Shadow of Ashland [NOOK Book]


?THE BOOK YOU HAVE TO READ??Entertainment Weekly

"Things have to be settled, or they never go away."

Only weeks before she dies in March, 1984, Leo Nolan?s mother shows her son a rose she says was just given to her by her brother, Jack, who disappeared 50 years earlier. After her death, letters from Jack begin to arrive at the family home. They are postmarked 1934. The ...
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Shadow of Ashland

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“THE BOOK YOU HAVE TO READ”–Entertainment Weekly

"Things have to be settled, or they never go away."

Only weeks before she dies in March, 1984, Leo Nolan’s mother shows her son a rose she says was just given to her by her brother, Jack, who disappeared 50 years earlier. After her death, letters from Jack begin to arrive at the family home. They are postmarked 1934. The final one is from Ashland, Kentucky.

Leo heads to Ashland, to track down the source of the letters…. And to find out why they are arriving now, after 50 years.

Time shifts. Time runs underground, then surfaces. It is 1934, and Leo experiences the Great Depression and the ghosts of the past as no one has in 50 years, in Ashland, where dreams die and are born again.

“A love story, time travel epic, ghost story, labor history, road novel and a bank heist, all with the added touch of Steinbeckian metaphysics. For me it was the surprise of the year, a rich evocation of 1934 small-town Kentucky that winds up completely unpredictable.”
–The Edmonton Journal, “Top Fiction Pick of the Year”

“Green has devised a truly mysterious mystery, he writes with a real and rare sympathy for his characters.”
–The Atlanta Constitution

“A jewel of a novel”

“A deceptive novel, one that begins and ends simply yet is filled with extraordinary events…. SHADOW OF ASHLAND succeeds.”
–The New York Times


Writing with a spare but powerful style which beautifully communicates his themes of loss, love, family, and the terrible inevitability of time, Green offers a novel that evokes the subtle passions of human existence--a book that will haunt its readers with a longing for lost love and faded youth.

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Editorial Reviews

George Needham
Leo Nolan's mother's dying request was that Leo track down her long-lost brother, Jack. Divorced and depressed, Leo uses his vacation to follow a route Jack described in letters home in 1934. Curiously, these letters are only now, half a century later, arriving in his father's mailbox. The letters lead Leo to the ugly, dilapidated streets of Ashland, Kentucky, where he finds and moves into the hotel where Jack lived. Mysteriously drawn to a stranger on the street late one night, Leo meets and befriends a still-young Jack. Then, as inexplicably as the appearance of the long-delayed letters, Leo finds himself in 1934, enmeshed in Jack's desperate bank-robbery plot. Green weaves history, fantasy, and mystery into a delicate web but maintains the magic of his story by not trying to explain too much. This is a jewel of a novel, sensitively told and filled with fascinating characters.
Kirkus Reviews
Mystery casts a 50-year shadow over a Toronto family, until letters out of the past take a middle-aged man on a quest for his long-lost uncle.

When Leo Nolan's mother dies, her last wish is to see her baby brother Jack, who vanished into Ohio at age 23 during the height of the Depression. After her death, fifty-year-old letters from Jack inexplicably begin to arrive, placing him in Ashland, Kentucky, and spurring Leo to seek answers. He visits Jack's old hotel in Ashland, receiving a curious welcome from Stanley and Teresa, the elderly couple owning the place, who clearly know more about Jack than they're willing to say. Finally, Leo's wanderings in town take him into Woolworth's, where he meets pretty Jeanne, a lunch-counter waitress whom he gets to know better. But one night's ramble also brings a chance encounter with Jack, as the past and present suddenly coalesce. Leo follows his uncle on a walk, only to have him disappear into thin air; but their walk is repeated each night, until Leo finally speaks to him—and finds himself 50 years in the past. Without revealing who he is, Leo gains Jack's confidence, learning of the young man's affair with Teresa as well as of a desperate plan to tunnel from the hotel basement to the bank across the street. With heavy rains, the robbery becomes increasingly dangerous, and indeed the tunnel finally collapses, with Jack and two others inside. Thinking his uncle dead, Leo finds himself back in the present, but since still more old letters arrive to show that Jack somehow survived, he finds incentive to take care of his own affairs, romancing Jeanne and welcoming Jack and Teresa's secret daughter into the family.

Hokey, sentimental, and at times implausible, yes, but with disbelief willingly suspended this second novel from Green (Barking Dogs, 1988) possesses enough quiet wonder and innocence to come pleasantly to life.

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781497629059
  • Publisher: Open Road Media
  • Publication date: 4/1/2014
  • Series: Ashland , #1
  • Sold by: Barnes & Noble
  • Format: eBook
  • Pages: 190
  • Sales rank: 611,457
  • File size: 636 KB

Meet the Author

Terence M. Green is the author of 8 books (7 novels and a short story collection), recipient of a total of 9 Canada Council, Ontario Arts Council and Toronto Arts Council grants for fiction writing, 2-time World Fantasy Award finalist, 5-time Prix Aurora Award finalist, with work translated into French, Italian, Danish, Polish and Portuguese.

Profiled in Contemporary Authors (10,000 word entry), The Oxford Companion to Canadian Literature, Canadian Who's Who, The Dictionary of Literary Biography and Books in Canada.

Praised in The New York Times, The San Francisco Chronicle, The Globe and Mail, The Toronto Star, The Ottawa Citizen, The Atlanta Constitution.

Novel SHADOW OF ASHLAND (more than 1/4 million printed) selected as a "Top 3 Fiction Pick of the Year" by The Edmonton Journal (Jan. 11, 1997) and "The Book You Have To Read" by Entertainment Weekly (Sept. 26, 2003). 
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Read an Excerpt

Shadow of Ashland

By Terence M. Green


Copyright © 1996 Terence M. Green
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4976-2905-9


Illusion, Temperament, Succession, Surface, Surprise, Reality, Subjectiveness—these are threads on the loom of time, these are the lords of life. I dare not assume to give their order, but I name them as I find them in my way.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson Experience


My mother died on March 14, 1984. It had been inevitable, as all such things are inevitable, and although it had not been unexpected, it nevertheless left me in shock. A large chunk of the past was gone. A large chunk of my past.


She had been hospitalized just before Christmas. Accelerating arteriosclerosis, recurring strokes, and crippling arthritis had rendered her virtually immobile. She was seventy-four. I am forty. Soon I will be forty-one. But these are mere numbers. And what numbers measure, especially those linked to Time, I have never understood. And now I understand them less.

She died, they say, of heart failure.

When I visited her in January, she was rambling. She upset me so much that I cried. There were three other beds in the hospital room, and now I realize that I can't recall anything about their occupants. I only recall how, that day, I got up and pulled the sliding curtains around the bed so that we could be alone, so that I could hold her hand.

Her fingers were welded into the timeless claw of the aged, the skin of her hand stretched thinly across bony knuckles. Lesions and brittle remnants of skin cancers dotted her forearm.

But her eyes ... It was her eyes—glazed, darting, frightened, the blue diluted as with a watery thinner ...

"Jack was here," she told me.

I frowned. "Jack?"

"And my father." She nodded. The eyes darted.

I stared at her. Jack was her brother. She hadn't seen him for about fifty years. Her father had died thirty years ago.

"Jack was here," I repeated, finally.

She nodded emphatically. The eyes never ceased their wild circumspection. Her hand gripped mine.

"I told him not to go."

I nodded, understanding.

"But he went anyway." Another nod; a pause. "He was always a good boy. We were good children. Never got into any trouble. Always did what we were told."

I felt the frail bones of her hand, watched the frantic eyes jump about, saw my mother as I had never seen her.

"He gave me this." The hand that I was not holding fell open, and a fresh red rose fell out. It was part of the delirium, I realized. She could have gotten it anywhere.

"He's coming back tomorrow."

I nodded.

Her eyes darted.

I returned the next day. The wildness had passed. In its stead, tubes, suspended from a bottle by her bedside, snaked into her arm.

"How are you today?" I sat down, took her hand in mine.

"Okay." The word was soft and dry. Her eyes, I noted, were steadier.

I tried a smile. "What do you think about all this?" I indicated, with an open hand and a postured inspection, our surroundings: the beds with hand cranks, the crisp white sheets, the gray tile floors, the plastic wrist bracelets.

My mother smiled. She was back from wherever she had been yesterday. "I don't want to die," she said. "Nobody wants to die. But," she added, "I don't want to live like this either."

I nodded, comforted by the clarity of her answer. She understood what was happening, saw no solution, expressed it simply.

How much more time?

"Who would you like to see? Is there anybody you'd like to see?"

Her eyes focused on me calmly. "Oh, yes."


"Jack," she said.


My parents had moved to their home in North Toronto in 1929. At the time, so I have been told, there were fields all about and a creek within half a block.

The fields are gone; no one is sure today where exactly the creek was. The most general consensus is that it's under the city-run parking lot that serves the subway—which is now the proposed site of the new police station. My father still lives there. Alone.

That afternoon, on my way home from the hospital, I drove to the house where I had grown up—the house I had left twenty years ago. It looked like a house that an old man lived in, alone: peeling paint on the eaves, a pitted and corroded aluminum screen door, snow unshoveled in the driveway.

I knew he was in there. He is always in there.

"Tell me about Jack."

My father lit a cigarette, holding it in his right hand. He jammed his left hand in his belt, as was his habit. He is eighty years old now. I am astonished at his white hair, his groping movements, the thickness of his glasses.

"We don't know what happened to Jack," he said.

"I know."

"He left in the nineteen thirties."

I nodded. We sat opposite one another at the green arborite kitchen table. "Why did he leaved? What happened?"

He inhaled on the cigarette deeply, then let it expel slowly. "What did your mother say?"

"Nothing much. I asked her who she'd like to see. She said 'Jack.' That's all."

He nodded. "Things were never settled. That's why. Things have to be settled, or they never go away."

I waited. "What happened?" I asked. "Nobody ever told me."

He paused. "I'm not sure," he said.

He lit another cigarette. It was time, he knew, for confidences. "There were only the two of them, you know. Just Margaret and Jack. Jack was two years younger—born in nineteen eleven. We all lived on Berkeley Street together. That's how I got to know your mother. We were neighbors." He smiled, remembering something. "We've been married fifty-four years now."

I smiled. "I know."

"Their mother died when your mother was just a kid. As a result, your mother ended up playing mother to Jack. Margaret adored her father, but the old man, as I understand it, wasn't much help. He always had a big cigar, always boasted. He didn't like me much either," he added. "I remember him saying once, to me—'You don't like me, do you?' I told him that I didn't." He paused. "It's all too bad now. Doesn't seem to matter much either." He lifted the cigarette to his lips and gazed off to the wall behind me.

I waited for him to continue. The smoke spiraled patiently toward the ceiling of the kitchen.

"The old man left Jack and Margaret with his various sisters. He was incapable of raising two kids on his own. He was an only son, in the midst of a flock of sisters, and he was spoiled rotten." My father looked at me. "Always had a big cigar," he said, "but always lived in rented rooms. Those were different times, the nineteen twenties." He sighed. "You want a cup of coffee?"

"No, thanks."

"Me neither. Bad for your heart."

I smiled, looking at the cigarette.

"The two kids lived with the old man off and on from that point. But half the time he was never home. They raised themselves. And Margaret played mother to Jack. They were very close." He switched topic suddenly. "Do you remember the old man? Your mother's father?"

"No. Nothing."

"He died when you were three. Died of a heart attack on the streetcar, on Christmas Day, coming up here to see us. And that was it."

"That was what?"

"The end of the line for your mother. There was no one else. Her mother and father were dead. Her brother had left and hadn't been heard of for years."

"There was you. There was me."

"Yes. But it wasn't the same. The past was gone for her. Do you understand? The past was gone. No one wants to give up the past. At least, no one I know."

The smoke hung in tendrils between us.

His eyes were watery behind the thick lenses. The skin of his forehead was discolored and flaking. He hadn't been eating properly. "Jack was jealous of me," he said.

I listened, without changing expression. I wanted to hear it all. It was time to hear it all. And it was time for him to tell it.

"Your mother married me when she was twenty—when Jack was eighteen. They'd been living alone for a while at that point. The old man had remarried—a girl half his age. The stepmother didn't want his kids. In fact, I was never sure why she wanted him. So he abandoned them for her. This was the 1920s. Family life was strong then. Nobody did those kind of things. At least," he amended, "nobody I knew. So they lived down the street—Berkeley Street—together."

"Where did my"—I paused over the word—"grandfather, live?"

"Out in the west end. Nobody had cars. It was a long way." He inhaled the smoke. It drifted out as he talked. "I guess she chased him because he talked big and smoked a big cigar."

"Who?" I wasn't sure I was following him.

"The girl he married."


"She died three years later, giving birth to their second child."

I was silent.

"It was the nineteen twenties."

I turned my head to look out the kitchen window—to the parking lot that would become the police station. It was beginning to snow.

"So then he had two more kids, and no mother to look after them, and it was all starting again." Then he stared at me, hard. "And he was still living in rented rooms."

"She wants to see him."

"Who?" The thin white eyebrows wrinkled.


He had caught the thread again. "He left in nineteen thirty-two, I think. We never saw him again."

"Where did he go? Why did he leaved"

"He left because there was nothing here for him. He was a young man, about twenty-one. He had no use for the old man; he could see through him. When Margaret married me he was alone. I think he felt she had abandoned him. It wasn't fair." He shrugged. "But then, nothing is fair." The cigarette was placed between the thin dry lips once more. "Your mother felt bad. Felt guilty, I think." He looked at me. "Try to see it from Jack's point of view. His mother dies; his father's run off and married this young thing; his big sister marries the guy down the street. It's the Dirty Thirties. Nothing for him here."

I shifted in my chair, crossed my legs.

"He left the country. Left Canada. Went down into the States. Last we heard of him he was in Detroit."

"Why Detroit?"

"Detroit was turning out cars. There were jobs."

"Did he writer

"Once, that I remember."

"Did anyone try to find him?"

"The Mounties tried to find him."

I raised my eyebrows.

"RCMP came to the door here in nineteen thirty-nine looking for him. Wanted to know where Jack Radey was. He hadn't answered his draft notice."

I waited.

"They never found him either." He drew deeply on the cigarette. "You sure you don't want a coffee?"

I got up and put on the kettle.

"Good. I've changed my mind, too. The hell with my heart."

I stood, looking out the window at the parking lot. The sky was gray and the snow was still falling. A creek, I thought. Under there. And soon, a police station. Layer upon layer. Impossible to find it.

"When the old man died, they found some correspondence between him and a private investigator he'd hired to find Jack. It was one of the few bright spots your mother could find at the time. The fact that the old man had made some kind of effort to find his own son—that it might have even bothered him—was something he never let any of us know."

"What did it say?"

"The trail had run dry. That's what it said. He was gone."

The kettle began to whistle softly.


When the phone rang that evening, it was my father. "I found something you might be interested in."

"What is it?"

"The letter from Jack that I remembered. And a card from your mother to him that was returned unclaimed."

"How old are they?"

"Just a minute." There was a pause. I could picture him pushing his glasses up onto his forehead and squinting at the paper in his hand. "Nineteen thirty-four," he said. "You want 'em?"

The excitement I felt was all out of proportion to the news. There was no reason for it. "Yes," I whispered.

"I'll keep 'em for you."

"I'll be right over." I couldn't wait.

The envelopes were yellowed. The one from Jack was postmarked Feb. 22, 1934, Detroit, Michigan. In the upper right- hand corner, it sported a purple three-cent Washington stamp, and the ironic cancellation imprint: "Notify Your Correspondents of Change of Address." It was hotel stationery. The upper left read: "Return in Five Days to Vermont hotel, 138 W. Columbia, Detroit, Michigan." It had been torn open at the end. It was addressed to my mother, here, at the only address she had ever known after she had married my father.

The other envelope was postmarked Toronto, Ontario, 8:30 p.m., April 29, 1934. It was addressed to Mr. Jack F. Radey, c/o Vermont Hotel, etc., and across the bottom there was a Detroit postmark dated May 3, and a stamped imprint that read: "Return to Writer UNCLAIMED." Somebody else had scrawled in pen: "Try Washington Hotel."

"What's the F. stand for?"

"Francis. Your brother Ron had the same middle name. Your mother's choice."

I pulled the letter from Jack to my mother from the torn end of the envelope. It consisted of four faded sheets of Vermont Hotel stationery, complete with stylized letterhead. In the upper left corner it read: "Phone Cherry 4421"; the upper right bore the announcement: "Rates $1.00 and up." The handwriting was quite legible, and in pencil. It was dated February 22/34.

Dear Margaret:

Received your letter okay, and sure was tickled pink to hear from you. I'm sorry to hear Ronnie has been sick and I hope he is real well and yelling his head off when you receive this.

I must be going "Goof" or something. I was starting to think you had deserted me, and here I had sent you the wrong address. It's funny we didn't get your other letters or the Valentines. They must have been lost in the mail.

Gee—Margaret, I like it real well here. If anything ever happened now that I had to go back I think it would break my heart—no foolin'. I am working in the picture business for the largest and best-paying outfit in town, and I like it.

Do you know that coming here has given me an entirely new slant on life? I seem more anxious to be somebody than I ever have in my whole existence. Things seem to be pretty fair here, and you can live cheaper, and make more money than you can in Toronto.

I received a letter from a friend in Toronto today. The one that phoned you. She said you wished I hadn't come over here with Carmen as he may prove a bit of a bad influence. Well, forget it—he won't; and besides I've met, and mingled with so many fellows who are that way that one more couldn't make any difference. So stop worrying about me being led astray. So far as drinking is concerned, I haven't been doing any. I am too busy making money, and trying to get somewhere. The only thing I'm sore about is that I didn't come here about four years ago. I'd have had a lot more now to be thankful for.

I bought myself a nice new pair of shoes last Saturday and a couple of shirts, etc., and I hope to have a new suit in a week or so. I need one badly.

You know, Marg the secret of the whole thing is I came over here on my uppers. By the time I had paid Mrs. MacDonald in Toronto, and a few other little items, I was broke. I was determined to come over here, though. The boys I worked with there gave me a rotten deal, and that's no fairy tale. I borrowed a little money from Carmen (that's where he got the idea to come along) and I've paid him back every bit of that right now. That isn't all either—cause I really am going to make something out of myself. I mean it, Marg.

This all may seem strange to you—me talking this way, but I have to tell someone how I feel and you are the only person I feel I can tell without being laughed at for dreaming. This is all just between you and me, Marg. I wouldn't want anyone else to know how I was fixed or what a tough time I had for the first week in Detroit. Everything is going to be okay now, though, and pretty soon I will be able to send you and the children and Tommy something from the U.S.A.

I've been working around Royal Oak—gee, the "Shrine" is beautiful, Marg. I also make it a point to get to Mass on Sunday. Write me real soon.

Lots of Love, Jack

I put the letter down and looked across at my father, who had been quietly watching me. "Have you read this?"


"Where did you find them?"

"In the trunk, at the foot of the bed. At the bottom."

"What did you make of it?"

He shrugged. "Not much."

"He said he worked in the picture business. What did he mean?"

"Margaret told me that he was working as a sidewalk photographer down there. She'd heard this from a friend of his here."

"Sidewalk photographer?" I blinked.

"You know—one of them guys who used to snap your picture, then come up to you and offer to sell you prints when they were developed."

I continued to look uninformed.

"No," he sighed. "I guess you don't know. Polaroids, Instamatics, video replays ... Of course you don't know."


Excerpted from Shadow of Ashland by Terence M. Green. Copyright © 1996 Terence M. Green. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
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.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted December 3, 2013

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 28, 2013


    The exhausted queen watched her kits suckle. "I think I know what to name all of them..." she murmurs. "How about....Acornkit, Thrushkit, Jadekit, and Mongoosekit?"

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 28, 2013


    I agree.

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 29, 2013


    *walks in qnd looks aroumd* it remind of good memories and bad ones she goes over to where the herbs layed nice and neat but her eyes turn from a blueish greenish to dark red she closed her eyes tight and few second later open then her eyes start tearing up * she runs out *

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 28, 2013



    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 7, 2013



    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted June 11, 2012

    Lizzy: a future author

    Emily, you need to stop being so posessive! Youre turning into marilyn!! They dodnt know they were copying you. And personally i dont think theyre care anyway

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted October 23, 2012

    Okay Echostar i just made an even better clan name

    Yeah and its awesome. Dont care now so go on and do ur own clan. There can b 2 Ashclans ya know.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted June 5, 2012



    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted June 20, 2012


    It's staying Ashclan. I didn't know it was already made but it's staying Ashclan. Sorry.

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