From the Publisher
"Entrancing and ethereal." Seattle Post-Intelligencer
"This is that rarest of first novels a truly original voice, and a truly original story." Jodi Picoult, New York Times bestselling author of The Tenth Circle
"Through the alchemy of Domingue's rich, lovely prose we are transported back and forth through time." The Boston Globe
"Filled with vivid descriptions of . . . marvelous human sensations that people take for granted and that spirits can only wistfully recall, this is a novel that gets under one's skin." Library Journal (starred review)
"Domingue's vision of the shifting, shadowy world of the dead is convincing and surprisingly affecting . . . and stays just the right side of romantic." Daily Mail (London)
A gothically tinged historical take on The Lovely Bones, this debut novel manages to carve out some of its own territory. In late 1920s New Orleans, Raziela "Razi" Nolan carries on a passionate college love affair with Andrew O'Connell (while planning to be a gynecologist). She desires immortality ("One lifetime isn't enough to make all the trouble of which I'm capable") and gets her wish when she slips poolside, dies and finds herself in a state "between life and whatever comes next" in which she may observe the world she's left behind and even meddle mildly. As she learns the rules of "the between" Razi finds it too painful to keep track of Andrew. But 70 years after her death in 1929, she is curious to know what happened to her beloved and is drawn to a young couple, Amy Richmond and Scott Duncan. Domingue captures the equally repressive and uninhibited culture of 1920s America, creates a convincing world of "the between," and gives nice shape to the loving but troubled relationship of Amy and Scott as Razi uncovers her connection to them. The novel lacks a fully distinctive voice, but is certainly several cuts above the genre mysteries and historicals it most resembles. 16-city author tour. (Sept. 13) Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.
Thin air, as it turns out, is actually populated with the spirits of the departed who have chosen to stay "between" heaven and earth. In Domingue's amazing first novel, Raziela Nolan is readers' guide to this great gray yonder. A most charming spirit, indeed, she graciously takes us back to 1920s New Orleans and recounts her passionate romance with Andrew, revealing the subsequent lives of the people she tragically left behind and the mischief that goes on in the spirit world. Razi is so enchanting that readers will gladly follow her anywhere. Filled with vivid descriptions of scents, sounds, and marvelous human sensations that people take for granted and that spirits can only wistfully recall, this is a novel that gets under one's skin. Mere mortals can only hope that Domingue has more stories to tell. Highly recommended for all fiction collections. [See Prepub Alert, LJ 6/1/05.]-Susanne Wells, P.L. of Cincinnati & Hamilton Cty., OH Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.
Debut novelist Domingue weaves a tapestry of lost spirits and misplaced loves. Raziela Nolan, outspoken birth control advocate and determined future medical student, fell to her death in the swimming pool of her lover Andrew O' Connell. Raziela's death took place in 1920s New Orleans, but her spirit has hung around in a kind of between-space for nearly 80 years, leaving her to learn the rules of the spirit realm while keeping watch among mortals. And what haunts this ghost? In the years after her death, Andrew, Raziela's one and only true love, disappeared, and she still misses him. Her ghost is drawn intermittently over the decades to Andrew's memory: She can smell him in old furniture, in places that he frequented. When a young couple, Amy and Scott, buys one of Andrew's old bookcases at an estate sale, Raziela decides to follow them. ("I liked her," Raziela says of Amy, "because she reminded me of myself. I liked him because her brazen little nature didn't scare him. They were darling together.") While Raziela, the story's compelling narrator, lingers in their apartment, Amy and Scott are haunted by ghosts even she can't see. While watching them, hoping to find clues about Andrew, she also begins to take note of their deteriorating marriage. Amy, it seems, harbors long-buried feelings for a lost ghost of her own. Sweet, entertaining love stories that could have used a better ending.
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Simon Beeker had been dead four months.
I did not know this when I approached his house for a belated visit. Because I was no longer in the habit of skimming obituaries, I missed the announcement.
The last time I had seen Simon, in early 1991, he was seventy-four. He sat in his crimson study, his elbows angled on the arms of a worn leather chair. I watched him turn the pages of a new biography -- the spine crepitated under his grip -- and noticed his eyes taking in each paragraph, quick and hungry. That quality had never changed about him. As a boy, he had been a collector of knowledge who sneaked into Andrew's room to read books a page at a time between odd jobs.
There in the study was Andrew's bookcase. The piece was an outdated Eastlake-inspired design when Andrew's aunt willed it to him, but he loved it because the shelves held books two rows deep. Before he left to go to law school, Andrew gave his mother permission to sell or give away what didn't go with him. He left dozens of books, several fine suits, and the bookcase. When Emmaline, their housekeeper, asked for the historical texts, Andrew insisted that she take everything. Emmaline gave it all to Simon, her long-boned, far-sighted grandson.
On the day of that visit, when Simon was seventy-four, I stayed only a few moments. I had not been near the bookcase in several decades. The smell I detected in the closed spaces made me anxious, lonesome. With barely a stir, I left. His wife asked him if he felt a draft as she stepped into the room to hand him a cup of coffee. He turned his dark face and sage eyes toward her and answered he had not.
Now, twelve years later, he was dead. The urge to see him again had come far too late.
I knew Simon was gone when I neared his little bungalow and saw the hand-lettered sign: Estate Sale. Cars parked on the banquettes on both sides of the street. Books, kitchen items, blankets, knickknacks, and furniture cluttered the tiny front yard. People made claim to Simon's possessions, holding them tightly in their arms.
There was the bookcase, in perfect condition, the only antique on the lawn. A small man in pince-nez glasses approached it with arms wide. He dropped to his knees reverently and opened the two drawers to inspect them. Like a billow of smoke from a snuffed flame, a scent I had not smelled in many years escaped the cool, dark hollows. This time, I did not avoid it. The little man began to shiver.
Andrew's essence drew outward, then stalled. The particles suspended in a dense concentration of cold, still air. I held the salty tinge within me for the length of a breath, before anything more could make an escape, before I could linger on the question, What happened to him?
As the air warmed, I noticed a rich, mature scent, one that had more strength but less power. That was Simon, whose hands had rubbed a chestnut patina into the glass doors as long as I'd been gone. He would have wanted the bookcase protected. I stood guard with cold drafts, waiting.
By late morning, a couple wandered through the remaining odds and ends at the sale. The young woman spotted the bookcase, shadowed by a redbud tree in new leaf. She opened the doors. As she reached inside to inspect the shelves, she breathed deeply. A comforting aroma, almost a blend of pipe smoke and cinnamon, surrounded her.
"Scott. It's perfect for the room, don't you think? And it's not musty or mildewed inside. I like the scent," she said.
He pulled a tape measure from his pocket. "Good fit. We haven't seen a nicer one anywhere. Great condition."
"I see something in a crack." She stretched deep over the last shelf. As small as she was, she could have...