Category Archives: women’s history

Returns and Exchanges, by Kayla Rae Whitaker*****

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Kayla Rae Whitaker is the author of The Animators, her 2017 debut which remains one of my favorites after 13 years and over a thousand reviews. Now she has returned with Returns and Exchanges, a more complex, ambitious novel, yet written with the same mastery of the language and the heart. My thanks go to NetGalley and Random House for the review copy; this book is for sale now.

Our story is set in Kentucky and begins on Christmas Eve in 1979. We have a hardworking family that owns and runs a good-sized store; think of something like a mom-and-pop version of Target. The Baker-Taylor store is hopping on Christmas Eve. The owners, Fred Taylor and Fran Taylor, nee Baker, are frazzled but satisfied. The two older sons are working registers; the two little kids are playing in the stockroom. They close up, clean up, and leave to celebrate the holiday.

During the recession of the 1980s they do well; theirs is an unpretentious business that bargain hunters love. As they succeed, they expand, and soon Fred is full of himself, trying to fit in with the local movers and shakers. He joins a rightwing fraternal organization and lives to impress. Fran, on the other hand, is doing most of the work. She knows what money is coming in, what’s going out; which stores are doing well, which are struggling. She is not trying to impress anyone, but falls hard for an employee named Wendy.

Nobody expected this!

And so the beginning of the book focuses primarily on Fran, and I begin to see her as the protagonist, but this is one of those epic family tales, and so as time moves forward, we begin to see different points of view. The elder sons begin to hate the business. It prevents the children from having social lives, and Fred is hard to please. Josiah, the eldest, decides to leave for college, and Baker-Taylor stores don’t loom large in his future plans. Sam, the second youngest, is an artist, and he suffers from mental health issues that Fred cannot accept. Fred thinks Sam is weak, and he doesn’t make the family or the business look good in the public eye. The two young children, Benny and Birdie, grow up largely cared for by others, because their parents are always working (or with Wendy.)

In many ways, it’s like watching a traffic accident in slow motion. I’m leaning forward, as if I might climb into the book itself and shout warnings.

The nearest thing we have to an objective observer is Fran’s brother-in-law, Jack. Jack is gay, but he keeps it quiet and hidden, and so does his loving, understanding wife. He catches onto the changes occurring within the family, including between Fran and Wendy. He tells Josiah privately,

Were your father to find out, God help us, it might break him. But it also might do something else…he’s running with a different crowd now. It’s made him a little rougher. But that’s not my big concern. It’s the board. It’s the shareholders. People who see all the fun family commercials. Do I have to elaborate on what could happen to her if folks caught wind of this?

Truer words were never spoken.

But the most critical aspect of this story, with all of its moving parts, is the way the characters are built. I feel as if I know them all deeply. Fred is the least developed character here, but I know that’s because not that much inward development happens when you’re shallow and not as smart as the rest of the family. And hopefully, that statement reveals how effective the alchemy is here: I’m not thinking about what Whitaker does with the characters. I’m thinking of the characters themselves, as if I might walk around the corner and bump into one of them.

Of course I won’t tell you how it ends, but it feels right to me, strangely satisfying.

For those that love epic family stories with deep, layered characters, this book is highly recommended. It’s one of the year’s best.

https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/8028043777

Yesteryear, by Caro Claire Burke****

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There’s so much buzz about the debut novel Yesteryear, by Caro Claire Burke, and it’s easy to see why. When a wife and mother decides to make bank off of being a tradwife, except that she really isn’t, the irony is thick and darkly funny. I was immediately absorbed by this story, and I have lots of company.

My thanks go to NetGalley and Random House for the review copy. This book is for sale now.

Natalie doesn’t fit in well or make friends easily, but when she meets Caleb, she thinks she’s found a man that wants the same things she wants. Caleb comes from a wealthy family; his father has presidential ambitions. He buys them a farm in Idaho, and she promises to bear lots of little grandchildren and keep her man happy and out of trouble.

While she doesn’t connect well with new friends in person, the magic of Instagram changes everything! She posts photos of her darling family, the big red barn, the cow and the chickens, and she creates videos of herself making bread in the kitchen. But this is difficult to do when there are children to take care of, so she hires nannies. She hires a producer to help create her content; her children are home schooled, alright, but not by Natalie. And behind the wall of her kitchen, there are commercial quality appliances that grease the wheels of her production; the tradwife is not what she seems.

She hardly knows her own children. And underneath the Instagram smiles and the aphorisms about gratitude, she is every bit as angry as the feminists that decry her platitudes.

Then comes the day when she wakes up and finds that she’s living in the 1800s. Her farmhouse really is an old school farm house. There’s no central heating, only chopped wood for burning. There is no electricity or washing machine. Life is hard, and so is her husband. “A lifetime of drowning, and then you are dead.”

I could hardly stand to put this thing down; I had to know how it would end. Unfortunately, the ending is not as smooth or well-paced as the rest of the book, and I didn’t find it as satisfying. Still, this is a great read, and I recommend it to you.

True Crime, by Patricia Cornwell*****

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Legendary mystery writer Patricia Cornwell didn’t intend to write a memoir, but when someone decided to put her life’s story on television, she realized that if she didn’t write it, they’d make it up as they went. What began as a treatment for television writers to use as a guide morphed into a full-length book, and this is a perfect example of what an overachiever Cornwell has become.

My thanks go to NetGalley and Grand Central Publishing for the review copy. This book is for sale now.

Cornwell grew up in Miami, but moved with her mother to Montreat, North Carolina following her parents’ separation when she was five years old. It’s a miracle that anyone whose childhood was so riddled with trauma could grow up and pass for normal, let alone accomplish the things that she has done. First, her father had a breakdown, kidnapped her and her brothers, and then tried to hand them off—permanently—to his law partner. Her mother was a hot mess most of the time, and so there were periods when there was no food prepared, and she and her brothers made do by scrounging raw hamburger out of the freezer and eating it raw! Then there was the time her mom went into a fugue state and began systematically burning all of the children’s clothing—and there was no money to replace it with. Neglected children are often a lightning rod that attracts bad actors, and so the local security cop began molesting her—up until he was caught by her older brother, who put a stop to it. And the list goes on.

Nobody walks away from such experiences unscarred, but since Cornell—who was then Patsy Daniels—was a good kid, she internalized all of it, aided by a dreadful first grade teacher that told her that her constant talking in class was probably why her father had left! (As a teacher, this reviewer wants to find that person and have her license pulled, although she is probably gone from this earth by now.) Patsy gained control of her life—sort of—by developing eating disorders. She was hospitalized, but medical science actually didn’t know what to do about anorexia or bulimia, and after months in the institution with no improvement whatever, she gave up and went home. The problem vanished many years later when other aspects of her life changed.

Her love of writing and her feverish work ethic are what has made her such a success (along with great intelligence, though she doesn’t say as much.) She rode with cops and served as a volunteer in order to gain insights into that world; she went to Quantico and studied profiling; and of course, worked in the medical examiner’s office so that she could legitimately view autopsies, which are of course not open to the public. Anything she needed to learn, she found a way to do, leaving no stone unturned. She was aided and mentored by what seems to me an unlikely cast of friends and surrogate parents, including Senator Orin Hatch, Ruth and Billy Graham (mostly Ruth,) and President H.W. Bush.

The thing I appreciate about this memoir, apart from its outstanding prose and organization, is Cornwell’s willingness to disclose personal information. Sometimes, when someone is deeply private but finds herself writing a memoir anyway, she will stay on the surface and give up as little of herself as possible. Such memoirs are frustrating to read and for those that pay money for the privilege, a bit of a cheat. But once Cornwell decided to do this thing, she really did it right. And while, on the one hand, there’s a certain amount of namedropping and braggadocio, even that aspect of it is interesting; given everything she went through to arrive at the station she’s gained in life, one can hardly begrudge her.

For those that love her books, and also for those that simply enjoy a well written memoir, this book is highly recommended.

The Creek, the Crone, and the Crow, by Leah Weiss****-*****

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The Creek, the Crone, and the Crow is the newest novel by Leah Weiss, author of If the Creek Don’t Rise and All the Little Hopes. It’s her best one yet. My thanks go to NetGalley and Sourcebooks Landmark for the review copy; this book is for sale now.

Kate is a teacher, and she’s spent ten years as the sole instructor in one of the last one room schoolhouses, located in the tiny Appalachian hamlet of Baines Creek. But they say bad things come in threes, and that is certainly true for the people of Baines Creek, and for Kate as well. First, people from the state sweep in and declare that the schoolhouse must close and its pupils be bussed to a larger school. This is devastating, because locals use a folk dialect that will get them teased by more worldly children that are integrated into the larger society. These kids learn differently, and most parents are so afraid of what will happen that they resolve not to send their children anywhere at all. School’s out…period.

Next, Birdie, the elderly healer and wise woman of Baines Creek dies, leaving all of the homemade books she’s created for decades to Kate. Kate is bewildered. Why her? What to do with them? And Birdie was such a key part of the village that her loss is felt keenly.

And then little Loretty, a child that was being instructed by Birdie, and who is believed to have the same second sight that Birdie had, goes missing. She’s so young, and no one has any idea where she may have gone. Search parties are organized almost continuously, but there’s not even a clue where she may be.

Our second main character, Lydia, is a psychic whose gift vanished when her parents died. She travels to Baines Creek in search of Birdie, who she believes may be able to help her regain her gift. But first Birdie refuses to see her, merely saying that it isn’t time yet; then Birdie dies! However, Lydia’s presence is fortuitous, because she has ideas about all of those handmade books, and so she and Kate work together.

This is a wonderful story, the sort to sink into and lose oneself. For me, the only distraction has to do with setting. For the longest time I am unable to understand what time period we’re In here. Cell phones and personal computers, no; microwave ovens, yes. And Lydia’s niece comes to visit, and she’s described as a Goth, so that makes me think of the late 1980’s or early 1990’s. But then it’s revealed about halfway in that it’s 1978. What? There were no Goths in 1978. Fearing that perhaps my memory is betraying me, I look it up, and nope. Goth culture began in the UK in the early 80s, and it spread to the U.S. a bit later. I harrumph and move on.

The setting of Baines Creek is gloriously resonant, and indeed, all of Weiss’s books have been set in Appalachia. There are underground tunnels and moonshiners’ caves, and I won’t give details that would spoil, but there are a couple of caves in particular that are important to the story and tremendously memorable. The ending, which is always important, but more so in a story like this one, is pitch perfect. Highly recommended.

The Family Recipe, by Carolyn Huynh*****

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“We all need to feel needed. Otherwise, what’s the point of living?”

Carolyn Huynh made her authorial debut in 2022 with The Fortunes of Jaded Women. It was one of my favorite novels not only of that year, but of all the thousand-plus galleys I have read since I began reviewing. She’s back again with The Family Recipe, and it’s every bit as good as the first. My thanks go to NetGalley and Atria Books for the invitation to read and review, but make no mistake: I would have hunted this thing down and bought it with my Social Security check if it came down to it. I wouldn’t have been sorry, either.

This book is available to the public now.

Once again, our protagonists are Vietnamese and Vietnamese-Americans, mostly women, and once again, they are siblings and other family members that must come together; it isn’t a voluntary reunion. And that’s where the similarities between the first book and this one end.

Duc Tran, the patriarch, has laid out the terms by which his children may inherit his fortune. Once upon a time, he was the Vietnamese sandwich king, and in order to become his heir, each of his four daughters must relocate to a city she doesn’t want to live in, and revive a down-at-the-heels restaurant in a now undesirable end of town. It’s a contest; that is, unless Duc’s one son, Jude, succeeds in getting married within the one year’s time limit of the contest. If he can do that, he wins. (His sisters aren’t worried; who would marry Jude?)

The story is told from several points of view; these include the siblings, their uncle—a shady lawyer, and Duc’s best friend; their mother, who abandoned them when they were small, when her mental health collapsed, and never went back; Duc’s second wife; and briefly, Duc himself, who mostly serves as a mysterious figure that doesn’t even return to the States to lay out his children’s requirements, sending their uncle as his proxy.  As the story unfolds, we learn more about each sibling, and about the traumas they have experienced, as well as their successes.

The thing that makes it work so well is Huynh’s unerring sense of timing. It’s a dramatic tale, but it’s shot full of humor, as we see at the outset, when we learn the sisters’ names. Their father was a huge fan of the Beatles, and so the girls are named Jane, Paulina, Georgia, and (wait for it…) Bingo!

There are plenty of twists and turns, and the dialogue crackles. The internal monologues are mesmerizing. This book would make a fantastic movie.

Since I was reading this galley digitally, I highlighted quotes that I thought I’d like to use in this review, but there are 28 of them. Obviously, I cannot share them all here, but let that inform you, if nothing else here has, how much I love this book.

Highly recommended to anyone that has a beating heart, at least a passing interest in Vietnamese-American culture and/or family stories, and can use a few good laughs.

The Rulebreaker, by Susan Page*****

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Barbara Walters was a force to be reckoned with. She was the journalistic pioneer who singlehandedly smashed the glass ceiling that kept women from anchoring network news; over the years she would conduct television interviews with heads of state, criminals, otherwise reclusive stars, and anyone else she deemed newsworthy. She was ruthless in the pursuit of a story, but during interviews, she used velvet gloves to deliver the most searing questions, and her subjects responded.

My thanks go to NetGalley and Simon and Schuster for the review copy. This book is for sale now.

Page has written a full, epic autobiography, starting with Walters’s childhood, which was fraught with uncertainty, and ending with her death. She has written it the way the story of a luminary should be written, touching on the many remarkable aspects of Walters’s life without lingering too long on any one of them. She keeps the pacing brisk, and the tone respectful but frank, never fawning. I can’t imagine anyone doing a better job, including Walters herself; the autobiography, Audition, is the most cited source in the endnotes, but Walters had a tendency to drone while telling her own story, particularly about her childhood, while Page keeps it moving.

Walters grew up in a show business household; her father, Lou Walters, produced live shows, and when they were successful, the family lived in style; when they weren’t, it was hand-to-mouth genteel poverty. His gambling addiction caused the family terrible hardship on numerous occasions, and once she made it in the industry, Barbara was forever writing checks to bail him out of debt. Her younger sister, Jackie, was intellectually disabled, and needed constant care and attention. Barbara remarked that in looking back, she doesn’t feel that she was ever young, as she carried so many adult responsibilities at such an early age.

Breaking into mainstream journalism—not fashion or cooking stories, but hard news—was a tough road. She did it at a time when women weren’t expected, or allowed, to do much of anything outside of mothering, housekeeping, and a small number of stereotypical positions. Any female that dared step outside these tight confines was labeled, not as an attorney, manager, or journalist, but as a “lady journalist,” and so forth. Her job on the Today show was announced—with a bit of urging from Barbara herself—in the New York Journal-American thusly:

“’Dawn Greets Barbara, A Girl of Today,’” the headline over the story read. ‘A very attractive, shapely, well-groomed, coiffed and fashionably frocked feminine member of NBC’s dawn patrol” …adding that she had ‘no wish to become a personality.’ She wants to remain as she is…the prettiest reporter in television.’”

That didn’t last, if it was ever true at all. She fought, tooth and toenail, for every single advancement in her career; mainstream news anchors, male of course, resented her and resisted her, particularly when she was hired to appear as a co-anchor. Her early career was marked with restrictions, with Harry Reasoner and Walter Cronkite subjecting her to endless bullying and requirements of when she could speak on the air—not until they had—and other petty, petulant rules.

But she never gave up, and she never went home.

As is often true for anyone that lives for their career, Walters wasn’t able to maintain any of her marriages or raise her own child. She was busy. This is the one regret she voiced at the end of her life, when she found herself alone, with only her longtime paid assistants to see to her needs.

Page narrates her own audiobook, which I checked out from Seattle Bibliocommons in order to catch up, and I immediately noted how much her voice and intonations resemble those of her subject, albeit without the speech impediment. I enjoyed listening to her.

Perhaps my favorite moment in this book is the moment when a very elderly Barbara Walters falls on a marble staircase after refusing to take the arm of the younger woman offering it. She faceplants, is badly injured, but when she regains consciousness, the first thing out of her mouth is an imperial order: “Do not call an ambulance. Do not call an ambulance.” (Of course they did. They had to.)

Although Walters was never a feminist crusader and generally looked out for herself, her family, and friends rather than her younger peers, we women owe her a debt of gratitude. She forced doors open that were bolted shut, and the ripple effect was immeasurable.

Highly recommended to those interested in Walters, feminist history, and anyone that just enjoys a good biography.    

Only Big Bumbum Matters Tomorrow, by Damilare Kuku

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When a novel written and set in Nigeria is so successful that it’s translated into English and sold in the U.S., you know it’s probably one hell of a good book, and Only Big Bumbum Matters Tomorrow is clear evidence that this is true. My thanks go to HarperCollins and NetGalley for the review copy; this book is for sale now.

Our protagonist is Teme (TEE-mee), a young woman fresh out of college who is sure of her next course of action: she must develop a perfect body, starting with her backside. She works and saves her money so that she can have her buttocks enhanced surgically. Everybody loves a woman with a big butt, and once hers is augmented, she can marry anybody she wants. It will be a great investment!

This choice, not surprisingly, blows the roof off her family home. All of the women, her mother, auntie, sister, and others are adamant, and they scheme together, and bicker together, about how to prevent her from carrying out what they perceive to be a dangerous and foolish task. In the process, they reveal their own long held secrets, and also? They are hysterically funny!

The reader should know that the best material isn’t dropped in at the beginning, as is the unfortunate trend. Instead, it starts out fairly serious, and then I find myself snickering a little, and then a little more, and by the end, I am howling! There are quite a number of characters, and not recalling all of them won’t interfere with your enjoyment; however, it’s easier to catch up and also identify certain Nigerian terms that are peppered in, most of which are self-explanatory anyway, if you read digitally. However, because I had fallen behind, I checked out the audio version from the library and followed along as I did my morning exercises, and the audio version is brilliant as well. The lilting Nigerian dialect is mesmerizing!

Although it doesn’t seem like it at first, this novel packs a satisfying feminist punch. I highly recommend it to any reader that has eyes, ears, or both. Don’t miss it!

The Briar Club, by Kate Quinn*****

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I had never read a novel by Kate Quinn, but my friends on Goodreads raved about it and I was overcome by the fear of missing out. Happily, I was not too late to get a review copy; my thanks go to NetGalley and William Morrow, along with my apologies for lateness. From the get go, I could tell this book was too good to speed read, and so I set it aside for a time when I could sink into it and appreciate it. This fall I was able to get the audio version from the library to help me along; narrator Saskia Maarleveld is outstanding, and those that enjoy hearing their books should strongly consider ordering that format.

Our story takes place just after World War II, and it takes place almost entirely within the confines of Briarwood House, a women’s boarding house owned by the selfish, odious Mrs. Nilsson. The book’s prologue comes to us from the point of view of the house, and for a brief spell I wonder whether the house itself will become the main character. It doesn’t, and that’s probably just as well, because the women that rent its rooms, along with Pete and Lina, Nilsson’s two children, fill the story quite nicely, and all are beautifully developed, some more than others, with Nilsson herself being the only truly static character. In fact, I could argue that even the house’s character is developed somewhat.

I seldom do this, but the prologue is so juicy that I’m going to reprint a considerable chunk of it here, because Quinn’s voice—and okay, the house’s—provide a more convincing incentive to read on, than anything I can offer:

If these walls could talk. Well, they may not be talking, but they are certainly listening. And watching…Now its walls smell of turkey, pumpkin pie, and blood, and the house is shocked down to its foundations. Also, just a little bit thrilled. This is the most excitement Briarwood House has had in decades. Murder. Murder here in the heart of sleepy white picket fence Washington, D.C.! And on Thanksgiving, too. Not that the house is terribly surprised by that; it’s held enough holidays to know that when you throw all that family together and mix with too much rum punch and buried resentment, blood is bound to be shed sometimes…This was a very enthusiastic murder, the house muses. Not one moment’s hesitation from the hand swinging that blade…Briarwood House doesn’t like Mrs. Nilsson. Hasn’t liked her since she first crossed the threshold as a bride, complaining before she’d even shaken the rice out of her hair that the halls were too narrow (My halls! Too narrow!), and still doesn’t like her twenty years down the road. No one else in this kitchen does, either, the house knows perfectly well. It knows something the detective doesn’t. The killer is still very much in this room.

Now that the murder has been mentioned, I must caution you not to identify this story foremost as a murder mystery; it isn’t. The murder doesn’t come till nearly the very end, and the reason that it affects us so deeply is because of the author’s success in making every character here feel tangible and known to us. By the time anyone is enraged enough to swing anything, we know all of these women, or most of them at least, well enough to feel as if they are family. Boarder Grace March is revealed to us more slowly than the other women, but there are reasons for that, and by the end, I may love her best of all. No, this is first and foremost a stellar work of historical fiction.

At the outset, no one knows anyone else. Some are married, waiting for spouses to return from the conflict; some are single; some are professionals. Almost everybody has at least one serious secret. But as they grow to know one another, bonds are established that in some cases are stronger than those of blood relatives.

I won’t go through the plot or describe individual characters; as far as I’m concerned, that would be gilding the lily. Instead, I urge you to get a copy of this outstanding novel in whatever form is your favorite, with a slight nudge toward audio if you’re undecided. Highly recommended!

Emperor of the Seas, by Jack Weatherford*****

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How much do you know about the Mongol empires? If you grew up in the U.S., chances are you answered, “Absolutely nothing.” The world is a big place, and world history has never been much of a priority in American schools; we study various phases of U.S. history, state history, and in a wild flurry of internationalism, some districts now teach a semester of Canadian history. The single year of world history in high school is usually devoted to World War II, which is impossible to teach without including information about Europe, and a smidgen about Japan along with, yes, more American history. There you go. Here’s your diploma.

In my retirement years, I have reveled in the freedom to learn about the history that wasn’t on the syllabus for what I studied, and later, what I was hired to teach. Having marched my way through various other times and places, I realized that I knew nothing about the Mongol khans. I read one novel about Genghis, and I was hooked.

My thanks go to NetGalley and Bloomsbury for the review copy. You can buy this book now.

If you’re going to read a single nonfiction book about the Mongols, this would be a fine choice. Jack Weatherford’s research is outstanding, including works in several non-English languages that most of us couldn’t hope to read on our own. His scholarship is so meticulous that he has been awarded both of Mongolia’s top national awards. Not half bad, for a boy from South Carolina. And while this book is not written as narrative nonfiction, the tone is conversational, the language accessible. I read it daily at lunch time, and it wasn’t long before I was shouting out random, amazing facts to family members that dared venture into the kitchen.

It began with Genghis, a young man whose family was left homeless, left to freeze or starve when his father and protector died. With desperation, talent, and ruthlessness that he learned well, he turned it around, and as he grew up he vanquished his enemies, brought the most talented and trustworthy elements to himself, and let the devil take the rest. His instinct for military strategy was a thing of pure genius. But this book is mostly not about him; it’s about his grandson, Kublai Khan, who expanded the empire Genghis began until his domain stretched from Baghdad to the far shores of China.

Until Kublai arrived, Mongols were an inland people, but it was Kublai who realized that in order to expand and become a world power, he had to have ocean-going vessels and people that knew how to use them. The peoples of Southern China were tough to defeat, but once it was done, he was able to use their technologies in ways that were of immeasurable value.

The progression looked like this (in a very simplified version): Genghis conquered, and took no prisoners, with a few rare exceptions. Kublai conquered, but also used diplomacy, highlighting the potential benefits of becoming a Mongol subject; he didn’t routinely kill everyone he defeated. And under Kublai’s son Temur, the Mongols segued from physical battle to economic dominance, making China’s ports the ideal destination of merchants from all over the world.

One of the most interesting things I learned had to do with the authority that was vested in the women of the highest placed families. When the men rode off to conquer, it was women that looked after the business interests and saw to local governance. It worked out nicely; Europeans should have taken note.

I can’t compare this book to others because I haven’t read any others on this topic cover to cover, but I wouldn’t let that stop you. If the Mongols are persuaded that Weatherford has done the work and done it well, who can argue? I learned a great deal and enjoyed it, and so I highly recommend it to you.

The Love Elixir of Augusta Stern*****

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Augusta Stern is about to turn eighty, and she’s being forced into retirement, darn it. Her beloved niece persuades her to leave New York and spend what remain of her golden years in a Florida seniors’ community. From there, a wave of surprising events unfolds, changing Augusta’s life.

My thanks go to NetGalley and St. Martin’s Press for the invitation to read and review. This book is for sale now.

Loigman’s debut novel came in 2016, and as of now, she’s published three more. Every single one is golden. This author writes with warmth and intentionality, and although the first was wonderful, each subsequent one has been better than the last. And so, although I have gone on to read other novels by other authors since I finished this one, this is the one I’m still thinking about.

You see, in 1922, Augusta’s mother became gravely ill. Try though they might, neither the doctors nor her pharmacist father were able to help her, and she died. Augusta, her sister, and her father were all plunged into a dark and terrible place without her.  Great Aunt Esther showed up to run the household, and she brought with her a case full of herbs and tinctures; Esther was an apothecary. Her methods, which were sometimes unconventional, put her at odds with her nephew, but they got results, sometimes where conventional medicine had failed. Soon Augusta was spending her hours after school helping her father in the pharmacy, and sneaking out of bed in the middle of the night to observe Esther devising natural concoctions of her own. Esther declared Augusta to be her heir; she had a loving heart and a healer’s instincts.

Her social life was very limited, absorbed as she was with the family business, but the brightest spot in her day was when Irving Ripken, her father’s delivery boy, came to work. Often, they would talk as they worked; in time, they fell in love. Imagine her horror, then, when he abruptly married someone else and moved to Chicago! Augusta never recovered from the blow, and so she has never married.

Now, imagine her astonishment when sixty years later in Rallentando Springs, Irving shows up at the pool!

Much of what follows is what a reader might expect, but the details and character development take the story to a higher plane, and as we follow it, we also see the events of 1922, and these enable us to understand these characters and what drives them. There’s an unusually clever twist at the end, and it’s one that I absolutely do not see coming.

Ordinarily I would include ways in which the novel fell short or could be improved, but that’s impossible in this case. Loigman has spun magic for us from start to finish, and all I can do is bow in appreciation, and recommend this novel to you.