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Hills at Home [NOOK Book]

Overview

While always well-stocked with clean sheets, Lily Hill is not expecting visitors. At least not in the numbers that descend upon her genteely dilapidated New England ancestral home in the summer of ’89. Brother Harvey arrives first, thrice-widowed and eager for company; then perennially self-dramatizing niece Ginger and her teenaged daughter Betsy; then Alden, just laid-off from Wall Street, with his wife Becky, and their rowdy brood of four . ....
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Hills at Home

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Overview

While always well-stocked with clean sheets, Lily Hill is not expecting visitors. At least not in the numbers that descend upon her genteely dilapidated New England ancestral home in the summer of ’89. Brother Harvey arrives first, thrice-widowed and eager for company; then perennially self-dramatizing niece Ginger and her teenaged daughter Betsy; then Alden, just laid-off from Wall Street, with his wife Becky, and their rowdy brood of four . . .

As summer fades into fall, it becomes clear that no one intends to leave. But just as Lily’s industrious hospitality gives way to a somewhat strained domestic routine, the Hill clan must face new challenges together. Brimming with wit and a compendium of Yankee curiosities, The Hills at Home is an irresistible modern take on an old-fashioned comedy of manners.


From the Trade Paperback edition.
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Editorial Reviews

The New York Times
The novel itself, of course, is the complex and extraordinarily knowledgeable study of the Hills that earnest Andy can never write, despite his interviews and index cards. Is it without flaws? Well, the plot is mild and ambling, and the darker emotions are kept strictly offstage, but plot and angst are not the point. The point is the revelation of a particular kind of life, and at that the book succeeds brilliantly. — Roxana Robinson
Publishers Weekly
That rare bird, a sparkling domestic comedy of manners, has alighted at the Hill home in a small community north of Boston, where various family members gather for shelter and succor during an unsettled period in their lives. Aging spinster Lily Hill, a stoic remnant of old Yankee stock, lives in the imposing but gently deteriorating Victorian house, and good manners prevent her from turning away the importunate visitors who settle into their ancestral manse and proceed to play out a farce of WASP gentility. The first arrival during the summer of 1989 is Lily's hearty brother, Harvey, widowed three times but still available and randy. Then Lily's histrionic, self-involved niece Ginger turns up with her teenaged daughter in tow, having decided to divorce her husband back in Kansas. Ginger's brother, Alden, fired from his Wall Street job, arrives next, with his earth-mother wife, Becky, and four children. Harvey's grandson, an aspiring stand-up comic, brings his girlfriend. Then nonrelatives start to pile up: a graduate student writing a thesis on WASP culture, a disgraced diplomat, a lovesick exchange student and other visitors bring complications and romance, culminating in a raid by the FBI. Debut novelist Clark observes this segment of New England gentry with an unsparing but affectionate eye. The spartan, tasteless meals; the leaking roof and inadequate furnace; the "four inches of warmish bath water, the 40-watt bulbs"; the frugal dispensation of financial resources; and a wedding where everyone "was dressed as if Talbot's had exploded" are brush strokes in a colorful and lively portrait of an eccentric family. Though the plot meanders in the middle section, Clark brings all the details together at the end, when even minor events are shown to have meaning and coalesce in a satisfying denouement. Warm and amusing, this novel has the old-fashioned virtue of good writing paired with a sprightly plot. (Feb. 18) Forecast: Repeat readers are virtually guaranteed, since Clark is writing two sequels about the Hill clan at home and abroad. Copyright 2003 Cahners Business Information.
Library Journal
In the summer of 1989, septuagenarian Lily Hill's serenely solitary life in her ramshackle family home in Towne, MA, comes to a screeching halt. A torrent of Hill relatives with a richly diverse menu of dysfunctional quirks pours into her life, and they forget to leave. Her elderly, grumpy brother has been through a number of wives, all now dead. A supremely solipsistic niece, on the run from an unsatisfying marriage, is parented by her precocious teenage daughter. An unemployed nephew brings his four cranky children and visionary wife. Romance runs amok as kin dally with paramours who show up on Lily's doorstep with alarming frequency. And into this teeming laboratory mix of charming oddballs comes Andy, a nonrelative who will be using the Hill clan as the subject of his long-overdue thesis. A masterpiece of small moments reminiscent of Stella Gibbons's gently wacky Cold Comfort Farm, this extraordinary debut deserves to be savored, sentence by sentence. As Lily's family sorts itself out at the end, one is delighted to learn that Clark is already at work on the sequel. A witty, wonderful read; highly recommended. [Previewed in Prepub Alert, LJ 10/15/02.]-Beth E. Andersen, Ann Arbor Dist. Lib., MI Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
A witty debut (first of a trilogy) about a New England clan whose members come together for a reunion-and can't quite manage to go home again. Lily Hill has the misfortune of being kindhearted and possessed of an old-fashioned sense of hospitality. Not quite elderly, Lily is the sort of New England spinster who keeps a Kleenex up her sleeve and serves Ritz crackers with the cocktails. In the summer of 1989, she's happy to receive a visit from her thrice-widowed brother Harvey, who comes to stay as he awaits the sale of his own house near Boston. Soon he and Lily are joined by their niece Ginger and Ginger's daughter Betsy, who are running away from Ginger's husband Louis. Ginger has decided (against Betsy's advice) to become a novelist, and it seemed to her that Lily's place would provide a quiet setting to put her thoughts in order. She obviously hadn't counted on the arrival of her brother Alden, with his wife and four children. Alden has just lost his job on Wall Street and needs a base of operations to start a new business selling "boutique firewood." By the time Harvey's grandson Arthur shows up with his girlfriend Phoebe (Arthur has lost a job, too), they have to make do with the old caretaker's apartment in the barn: the house is full and Lily has reached the point where she's hiding the toilet paper and no longer changing the sheets. The final arrival is the strangest of all: a sociology student named Andy Happening, who'd been introduced by his thesis adviser, an old friend of Lily's who thought the Hill family would make an excellent study in intergenerational dynamics. After a few months, however, the Hills might provide a better example of civil war. Charming, old-fashioned,and leisurely: Reminiscent of Elizabeth Bowen or Muriel Spark, with petty strifes rendered truly as both comic (in their pettiness) and poignant (in their strife).
From the Publisher
“A graceful, intelligent, and very funny chronicle of a large, extended family beneath one

capacious roof.” –The New York Times Book Review

“Jane Austen is alive. What’s more shocking, the grandmother of social satire has moved in with Jonathan Franzen, and the two of them have produced a love child called The Hills at Home. . . . The wittiest family portrait in years.” –The Christian Science Monitor

“There’s no averting eyes from Clark’s story, which includes family intrigue, gossip, romance and, of course, more than a few gin and tonics.” –Chicago Tribune

“Delicious. . . . Gently but precisely satiric.” –New York Newsday

“Like a jumbo-sized Shakespearean comedy. . . . Leisurely in its pace and lavish in its detail, with a humor that ranges from arch to zany.” –The Seattle Times

“Imbued with a sweet intelligence that brings each member of the title family to vivid life. . . . Clark has created each character with a unique, stubbornly individualistic voice and parcels the narrative among them as deftly as Becky divides the after-dinner pies.”–Houston Chronicle

“Delightful. . . . Sets a new standard for modern family novels, a 20th century Trollope. . . . Offers a harvest ground of subtle, smile-out-loud hilarity.” –BookPage

“Witty. . . . Charming, old-fashioned, and leisurely: Reminiscent of Elizabeth Bowen or Muriel Spark, with petty strifes rendered truly as both comic (in their pettiness) and poignant (in their strife).” –Kirkus Reviews

“A warm, amusing and sparkling domestic comedy of manners. . . . Colorful and lively.” –Publishers Weekly

“Narrated with great intelligence and subtle humor . . . accomplished, invigorating. . . . Clark has a keen eye and an outrageous gift for wry understatement.” –Bookforum

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780307428721
  • Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 12/18/2007
  • Sold by: Random House
  • Format: eBook
  • Pages: 496
  • Sales rank: 1,348,529
  • File size: 617 KB

Meet the Author

Nancy Clark is a native of Massachusetts and a graduate of Trinity College. This is her first novel, and she is currently at work on her next novel about the Hill family. She lives in West Wilton, New Hampshire.


From the Trade Paperback edition.
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Read an Excerpt

Chapter One
The Hills Come Home

Outside, the night blew perfectly foul and all of the Hills had stayed home. Rain flung itself by the fistful against the clapboards, rain spangled the windowpanes, and the rain bore down so hard against the roof that shots bounced up from the slates and rained down again in shattery shards and splinters. The wind wheeled round and the startled rain skidded sideways. The rain sought, the rain battered, the rain invaded. This was an extravagant rain, as if somewhere, somehow, someone, miserly and profligate in turn, had been amassing rain until he possessed enough to hurl down fiercely and decisively upon the helplessly spinning earth.

The house stood alone out in the relative countryside of what used to be known as an old Yankee town, no longer situated so very far to the north of Boston. The house, whose rows of windows were goldenly, blurrily alight against the ragings of the night, could only be half seen, through the tattered last of the October leaves, from a high point on the River Road which was, at present, mildly flooding along its low point. Drivers-by, the few drivers-by taking the windy route easy over the shimmery beech-leaf litter lying like slippery minnows across the pavement, thought the house resembled nothing so much as an ocean liner caught in elegant passage gliding toward a farther horizon. To enhance the passers-by fancies, a sea-salt and sea-creature whiff of mudflats was conveyed upon the east wind as it soughed through an opened dashboard vent, conversational fog having whitened the windshield of a dark sedan nosing up the road.

“I understand Lily has her hands full,” said its driver, a woman who knew a little of the Hills’ situation, “with that crew she’s got there with her these days.”

“Oh?” asked her companions, encouragingly.

But if this was not a night to be out, this was not necessarily a night to be in. As the rain hardened, basins and pots were fetched from the closets where they were stored between storms and positioned beneath the usual roof leaks. The telephones kept ringing themselves, blurting or bewailingly pealing, and the electricity flickered off and on to add another element to everyone’s measure of unease. There had been a single daybright bolt of lightning and one warning growl of thunder earlier and no one in the house quite yet dared to run the risk of making toast.

They, that crew, Lily’s family, had all come for visits the summer past and none of them had gone away again in the fall. The weekend stretched into a week, the week became weeks, the weeks accumulated into a month, the months made up a season, and then the season changed. Oh, Lily ought to have been warier. Their suitcases ought to have struck her as having been very thoroughly packed as she bumped their luggage up the stairs and hefted the ornery, strapped-shut grips onto the foots of their freshly made-up beds. She ought to have let their bags languish in the front hall wherever they had dropped them, however underfoot their effects might have remained, there where they were, crumpling the carpet pattern and nicking the shaky old legs of the deacon’s bench and tripping up the careless returnees who would be too excitedly chattering and ranging about all at once on sorties of rediscovery and reclamation to mind their ways.

Surely, Lily should have made them bide their time on the terrace flagstones and finish the tall glasses of iced tea she had carried outside on an overburdened tole-ware tray. They ought to have been required to give good accounts of themselves and to stand close questions concerning the glossed-over parts of their narratives. At the very least, Lily should have let them ask which rooms were to be theirs. She ought to have leaned back on a terrace chaise and obliged them to campaign obliquely or openly, according to temperament, for assignment to the bedroom remembered as a favorite one—with a view of the river; with the framed print rendering of a nearly nude Squanto welcoming Miles Standish, overdressed in his flimsy jeweler’s-art armor, to a rather too tropically fruited and plumed New World; or, best, the big square front-facing chamber containing the electrified invalid’s bed, which, shuddering and creaking at the really determined press of a handheld button, closed up like a clamshell. They’d been sorry to learn the invalid’s bed had been rented and returned after the last wave of old people’s illnesses and deaths back in the mid-seventies. Sorry to hear, and surprised as well by Lily’s owning to the fact of a rented deathbed in a house where, as Alden said, even the fused clump of peppermint drops kept in the domed dish on the big parlor mantelpiece was, surely, the original fused clump.

Yes, there was a footing Lily ought to have established at the outset but that had never been the family’s way, for all of the Hills had been raised to regard the old house in Towne as home whether they had been reared there or in some other place. The Hills lived, if not in exile, then as self-perceived expatriates in midwestern suburbs and at New York addresses where they could be tiresome on the subject of Towne. No one else quite understood the unswerving attraction, even after they’d been shown photos of the graceful Towne green and the view from the River Road bridge, and been told about the deep-voiced frogs who lived in the swamps, and who, the Hills said, said, Mud, mud, mud. Some salmon urge to return must have been encoded in their DNA, non-Hills privately decided, but Lily, even as she grumbled to herself, even as she paid the property taxes year after year and continued to worry about the roof and ran her vacuum cleaner once a week back and forth over the floorboards and carpets and stair treads, might have answered back to the mutters of outsiders, No, not salmon urge but soul, were she less reluctant to speak the word outside of Morning Prayer at All Saints’— a word which, of late, Lily had been less frequently speaking in that venue, having lapsed in her regular attendance. She liked the new rector. He spoke the General Confession like someone with a clear but not complacent conscience. He did not need watching.

And so Lily had, according to custom, arranged welcoming vases of narcissi, and then iris, and later, roses, to set upon their bureau tops on the days of their arrivals. She had greeted them at the door or the top of the driveway, smilingly enough. She hoped on their behalves for fair weather. She pepped up the first-night supper menus with piccalilli and cottage cheese spread on Ritz crackers for before, and she baked batches of Congo Bars for after, a lavishing of hospitality, really, which must have given them all the idea that Lily delighted to have them, a sentiment to which, in the long run, they were bound to hold her.

Her brother Harvey had been the first to return, on a cold day in May.

“Lily?” Harvey was abrupt on the telephone. “Be there Thursday,” he had said and then dropped the receiver as if from a height. He had been living on his own for a while now and Lily guessed he had already held a conversation with her in his head during which he had gone into the pertinent details.

On that Thursday, Harvey had barged through the front door without knocking, and he planted himself on the threshold of the big parlor inhaling its still, chilly air as if he meant to acclimatize himself before taking on the high-rising staircase. Lily had followed behind as he made a beeline for his boyhood bedroom which, like Thebes, was much altered but remained a place on his mind’s map. The brand-new wallpaper, at long last made necessary by a pipe-burst the previous January, was not very nice, its pattern a drift of lavender daisies and skimming butterflies with pinches and elderly faces and horns on their heads, and Lily heard herself apologizing for the new paper but Harvey said he had never much cared for the old stuff which had been a marshy scene of ducks who looked too fat to fly and knickerbockered hunters standing elegantly about and nipping from their flasks of whiskey. Poor Marjorie had had to improvise an eyeshade, he said, last time, on their last visit, last year. There had been something malign about those ducks, Marjorie had felt.

“Think she must have been spoiling for something even then,” Harvey said.

He leaned against his boyhood window, one knee levered onto the wide sill, his nose bent and blowing smoke upon a pane of glass. Slim saplings had turned into sturdy trees and a loose line of faux-colonial homes and lawn-service green lawns had advanced beyond the village limits, and even a bit of Boston showed now, or, at any rate, evidence of the city, a browny-yellow smudging of the southern sky, which may have been just as well; the way Boston was going he’d need to keep an eye on the place.

“You’ve let everything go,” he told Lily, as if the shaggy trees and the march of houses had been her doing, as if, somehow, she had failed to resist, the lone figure pushing back the raised blade of a bulldozer. He would have heard, had Lily made the effort. She would have been in the papers as a matter of human interest.

He turned from Lily as she frowned at him and he fiddled at his bureau top, strewing a shoehorn, spare change, a pocketknife plucked from his pocket across the drawn-thread bureau scarf. Lily wouldn’t have given him such a nice one had she known he’d become such a clutterer. He unfolded the standing triptych frame of his wives’ photos, the late Amy, and later Naomi, and his latest, Marjorie, as he referred to them when, occasionally, he recalled one or another’s ability to perform some necessary task—sewing on a last-minute replacement button while he remained inside his shirt (Amy) or speaking French to the French people in France (Marjorie). Naomi, the middle wife, like a middle child had been the least remarkable but quite the nicest (Naomi could bake), Lily thought as she studied the three similarly sweet and palely pretty faces. Amy, the prototype, seeming to age in portraiture as she had failed to age in life.

Then Lily watched Harvey, extra bath towels folded over her arm, as he tested the bed by kicking a post and lifting up an edge of the quilt investigatively. Lily had made a lumpy job of putting Harvey’s bed together. As she thumped the old mattress, perhaps with some idea of tenderizing it, she had conducted her own half of the terse telephone call—What time shall I expect you? Will you require lunch? How long will you stay? Must I buy a tub of special margarine? Saltless salt? Shall I call someone in to install Stedi-Bars above the bathtub? Can you manage the stairs? These intimations of infirmities would have acted upon Harvey as a stick prodding the ribs of a bear curled round his rum- bling slumber. Unwise, such questions would have been, yet resented, of course—a failure to anticipate his needs. Lily had split a too-small pillowcase stuffing it with a king-size pillow, and she had snatched a twin-size top sheet from the linen cupboard which she had used anyway as she argued at Harvey, in absentia.

“Short-sheeted my bed? Because I warn you, I’ll break my hip and then you’ll be sorry,” Harvey told Lily.

Lily wondered whether Harvey wasn’t becoming childish. He was a rosy-skinned and fluffy-headed old man, with a teary glint in his eye—some temporary duct trouble. She hadn’t attended as he told her all about it, his mystified and impressed doctors, the useless prescription drops he was using, instead, on his hangnails. His trousers stopped too short of his ankles, as if once again he was outgrowing his clothes. His walk was springy; his new Air Jordans had been a successful impulse buy. And he seemed excessively cheerful for someone who had lost as much as he had. Amy, at the last, had clutched her head, and Naomi her heart, and Marjorie clung to the steering wheel of a careering car. (Lily could not stop thinking about them. She had been startled by the sudden unfolding of the triptych frame, for she had expected to view happy and similarly sweet grandchildren’s faces.) That none of Harvey’s wives had, at the last, reached for Harvey was at once an indictment and an acquittal, perhaps. None had chosen to take any essential part of Harvey with her, and Lily supposed that was how Harvey had managed to carry on—and how Harvey carried on, Lily reflected privately.

“Lily, you’ve let the old place go shockingly,” Harvey stated. The crystal knob of his closet door spun off in his hand as he wrenched it open to check whether Lily had supplied him with the wooden clothes hangers he knew Lily knew he required. She had given him a sound dozen, all filched from good hotels in the days before even good hotels welded their hangers to the closet rods. Nevertheless, the hangers were no more than he was due, if Lily was expecting thanks. He shot her a look from the cover of the closet door, but she was only trying to push a sprung-loose thread back into the warp of one of the bath towels. She wet her fingertip and prodded.

“There can be such an old lady look to a house,” Harvey told Lily. “I can always tell just driving by a place and I could tell driving up here. The window shades are all unevenly drawn because you can’t remember from one room to the next whether the shades go halfway down or three-quarters of the way up, and you’ve let the shrubs run wild and swooping across the doors and you can’t get in or out and you’ll have to call the Fire Department and they’ll come roaring up in their truck and you’ll be very embarrassed. And the paint, no matter what color it was originally supposed to be, looks like you went to the store and asked for a gallon of, a gallon of bilge-water grey.”

“The shades are drawn in reference to house plants and certain upholstery fabrics I do not wish to fade,” Lily said. “To fade further,” she amended, lest Harvey take it in mind to collect specimen cushions to demonstrate the damage that had already been done.

Harvey scraped bureau drawers open and shut. He removed a wizened pomander from the bottom drawer, an apple stuck and studded with cloves and looped with red ribbon secured to a flimsy stem. Uttering oaths, he reached deeper and extracted a dozen or more shrunken and rather evilly dead-appearing objects, no, not heads as first he feared but only Seckel pears. Lily had left them in the drawer last fall to ripen undisturbed in the dark and she’d forgotten them, at least until she remembered last February and couldn’t face what she knew she’d find. The pomander had masked the sequence of odors emanating from the tall old chest of drawers, such a fortunate set of circumstances, Lily had thought at the time.

“I suppose she keeps her hankies in the vegetable bin,” Harvey addressed the air.

As he shoved the drawer shut, the triptych frame of wives’ pictures fell flat onto the bureau scarf. Lily set them upright again, and were she feeling fonder of Harvey at the moment, she would not have positioned the faces so that their six similarly gazing eyes would meet Harvey’s own as he awoke in the morning, yawning and scrubbing away the accumulated salt of his automatic tears.

“But what are you looking for?” she had asked, as Harvey ruffled through a stack of Woman’s Day magazines Lily was keeping in a neat pile beside the radiator for their fresh-sounding recipes and clever craft ideas should a particular need arise to produce a Bizzy-Daze Peanut Butter Supreme Torte or create Muppet-character sock puppets for disadvantaged children, even as she recalled the days when the children of the poor had required only the socks themselves to wear on their feet.

“What am I looking for?” Harvey asked. “I am looking for my pair of paint pants that I left behind here, and I’m counting on having those paint pants because it came to me as I observed your flaking trim and your peeling clapboarding that the reason I’ve come home is to paint the house. I’m going to start in on the shudders.”

Lily was caught between self-defense and self-justification.

“Harvey,” she said, “you left home fifty years ago and on subsequent visits you haven’t lifted a finger to help except that one time, I do recall, when you took a hammer to a cellar step because you trod upon a risen nail and you resented having a tetanus shot.”

“Didn’t want to get lockjaw,” Harvey said.

“Well, no one wanted you to get lockjaw,” Lily agreed. How he would have kept them hopping with the jaw-locked and angry issuance of memoranda, at the worst specifying his funeral hymns and coffin wood, followed by a long, crankily conversational convalescence.

“ ’Course not, would have been very serious,” Harvey allowed, mollified.

“And you won’t fit into those old work pants without a crowbar.”

Nevertheless, Lily had been collecting estimates from painters for the past few years and when she got around to calling on the least alarming figure, she had learned there was a statute of limitations on estimates. State law, Miss Hill, she’d been told by a former student who seemed to relish knowing better than she. She had had no further will to interview a second round of paint contractors, those whose advertising cards on the TrueValue notice board she had passed over the first time because of hard-to-read handwriting and the speckled and untidy appearance of having been pinned there too long and too unavailingly appealing for work.

“Very well, you may paint the shutters,” Lily told Harvey. “But you may not choose the color.” The shutter color was always the same, anyway, that deep shade of true green which surprises you when you prise open the can’s lid by not smelling of a northern pine forest but only and oilily of paint.

“Hope you have a high enough latter,” Harvey warned. “Otherwise I’m driving straight down to the TrueValue and I’ll charge a fifty-footer to your account.”

“There’s a tall ladder in the barn,” Lily said. “I think it still works.”

“Still works? What aspect of a latter can there possibly be that works or not?” he wanted to know, a point he and Lily had discussed off and on throughout the late afternoon and the pepped up first-night supper, a ruffly bubble pancake with cherry jam, and the martinis that had been Harvey’s idea. They had discussed ladders further during an otherwise quiet evening spent in the little parlor in front of the television set there, watching the nothing (they were united on this point) that was on.


From the Trade Paperback edition.
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First Chapter

Chapter One
The Hills Come Home

Outside, the night blew perfectly foul and all of the Hills had stayed home. Rain flung itself by the fistful against the clapboards, rain spangled the windowpanes, and the rain bore down so hard against the roof that shots bounced up from the slates and rained down again in shattery shards and splinters. The wind wheeled round and the startled rain skidded sideways. The rain sought, the rain battered, the rain invaded. This was an extravagant rain, as if somewhere, somehow, someone, miserly and profligate in turn, had been amassing rain until he possessed enough to hurl down fiercely and decisively upon the helplessly spinning earth.

The house stood alone out in the relative countryside of what used to be known as an old Yankee town, no longer situated so very far to the north of Boston. The house, whose rows of windows were goldenly, blurrily alight against the ragings of the night, could only be half seen, through the tattered last of the October leaves, from a high point on the River Road which was, at present, mildly flooding along its low point. Drivers-by, the few drivers-by taking the windy route easy over the shimmery beech-leaf litter lying like slippery minnows across the pavement, thought the house resembled nothing so much as an ocean liner caught in elegant passage gliding toward a farther horizon. To enhance the passers-by fancies, a sea-salt and sea-creature whiff of mudflats was conveyed upon the east wind as it soughed through an opened dashboard vent, conversational fog having whitened the windshield of a dark sedan nosing up the road.

"I understand Lily has her hands full," said its driver, a woman whoknew a little of the Hills' situation, "with that crew she's got there with her these days."

"Oh?" asked her companions, encouragingly.

But if this was not a night to be out, this was not necessarily a night to be in. As the rain hardened, basins and pots were fetched from the closets where they were stored between storms and positioned beneath the usual roof leaks. The telephones kept ringing themselves, blurting or bewailingly pealing, and the electricity flickered off and on to add another element to everyone's measure of unease. There had been a single daybright bolt of lightning and one warning growl of thunder earlier and no one in the house quite yet dared to run the risk of making toast.

they, that crew, Lily's family, had all come for visits the summer past and none of them had gone away again in the fall. The weekend stretched into a week, the week became weeks, the weeks accumulated into a month, the months made up a season, and then the season changed. Oh, Lily ought to have been warier. Their suitcases ought to have struck her as having been very thoroughly packed as she bumped their luggage up the stairs and hefted the ornery, strapped-shut grips onto the foots of their freshly made-up beds. She ought to have let their bags languish in the front hall wherever they had dropped them, however underfoot their effects might have remained, there where they were, crumpling the carpet pattern and nicking the shaky old legs of the deacon's bench and tripping up the careless returnees who would be too excitedly chattering and ranging about all at once on sorties of rediscovery and reclamation to mind their ways.

Surely, Lily should have made them bide their time on the terrace flagstones and finish the tall glasses of iced tea she had carried outside on an overburdened tole-ware tray. They ought to have been required to give good accounts of themselves and to stand close questions concerning the glossed-over parts of their narratives. At the very least, Lily should have let them ask which rooms were to be theirs. She ought to have leaned back on a terrace chaise and obliged them to campaign obliquely or openly, according to temperament, for assignment to the bedroom remembered as a favorite one—with a view of the river; with the framed print rendering of a nearly nude Squanto welcoming Miles Standish, overdressed in his flimsy jeweler's-art armor, to a rather too tropically fruited and plumed New World; or, best, the big square front-facing chamber containing the electrified invalid's bed, which, shuddering and creaking at the really determined press of a handheld button, closed up like a clamshell. They'd been sorry to learn the invalid's bed had been rented and returned after the last wave of old people's illnesses and deaths back in the mid-seventies. Sorry to hear, and surprised as well by Lily's owning to the fact of a rented deathbed in a house where, as Alden said, even the fused clump of peppermint drops kept in the domed dish on the big parlor mantelpiece was, surely, the original fused clump.

Yes, there was a footing Lily ought to have established at the outset but that had never been the family's way, for all of the Hills had been raised to regard the old house in Towne as home whether they had been reared there or in some other place. The Hills lived, if not in exile, then as self-perceived expatriates in midwestern suburbs and at New York addresses where they could be tiresome on the subject of Towne. No one else quite understood the unswerving attraction, even after they'd been shown photos of the graceful Towne green and the view from the River Road bridge, and been told about the deep-voiced frogs who lived in the swamps, and who, the Hills said, said, Mud, mud, mud. Some salmon urge to return must have been encoded in their DNA, non-Hills privately decided, but Lily, even as she grumbled to herself, even as she paid the property taxes year after year and continued to worry about the roof and ran her vacuum cleaner once a week back and forth over the floorboards and carpets and stair treads, might have answered back to the mutters of outsiders, No, not salmon urge but soul, were she less reluctant to speak the word outside of Morning Prayer at All Saints'— a word which, of late, Lily had been less frequently speaking in that venue, having lapsed in her regular attendance. She liked the new rector. He spoke the General Confession like someone with a clear but not complacent conscience. He did not need watching.

And so Lily had, according to custom, arranged welcoming vases of narcissi, and then iris, and later, roses, to set upon their bureau tops on the days of their arrivals. She had greeted them at the door or the top of the driveway, smilingly enough. She hoped on their behalves for fair weather. She pepped up the first-night supper menus with piccalilli and cottage cheese spread on Ritz crackers for before, and she baked batches of Congo Bars for after, a lavishing of hospitality, really, which must have given them all the idea that Lily delighted to have them, a sentiment to which, in the long run, they were bound to hold her.

Her brother Harvey had been the first to return, on a cold day in May.

"Lily?" Harvey was abrupt on the telephone. "Be there Thursday," he had said and then dropped the receiver as if from a height. He had been living on his own for a while now and Lily guessed he had already held a conversation with her in his head during which he had gone into the pertinent details.

On that Thursday, Harvey had barged through the front door without knocking, and he planted himself on the threshold of the big parlor inhaling its still, chilly air as if he meant to acclimatize himself before taking on the high-rising staircase. Lily had followed behind as he made a beeline for his boyhood bedroom which, like Thebes, was much altered but remained a place on his mind's map. The brand-new wallpaper, at long last made necessary by a pipe-burst the previous January, was not very nice, its pattern a drift of lavender daisies and skimming butterflies with pinches and elderly faces and horns on their heads, and Lily heard herself apologizing for the new paper but Harvey said he had never much cared for the old stuff which had been a marshy scene of ducks who looked too fat to fly and knickerbockered hunters standing elegantly about and nipping from their flasks of whiskey. Poor Marjorie had had to improvise an eyeshade, he said, last time, on their last visit, last year. There had been something malign about those ducks, Marjorie had felt.

"Think she must have been spoiling for something even then," Harvey said.

He leaned against his boyhood window, one knee levered onto the wide sill, his nose bent and blowing smoke upon a pane of glass. Slim saplings had turned into sturdy trees and a loose line of faux-colonial homes and lawn-service green lawns had advanced beyond the village limits, and even a bit of Boston showed now, or, at any rate, evidence of the city, a browny-yellow smudging of the southern sky, which may have been just as well; the way Boston was going he'd need to keep an eye on the place.

"You've let everything go," he told Lily, as if the shaggy trees and the march of houses had been her doing, as if, somehow, she had failed to resist, the lone figure pushing back the raised blade of a bulldozer. He would have heard, had Lily made the effort. She would have been in the papers as a matter of human interest.

He turned from Lily as she frowned at him and he fiddled at his bureau top, strewing a shoehorn, spare change, a pocketknife plucked from his pocket across the drawn-thread bureau scarf. Lily wouldn't have given him such a nice one had she known he'd become such a clutterer. He unfolded the standing triptych frame of his wives' photos, the late Amy, and later Naomi, and his latest, Marjorie, as he referred to them when, occasionally, he recalled one or another's ability to perform some necessary task—sewing on a last-minute replacement button while he remained inside his shirt (Amy) or speaking French to the French people in France (Marjorie). Naomi, the middle wife, like a middle child had been the least remarkable but quite the nicest (Naomi could bake), Lily thought as she studied the three similarly sweet and palely pretty faces. Amy, the prototype, seeming to age in portraiture as she had failed to age in life.

Then Lily watched Harvey, extra bath towels folded over her arm, as he tested the bed by kicking a post and lifting up an edge of the quilt investigatively. Lily had made a lumpy job of putting Harvey's bed together. As she thumped the old mattress, perhaps with some idea of tenderizing it, she had conducted her own half of the terse telephone call—What time shall I expect you? Will you require lunch? How long will you stay? Must I buy a tub of special margarine? Saltless salt? Shall I call someone in to install Stedi-Bars above the bathtub? Can you manage the stairs? These intimations of infirmities would have acted upon Harvey as a stick prodding the ribs of a bear curled round his rumbling slumber. Unwise, such questions would have been, yet resented, of course—a failure to anticipate his needs. Lily had split a too-small pillowcase stuffing it with a king-size pillow, and she had snatched a twin-size top sheet from the linen cupboard which she had used anyway as she argued at Harvey, in absentia.

"Short-sheeted my bed? Because I warn you, I'll break my hip and then you'll be sorry," Harvey told Lily.

Lily wondered whether Harvey wasn't becoming childish. He was a rosy-skinned and fluffy-headed old man, with a teary glint in his eye—some temporary duct trouble. She hadn't attended as he told her all about it, his mystified and impressed doctors, the useless prescription drops he was using, instead, on his hangnails. His trousers stopped too short of his ankles, as if once again he was outgrowing his clothes. His walk was springy; his new Air Jordans had been a successful impulse buy. And he seemed excessively cheerful for someone who had lost as much as he had. Amy, at the last, had clutched her head, and Naomi her heart, and Marjorie clung to the steering wheel of a careering car. (Lily could not stop thinking about them. She had been startled by the sudden unfolding of the triptych frame, for she had expected to view happy and similarly sweet grandchildren's faces.) That none of Harvey's wives had, at the last, reached for Harvey was at once an indictment and an acquittal, perhaps. None had chosen to take any essential part of Harvey with her, and Lily supposed that was how Harvey had managed to carry on—and how Harvey carried on, Lily reflected privately.

"Lily, you've let the old place go shockingly," Harvey stated. The crystal knob of his closet door spun off in his hand as he wrenched it open to check whether Lily had supplied him with the wooden clothes hangers he knew Lily knew he required. She had given him a sound dozen, all filched from good hotels in the days before even good hotels welded their hangers to the closet rods. Nevertheless, the hangers were no more than he was due, if Lily was expecting thanks. He shot her a look from the cover of the closet door, but she was only trying to push a sprung-loose thread back into the warp of one of the bath towels. She wet her fingertip and prodded.

"There can be such an old lady look to a house," Harvey told Lily. "I can always tell just driving by a place and I could tell driving up here. The window shades are all unevenly drawn because you can't remember from one room to the next whether the shades go halfway down or three-quarters of the way up, and you've let the shrubs run wild and swooping across the doors and you can't get in or out and you'll have to call the Fire Department and they'll come roaring up in their truck and you'll be very embarrassed. And the paint, no matter what color it was originally supposed to be, looks like you went to the store and asked for a gallon of, a gallon of bilge-water grey."

"The shades are drawn in reference to house plants and certain upholstery fabrics I do not wish to fade," Lily said. "To fade further," she amended, lest Harvey take it in mind to collect specimen cushions to demonstrate the damage that had already been done.

Harvey scraped bureau drawers open and shut. He removed a wizened pomander from the bottom drawer, an apple stuck and studded with cloves and looped with red ribbon secured to a flimsy stem. Uttering oaths, he reached deeper and extracted a dozen or more shrunken and rather evilly dead-appearing objects, no, not heads as first he feared but only Seckel pears. Lily had left them in the drawer last fall to ripen undisturbed in the dark and she'd forgotten them, at least until she remembered last February and couldn't face what she knew she'd find. The pomander had masked the sequence of odors emanating from the tall old chest of drawers, such a fortunate set of circumstances, Lily had thought at the time.

"I suppose she keeps her hankies in the vegetable bin," Harvey addressed the air.

As he shoved the drawer shut, the triptych frame of wives' pictures fell flat onto the bureau scarf. Lily set them upright again, and were she feeling fonder of Harvey at the moment, she would not have positioned the faces so that their six similarly gazing eyes would meet Harvey's own as he awoke in the morning, yawning and scrubbing away the accumulated salt of his automatic tears.

"But what are you looking for?" she had asked, as Harvey ruffled through a stack of Woman's Day magazines Lily was keeping in a neat pile beside the radiator for their fresh-sounding recipes and clever craft ideas should a particular need arise to produce a Bizzy-Daze Peanut Butter Supreme Torte or create Muppet-character sock puppets for disadvantaged children, even as she recalled the days when the children of the poor had required only the socks themselves to wear on their feet.

"What am I looking for?" Harvey asked. "I am looking for my pair of paint pants that I left behind here, and I'm counting on having those paint pants because it came to me as I observed your flaking trim and your peeling clapboarding that the reason I've come home is to paint the house. I'm going to start in on the shudders."

Lily was caught between self-defense and self-justification.

"Harvey," she said, "you left home fifty years ago and on subsequent visits you haven't lifted a finger to help except that one time, I do recall, when you took a hammer to a cellar step because you trod upon a risen nail and you resented having a tetanus shot."

"Didn't want to get lockjaw," Harvey said.

"Well, no one wanted you to get lockjaw," Lily agreed. How he would have kept them hopping with the jaw-locked and angry issuance of memoranda, at the worst specifying his funeral hymns and coffin wood, followed by a long, crankily conversational convalescence.

" 'Course not, would have been very serious," Harvey allowed, mollified.

"And you won't fit into those old work pants without a crowbar."

Nevertheless, Lily had been collecting estimates from painters for the past few years and when she got around to calling on the least alarming figure, she had learned there was a statute of limitations on estimates. State law, Miss Hill, she'd been told by a former student who seemed to relish knowing better than she. She had had no further will to interview a second round of paint contractors, those whose advertising cards on the TrueValue notice board she had passed over the first time because of hard-to-read handwriting and the speckled and untidy appearance of having been pinned there too long and too unavailingly appealing for work.

"Very well, you may paint the shutters," Lily told Harvey. "But you may not choose the color." The shutter color was always the same, anyway, that deep shade of true green which surprises you when you prise open the can's lid by not smelling of a northern pine forest but only and oilily of paint.

"Hope you have a high enough latter," Harvey warned. "Otherwise I'm driving straight down to the TrueValue and I'll charge a fifty-footer to your account."

"There's a tall ladder in the barn," Lily said. "I think it still works."

"Still works? What aspect of a latter can there possibly be that works or not?" he wanted to know, a point he and Lily had discussed off and on throughout the late afternoon and the pepped up first-night supper, a ruffly bubble pancake with cherry jam, and the martinis that had been Harvey's idea. They had discussed ladders further during an otherwise quiet evening spent in the little parlor in front of the television set there, watching the nothing (they were united on this point) that was on.
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Interviews & Essays

A Conversation with Nancy Clark

How long have you been writing? What led you to write such an elaborate and intricate first novel?

I have always written. When I was little, I thought the endpapers of Uncle Wiggily and Raggedy Ann books had been left blank to give readers a place to write their own stories. As to why THE HILLS AT HOME turned out the way it did (elaborate, intricate, long) —if one is going to write a novel, one might as well take advantage of all the possibilities the form offers the writer—and readers. A novel allows words enough and time to follow a dozen characters through a significant year in their lives. The form can accommodate all manners of descriptions and digressions, reveal the most private of thoughts, chart the most tremendous events, range back and forth over the years, and record what was said as well as telling what was left unspoken. As the novel chronicles the restoration of order to the Hills' universe, I have tried to give the reader a full and vivid world to consider with every turn of the page and an experience to remember with pleasure when they think about the Hills.

You capture the Hill family dynamics so accurately and amusingly. Do you come from a large family yourself?

I grew up in a family of five, a very average size. However, there were also great-grandparents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins within walking distance, and ancestors lying in the local cemetery many of whom still excited comment. The family seems a natural subject for novels, a real family or family-like unit providing the community, relationships, and interactions that are the basic stuff of anyhuman tale.

Tell us about your interest in old houses. What was the inspiration for Lily's home?

I like old houses because they are handmade and well-made. Last weekend (as I write this) I visited the oldest two-story dwelling in my town with the local historical society. We admired beehive ovens and decided the raised paneling was original and tramped down into the dirt-floored cellar to look at the foundation (solid). We saw the back of a door where a bride carved her name and the date, in 1806, on the eve of her wedding. In 200 years, no one has painted over that message from the long-ago girl. The old family home is a presence in THE HILLS AT HOME, creaky, leaky, cold and hard to heat, harboring the cast-offs of generations and, perhaps, not always the haven it seems. I made up Lily's house as I went along, adding rooms, an ell and a large attic as the Hills needed more space, just as many old New England houses expanded over time as families grew. I was told recently that Hawthorne wrote most of The Scarlet Letter while staying at a house a few miles up the road from where I live. I think someday I'll show up at the front door with a propitiatory pie and ask if I might see the room where he worked.

You indicated that you are familiar with twentieth century English and Anglo-Irish women novelists. Who are your favorites? Are there any authors who are particularly inspirational to you?

Among my favorite writers are Elizabeth Bowen, Elizabeth Taylor, Barbara Pym, and Sylvia Townsend Warner (sometimes). I think they write like grown-ups. I think the conventions and strictures of the time in which they wrote made them more skillful and subtle writers. They are serious and funny and, always, quiet. They are confident. They do not shout or show off or shock. What they accomplish can only be done through the most exquisite use of the English language (I open Elizabeth Bowen at random and read paragraphs as if they are poems), and what they created are, I think the best and truest and most enduring depictions of the strengths and frailties of the human heart.

Are any of the characters modeled after yourself? With whom do you identify most strongly?

No, I do not appear in the book, nor does anyone else I know. I have since run into several of the characters, among them Penny Nicholls (Uncle Harvey's girlfriend from the local old-folks' home) whom I met through some volunteer work I do. We had a conversation very like one in THE HILLS AT HOME about the wisdom of pre-planning funerals and the relative merits of cremation over burial. Real-Penny is charming. In her youth, she toured with the road companies of Broadway musicals as a member of the chorus. I do not identify with anyone in particular in the book. I'm fond of all of them. It doesn't seem fair to create characters in order to dislike them. Trying to respect everyone's point of view can be revelatory. When they speak for themselves, I often learn things from my characters, except, perhaps, from Little Becky. But we must not despair of her. She is going to improve.

It sounds like we're going to hear more about The Hills...

Yes, the Hills will be heard from again. THE HILLS AT HOME is the first of three books about the family. In the next book, A Way from Home, Alden and Becky are living in Prague, teaching and preaching the ways of capitalism in the nascent Czech Republic. However, if prosperity is not a zero-sum game (as the locals must be taught contrary to their old beliefs), it seems that love triangles do not operate on the same principle. The novel is set in the Czech Republic, Italy, North Africa, and, at times, in the near and far past. July and August, the third and last book takes place in the summer of 1999. Almost everyone is back in Towne. This will be a novel about parents and children, and endings and beginnings.



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Reading Group Guide

1. Do any of the family members share characteristics or personality traits? For example, do Alden and Ginger bear any resemblance to each other? What about Lily and Harvey? Betsy and Ginger? Are Glover, Brooks, and Rollins just chips off the old block? Is there anything that all the Hills have in common? Are these common traits what make them a family? If not, what is it that binds them together?

2. How do each of the family members relate to Lily? Can Lily be properly called the matron of the family? Is there a central character in the novel, and, if so, is it Lily or someone else? How does Clark balance the different viewpoints of the characters while keeping the novel centered and focused?

3. Do the family members communicate well? Do they like, or simply tolerate, each other? The whole family, including Lily, seems nonplussed by the fact that nearly an entire extended family is living under one roof. Is this a reasonable reaction? Is the situation believable? What is the significance of the novel’s epigraph, “I should have called it/Something you somehow haven’t to deserve” from the poem “The Death of the Hired Man” by Robert Frost?

4. From her easy acceptance of her sudden lifestyle change to the tissues she perpetually keeps up her sleeve, Becky is portrayed as the perfect wife and mother. Is Becky too good to be true or is she believable? Are William’s opinions of Becky and her marriage and family fair assessments [e.g., p. 368]? The character of Ginger invites comparison to Becky—how is each woman portrayed? Is either character more fully developed than the other? Are any aspects of Becky’s or Ginger’s character less developed, and if so, why might Clark have chosen to emphasize certain aspects of their characters and not others?

5. In what ways do the physical location and description of the room to which each family member has been assigned suit its inhabitant(s)? [See for example, pp. 6–7 (Harvey’s room), pp. 42–5 (Ginger’s room), pp. 46–7 (Betsy’s room), pp. 49–52 (Becky’s and Alden’s room), and p. 58 (Rollins’ and Brooks’ room)].

6. Betsy is “struck by the way in which life at Aunt Lily’s house has been pared down to mere essences, like the four inches of warmish bath water, the forty-watt lightbulbs, the good-night kisses addressed to the air and not to her cheek” [p. 47]. What was Betsy’s life like before? How is each Hill forced to adapt as a result of his or her move to Towne? Are these changes for the worse, or do their lives actually improve in any way? Does Lily’s lifestyle change, or do the family members conform to her way of life?

7. Upon being interviewed by the FBI, Lily’s first reaction is: “Oh, what would people think, official inquiries being made in the village, and Hill family heirlooms going unquietly on sale for all to see” [p. 405]. Is this a typical reaction by the longtime resident of a small town? How does Clark paint small-town life? How is it contrasted with Ginger’s life in Kansas, or Alden’s and Becky’s life in New York City? Is Towne like every other small town, or is it a uniquely New England town? What was it about small-town life that attracted the scattered Hills?

8. What statement might Andy’s thesis make about the Hill family? Does the fact that the family accepts Andy so readily signify anything about their nature? How does Andy’s presence help emphasize the family’s similar traits and their ties to each other? How is the reader’s view of the Hill family influenced by Andy’s observations?

9. Clark writes, “For Andy had, in his extended academic past, been labeled a Romantic. He had been warned against employing too novelistic an approach. . . . Data did not develop along the lines of character, theme, plot, conflict, and resolution. His various mentors called for more statistics. . . . Andy had been accused of inserting too much of himself into his research” [p. 146]. Does Andy’s behavior refute or confirm these accusations?

10. What does the reader learn about the family through the description of the Hill home (the furniture and other antiquities, the food served and the dishes upon which it is served, etc.)? What do these items reveal about the family’s customs and traditions? Are these accoutrements essential to a New England upper-middle-class family, and how would the Hills be defined without them? How might a New Englander feel about Clark’s portrait?

11. One of the stereotypical characteristics of White Anglo-Saxon Protestants in New England is emotional restraint and reticence. Does Clark depict the Hills in this way? How does the tone of the novel itself mirror this emotional restraint? What is Clark’s view of this emotional restraint? How does this characteristic of the family affect their parenting styles? For example, is the family’s reaction to Betsy’s announcement of her wedding [pp. 420–24] portrayed as comic or serious? Is it realistic? What about Glover’s joining the Army [pp. 386]? Are Becky, Ginger, and Alden good parents?

12. Why do things seem to work out so well for each of the Hills? Are they a charmed family? What kind of world is it where all someone has to do in order to solve any problem is to “make a few calls” [p. 385]?

13. Of the significant world events in 1989, FBI agent Cadmus Stewart observes, “We have to think about the future. . . . There seems to be more future now than there formerly was. We have to decide what we’re going to do about all those places and people who previously didn’t figure, as far as we were concerned” [p. 402]. Do the Hills share Stewart’s America-centric view of the world? How does each character benefit from the fall of Communism? How might this resolution resonate with today’s readers in view of America’s current role in world politics? Why might Clark have chosen this year in American history in which to set her portrait of the Hill family, and is the novel still timely today?

14. What is the role of nature and the outdoors for each of the Hills? How do the seasons chart the plot of the book?

15. To what genre of literature does The Hills at Home belong? Is it a comedy? A comedy of manners? Does the novel have a satirical tone? Does the resolution of the novel beg comparison to an Austen novel or even a Shakespearean play?

16. What is the significance of all the water imagery in the novel? Is there any relationship between the Noah’s Ark reference in the last paragraph and the only other biblical image in the novel of “all of the Hills standing about Jerusalem,” which appears in Betsy’s imagination [p. 99]?

17. The Hills at Home is the first of three novels devoted to the Hill family. Are there any threads of the story that seem unresolved? What might happen to Lily and her family next?

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Customer Reviews

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  • Anonymous

    Posted August 6, 2003

    Family Farce

    From the very first paragraph (the best description of a rainstorm I've ever read) I was completely enthralled with the Hills at Home. Coming from an equally large klan I relished the many similarities of living within a close knit(and sometimes not)family. I found myself laughing out loud while reading the book on a recent plane flight. The humor is subtle on the page but hilarious in the imagination of the reader. As I read the last paragraph I was already missing having the Hills around. Hopefully, Ms Clark is a fast writer- I can hardly wait for the next installment.

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 18, 2004

    Sidetracked extended family regain their bearings in a year of living together.

    Wonderful characters in a slow, meandering story. Clark developed a great sense of place where you can smell the aroma of baking from the crowded kitchen as you sneeze at the years of accumulated dust in the crannies of the ancestral home. Although I did find the narrative sometimes too slow, the overall entwining of characters, plot and setting is masterful.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 27, 2008

    Slow story, dull characters

    There is way too much description that is unnecessary and drags the story out in this novel. The characters are pretty flat. I did not really care what happened to any of them. In my opinion, don't waste your time reading this book.

    0 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted July 7, 2009

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    Posted August 5, 2011

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