been thinking the same thing. "What I came to tell you, though, is I've bought a country-western bar named the Skoot 'n' Boot. Up Highway 78."

I laughed and reached for a cookie.

"When Bill and I were in Branson, Missouri, last spring, we learned how to line dance, and we've been going out to the Skoot 'n' Boot every Thursday night. It's a lot of fun. You and Fred ought to try it."

"Are you serious?"

"Of course I'm serious. Y'all don't do enough. Fred's only sixty-three. Bill's seventy-two and he just loves it. He"s hardly out of breath when it's over." Bill Adams is Mary Alice's current "boyfriend." I swear that's what she calls him. He showed up trying to sell her a supplement to her Medicare and he never really left.

"No, I mean about buying this place."

"Sure I'm serious. I told you I wasn't going gentle into that good night."

"Nobody thought you were, Sister."

"And country-western bars are hot right now. Everybody's going to them, getting dressed up in their fringy clothes and boots."

"Fringy clothes?"

"Stuff with fringe on it. You know." Mary Alice stretched her fingers out from her chest as if she were pulling bubble gum from the pelican's beak. "Fringe. Tassles."

"Where is it, this bar?"

"The Skoot 'n' Boot. I told you. It's about twenty miles out Highway 78. Bill and I were in there the other night and got to talking to the man who owns it, and he said he was trying to sell it, that he needed to go back to Atlanta because both his parents are sick and he needs to be near them. He says he hates to leave because the club's doing so well. There was a crowd out on the floor line dancing and I thought, Well, why not? Roger would have liked his money invested this way. So we met at the bank this morning and I bought it."

Roger had been Mary Alice's third husband. They had all died rich and, thanks to Sister, happy. She had given each of them a child, which, considering their advanced ages, was more than they had expected. And I think she really loved them-the husbands. She has them buried together at Elmwood Cemetery for convenience...


Price:
Amazon Marketplace starting at $0.27 + shipping
Half.com starting at $.75 + shipping

[wbarker]

Anyone read books on a PDA (Windows Based) ?
:)

PM me if you do!

[wbarker]

Sleeping Murder: Miss Marple Series
by Agatha Christie

Synopsis
Miss Marple discovers what makes a house a home-to murder...

Gwenda Reed's new home, a charming Victorian villa, is giving the lovely new bride the strangest feeling of dŽjˆ vu-and an unnatural dread that's taking its toll. But how can her husband's aunt, Miss Marple, solve a mystery such as this when the only clues are those in Gwenda's vivid imagination?

Annotation
Sent by her husband to find a suitable house, a young bride finds what she thinks is the perfect choice--a charming Victorian villa called Hillside. But strange events soon lead her to believe that the house is haunted. Miss Marple however has a more sinister explanation.

Excerpt

Chapter One
A MOUSE
Gwenda Reed stood, shivering a little, on the quayside.

The docks and the custom sheds and all of England that we could see were gently waving up and down.

And it was in that moment that she made her decision -- the decision that was to lead to such very momentous events.

She wouldn't go by the boat train to London as she had planned.

After all, why should she? No one was waiting for her, nobody expected her. She had only just got off that heaving creaking boat (it had been an exceptionally rough three days through the Bay and up to Plymouth) and the last thing she wanted was to get into a heaving, swaying train. She would go to a hotel, a nice firm, steady hotel standing on good solid ground. And she would get into a nice steady bed that didn't creak and roll. And she would go to sleep, and the next morning -- why, of course -- what a splendid idea! She would hire a car and she would drive slowly and without hurrying herself all through the south of England looking about for a house -- a nice house -- the house that she and Giles had planned she should find. Yes, that was a splendid idea.

In that way she would see something of England -- of the England that Giles had told her about and which she had never seen; although, like most New Zealanders, she called it home. At the moment, England was not looking particularly attractive. It was a gray day with rain imminent and a sharp, irritating wind blowing. Plymouth, Gwenda thought, as she moved forward obediently in the queue for Passports and Customs, was probably not the best of England.

On the following morning, however, herfeelings were entirely different. The sun was shining. The view from her window was attractive. And the universe in general was no longer waving and wobbling. It had steadied down. This was England at last and here she was, Owenda Reed, young married woman of twenty-one, on her travels. Giles's return to England was uncertain. He might follow her in a few weeks. It might be as long as six months. His suggestion had been that Gwenda should precede him to England and should look about for a suitable house. They both thought it would be nice to have, somewhere, a permanency. Giles's job would always entail a certain amount of travelling. Sometimes Gwenda would come too, sometimes the conditions would not be suitable. But they both liked the idea of having a home -- some place of their very own. Giles had inherited some furniture from an aunt recently, so that everything combined to make the idea a sensible and practical one.

Since both Gwenda and Giles were reasonably well-off, the prospect presented no difficulties.

Gwenda had demurred at first to choosing a house on her own. "We ought to do it together," she had said. But Giles had said laughingly: "I'm not much of a hand at houses. If you like it, I shall. A bit of a garden, of course, and not some brand -- new horror -- and not too big. Some

where on the south coast was my idea. At any rate, not too far inland."

"Was there any particular place?" Gwenda asked. But Giles said no. He'd been left an orphan young (they were both orphans) and had been passed around to various relations for holidays, and no particular spot had any particular association for him. It was to be Gwenda's house, and as for waiting until they could choose it together, suppose he were held up for six months? What would Gwenda do with herself all that time? Hang about in hotels? No, she was to find a house and get settled in.

"What you mean is", said Gwenda, "do all the work!"

But she liked the idea of finding a home and having it all ready, cosy and lived in, for when Giles came back.

They had been married just three months and she loved him very much.

After sending for breakfast in bed, Gwenda got up and arranged her plans. She spent a day seeing Plymouth, which she enjoyed, and on the following day she hired a comfortable Daimler car and chauffeur and set off on her journey through England.

The weather was good and she enjoyed her tour very much. She saw several possible residences in Devonshire but nothing that she felt was exactly right. There was no hurry. She would go on looking. She teamed to read between the lines of the house agents' enthusiastic descriptions and saved herself a certain number of fruitless errands.

It was on a Tuesday evening about a week later that the car came gently down the curving hill road into Dillmouth and on the outskirts of that still charming seaside resort, passed a For Sale board where, through the trees, a glimpse of a small white Victorian villa could be seen.

Immediately Gwenda felt a throb of appreciation -- almost of recognition. This was her house! Already she was sure of it. She could picture the garden, the long windows --she was sure that the house was just what she wanted.

It was late in the day, so she put up at the Royal Clarence Hotel and went to the house agents whose name she had noted on the board the following morning.

Presently, armed with an order to view, she was standing in the old-fashioned long drawing room with its two French windows giving onto a flagged terrace in front of which a kind of rockery interspersed with flowering shrubs fell sharply to a stretch of lawn below. Through the trees at the bottom of the garden the sea could be seen.

"This is my house," thought Gwenda. "It's home. I feel already as though I know every bit of it."

The door opened and a tall melancholy woman with...


Used pricing information:
Amazon.com marketplace starting at $0.01 + S&H
Half.com starting at $0.75 + S&H

[wbarker]

The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency
by Alexander McCall Smith

240 pages


Synopsis

The No.1 Ladies´ Detective Agency, located in Gaborone, Botswana, consists of one woman, the engaging Precious Ramotswe. A cross between Kinsey Millhone and Miss Marple, this unlikely heroine specializes in missing husbands, wayward daughters, con men and imposters. When she sets out on the trail of a missing child she is tumbled headlong into some strange situations and not a little danger. Deftly interweaving tragedy and humor to create a memorable tale of human desires and foibles, the book is also an evocative portrait of a distant world.

Review
[Edited]. . .pleasing novel about Mma (aka Precious) Ramotswe, Botswana's one and only lady private detective. A series of vignettes linked to the establishment and growth of Mma Ramotswe's "No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency" serve not only to entertain but to explore conditions in Botswana in a way that is both penetrating and light thanks to Smith's deft touch. Mma Ramotswe's cases come slowly and hesitantly at first: women who suspect their husbands are cheating on them; a father worried that his daughter is sneaking off to see a boy; a missing child who may have been killed by witchdoctors to make medicine; a doctor who sometimes seems highly competent and sometimes seems to know almost nothing about medicine. The desultory pace is fine, since she has only a detective manual, the frequently cited example of Agatha Christie and her instincts to guide her. Mma Ramotswe's love of Africa, her wisdom and humor, shine through these pages as she shines her own light on the problems that vex her clients. Images of this large woman driving her tiny white van or sharing a cup of bush tea with a friend or client while working a case linger pleasantly.

Excerpt

Chapter One
The Daddy

Mma Ramotswe had a detective agency in Africa, at the foot of Kgale Hill. These were its assets: a tiny white van, two desks, two chairs, a telephone, and an old typewriter. Then there was a teapot, in which Mma Ramotswe — the only lady private detective in Botswana — brewed redbush tea. And three mugs — one for herself, one for her secretary, and one for the client. What else does a detective agency really need? Detective agencies rely on human intuition and intelligence, both of which Mma Ramotswe had in abundance. No inventory would ever include those, of course.

But there was also the view, which again could appear on no inventory. How could any such list describe what one saw when one looked out from Mma Ramotswe's door? To the front, an acacia tree, the thorn tree which dots the wide edges of the Kalahari; the great white thorns, a warning; the olive-grey leaves, by contrast, so delicate. In its branches, in the late afternoon, or in the cool of the early morning, one might see a Go-Away Bird, or hear it, rather. And beyond the acacia, over the dusty road, the roofs of the town under a cover of trees and scrub bush; on the horizon, in a blue shimmer of heat, the hills, like improbable, overgrown termite-mounds.

Everybody called her Mma Ramotswe, although if people had wanted to be formal, they would have addressed her as Mme Mma Ramotswe. This is the right thing for a person of stature, but which she had never used of herself. So it was always Mma Ramotswe, rather than Precious Ramotswe, a name which veryfew people employed.

She was a good detective, and a good woman. A good woman in a good country, one might say. She loved her country, Botswana, which is a place of peace, and she loved Africa, for all its trials. I am not ashamed to be called an African patriot, said Mma Ramotswe. I love all the people whom God made, but I especially know how to love the people who live in this place. They are my people, my brothers and sisters. It is my duty to help them to solve the mysteries in their lives. That is what I am called to do.

In idle moments, when there were no pressing matters to be dealt with, and when everybody seemed to be sleepy from the heat, she would sit under her acacia tree. It was a dusty place to sit, and the chickens would occasionally come and peck about her feet, but it was a place which seemed to encourage thought. It was here that Mma Ramotswe would contemplate some of the issues which, in everyday life, may so easily be pushed to one side.

Everything, thought Mma Ramotswe, has been something before. Here I am, the only lady private detective in the whole of Botswana, sitting in front of my detective agency. But only a few years ago there was no detective agency, and before that, before there were even any buildings here, there were just the acacia trees, and the river-bed in the distance, and the Kalahari over there, so close.

In those days there was no Botswana even, just the Bechuanaland Protectorate, and before that again there was Khama's Country, and lions with the dry wind in their manes. But look at it now: a detective agency, right here in Gaborone, with me, the fat lady detective, sitting outside and thinking these thoughts about how what is one thing today becomes quite another thing tomorrow.

Mma Ramotswe set up the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency with the proceeds of the sale of her father's cattle. He had owned a big herd, and had no other children; so every single beast, all one hundred and eighty of them, including the white Brahmin bulls whose grandparents he had bred himself, went to her. The cattle were moved from the cattle post, back to Mochudi where they waited, in the dust, under the eyes of the chattering herd boys, until the livestock agent came.

They fetched a good price, as there had been heavy rains that year, and the grass had been lush. Had it been the year before, when most of that southern part of Africa had been wracked by drought, it would have been a different matter. People had dithered then, wanting to hold on to their cattle, as without your cattle you were *****; others, feeling more desperate, sold, because the rains had failed year after year and they had seen the animals become thinner and thinner. Mma Ramotswe was pleased that her father's illness had prevented his making any decision, as now the price had gone up and those who had held on were well rewarded.

"I want you to have your own business," he said to her on his death bed. "You'll get a good price for the cattle now. Sell them and buy a business. A butchery maybe. A bottle store. Whatever you like."

She held her father's hand and looked into the eyes of the man she loved beyond all others, her Daddy, her wise Daddy, whose lungs had been filled with dust in those mines and who had scrimped and saved to make life good for her.

It was difficult to talk through her tears, but she managed to say: "I'm going to set up a detective agency. Down in Gaborone. It will be the best one in Botswana. The No. 1 Agency."

For a moment her father's eyes opened wide and it seemed as if he was struggling to speak.

"But ... but ..."

But he died before he could say anything more, and Mma Ramotswe fell on his chest and wept for all the dignity, love and suffering that died with him.

She had a sign painted in bright colours, which was then set up just off the Lobatse Road, on the edge of town, pointing to the small building she had purchased: THE NO. 1 LADIES' DETECTIVE AGENCY. FOR ALL CONFIDENTIAL MATTERS AND ENQUIRIES. SATISFACTION GUARANTEED FOR ALL PARTIES. UNDER PERSONAL MANAGEMENT.

There was considerable public interest in the setting up of her agency. There was an interview on Radio Botswana, in which she thought she was rather rudely pressed to reveal her qualifications, and a rather more satisfactory article in The Botswana News, which drew attention to the fact that she was the only lady private detective in the country. This article was cut out, copied, and placed prominently on a small board beside the front door of the agency.

After a slow start, she was rather surprised to find that her services were in considerable demand. She was consulted about missing husbands, about the creditworthiness of potential business partners, and about suspected fraud by employees. In almost every case, she was able to come up with at least some information for the client; when she could not, she waived her fee, which meant that virtually nobody who consulted her was dissatisfied. People in Botswana liked to talk, she discovered, and the mere mention of the fact that she was a private detective would let loose a positive outpouring of information on all sorts of subjects. It flattered people, she concluded, to be approached by a private detective, and this effectively loosened their tongues. This happened with Happy Bapetsi, one of her earlier clients. Poor Happy! To have lost your daddy and then found him, and then lost him again ...

"I used to have a happy life," said Happy Bapetsi. "A very happy life. Then this thing happened, and I can't say that any more."

Mma Ramotswe watched her client as she sipped her bush tea. Everything you wanted to know about a person was written in the face, she believed. It's not that she believed that the shape of the head was what counted — even if there were many who still clung to that belief; it was more a question of taking care to scrutinise the lines and the general look. And the eyes, of course; they were very important. The eyes allowed you to see right into a person, to penetrate their very essence, and that was why people with something to hide wore sunglasses indoors. They were the ones you had to watch very carefully.

Continue Excerpt Here: http://search.barnesandnoble.com/booksearch/isbnInquiry.asp?z=y&EAN=9781400034772&itm=3#CHP

Used prices:
Amazon Market. start at $0.99 +S&H
Half.com start at $0.75 +S&H

[wbarker]

The Rainmaker
by John Grisham

608 pages

Synopsis
Synopsis
Now, inThe Rainmaker, Grisham returns to the courtroom for the first time since A Time To Kill, and weaves a riveting tale of legal intrigue and corporate greed. Combining suspense, narrative momentum, and humor as only John Grisham can, this is another spellbinding read from the most popular author of our time.

Grisham's sixth spellbinding novel of legal intrigue and corporate greed displays all of the intricate plotting, fast-paced action, humor, and suspense that have made him the most popular author of our time. In his first courtroom thriller since A Time To Kill, John Grisham tells the story of a young man barely out of law school who finds himself taking on one of the most powerful, corrupt, and ruthless companies in America -- and exposing a complex, multibillion-dollar insurance scam. In hs final semester of law school Rudy Baylor is required to provide free legal advice to a group of senior citizens, and it is there that he meets his first "clients," Dot and Buddy Black. Their son, Donny Ray, is dying of leukemia, and their insurance company has flatly refused to pay for his medical treatments. While Rudy is at first skeptical, he soon realizes that the Blacks really have been shockingly mistreated by the huge company, and that he just may have stumbled upon one of the largest insurance frauds anyone's ever seen -- and one of the most lucrative and important cases in the history of civil litigation. The problem is, Rudy's flatbroke, has no job, hasn't even passed the bar, and is about to go head-to-head with one of the best defense attorneys -- and powerful industries -- in America.

Excerpt
My decision to become a lawyer was irrevocably sealed when I realized my father hated the legal profession. I was a young teenager, clumsy, embarrassed by my awkwardness, frustrated with life, horrified of puberty, about to be shipped off to a military school by my father for insubordination. He was an ex-Marine who believed boys should live by the crack of the whip. I'd developed a quick tongue and an aversion to discipline, and his solution was simply to send me away. It was years before I forgave him.

He was also an industrial engineer who worked seventy hours a week for a company that made, among many other items, ladders. Because by their very nature ladders are dangerous devices, his company became a frequent target of lawsuits. And because he handled design, my father was the favorite choice to speak for the company in depositions and trials. I can't say that I blame him for hating lawyers, but I grew to admire them because they made his life so miserable. He'd spend eight hours haggling with them, then hit the martinis as soon as he walked in the door. No hellos. No hugs. No dinner. Just an hour or so of continuous *****ing while he slugged down four martinis then passed out in his battered recliner. One trial lasted three weeks, and when it ended with a large verdict against the company my mother called a doctor and they hid him in a hospital for a month.

The company later went broke, and of course all blame was directed at the lawyers. Not once did I hear any talk that maybe a trace ofmismanagement could in any way have contributed to the bankruptcy.

Liquor became his life, and he became depressed. He went years without a steady job, which really ticked me off because I was forced to wait tables and deliver pizza so I could claw my way through college. I think I spoke to him twice during the four years of my undergraduate studies. The day after I learned I had been accepted to law school, I proudly returned home with this great news. Mother told me later he stayed in bed for a week.

Two weeks after my triumphant visit, he was changing a lightbulb in the utility room when (I swear this is true) a ladder collapsed and he fell on his head. He lasted a year in a coma in a nursing home before someone mercifully pulled the plug.

Several days after the funeral, I suggested the possibility of a lawsuit, but Mother was just not up to it. Also, I've always suspected he was partially inebriated when he fell. And he was earning nothing, so under our tort system his life had little economic value.

My mother received a grand total of fifty thousand dollars in life insurance, and remarried badly. He's a simple sort, my stepfather, a retired postal clerk from Toledo, and they spend most of their time square dancing and traveling in a Winnebago. I keep my distance. Mother didn't offer me a dime of the money, said it was all she had to face the future with, and since I'd proven rather adept at living on nothing, she felt I didn't need any of it. I had a bright future earning money; she did not, she reasoned. I'm certain Hank, the new husband, was filling her ear full of financial advice. Our paths will cross again one day, mine and Hank's.

I will finish law school in May, a month from now, then I'll sit for the bar exam in July. I will not graduate with honors, though I'm somewhere in the top half of my class. The only smart thing I've done in three years of law school was to schedule the required and difficult courses early, so I could goof off in this, my last semester. My classes this spring are a joke: Sports Law, Art Law, Selected Readings from the Napoleonic Code and, my favorite, Legal Problems of the Elderly.

It is this last selection that has me sitting here in a rickety chair behind a flimsy folding table in a hot, damp, metal building filled with an odd assortment of seniors, as they like to be called. A hand-painted sign above the only visible door majestically labels the place as the Cypress Gardens Senior Citizens Building, but other than its name the place has not the slightest hint of flowers or greenery. The walls are drab and bare except for an ancient, fading photograph of Ronald Reagan in one corner between two sad little flagstone, the Stars and Stripes, the other, the state flag of Tennessee. The building is small, somber and cheerless, obviously built at the last minute with a few spare dollars of unexpected federal money. I doodle on a legal pad, afraid to look at the crowd inching forward in their folding chairs.

There must be fifty of them out there, an equal mixture of blacks and whites, average age of at least seventy-five, some blind, a dozen or so in wheelchairs, many wearing hearing aids. We were told they meet here each day at noon for a hot meal, a few songs, an occasional visit by a desperate political candidate. After a couple of hours of socializing, they will leave for home and count the hours until they can return here. Our professor said this was the highlight of their day.

We made the painful mistake of arriving in time for lunch. They sat the four of us in one corner along with our leader, Professor Smoot, and examined us closely as we picked at neoprene chicken and icy peas. My Jell-O was yellow, and this was noticed by a bearded old goat with the name Bosco scrawled on his Hello-My-Name-Is tag stuck above his dirty shirt pocket. Bosco mumbled something about yellow Jell-O, and I quickly offered it to him, along with my chicken, but Miss Birdie Birdsong corralled him and pushed him roughly back into his seat. Miss Birdsong is about eighty but very spry for her age, and she acts as mother, dictator and bouncer of this organization. She works the crowd like a veteran ward boss, hugging and patting, schmoozing with other little blue-haired ladies, laughing in a shrill voice and all the while keeping a wary eye on Bosco who undoubtedly is the bad boy of the bunch. She lectured him for admiring my Jell-O, but seconds later placed a full bowl of the yellow putty before his glowing eyes. He ate it with his stubby fingers.

An hour passed. Lunch proceeded as if these starving souls were feasting on seven courses with no hope of another meal. Their wobbly forks and spoons moved back and forth, up and down, in and out, as if laden with precious metals. Time was of absolutely no consequence. They yelled at each other when words stirred them. They dropped food on the floor until I couldn't bear to watch anymore. I even ate my Jell-O. Bosco, still covetous, watched my every move. Miss Birdie fluttered around the room, chirping about this and that.

Professor Smoot, an oafish egghead complete with crooked bow tie, bushy hair and red suspenders, sat with the stuffed satisfaction of a man who'd just finished a fine meal, and lovingly admired the scene before us. He's a kindly soul, in his early fifties, but with mannerisms much like Bosco and his friends, and for twenty years he's taught the kindly courses no one else wants to teach and few students want to take. Children's Rights, Law of the Disabled, Seminar on Domestic Violence, Problems of the Mentally Ill and, of course, Geezer Law, as this one is called outside his presence. He once scheduled a course to be called Rights of the Unborn Fetus, but it attracted a storm of controversy so Professor Smoot took a quick sabbatical.

He explained to us on the first day of class that the purpose of the course was to expose us to real people with real legal problems. It's his opinion that all students enter law school with a certain amount of idealism and desire to serve the public, but after three years of brutal competition we care for nothing but the right job with the right firm where we can make partner in seven years and earn big bucks. He's right about this.

Continue Excerpt Here:
http://search.barnesandnoble.com/booksearch/isbnInquiry.asp?z=y&EAN=9780440221654&itm=1#EXC

Used prices:
Barnes&Noble.com start $1.99 + S&H
Half.com start $0.75 + S&H

[wbarker]

1st to Die (Women's Murder Club Series #1)
by James Patterson

471 pages

Synopsis
Four women--four friends--share a determination to stop a killer who has been stalking newlyweds in San Francisco. Each one holds a piece of the puzzle: Lindsay Boxer is a homicide inspector in the San Francisco Police Department, Claire Washburn is a medical examiner, Jill Bernhardt is an assistant D.A., and Cindy Thomas just started working the crime desk of the San Francisco Chronicle. But the usual procedures aren't bringing them any closer to stopping the killings. So these women form a Women's Murder Club to collaborate outside the box and pursue the case by sidestepping their bosses and giving each other a hand. The four women develop intense bonds as they pursue a killer whose crimes have stunned an entire city. Working together, they track down the most terrifying and unexpected killer they have ever encountered--before a shocking conclusion in which everything they knew turns out to be devastatingly wrong. Full of the breathtaking drama and unforgettable emotions for which James Patterson is famous, 1st to Die is the start of a blazingly fast-paced and sensationally entertaining new series of crime thrillers.

Excerpt
Chapter 1
Beautiful long-stemmed red roses filled the hotel suite — the perfect gifts, really. Everything was perfect.

There might be a luckier man somewhere on the planet, David Brandt thought as he wrapped his arms around Melanie, his new bride. Somewhere in Yemen, maybe — some Allah-praising farmer with a second goat. But certainly not in all of San Francisco.

The couple looked out from the living room of the Grand Hyatt's Mandarin Suite. They could see the lights of Berkeley off in the distance, Alcatraz, the graceful outline of the lit-up Golden Gate Bridge.

"It's incredible." Melanie beamed. "I wouldn't change a single thing about today."

"Me either," he whispered. "Well, maybe I wouldn't have invited my parents." They both laughed.

Only moments before, they had bid farewell to the last of the three hundred guests in the hotel's ballroom. The wedding was finally over. The toasts, the dancing, the schmoozing, the photographed kisses over the cake. Now it was just the two of them. They were twenty-nine years old and had the rest of their lives ahead of them.

David reached for a pair of filled champagne glasses he had set on a lacquered table. "A toast," he declared, "to the second-luckiest man alive."

"The second?" she said, and smiled in pretended shock. "Who's the first?"

They looped arms and took a long, luxurious sip from the crystal glasses. "This farmer with two goats. I'll tell you later.

"I have something for you," David suddenly remembered. He had already given her the perfect five-carat diamond on her finger, which he knew she wore only to please his folks. He went to his tuxedo jacket, which was draped over a high-backed chair, and returned with a jewelry box from Bulgari.

"No, David," Melanie protested. "You're my gift."

"Open it anyway," he said to her. "This you'll like."

She lifted the top. Inside a suede pouch was a set of earrings, large silver rings around a pair of whimsical moons made from diamonds.

"They're how I think of you," he said.

Melanie held the moons against the lobes of her ears. They were perfect, and so was she.

"It's you who pulls my tides," David murmured.

They kissed, and he unfastened the zipper of her dress, letting the neckline fall just below her shoulders. He kissed her neck. Then the tops of her breasts.

There was a knock on the door of the suite.

"Champagne," called a voice from outside.

For a moment, David thought of just yelling, "Leave it there!" All evening, he had longed to peel away the dress from his wife's soft white shoulders.

"Oh, go get it," Melanie whispered, dangling the earrings in front of his eyes. "I'll put these on."

She wiggled out of his grasp, backing toward the Mandarin's master bathroom, a smile in her liquid brown eyes. God, he loved those eyes.

As he went to the door, David was thinking he wouldn't trade places with anybody in the world.

Not even for a second goat....

Used books:
Amazon Marketplace starting $0.01 +S&H
Half.com starting $0.75 +S&H

[wbarker]

The Golden Compass (His Dark Materials Series #1)
by Philip Pullman

Note: This is listed under Young Adult, but everyone says it is great for all ages!

351 pages

Synopsis
The action follows 11-year-old protagonist Lyra Belacqua, accompanied by her daemon, from her home at Oxford University to the frozen wastes of the North, on a quest to save kidnapped children from the evil 'Gobblers,' who are using them as part of a sinister experiment. Lyra also must rescue her father from the Panserbjorne, a race of talking, armored, mercenary polar bears holding him captive. Joining Lyra are a vagabond troop of gyptians (gypsies), witches, an outcast bear, and a Texan in a hot air balloon.

From the Publisher
In a landmark epic of fantasy and storytelling, Philip Pullman invites readers into a world as convincing and thoroughly realized as Narnia, Earthsea, or Redwall. Here lives an orphaned ward named Lyra Belacqua, whose carefree life among the scholars at Oxford's Jordan College is shattered by the arrival of two powerful visitors. First, her fearsome uncle, Lord Asriel, appears with evidence of mystery and danger in the far North, including photographs of a mysterious celestial phenomenon called Dust and the dim outline of a city suspended in the Aurora Borealis that he suspects is part of an alternate universe. He leaves Lyra in the care of Mrs. Coulter, an enigmatic scholar and explorer who offers to give Lyra the attention her uncle has long refused her. In this multilayered narrative, however, nothing is as it seems. Lyra sets out for the top of the world in search of her kidnapped playmate, Roger, bearing a rare truth-telling instrument, the compass of the title. All around her children are disappearing—victims of so-called "Gobblers"—and being used as subjects in terrible experiments that separate humans from their daemons, creatures that reflect each person's inner being. And somehow, both Lord Asriel and Mrs. Coulter are involved.

Excerpt
One
THE DECANTER OF TOKAY

Lyra and her daemon moved through the darkening hall, taking care to keep to one side, out of sight of the kitchen. The three great tables that ran the length of the hall were laid already, the silver and the glass catching what little light there was, and the long benches were pulled out ready for the guests. Portraits of former Masters hung high up in the gloom along the walls. Lyra reached the dais and looked back at the open kitchen door, and, seeing no one, stepped up beside the high table. The places here were laid with gold, not silver, and the fourteen seats were not oak benches but mahogany chairs with velvet cushions.

Lyra stopped beside the Master's chair and flicked the biggest glass gently with a fingernail. The sound rang clearly through the hall.

"You're not taking this seriously," whispered her daemon. "Behave yourself."

Her daemon's name was Pantalaimon, and he was currently in the form of a moth, a dark brown one so as not to show up in the darkness of the hall.

"They're making too much noise to hear from the kitchen," Lyra whispered back. "And the Steward doesn't come in till the first bell. Stop fussing."

But she put her palm over the ringing crystal anyway, and Pantalaimon fluttered ahead and through the slightly open door of the Retiring Room at the other end of the dais. After a moment he appeared again.

"There's no one there," he whispered. "But we must be quick."

Crouching behind the high table, Lyra darted along and through the door into the Retiring Room, where she stood up and looked around. The only light in here came from the fireplace, where a bright blaze of logs settled slightly as she looked, sending a fountainof sparks up into the chimney. She had lived most of her life in the College, but had never seen the Retiring Room before: only Scholars and their guests were allowed in here, and never females. Even the maid-servants didn't clean in here. That was the Butler's job alone.

Pantalaimon settled on her shoulder.

"Happy now? Can we go?" he whispered.

"Don't be silly! I want to look around!"

It was a large room, with an oval table of polished rosewood on which stood various decanters and glasses, and a silver smoking stand with a rack of pipes. On a sideboard nearby there was a little chafing dish and a basket of poppy heads.

"They do themselves well, don't they, Pan?" she said under her breath.

She sat in one of the green leather armchairs. It was so deep she found herself nearly lying down, but she sat up again and tucked her legs under her to look at the portraits on the walls. More old Scholars, probably; robed, bearded, and gloomy, they stared out of their frames in solemn disapproval.

"What d'you think they talk about?" Lyra said, or began to say, because before she'd finished the question she heard voices outside the door.

"Behind the chair--quick!" whispered Pantalaimon, and in a flash Lyra was out of the armchair and crouching behind it. It wasn't the best one for hiding behind: she'd chosen one in the very center of the room, and unless she kept very quiet...

The door opened, and the light changed in the room; one of the incomers was carrying a lamp, which he put down on the sideboard. Lyra could see his legs, in their dark green trousers and shiny black shoes. It was a servant.

Then a deep voice said, "Has Lord Asriel arrived yet?"

It was the Master. As Lyra held her breath, she saw the servant's daemon (a dog, like all servants' daemons) trot in and sit quietly at his feet, and then the Master's feet became visible too, in the shabby black shoes he always wore.

"No, Master," said the Butler. "No word from the aerodock, either."

"I expect he'll be hungry when he arrives. Show him straight into Hall, will you?"

"Very good, Master."

"And you've decanted some of the special Tokay for him?"

"Yes, Master. The 1898, as you ordered. His Lordship is very partial to that, I remember."

"Good. Now leave me, please."

"Do you need the lamp, Master?"

"Yes, leave that too. Look in during dinner to trim it, will you?"

The Butler bowed slightly and turned to leave, his daemon trotting obediently after him. From her not-much-of-a-hiding place Lyra watched as the Master went to a large oak wardrobe in the corner of the room, took his gown from a hanger, and pulled it laboriously on. The Master had been a powerful man, but he was well over seventy now, and his movements were stiff and slow. The Master's daemon had the form of a raven, and as soon as his robe was on, she jumped down from the wardrobe and settled in her accustomed place on his right shoulder.

Lyra could feel Pantalaimon bristling with anxiety, though he made no sound. For herself, she was pleasantly excited. The visitor mentioned by the Master, Lord Asriel, was her uncle, a man whom she admired and feared greatly. He was said to be involved in high politics, in secret exploration, in distant warfare, and she never knew when he was going to appear. He was fierce: if he caught her in here she'd be severely punished, but she could put up with that.

What she saw next, however, changed things completely.

The Master took from his pocket a folded paper and laid it on the table beside the wine. He took the stopper out of the mouth of a decanter containing a rich golden wine, unfolded the paper, and poured a thin stream of white powder into the decanter before crumpling the paper and throwing it into the fire. Then he took a pencil from his pocket, stirred the wine until the powder had dissolved, and replaced the stopper.

Used books:
Amazon Marketplace starting $1.23 + S&H
Half.com starting $0.75 + S&H

[wbarker]

The Other Boleyn Girl
by Philippa Gregory

Note: The movie based on this book is coming out late in February

752 pages

Synopsis
Two sisters competing for the greatest prize: the love of a king.
When Mary Boleyn comes to court as an innocent girl of fourteen, she catches the eye of Henry VIII. Dazzled by the king, Mary falls in love with both her golden prince and her growing role as unofficial queen. However, she soon realizes just how much she is a pawn in her family?s ambitious plots as the king?s interest begins to wane and she is forced to step aside for her best friend and rival: her sister, Anne. Then Mary knows that she must defy her family and her king, and take her fate into her own hands.

A rich and compelling tale of love, ***, ambition, and intrigue, The Other Boleyn Girl introduces a woman of extraordinary determination and desire who lived at the heart of the most exciting and glamorous court in Europe and survived by following her own heart.


Excerpt
Chapter One
Spring 1521
I could hear a roll of muffled drums. But I could see nothing but the lacing on the bodice of the lady standing in front of me, blocking my view of the scaffold. I had been at this court for more than a year and attended hundreds of festivities; but never before one like this.

By stepping to one side a little and craning my neck, I could see the condemned man, accompanied by his priest, walk slowly from the Tower toward the green where the wooden platform was waiting, the block of wood placed center stage, the executioner dressed all ready for work in his shirtsleeves with a black hood over his head. It looked more like a masque than a real event, and I watched it as if it were a court entertainment. The king, seated on his throne, looked distracted, as if he was running through his speech of forgiveness in his head. Behind him stood my husband of one year, William Carey, my brother, George, and my father, Sir Thomas Boleyn, all looking grave. I wriggled my toes inside my silk slippers and wished the king would hurry up and grant clemency so that we could all go to breakfast. I was only thirteen years old, I was always hungry.

The Duke of Buckinghamshire, far away on the scaffold, put off his thick coat. He was close enough kin for me to call him uncle. He had come to my wedding and given me a gilt bracelet. My father told me that he had offended the king a dozen ways: he had royal blood in his veins and he kept too large a retinue of armed men for the comfort of a king not yet wholly secure on his throne; worst of all he was supposed to have said that the king had no son and heir now, could get no son and heir, and that he would likely die without a son to succeed him to the throne.

Such a thought must not be said out loud. The king, the court, the whole country knew that a boy must be born to the queen, and born soon. To suggest otherwise was to take the first step on the path that led to the wooden steps of the scaffold which the duke, my uncle, now climbed, firmly and without fear. A good courtier never refers to any unpalatable truths. The life of a court should always be merry.

Uncle Stafford came to the front of the stage to say his final words. I was too far from him to hear, and in any case I was watching the king, waiting for his cue to step forward and offer the royal pardon. This man standing on the scaffold, in the sunlight of the early morning, had been the king's partner at tennis, his rival on the jousting field, his friend at a hundred bouts of drinking and gambling, they had been comrades since the king was a boy. The king was teaching him a lesson, a powerful public lesson, and then he would forgive him and we could all go to breakfast.

The little faraway figure turned to his confessor. He bowed his head for a blessing and kissed the rosary. He knelt before the block and clasped it in both hands. I wondered what it must be like, to put one's cheek to the smooth waxed wood, to smell the warm wind coming off the river, to hear, overhead, the cry of seagulls. Even knowing as he did that this was a masque and not the real thing, it must be odd for Uncle to put his head down and know that the executioner was standing behind.

The executioner raised his ax. I looked toward the king. He was leaving his intervention very late. I glanced back at the stage. My uncle, head down, flung wide his arms, a sign of his consent, the signal that the ax could fall. I looked back to the king, he must rise to his feet now. But he still sat, his handsome face grim. And while I was still looking toward him there was another roll of drums, suddenly silenced, and then the thud of the ax, first once, then again and a third time: a sound as domestic as chopping wood. Disbelievingly, I saw the head of my uncle bounce into the straw and a scarlet gush of blood from the strangely stumpy neck. The black-hooded axman put the great stained ax to one side and lifted the head by the thick curly hair, so that we could all see the strange mask-like thing: black with the blindfold from forehead to nose, and the teeth bared in a last defiant grin.

The king rose slowly from his seat and I thought, childishly, "Dear God, how awfully embarrassing this is going to be. He has left it too late. It has all gone wrong. He forgot to speak in time."

But I was wrong. He did not leave it too late, he did not forget. He wanted my uncle to die before the court so that everybody might know that there was only one king, and that was Henry. There could be only one king, and that was Henry. And there would be a son born to this king - and even to suggest otherwise meant a shameful death.

The court returned quietly to Westminster Palace in three barges, rowed up the river. The men on the riverbank pulled off their hats and kneeled as the royal barge went swiftly past with a flurry of pennants and a glimpse of rich cloth. I was in the second barge with the ladies of the court, the queen's barge. My mother was seated near me. In a rare moment of interest she glanced at me and remarked, "You're very pale, Mary, are you feeling sick?"

"I didn't think he would be executed," I said. "I thought the king would forgive him."

My mother leaned forward so that her mouth was at my ear and no one could have heard us over the creaking of the boat and the beat of the rowers' drum. "Then you are a fool," she said shortly. "And a fool to remark it. Watch and learn, Mary. There is no room for mistakes at court."

Used book prices:
Amazon Marketplace starts $3.75 + S&H
Half.com starts $2.00 + S&H

[wbarker]

Sea Glass
by Anita Shreve

360 pages

From the Publisher
"It is a house on the beach. Honora doesn't mind renting - despite its age and all its flaws, the old house is the perfect place for a new marriage. She and ***ton throw themselves into fixing it up, just as they throw themselves into their new life together. Each morning, Honora collects sea glass washed up on the shore, each piece carrying a different story in its muted hues." "***ton finds a way to buy the house, but his timing is perfectly wrong. The economy takes a sickening plunge, and as financial pressures mount, Honora begins to see how little she knows this man she has married - and to realize just how threatening the world outside her front door can be." Like those translucent shards that Honora finds on the beach, Sea Glass is layered with the textures, colors, and voices of another time. There is Vivian, an irreverent Boston socialite who becomes Honora's closest friend even as she rejects every form of convention. McDermott, a man who works in a nearby mill, presses Honora's deepest notions of trust - even as he embroils her in a dangerous dispute. And there's Alphonse, a boy whose openness becomes the bond that holds these people together as their world is flying apart.

Excerpt
Honora

Honora sets the cardboard suitcase on the slab of granite. The door is mackereled, paint-chipped—green or black, it is hard to tell. Above the knocker, there are panes of glass, some broken and others opaque with age. Overhead is a portico of weathered shingles and beyond that a milk-and-water sky. Honora pinches the lapels of her suit together and holds her hat against the wind. She peers at the letter B carved into the knocker and thinks, This is the place where it all begins.

The year is 1929. A June day. A wedding day. Honora is just twenty, and ***ton is twenty-four.

The clapboards of the house are worn from white to flesh. The screens at the windows are ripped and flapping. On the second story, dormers stand like sentries keeping watch over the sea, and from the house a thicket sharp with thorns advances across the lawn. The doorsill is splintered, and she thinks it might give way with her weight. She wants to try the pitted knob, though ***ton has told her not to, to wait for him. She steps down into the dooryard, her pumps denting the springy soil, unleashing a scent that collapses years.

***ton comes around the corner then, his palms upturned and filled with dirt. He is a man with a surprise, a stranger she hardly knows. A good man, she thinks. She hopes. His coat billows in the breeze, revealing suspenders snug against his shirt. His trousers, mended at a side seam, are loose and ride too low over his shoes. His hair, well oiled for the wedding, lifts in the wind.

Honora steps back up onto the granite slab and waits for her husband. She puts her hands together at her waist, the purse she borrowed from her mother snug against her hip. ***ton has an offering: sandy soil, a key.

"The soil is for the solid ground of marriage," he says. "The key is for unlocking secrets." He pauses. "The earrings are for you." Honora bends her face toward the pillow of dirt. Two marcasite-and- pearl earrings lie nearly buried in ***ton's hands. She brushes them off with her finger.

"They belonged to my mother," ***ton says. "The soil and the key are an old tradition your uncle Harold told me."

"Thank you," she says. "They're very beautiful." She takes the key and thinks, Crossing the sill. Beginning our life together.



The man came into the bank with a roll of tens and fives, wanting larger bills so that he could buy a car. He had on a long brown coat and took his hat off before he made the transaction. The white collar of his shirt was tight against his neck, and he talked to Honora as she counted out the money. A Buick two-door, he explained. A ????, only three years old. It was the color of a robin's egg, he said, with a red stripe just below the door handle. A real beauty, with wood-spoke wheels and navy mohair upholstery. He was getting it for a song, from a widow who'd never learned to drive her husband's car. He seemed excited in the way that men do when thinking about cars that don't belong to them yet, that haven't broken down yet. Honora clipped the bills together and slipped them under the grille. His eyes were gray, set deep beneath heavy brows. He had a trim mustache, a shade darker than his hair. He brushed his hair, flattened some from the hat, from his forehead. She had to wiggle the money under the grille to remind him of it. He took it, folded it once, and slipped it into the pocket of his trousers.

"What's your name?" he asked. "Honora," she said. "How do you spell it?"

She spelled it for him. "The H is silent," she added. "O-nor-a," he said, trying it out. "Have you worked here long?" They were separated by the grille. It seemed an odd way to meet, though better than at McNiven's, where she sometimes went with Ruth Shaw. There a man would slide into the booth and press his leg against your thigh before he'd even said his name.

"I'm ***ton Beecher," the handsome face dissected by grillwork said. At the next window, Mrs. Yates was listening intently.

Honora nodded. There was a man behind him now. Harry Knox, in his overalls, holding his passbook. Growing impatient.

***ton put his hat back on. "I sell typewriters," he said, answering a question that hadn't yet been asked. "The courthouse is one of my accounts. I need a car in my job. I used to borrow my boss's Ford, but the engine went. They said it would cost more to fix it than to buy a new one. Don't ever buy a Ford."

It seemed unlikely she would ever buy a Ford.

The courthouse employed at least half of the adults in town. Taft was the county seat, and all the cases went to trial there.

"Enjoy the car," Honora said.

The man seemed reluctant to turn away. But there was Harry Knox stepping up to the grille, and that was that. Through the window at the side of the bank, Honora caught a glimpse of ***ton Beecher buttoning his coat as he walked away.



***ton tries the switch on the wall, even though they both know there is no electricity yet. He opens doors off the hallway so that light can enter from other rooms with windows. The floorboards of the hall are cloudy with dust, and on the walls a paper patterned in green coaches and liveried servants is peeling away at the seams. A radiator, once cream colored, is brown now, with dirt collected in the crevices. At the end of the hall is a stairway with an expansive landing halfway up, a wooden crate filled with a fabric that might once have been curtains. The ceilings, pressed tin, are nearly as high as those in public buildings. Honora can see the mildew on the walls then, a pattern competing with the carriages and footmen. The house smells of mold and something else: other people lived here.

She enters a room that seems to be a kitchen. She walks to a shuttered window and lifts the hook with her finger. The shutters open to panes of glass coated with a year or two of salt. A filmy light, like that through blocks of frosted glass, lights up an iron stove, its surface dotted with animal droppings. She twists a lever, and the oven door slams open with a screech and a bang that startle her.

She bends and looks inside. Something dead and gray is in the corner.

She walks around the kitchen, touching the surfaces of shelves, the grime of years in the brush strokes of the paint. A dirty sink, cavernous and porcelain, is stained with rust. She gives the tap a try. She could budge it if she leaned her weight against the sink, but her suit is still on loan from Bette's Second Time Around. The butter yellow jacket with its long lapels narrows in nicely at the waist and makes a slender silhouette, a change from a decade of boyish dresses with no waists. She shivers in the chill and wraps her arms around herself, careful not to touch the suit with her hands. There are blankets in the car, but she cannot mention them so soon. She hears footsteps on the stairs and moves into the hallway just as ***ton emerges from the cellar, wiping his hands on a handkerchief.

"Found the furnace," he says. "In the fall, we'll have to get some coal."

She nods and gestures with her hand to the kitchen. He trails his knuckles along her arm as he passes her.

"What a mess," he says.
"Not so bad," she says, already loyal to what will be their home.



In April, the typewriter salesman returned to the bank. He came through the door so fast that Honora thought at first he might be a robber. The wings of his coat spread wide around his trousers as he made his way to her station. She resisted the urge to touch her hair, which she hadn't washed in days.

"Want to go for a ride?" he asked. "You bought the car." "It's a honey." "I can't." "When do you get off work?" "Four o'clock." "Banker's hours."

The clock on the wall said half past two. The sound of a woman's high heels could be heard on the marble floor. ***ton Beecher didn't turn around to look.

"I'll be outside at four," he said. "I'll give you a ride home."

Excerpt continued: http://search.barnesandnoble.com/booksearch/isbnInquiry.asp?z=y&EAN=9780316001441&itm=3#CHP

Used book prices:
Amazon Marketplace starts at $2.59 + S&H
Half.com starts at $0.75 + S&H

[mood4amelody]

I'm sorry to bother you Wendi, because I can see how hard you've been working on this, but is that guy's name $exton??? :confused: lol That was the only thing I could figure based on the "clues" left by the censor. :)

[wbarker]

I Capture the Castle
by Dodie Smith

352 pages

Synopsis
Now a major motion picture from the Academy Award-winning producer of Shakespeare in Love

I Capture the Castle tells the story of seventeen-year-old Cassandra and her family, who live in not-so-genteel poverty in a ramshackle old English castle. Here she strives, over six turbulent months, to hone her writing skills. She fills three notebooks with sharply funny yet poignant entries. Her journals candidly chronicle the great changes that take place within the castle's walls, and her own first descent into love. By the time she pens her final entry, she has "captured the castle"--and the heart of the reader--in one of literature's most enchanting entertainments.

Excerpt
I write this sitting in the kitchen sink. That is, my feet are in it; the rest of me is on the draining board, which I have padded with our dog's blanket and the tea cosy. I can't say that I am really comfortable, and there is a depressing smell of carbolic soap, but this is the only part of the kitchen where there is any daylight left. And I have found that sitting in a place where you have never sat before can be inspiring I wrote my very best poem while sitting on the hen house. Though even that isn't a very good poem. I have decided my poetry is so bad that I mustn't write any more of it.
Drips from the roof are plopping into the water butt by the back door. The view through the windows above the sink is excessively drear. Beyond the dank garden in the courtyard are the ruined walls on the edge of the moat. Beyond the moat, the boggy ploughed fields stretch to the leaden sky. I tell myself that all the rain we have had lately is good for nature, and that at any moment spring will surge on us. I try to see leaves on the trees and the courtyard filled with sunlight. Unfortunately, the more my mind's eye sees green and gold, the more drained of all colour does the twilight seem.

It is comforting to look away from the windows and towards the kitchen fire, near which my sister Rose is ironing though she obviously can't see properly, and it will be a pity if she scorches her only nightgown. (I have two, but one is minus its behind.) Rose looks particularly fetching by firelight because she is a pinkish person; her skin has a pink glow and her hair is pinkish gold, very light and feathery. Although I am rather used to her I know she is a beauty. She is nearly twenty one and very bitter with life. I am seventeen, look younger, feel older. I am no beauty but have a neatish face.

I have just remarked to Rose that our situation is really rather romantic two girls in this strange and lonely house. She replied that she saw nothing romantic about being shut up in a crumbling ruin surrounded by a sea of mud. I must admit that our home is an unreasonable place to live in. Yet I love it. The house itself was built in the time of Charles II, but it was grafted on to a fourteenth century castle that had been damaged by Cromwell. The whole of our east wall was part of the castle; there are two round towers in it. The gatehouse is intact and a stretch of the old walls at their full height joins it to the house. And Belmotte Tower, all that remains of an even older castle, still stands on its mound close by. But I won't attempt to describe our peculiar home fully until I can see more time ahead of me than I do now.

I am writing this journal partly to practise my newly acquired speed writing and partly to teach myself how to write a novel I intend to capture all our characters and put in conversations. It ought to be good for my style to dash along without much thought, as up to now my stories have been very stiff and self conscious. The only time father obliged me by reading one of them, he said I combined stateliness with a desperate effort to be funny. He told me to relax and let the words flow out of me.

I wish I knew of a way to make words flow out of father. Years and years ago, he wrote a very unusual book called Jacob Wrestling, a mixture of fiction, philosophy and poetry. It had a great success, particularly in America, where he made a lot of money by lecturing on it, and he seemed likely to become a very important writer indeed. But he stopped writing. Mother believed this was due to something that happened when I was about five.

We were living in a small house by the sea at the time. Father had just joined us after his second American lecture tour. One afternoon when we were having tea in the garden, he had the misfortune to lose his temper with mother very noisily just as he was about to cut a piece of cake. He brandished the cake knife at her so menacingly that an officious neighbour jumped the garden fence to intervene and got himself knocked down. Father explained in court that killing a woman with our silver cake knife would be a long, weary business entailing sawing her to death, and he was completely exonerated of any intention of slaying mother. The whole case seems to have been quite ludicrous, with everyone but the neighbour being very funny. But father made the mistake of being funnier than the judge and, as there was no doubt whatever that he had seriously damaged the neighbour, he was sent to prison for three months.

When he came out he was as nice a man as ever nicer, because his temper was so much better. Apart from that, he didn't seem to me to be changed at all. But Rose remembers that he had already begun to get unsociable it was then that he took a forty years' lease of the castle, which is an admirable place to be unsociable in. Once we were settled here he was supposed to begin a new book. But time went on without anything happening and at last we realized that he had given up even trying to write for years now, he has refused to discuss the possibility. Most of his life is spent in the gatehouse room, which is icy cold in winter as there is no fireplace; he just huddles over an oil stove. As far as we know, he does nothing but read detective novels from the village library. Miss Marcy, the librarian and schoolmistress, brings them to him. She admires him greatly and says "the iron has entered into his soul."

Personally, I can't see how the iron could get very far into a man's soul during only three months in jail anyway, not if the man had as much vitality as father had; and he seemed to have plenty of it left when they let him out. But it has gone now; and his unsociability has grown almost into a disease I often think he would prefer not even to meet his own household. All his natural gaiety has vanished. At times he puts on a false cheerfulness that embarrasses me, but usually he is either morose or irritable I think I should prefer it if he lost his temper as he used to. Oh, poor father, he really is very pathetic. But he might at ] east do a little work in the garden. I am aware that this isn't a fair portrait of him. I must capture him later.

Mother died eight years ago, from perfectly natural causes. I think she must have been a shadowy person, because I have only the vaguest memory of her and I have an excellent memory for most things. (I can remember the cake knife incident perfectly I hit the fallen neighbour with my little wooden spade. Father always said this got him an extra month.)

Three years ago (or is it four? I know father's one spasm of sociability was in 1931) a stepmother was presented to us. We were surprised. She is a famous artists' model who claims to have been christened Topaz even if this is true there is no law to make a woman stick to a name like that. She is very beautiful, with masses of hair so fair that it is almost white, and a quite extraordinary pallor.

She uses no make up, not even powder. There are two paintings of her in the Tate Gallery: one by Macmorris, called "Topaz in Jade", in which she wears a magnificent jade necklace; and one by H. J. Allardy which shows her **** on an old horsehair covered sofa that she says was very prickly. This is called "Composition"; but as Allardy has painted her even paler than she is, "Decomposition" would suit it better.

Actually, there is nothing unhealthy about Topaz's pallor; it simply makes her look as if she belonged to some new race. She has a very deep voice that is, she puts one on; it is part of an arty pose, which includes painting and lute playing. But her kindness is perfectly genuine and so is her cooking. I am very, very fond of her it is nice to have written that just as she appears on the kitchen stairs. She is wearing her ancient orange tea gown. Her pale, straight hair is flowing down her back to her waist. She paused on the top step and said "Ah, girls…" with three velvety inflections on each word.

Now she is sitting on the steel trivet, raking the fire. The pink light makes her look more ordinary, but very pretty. She is twenty nine and had two husbands before father (she will never tell us very much about them), but she still looks extraordinarily young. Perhaps that is because her expression is so blank.

The kitchen looks very beautiful now. The firelight glows steadily through the bars and through the round hole in the top of the range where the lid has been left off. It turns the whitewashed walls rosy; even the dark beams in the roof are a dusky gold. The highest beam is over thirty feet from the ground. Rose and Topaz are two tiny figures in a great glowing cave.

Excerpt continues: http://search.barnesandnoble.com/booksearch/isbnInquiry.asp?z=y&EAN=9780312201654&itm=1#CHP

Used books:
Amazon Marketplace starts at $1.99 + S&H
Half.com starts at $0.75 +S&H

[wbarker]

I'm sorry to bother you Wendi, because I can see how hard you've been working on this, but is that guy's name $exton??? :confused: lol That was the only thing I could figure based on the "clues" left by the censor. :)

Yes - I believe it is! I skimmed the excerpt as I haven't read it, and I think you are right! :)

[wbarker]

Hello everyone,

Here is the poll to help decide the first 2 books for our book club!

When you vote, please vote for 2 books!

I have one "Other" selection. If you would like to have a book considered that is not listed, please vote there and add a description here.

[mood4amelody]

Got my vote in! I've already read the Grisham and the Patterson books that were listed. I didn't vote for them, but if we have to read those, then at least I'll have the twice-read perspective! lol Personally, I'd recommend the Patterson, but not the Grisham.

Thanks again, Wendi!! I sure hope you got some sleep!! (Man, there should be a smiley we can use that has a "concerned" look!)

[mom2fussbudgets]

Wendi, you went above and beyond. Thanks!

OMG! Too many good choices. How the heck am I supposed to decide? :eek:

[ilove2sample]

I voted. WOW the choices were hard to pick from. I really don't care which ones we read, they all sound interesting!!! Can't wait!!! Thanks for all the information you gave for each book! You've really worked hard!

[bvanpeltsw]

Thanks for researching all this! It is greatly appreciated.

I voted!:D

[wbarker]

Got my vote in! I've already read the Grisham and the Patterson books that were listed. I didn't vote for them, but if we have to read those, then at least I'll have the twice-read perspective! lol Personally, I'd recommend the Patterson, but not the Grisham.

Thanks again, Wendi!! I sure hope you got some sleep!! (Man, there should be a smiley we can use that has a "concerned" look!)

Drat! I was trying to get some that had been out so there were some used copies, and I was trying to get the highly rated ones on amazon and Barnes&Noble! :) Maybe we won't read them both!

Hee Hee - got some sleep, my son woke me up at 7:30 this morning! I think I'll take a nap with him when he goes down this afternoon - that's always fun because its about the only time he cuddles. ;)

[wbarker]

Wendi, you went above and beyond. Thanks!

OMG! Too many good choices. How the heck am I supposed to decide? :eek:

I haven't voted yet because so many of the books sounded really good! I'm still thinking about the ones I'll vote for!

Good luck!!!

[wbarker]

I'm sending out a HUGE thank you to Carol and Chris for merging and cleaning up the thread!

I thought I could put the details into the thread and then add the poll later - learn something new every day!!

[mood4amelody]

Drat! I was trying to get some that had been out so there were some used copies, and I was trying to get the highly rated ones on amazon and Barnes&Noble! :) Maybe we won't read them both!

Hee Hee - got some sleep, my son woke me up at 7:30 this morning! I think I'll take a nap with him when he goes down this afternoon - that's always fun because its about the only time he cuddles. ;)

OMGosh!! I sooo miss cuddling up to a warm baby!! That's like the nicest thing in the world. :o

Man, I'm seeing the Grisham winning and I am soooo dreading that. It kinda sucks. lol My 13 yr. old son is reading 2 Grisham's right now and he doesn't really like them much, but he can't find much else to read at his level in the school library. I can't believe they even have those in the library of a elementary/middle school. I don't think all of the content is exactly appropriate for that age in general. :confused:

[mom2fussbudgets]

I'm sending out a HUGE thank you to Carol and Chris for merging and cleaning up the thread!

I thought I could put the details into the thread and then add the poll later - learn something new every day!!

You're welcome!

I am continually learning stuff around here. The other day, I posted that entire picture thread in general discussion, and at the very end, messed the entire thread up and had to delete it, LOL! I was SO bummed!

[mom2fussbudgets]

OMGosh!! I sooo miss cuddling up to a warm baby!! That's like the nicest thing in the world. :o

Man, I'm seeing the Grisham winning and I am soooo dreading that. It kinda sucks. lol My 13 yr. old son is reading 2 Grisham's right now and he doesn't really like them much, but he can't find much else to read at his level in the school libr:confused:ary. I can't believe they even have those in the library of a elementary/middle school. I don't think all of the content is exactly appropriate for that age in general.

I miss that too. Enjoy it Wendi, that time goes by in the blink of an eye.

I've read the John Grisham book as well, but would not mind reading it again. I believe it was one of his better ones.

[mood4amelody]

I miss that too. Enjoy it Wendi, that time goes by in the blink of an eye.

I've read the John Grisham book as well, but would not mind reading it again. I believe it was one of his better ones.

LOL Yeah, I'd read it again and "take one for the team"! :D

[wbarker]

OMGosh!! I sooo miss cuddling up to a warm baby!! That's like the nicest thing in the world. :o

Man, I'm seeing the Grisham winning and I am soooo dreading that. It kinda sucks. lol My 13 yr. old son is reading 2 Grisham's right now and he doesn't really like them much, but he can't find much else to read at his level in the school library. I can't believe they even have those in the library of a elementary/middle school. I don't think all of the content is exactly appropriate for that age in general. :confused:

Yep - there just isn't anything quite like cuddling a warm baby! They smell so good (most of the time!).

Well - it looks like Anne George (you may not need to read Grisham a second time - but it is still a possibility) has taken the lead so far for the books, can't wait for more to vote! This is fun!!

[mood4amelody]

Yep - there just isn't anything quite like cuddling a warm baby! They smell so good (most of the time!).

Well - it looks like Anne George (you may not need to read Grisham a second time - but it is still a possibility) has taken the lead so far for the books, can't wait for more to vote! This is fun!!

Even this part is kinda exciting, like a horse race! lol

[caryn]

Got my vote in! I've already read the Grisham and the Patterson books that were listed. I didn't vote for them, but if we have to read those, then at least I'll have the twice-read perspective! lol Personally, I'd recommend the Patterson, but not the Grisham.

Thanks again, Wendi!! I sure hope you got some sleep!! (Man, there should be a smiley we can use that has a "concerned" look!)

I've also read the James Patterson Series. I would much rather read something I haven't read before.

[wbarker]

I've also read the James Patterson Series. I would much rather read something I haven't read before.

:) Then you are in luck so far - the Patterson book is lagging behind!

Do you gals/guys think I should start a thread for books/authors you don't want to see?

[mom2fussbudgets]

Heck, Wendi, I don't know. How much work do you want to do? It may be a case of you can't please all of the people all of the time. :p I like what you're doing so far, and if one or another of us end up not liking the book that's chosen, then we have the option to sit it out. What do you think?

[lizmolik]

I would really like to read The Rainmaker by John Grisham I heard it was good, I think it is the same book my sis has anyways!

[mood4amelody]

:) Then you are in luck so far - the Patterson book is lagging behind!

Do you gals/guys think I should start a thread for books/authors you don't want to see?

That would be kind of hard, because Patterson has a couple new ones that I haven't got to yet. So if I said someone, then a new book came out from them would I miss out? lol

[mom2fussbudgets]

Do you gals/guys think I should start a thread for books/authors you don't want to see?

Wendi, I hope my above post didn't sound bossy! This is your baby, and I want you to handle it the way you want to. If you'd like to start a new thread for books/authors we don't want to see, that's fine with me! :)

I put my name on the library's waiting list for Murder on a Girls' Night Out: A Southern Sisters Mystery by Anne George! There's only one person ahead of me, so I should get it soon.

[caryn]

Wendi, I hope my above post didn't sound bossy! This is your baby, and I want you to handle it the way you want to. If you'd like to start a new thread for books/authors we don't want to see, that's fine with me! :)

I put my name on the library's waiting list for Murder on a Girls' Night Out: A Southern Sisters Mystery by Anne George! There's only one person ahead of me, so I should get it soon.

I agree with Chris, I think it's your baby. If we don't want to read a certain book, we don't have to. If we've already read it, we can still participate in the conversation about it right because we, (hopefully) , will remember what it is about.

I've joined two different book swap clubs so hopefully that will help me get some of the books we will read for free.

[wbarker]

I agree with Chris, I think it's your baby. If we don't want to read a certain book, we don't have to. If we've already read it, we can still participate in the conversation about it right because we, (hopefully) , will remember what it is about.

I've joined two different book swap clubs so hopefully that will help me get some of the books we will read for free.

Good point both of you! I've skipped some books with our club and still gone to the meetups - just didn't chat as much!

Hmmm - don't know if we have any book swap clubs in my area - how did you find the ones you joined?

[caryn]

Good point both of you! I've skipped some books with our club and still gone to the meetups - just didn't chat as much!

Hmmm - don't know if we have any book swap clubs in my area - how did you find the ones you joined?

I did them through a post here. The two I joined are:

www.paperbackswap.com

www.frugalreader.com

You post 10 books and then you get 2 points to spend. Books are 1 point each. As you send your books out to those who want them, you earn more points. You guys should check them out if you haven't.

[wbarker]

This poll closes tonight! Make sure you get your vote in!!!

Thanks - Wendi

[wbarker]

I did them through a post here. The two I joined are:

www.paperbackswap.com

www.frugalreader.com

You post 10 books and then you get 2 points to spend. Books are 1 point each. As you send your books out to those who want them, you earn more points. You guys should check them out if you haven't.

I've joined Paperback swap, but not the Frugalreader! I'm going to check that one out today!! (I'm horrible about getting rid of books!)

[messajarjar]

I have a suggestion for a future book to read. It's called The Bone Garden and it's by Tess Gerritsen-one of my all time favorite authors! And I read ALOT to say the least. Please let me know if you want a description of this one. I've read 1st to Die and all of the other Women's Murder Club books...as well as pretty much most of Patterson's books. There are 7 in the Boxer (Women's Murder Club) series....the last one is just being published now! :eek:

[wbarker]

I have a suggestion for a future book to read. It's called The Bone Garden and it's by Tess Gerritsen-one of my all time favorite authors! And I read ALOT to say the least. Please let me know if you want a description of this one. I've read 1st to Die and all of the other Women's Murder Club books...as well as pretty much most of Patterson's books. There are 7 in the Boxer (Women's Murder Club) series....the last one is just being published now! :eek:

I'll try to make sure this is on the list for the poll for books 3 and 4 next time. Thanks for the suggestion!

[wbarker]

As of right now, we have a tie for the second book. Make sure you get your vote in prior to 11:30 tonight!

[wbarker]

Ok! The results are in (And a HUGE thank you to everyone who voted!!) . . . .

Our first book which will take us from February through the end of April is (drum roll please!) . . . . .

Murder on a Girls' Night Out: A Southern Sisters Mystery
by Anne George

As of this moment, this book is available at:

Paperbackswap for 1 credit FREE S&H (Credits can be purchased for $3.45)

Amazon used for $0.50 plus S&H
Half.com used for $0.75 plus S&H
Abebooks.com for $1.00 plus S&H

By the way - Anyone read ebook versions?

[wbarker]

Our second book will take us from May through the end of July is . . . . .

The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency by Alexander McCall Smith

There was a tie for 2nd place, and since a few people had already read the John Grisham book, I thought we could try this one!

As of this moment, this book is available at:

Paperbackswap for 1 credit FREE S&H (Credits can be purchased for $3.45)

Amazon used for $0.50 plus S&H
Half.com used for $0.75 plus S&H
Abebooks.com for $1.00 plus S&H

[rebate queen]

OK-so I'm a little behind here, maybe it is in another thread and I'll find it while catching up. The first book is by Anne George and what is the title?:confused:

[mood4amelody]

OK-so I'm a little behind here, maybe it is in another thread and I'll find it while catching up. The first book is by Anne George and what is the title?:confused:

Murder on a Girls' Night Out: A Southern Sisters Mystery is the title. :)

[rebate queen]

Murder on a Girls' Night Out: A Southern Sisters Mystery is the title. :)
duuhhh...please forget I even asked. For some reason I keep confusing that book with our 2nd choice book:o

[caryn]

Thanks for letting us know so far in advance what book 2 will be. That way maybe we can all have it by the time we are suppose to start.

[wbarker]

I'm in another book club, and I always appreciate it when we decide more than one book. It helps to be able to order it online early. . .

I also get a jump start sometimes if I don't like the current book we're reading! :)

[messajarjar]

Wait till you guys meet Bonnie Blue Butler!!!

[wbarker]

Wait till you guys meet Bonnie Blue Butler!!!

I loved Bonnie Blue!!

By the way, for anyone who hasn't read the book, but who is interested . . . there is still 1 month left for this book! We go through the end of April!!
Here is the info:

Our first book which will take us from February through the end of April is (drum roll please!) . . . . .

Murder on a Girls' Night Out: A Southern Sisters Mystery
by Anne George

As of this moment, this book is available at:

Paperbackswap for 1 credit FREE S&H (Credits can be purchased for $3.45)

Amazon used for $0.50 plus S&H
Half.com used for $0.75 plus S&H
Abebooks.com for $1.00 plus S&H