Back to Wando Passo

Back to Wando Passo

2.3 3
by David Payne
     
 

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Hailed as "the most gifted American novelist of his generation" (Boston Globe), David Payne introduces us to Ransom Hill, a big-hearted, wild-man lead singer of a legendary indie rock group, who has come to South Carolina determined to save his marriage, his family, and himself. But back at Wando Passo, his wife's inherited family estate, things don't

Overview

Hailed as "the most gifted American novelist of his generation" (Boston Globe), David Payne introduces us to Ransom Hill, a big-hearted, wild-man lead singer of a legendary indie rock group, who has come to South Carolina determined to save his marriage, his family, and himself. But back at Wando Passo, his wife's inherited family estate, things don't proceed according to plan. There's another man in the picture, and Ran's discovery of a mysterious relic from slave times transports him—and the reader—back into the story of another romantic triangle at Wando Passo that erupted violently at the height of the Civil War. Will the present repeat the past?

Filled with fast-paced adventure, lyrical writing, wicked humor, and unforgettable characters, David Payne's Back to Wando Passo propels the two love stories, linked by place through time, to a simultaneous crescendo of betrayal, revenge, and redemption.

Editorial Reviews

Patrick Anderson
Back to Wando Passo is that most delicious of guilty pleasures: a big, fat, decadent Southern-fried potboiler, fitfully brilliant, frequently over the top, chock-full of lust and betrayal, miscegenation and madness, but held together by Payne's gorgeous writing. At the very least, this should be the most literate beach read of the year.
— The Washington Post
Publishers Weekly
Payne's richly ornate Southern saga (after Gravesend Light) follows Ransom Hill, a current New York cabbie and former '80s songwriter-in-demand, back South. Ran is rejoining his estranged wife, Claire DeLay, and their two small children at Wando Passo, the South Carolina rice plantation Claire has inherited. Originally a poor boy from North Carolina, Ran truly loves his Charleston-born, flaky musician wife of 19 years. But the past dogs Ran: Claire, a former concert pianist, finds work teaching music at a local college and reconnects with her childhood friend Marcel Jones, a black musician and sour ex-member of Ran's band. At Wando Passo, he excavates an old pot containing ceremonial objects, and, later, two corpses are unearthed perhaps solving the mysterious disappearance of the Civil War master of the house, Harlan DeLay, and his Charleston wife, Addie, who soon get alternating diary entry-like chapters. Addie reveals her illicit romance with Harlan's black half-brother, Jarry, the son of a Cuban buja; their biracial love resonates with Claire's attraction to Marcel, while Ran's loopy purpose seems to be to release the ancestral curse so that the whole family can function again. Despite a rather too-tidy plot, Payne fashions elaborate prose and touching characterization into an absorbing tale. (June) Copyright 2006 Reed Business Information.
Library Journal
(See Prepub Alert, LJ 2/15/06).-Ann Kim Copyright 2006 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
Rock-'n'-roll, Charleston by moonlight, passion dangerous and doomed, the specter of slavery and misty memories of blasted Confederate bravado, all sung in a key of high rhapsody: Could a novel be more Dixie-fried?Craggily handsome, yet a tad wrecked in a sexy, world-weary way, Ransom Hill is pure fantasy. Only a master fabulist could pull him off. Interweaving Ransom's quest to reclaim the titular antebellum mansion and the love of gorgeous Claire, whom he'd spurned for jukebox dreams, with the saga of Harlan and Addie, lovers who'd mysteriously evaporated into the Carolina ether back in 1865, Payne (Early from the Dance, 2003, etc.) hooks the reader like a wide-eyed catfish. Having ditched Claire and kids when the Ransom Hill Band scored their one big hit, the former rock god has some serious making up to do. One wound in need of healing was inflicted upon Marcel Jones, former drummer with the band, which also featured Claire's Stevie Nicks to Ransom's Lindsey Buckingham. Now the elegant black percussionist is a dean at the college where Claire hopes to teach music, but he still smarts when recalling Ransom's Jagger-sized ego. Will love blossom between Claire and Ransom's rival? Will an eerie parallel be drawn between today's troubled owners of Wando Passo and their Civil War predecessors, Addie and Harlan and his brother (who turns out to be black)? Payne's plot is a fine, twisty marvel, but what ultimately sells this epic is his outsized passion. Steamy sex, family life in all its closeness and conflict, landscape in high relief, quasi-biblical prose poetry-about the only thing this gusher lacks is irony. And that's a big plus. Basically defining "sweeping saga," this Southerntearjerker is heaven for die-hard romantics.

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9780061977572
Publisher:
HarperCollins Publishers
Publication date:
10/06/2009
Sold by:
HARPERCOLLINS
Format:
NOOK Book
Pages:
464
Sales rank:
735,877
File size:
964 KB

Read an Excerpt

Back to Wando Passo

A Novel
By David Payne

HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.

Copyright © 2006 David Payne
All right reserved.

ISBN: 0060851899

Chapter One

Ransom Hill had fallen hopelessly in love with his own wife. If there was any doubt of it -- there wasn't, but had there been -- it ended in Myrtle Beach, as he deplaned and found her waiting with the children at the gate. Tall and thinner than he'd been since high school, Ran had on his good black coat, which still stank of cigarettes, though he'd given them up in anticipation of this trip, the first of many sacrifices he was prepared to make. His slouching jeans were held up by a concho belt in which he'd lately had to punch three extra holes, and his Tony Lamas clapped along with a delaminated sole. His Stetson, though -- the new three-hundred-dollar white one he'd seen and really felt he owed himself -- was as crisp, serene, and towering as a late-summer cumulus. In its shadow, under memorable blue eyes, two dark crescents stood out against his inveterate New York City pallor, smudged as though by Christmas coal, the lumps that Santa Claus reserves especially for fallen rock stars and other habitual offenders. Ran, as always, was carrying two guitars, the ones Claire called "the Gibson girls" and, again, "the mistress and the wife." His road-worn but still handsome face seemed clarified by recent suffering forwhich he had nobody but himself and maybe God to blame. As he came up the ramp, a bit short-winded, with that slapping sole, he looked like someone who had served a stretch in purgatory, and now, there, in paradisal light at the end of the square tunnel, was Claire. And paradise turned out to be South Carolina. Who could have guessed?

Amid the tourists headed for the links and Grand Strand beaches, the rushing bankers on their cells, his wife and children looked like a subversive little carnival unto themselves. Hope, his four-year-old, had on a pink dress-up with blue and silver sequins and boa trim. In dandelion-white hair tinged with the faintest faint blond rinse, her plastic tiara featured sapphires one shade bluer but only half as incandescent as her eyes. Over the summer, her legs had sectioned out like telescopes and suddenly acquired a shape like Claire's. At their distal ends, her nails were painted chipped hot pink. So, too, Ran saw -- with an alarm he rapidly suppressed -- were his son's. Wrapped around his mother's waist, Charlie, not quite two, had on a Cody Chestnut T-shirt with a grape juice stain and a hard-shell plastic fire hat: FDNY. As he shyly grinned with two new serrated teeth, Ran saw with a pang, for the first time, who his son was going to be, which had carved itself from formless babyhood while Daddy was away.

"Dute! Bi'truck!" he said, and banged his plastic lid.

"Fire truck, dude." Putting down his cases, Ran took a knee, removed his hat, and raked his fingers through his sandy hair. With a hint of the grin that once upon a time had opened many doors (quite a few of which he would have been wiser to eschew), he held out his arms, not quite in time to catch the kids as they smashed into him like rocket-propelled grenades.

"Dad! Da-dee!" Hope squealed.

"Hey, Sweet Pete!" He keeled over, laughing, on his seat.

"Daddy, how come you're so skinny?"

"I'm not skinny, am I?"

"Yes, you are. How come?"

"Bi'truck! Bi'truck!" Charlie said, lacking skills, but concerned to have his contribution recognized.

"Man, I really like that hat," said Ran. "I don't suppose . . ."

He commenced a swap, but it was ill-advised. "Mine!" said Charlie, clamping down with two big little hands.

Hope tugged his sleeve. "How come?"

"Well, Pete . . ."

He lost her on the hesitation.

"Look what I have on!"

"Umm-hmm. Tres chic," he said.

"You bought it for my birthday." Her tone flirted with severity, as though she suspected he'd forgotten.

"I remember," Ransom said, and now he did. "It fit you like a sack."

In New York, cruising the garment district one day in his cab, he'd seen the item on a rolling rack disappearing up a ramp and haggled out the passenger-side window with a nervous Puerto Rican kid in a black do-rag. This was after the label dropped him; after his well-meaning friends rallied round and got him a stint producing a band from the U of Alabama called Broken Teeth ("the next Hootie," they were touted as). After five days at the Magic Shop in SoHo, he was ready to kill them all or commit suicide, preferably both. In lieu of either, he showed up at home that night behind the wheel of a lurching, shot-shocked cab, making good a long-term threat. Five songs into an album he was hell-bent on self-producing and distributing, he bought studio time by running up huge debts on MasterCard (at one point, he had six he had to rotate every time the promo rate expired). One morning he came back from the garage after a shift and found the closets empty. He sat for a long time at the kitchen table, with Claire's bran muffin and her coffee -- sweet and extra light -- in a bag, before he read the note. It was on her good stationery, heavy linen stock with the address blind embossed on the verso of the envelope. Even nineteen years in a rock band couldn't burn some good habits from the heart of a Charleston girl who'd grown up south of Broad. They left in April, and Ran hit bottom, or what looked like bottom then. By that September morning in the airport, he'd discovered that, beneath the basement, the house we know as life has several unsuspected floors; and, below those, several more.

"We missed you, Daddy," Hope said.

"I missed you, too," he would have liked to say, but Ransom, briefly, didn't trust his voice. Sitting on the floor as the traffic veered like a stream around a rock, Ransom squeezed his children hard and smelled them like a stricken animal recovering the scent of its lost cubs, and then he opened his red eyes and looked at Claire.

Continues...


Excerpted from Back to Wando Passo by David Payne Copyright © 2006 by David Payne. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Meet the Author

David Payne lives in North Carolina, and is the author of four previous novels: Confessions of a Taoist on Wall Street, which won the prestigious Houghton Mifflin Literary Fellowship Award; Early from the Dance; Ruin Creek; and Gravesend Light. He welcomes comments from readers, and is available to speak with your book club. He can be reached at david@davidpaynebooks.com.

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Back to Wando Passo 2.5 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 6 reviews.
March185 More than 1 year ago
This novel wasn't terrible but wasn't delightful or thought provoking in the least. The characters were shallow and underdeveloped. The main character, Ransom Hill, is manic and a washed up rock n roll artist which is all very intriguing for the first 100 pages but then quickly becomes self deprecating and whiney. The back and forth, although sometimes a pleasure to read, is also hard to follow. Some of the characters are spanish speaking and neither spanish 101 nor the context of the conversation will help the reader fully understand what is being said. It's not the worst book I've ever read but it certainly isn't the best. I started skimming pages in the last few chapters just to get the jist of what happened.
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Anonymous More than 1 year ago
It's happened before; an author wins some "prestigious" literary fellowship award, only to blow up his prose like a balloon filled with too much hot air. This book's wanderings and rantings, the author's stream of consciousness pouring forth like muddy waters, became tedious at best, boring at worst, losing possibly a very good story along the way.
Guest More than 1 year ago
If your Momma, or your Mammy, ever told you to 'Hesh up now, that's none of your'n business!', it's time that you opened the pages of BACK TO WANDO PASSO by David Payne and start making it your business in a really interesting and absorbing way. Like cream rising to the surface of churned milk, or dead fish rising to the river's surface after a big storm, truth will rise up and be told by someone eventually. In this book, Payne takes us on a journey of family history, told in parallel chapters from Civil War days and the present days in and around Charleston and Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. Everything secret or buried, and even those things that seem to be obvious today, will all be opened in the light of truth in this magnificently written tale of the plantation, Waldo Passo, in South Carolina. AND, like the Good Book says - The truth will set you free!'. A must read for anyone who cares about people and truth!