Summer's Child [NOOK Book]



From Luanne Rice, the celebrated author of Beach Girls and many other New York Times bestsellers, comes this powerful novel of a mystery, a love affair, and a bond that cannot be broken set in a seaside town where miracles are made...

On the first day of summer, Mara Jameson went out to water her garden–and was never seen...
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Summer's Child

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From Luanne Rice, the celebrated author of Beach Girls and many other New York Times bestsellers, comes this powerful novel of a mystery, a love affair, and a bond that cannot be broken set in a seaside town where miracles are made...

On the first day of summer, Mara Jameson went out to water her garden–and was never seen again. Years after her disappearance, no one could forget the expectant mother whose glowing smile had captured the heart of everyone who’d known her: Maeve Jameson, still mourning the loss of a granddaughter she had struggled to protect…Patrick Murphy, a dogged police detective obsessed with a vanished woman…and Lily Malone, drawn to the rugged beauty of the Nova Scotia coast and its promise of a new life.

Here Lily hopes to raise her nine-year-old daughter, Rose, far from the pain and loss of the past. Here she will meet a gifted scientist, Liam Neill, whose life is on a similar trajectory from heartbreak to hope. And before the season is over, Lily will find the magic that exists in people we love the best…the everyday miracles that can make the extraordinary happen anywhere.

From the Paperback edition.
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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
Resonant and beautifully written, this novel offers a lyrical meditation on healing, a setting as soft and colorful as beach glass and a story that's both suspenseful and tender. Lily Malone and her daughter, Rose, have built a happy life in Cape Hawk, Nova Scotia, despite the ever-present fear that the abusive husband Lily has fled will find them. Old memories surface as Rose becomes friends with a girl whose wary mom is hiding a similar past. When Rose's congenital heart defect forces her to undergo open-heart surgery, Lily also faces her conflicting feelings for marine biologist Liam Neill, whose unflinching support she has been too emotionally scarred to accept. Ultimately, Liam's love and Rose's recovery give her the strength to confront her longing for the past-and the loved one-she has left behind. Rice (Dance with Me) excels at weaving the familiar staples of popular fiction into storytelling gold; her talent for portraying both children at risk and good men scarred by circumstance also dazzles. Above all, this book-one of Rice's best in recent years-depicts the magical endurance of love with the sensitivity and realism for which she's known. Agent, Andrea Cirillo at the Jane Rotrosen Literary Agency. (June) Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.
From the Publisher
"Resonant and beautifully written, this novel offers a lyrical meditation on healing, a setting as soft and colorful as beach glass and a story that's both suspenseful and tender.... Rice excels at weaving the familiar staples of popular fiction into storytelling gold; her talent for portraying both children at risk and good men scarred by circumstance also dazzles. Above all, this book—one of Rice's best in recent years—depicts the magical endurance of love with the sensitivity and realism for which she's known."--Publishers Weekly, Starred Review

"Rice, a terrific storyteller and a poetic stylist, takes on a difficult and brutal subject and transforms it into a source of light and hope."--Booklist

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780553901528
  • Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 5/31/2005
  • Sold by: Random House
  • Format: eBook
  • Pages: 400
  • Sales rank: 36,233
  • File size: 779 KB

Meet the Author

Luanne Rice
Luanne Rice is the author of twenty-one novels, including Sandcastles, Summer of Roses, Summer’s Child, Silver Bells, Beach Girls, and Dance With Me. She lives in New York City and Old Lyme, Connecticut.

From the Paperback edition.


Luanne Rice is the New York Times- bestselling author who has inspired the devotion of readers everywhere with her moving novels of love and family. She has been hailed by critics for her unique gifts, which have been described as "a beautiful blend of love and humor, with a little magic thrown in."

Rice began her writing career in 1985 with her debut novel Angels All Over Town. Since then, she has gone on to pen a string of heartwarming bestsellers. Several of her books have been adapted for television, including Crazy in Love, Blue Moon, Follow the Stars Home, and Beach Girls.

Rice was born in New Britain, Connecticut, where her father sold typewriters and her mother, a writer and artist, taught English. Throughout her childhood, Rice spent winters in New Britain and summers by Long Island Sound in Old Lyme, where her mother would hold writing workshops for local children. Rice's talent emerged at a very young age, and her first short story was published in American Girl Magazinewhen she was 15.

Rice later attended Connecticut College, but dropped out when her father became very ill. At this point, she knew she wanted to be a writer. Instead of returning to college, Rice took on many odd jobs, including working as a cook and maid for an exalted Rhode Island family, as well as fishing on a scallop boat during winter storms. These life experiences not only cultivated the author's love and talent for writing, but shaped the common backdrops in her novels of family and relationships on the Eastern seaboard. A true storyteller with a unique ability to combine realism and romance, Rice continues to enthrall readers with her luminous stories of life's triumphs and challenges.

Good To Know

Some interesting outtakes from our interview with Luanne:

"I take guitar lessons."

  • "I was queen of the junior prom. Voted in, according to one high school friend I saw recently, as a joke because my date and I were so shy, everyone thought it would be hilarious to see us onstage with crowns on our heads. It was 1972, and the theme of the prom was Color My World. For some reason I told my guitar teacher that story, and he said Yeah, color my world with goat's blood."

  • "I shared a room with both sisters when we were little, and I felt sorry for kids who had their own rooms."

  • "To support myself while writing in the early days, I worked as a maid and cook in one of the mansions in Newport, Rhode Island. I'd learned to love to cook in high school, by taking French cooking from Sister Denise at the convent next door to the school. The family I worked for didn't like French cooking and preferred broiled meat, well done, and frozen vegetables. They were particular about the brand—they liked the kind with the enclosed sauce packet. My grandmother Mim, who'd always lived with us, had taken the ferry from Providence to Newport every weekend during her years working at the hosiery factory, so being in that city made me feel connected to her."

  • "I lived in Paris. The apartment was in the Eighth Arrondissement. Every morning I'd take my dog for a walk to buy the International Herald Tribune and have coffee at a café around the corner. Then I'd go upstairs to the top floor, where I'd converted one of the old servant's rooms into a writing room, and write. For breaks I'd walk along the Seine and study my French lesson. Days of museums, salons du thé, and wandering the city. Living in another country gave me a different perspective on the world. I'm glad I realized there's not just one way to see things.

    While living there, I found out my mother had a brain tumor. She came to Paris to stay with me and have chemotherapy at the American Hospital. She'd never been on a plane before that trip. In spite of her illness, she loved seeing Paris. I took her to London for a week, and as a teacher of English and a lover of Dickens, that was her high point.

    After she died, I returned to France and made a pilgrimage to the Camargue, in the South. It is a mystical landscape of marsh grass, wild bulls, and white horses. It is home to one of the largest nature sanctuaries in the world, and I saw countless species of birds. The town of Stes. Maries de la Mer is inspiring beyond words. Different cultures visit the mysterious Saint Sarah, and the presence of the faithful at the edge of the sea made me feel part of something huge and eternal. And all of it inspired my novel Light of the Moon."

  • "I dedicated a book to Bruce Springsteen. It's The Secret Hour, which at first glance isn't a novel you'd connect with him—the novel is about a woman whose sister might or might not have been taken by a serial killer. I wrote it during a time when I felt under siege, and I used those deeply personal feelings for my fiction. Bruce was touring and I was attending his shows with a good friend. The music and band and Bruce and my friend made me feel somehow accompanied and lightened as I went through that time and reached into those dark places.

    During that period I also wrote two linked books—Summer's Childand Summer of Roses. They deal with the harsh reality of domestic violence and follow The Secret Hour and The Perfect Summer When I look back at those books, that time of my life, I see myself as a brave person. Instead of hiding from painful truths, I tried to explore and bring them to the light through my fiction. During that period, I met amazing women and became involved with trying to help families affected by abuse—in particular, a group near my small town in Connecticut, and Deborah Epstein's domestic violence clinic at Georgetown University Law Center. I learned that emotional abuse leaves no overt outward scars, but wounds deeply, in ways that take a long time to heal. A counselor recommended The Verbally Abusive Relationshipby Patricia Evans. It is life-changing, and I have given it to many women over the years."

  • "I became a vegetarian. I decided that, having been affected by brutality, I wanted only gentleness and peace in my life. Having experienced fear, I knew I could never willingly inflict harm or fear on another creature. All is related. A friend reminds me of a great quote in the Zen tradition: "How you do anything is how you do everything."
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      1. Date of Birth:
        September 25, 1955
      2. Place of Birth:
        New Britain, CT

    Read an Excerpt

    Chapter 1

    Being retired had its pluses. For one thing, it was good to be ruled by the tide tables instead of department shifts and schedules. Patrick Murphy kept the small Hartford Courant tide card tacked up by the chart table, but he barely needed it anymore. He swore his body was in sync with the ebb and flow of Silver Bay--he'd be pulled out of bed at the craziest hours, in the middle of the night, at slack tides, prime times to fish the reefs and shoals around the Stone Mill power plant.

    Stripers up and down the Connecticut shoreline didn't stand a chance. They hadn't for the two years, seven months, three weeks, and fourteen days since Patrick had retired at the age of forty-three. This was the life. This was really the life, he told himself. He had lost the house, but he had the boat, the truck. This was what people worked their whole lives for: to retire to the beach and fish the days away.

    He thought of Sandra, what she was missing. They had had a list of dreams they would share after he left the Connecticut State Police: walk the beaches, try every new restaurant in the area, go to the movies, hit the casinos, take the boat out to Block Island and Martha's Vineyard. They were still young--they could have a  blast.

    A blast, he thought. Now--instead of the fun he had thought they would have together--"blast" made him think of the divorce, with its many shocks and devastations, the terrible ways both lawyers had found to make a shambles of the couple they had once been.

    Fishing helped. So did the Yankees--they had snapped their losing streak and just kept on winning. Many the night Patrick combined the two--casting and drifting, listening to John Sterling and Charlie Steiner call the game, cheering for the Yanks to win another as he trolled for stripers, as his boat slipped east on the current.

    Other things pulled him out of his bunk too. Dreams with dark tentacles; bad men still on the run after Patrick's best waking efforts to catch them; a lost girl; shocks and attacks and bone-rattling fears that gave new meaning to Things That Go Bump in the Night. Patrick would wake up with a pounding heart, thinking of how terrified she must have been.

    Whether she was murdered, dead and buried all these years, or whether something had happened to drive her from her house, her grandmother's rose garden, to someplace so far away she had never been seen again, her fear must have been terrible.

    That's the thing he could never get out of his mind.

    What fears had Mara Jameson felt? Even now, his imagination grabbed hold of that question and went wild. The case was nine years old, right at the top of his unsolved pile. The paperwork had been his albatross, his constant companion. The case was the rock to Patrick's Sisyphus, and he had never--not even after it promised to ruin his marriage, not even after it made good on that promise, not even now, after retirement--never stopped pushing it up the hill.

    Mara's picture. It sat on his desk. He used to keep it right beside his bed--to remind him of what he had to do when he got up. Look for the sweet girl with the heartbreak smile and the laughing eyes. Now he didn't really need the picture. Her face was ingrained into his soul. He knew her expressions by heart, the way other men knew their wives, girlfriends, lovers. . . .

    She'd be with him forever, he thought, climbing out of bed at five-thirty a.m. He had only the vaguest idea of what his dream had been--something about blood spatter on the kitchen floor, the spidery neon-blue patterns revealed by the blood-detecting luminol, trickles and drops . . . spelling, in Patrick's dream, the killer's name. But it was in Latin, and Patrick couldn't understand; besides, who could prove she'd been killed when her body had never been found?

    He rubbed his eyes, started the coffee, then pulled on shorts and sweatshirt. The morning air felt chilly; a front had passed through last night, violent thunderstorms shaking the rafters, making Flora hide under the bed. The black Lab rubbed up against him now, friendly bright eyes flashing, knowing a boat ride was in their future.

    Heading up on deck, he breathed in the salt air. The morning star blazed in the eastern sky, where the just-about-rising sun painted the dark horizon with an orange glow. His thirty-two-foot fishing boat, the Probable Cause, rocked in the current. After the divorce, he'd moved on board. Sandra had kept the house on Mill Lane. It had all worked out fine, except now the boatyard was going to be turned into condos. Pretty soon all of New England would be one big townhouse village, complete with dockominiums . . . and Patrick would have to shove off and find a new port.

    Hearing footsteps on the gravel, he peered into the boatyard. A shadow was coming across the sandy parking lot; Flora growled. Patrick patted her head, then went down below to get two mugs of coffee. By the time he was back on deck, he saw Flora wagging her tail, eyes on the man standing on the dock. Angelo Nazarena.

    "Don't tell me," Patrick said. "You smelled the coffee."

    "Nah," Angelo said. "I got up early and saw the paper; I figured you needed company so you wouldn't get drunk or do something really stupid. Longest day of the year's tomorrow, and the articles are starting already. . . ." He held the Hartford Courant in one hand, but accepted the heavy blue mug in the other as he stepped aboard.

    "I don't drink anymore," Patrick said. He wanted to read the story but didn't--at the same time. "As you well know. Besides, I'm not speaking to you. You're selling my dock."

    "Making millions in the bargain," Angelo chuckled. "When my grandfather bought this land, it was considered crap. The wrong side of the railroad bridge, next to a swamp, stinking like clam flats. But he was smart enough to know waterfront is solid gold, and I'm cashing in. Good coffee."

    Patrick didn't reply. He was staring at Mara's picture on the front page. It had been taken in her grandmother's rose garden--ten miles from here, at her pretty silver-shingled cottage at Hubbard's Point. The camera had caught the light in her eyes--the thrill, the joy, that secret she always seemed to be holding back. Patrick had the feeling he so often had--that if he leaned close enough, she'd whisper to him, tell him what he so desperately wanted to know. . . .

    "These papers really get a lot of mileage out of nothing," Angelo said, shaking his head. "The poor girl's been gone nine years now. She's fish food, we all know that."

    "Your Sicilian lineage is showing."

    "She's gone, Patrick. She's dead," Angelo said, sharply now. He and Patrick had gone to school together, been altar boys at St. Agnes's together, been best man at each other's weddings. He and

    Patsy had introduced him to Sandra.

    "The husband did it, right?"

    "I thought so, for a long time," Patrick said.

    "What was his name, though . . . he had a different last name from Mara. . . ."

    "His name is Edward Hunter. Mara had her own career. She kept her own name when she married him."

    And now Patrick saw Edward Hunter's handsome charm-boy face, his stockbroker's quick, sharp smile--as wide and bright as Mara's, but without one ounce of her heart, soul, depth, integrity, authenticity, spark. . . . As a state cop, Patrick had encountered smiles like Edward Hunter's thousands of times. The smiles of men pulled over for speeding on their way home from places they shouldn't have been, the smiles of men at the other end of a domestic violence call--smiling men trying to convince the world they were better than the circumstances made them seem and reminding Patrick that "smile" was really just "slime" spelled sideways.

    "Everyone thought so--not just you. But the bastard didn't leave a body behind. So you can't try him, and it's time for you--"

    "We could have tried to pull a Richard Crafts," Patrick said, naming Connecticut's infamous killer convicted of murdering his wife, whose body was never found, on the basis of a few fragments of hair and bone found in a rented wood chipper. "But we didn't even have enough for that. I couldn't even find enough evidence for that."

    "Like I was saying, it's time you moved on."

    "Okay, thanks," Patrick said, his expression saying why didn't I think of that?, his Irish rising as he faced his friend Angelo--who had brought over the morning paper with Mara's face on the front page, who was about to sell his boat slip right out from under him. Flora had gone for a run around the still-deserted parking lot, and now she leapt back aboard the boat.

    "What I mean is . . ." Angelo said, trying to find the words to fill the hole he'd opened up.

    "What you mean is, it's time I got a life, I know," Patrick said, giving his old friend an old-friends glance--the kind of look that tells them they know you better than anyone, that you take their point, that they were right all along, when what you really want is to just shut them up and get them off your case.

    "Yeah. To be honest, that's what I mean," Angelo said, chuckling with relief even as Patrick was folding up the newspaper and tossing it through the hatch--purportedly for disposal but actually to save forever.

    As he saved all of Mara's pictures.

    Because, he thought as he started up the engine and Angelo cast off the lines, as they headed out to the fishing grounds, it was one of the ways he had found to keep her alive. That, and one other way . . .

    The whole world assumed that Mara Jameson and her unborn baby had died all those nine years ago, and they still did. Patrick thought back to his Catholic childhood, that phrase in the Creed: We believe . . . in all that is seen and unseen. It was pretty much impossible to have faith in what you couldn't see. And the world hadn't seen Mara in over nine years.

    Backing out of the slip, hitting the bow thrusters, he eased into the channel. The boat chuffed through the deepening water as gray herons watched silently from shadows along the green marshy shore. The rising sun shone through scrub oaks and white pines. Bursts of gold glittered on the water ahead.

    The dead never stayed hidden. The earth gave them up, one way or another. Patrick knew they were relentless in their need to be found. The Tibetan Book of the Dead described the hungry ghosts, tormented by unbearable heat, thirst, hunger, weariness, and fear. Their realm seemed familiar to Patrick; having spent his career investigating homicides, he believed that the dead had their own emotions, that they haunted the living until they were found.
    And Mara had never been found.

    After all the work he'd done on her case, Patrick believed he would know--deep inside his own body--if she were dead. He felt Mara Jameson in his mind, his skin, his heart. He carried her with him every day, and he knew he'd never be able to put her down until he knew for sure what had happened to her. Where she was . . .

    The birds were working up ahead, marking a school of blues just before the red nun buoy. Angelo got the rods ready. Flora stood beside Patrick's side; her body pressed against his leg as he hit the throttle and sped toward the fish and tried in vain to escape the thoughts that haunted him wherever he went.

    And he knew that when he got back, he'd be ready to write her this year's letter.

    Ah, it was about to start again. As it did every year at this time. Just as the last traces of New England's long chill were gone from the air, just as the birds had returned north from their winter's journeys, just as the roses were coming into bloom and the gardens were awash with color, just as summer solstice was upon them, with its gift of the longest day . . . the time had come around again.

    Maeve Jameson stood in her garden, pruning. She wore a wide straw hat, white linen shirt, and hot-pink garden gloves. In spite of all the cover-ups, she also wore sunscreen. They hadn't known about sun damage when she was a girl--they had all thought the sun was the great healing force--the more of it the better.

    But she'd had a small skin cancer removed from her cheek last year, and was determined to do her best to keep it from happening again, to stay as healthy as she could, to stay alive until she knew the entire truth.

    She had always been fastidious about putting lotion on her granddaughter. Mara had had such fair skin--so typically Irish, pale and freckled. Her parents--Mara's, that is--had been killed in a freak ferry accident on a trip to Mara's mother's hometown in the west of Ireland.

    Maeve had taken over raising their daughter, their only child; every time she'd ever looked at Mara, she'd seen her son, Billy, and she'd loved her so much, more than the stars in the sky, more than anything--because she was a direct link to her darling boy, and she'd dutifully put sunscreen all over her freckled skin before letting her go down to the beach.

    "You have the soul of your father in your blue eyes," Maeve would say, spreading the lotion.

    "And my mother?"

    "Yes, Anna too," Maeve would say, because she had loved her Irish daughter-in-law almost as if she'd been her own child. But the truth was, Mara had been all-Billy to Maeve. Maeve couldn't help herself.

    So now she just stood in her garden, clipping the dead heads from the rosebushes. She tried to concentrate on finding the three-leaf sets, but she was distracted by the two news people standing out by the road. They had their cameras out, clicking away. Tomorrow--the anniversary of Mara's disappearance--the headlines would no doubt read, "Grandmother Still Waiting after All These Years" or "Roses for Mara's Remembrance" or some other malarkey.

    The local news people had always made a cartoon of the situation--tried to boil everything down into an easily palatable story for their readers to understand. When no one knew the whole truth--except Mara. Edward had played his part in the terrible drama, and Maeve knew some segments, but only Mara knew it all.

    Only Mara had endured it.

    The state police detective had learned some of it. Patrick Murphy, another Hibernian, although not in the tradition of Irish cops that Maeve remembered from growing up in the South End of Hartford.
    Those fellows had been tough, all steel, no nonsense, and they'd seen the world in black and white. Everything was one way or another. Not Patrick.

    From the Paperback edition.

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    Table of Contents

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    Customer Reviews

    Average Rating 4.5
    ( 26 )
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    See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 26 Customer Reviews
    • Posted December 20, 2013

      good book

      Reading it now. Love the dual storyline. Imagine it will have the usual happy ending, at least I hope so because I like the characters.

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    • Anonymous

      Posted July 18, 2012

      Really good

      Really super good just a little slow but not in necessarily a bad way

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    • Posted April 1, 2012

      more from this reviewer

      Summer's Child by Luanne Rice This is the first story of Mara

      Summer's Child by Luanne Rice
      This is the first story of Mara Jameson. She had gotten married and was pregnant. Then she just disappeared and years later no one had heard of her again.
      Patrick Murphy is the retired state police detective who is intrigued by the reports of Maya and tries to track her down by clues left. Her parents are dead and she had lived with her grandmother, Mauve. Mauve's best friend, Clara grew up together in the seaside town of Hubbard's Point.
      At Cape Hawk Rose plays with Jessica and it's close to her birthday and she has high hopes of seeing the whale, Nanny who comes to visit her every summer.
      Capt Hook is the local oceanographer and has a love interest in Lily
      and captain of the ferry where he has an office near Rose's mom yarn shop where Rose's mom, Lily rented the store along with an apartment for them both.
      Jessica can't even tell her best friend that her birthday is the same date as Roses cuz her dad might come find them and make them go back to live with him. She has bad dreams of what he did to a dog. She is now happy to be away from him where nobody knows them.
      hate how the husband they ran away from uses the internet to get others to send him money and to trick her into sending a message under one of her alias names. He will be able to track down where she is now. Reminds me of one coming into an authors chat saying her daughter and
      family had gotten burnt out of their home and she loves to read. Ended up getting the author to send her books and I'm thinking to myself what's wrong with the free library? Hope it didnt happen and I do hate scammers.
      Cool to have all these various stories connected by just one person. Like how the stories are all told.
      Love new things this book has taught me, pocket rosary also known as chapette, i've made these for nursing home.
      Also pine needle pillows-how neat of an idea!
      This book follows Rose's journey to better health.
      There are just a few things that link this whole book and all the characters together. What a tale!

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    • Posted February 3, 2011


      I loved it great read. i wish there had been more with the ending. But I still enjoyed it.

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    • Posted October 10, 2009

      more from this reviewer


      The story was interesting enough and, obviously, Rice did a lot of research into the medical aspect of the book. The ending, however, to me was awful!! As I read the book I turned the page, expecting for her to start tying in loose ends. That wasn't the case---the book ended with an advertisement page for her next book. Then, it started up again with the events leading up to Mara/Lily marrying this psychopath. There were way too many unresolved issues such as: Did her grandmother live? Did Edward do something to the furnace in the cellar which made Maeve ill (as the story alluded to)? If so, was he ever caught and convicted? Overall, I thought it was a very poor ending to a "soso" book.

      0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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    • Anonymous

      Posted August 15, 2006

      Luanne Rice outdid herself!

      I purchased Summer of Roses to read while vacationing only to find out it was a sequel. I headed out to get Summer's Child. Could I read it all before I left? Not a problem. I have read about five of Luanne Rice's books. This is by far the best yet even though I have enjoyed her others immensely! It had everything--mystery, romance, family love. It endears the reader. This is a must read!

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    • Anonymous

      Posted November 21, 2005

      good book

      this book was like watching a good lifetime movie's deffently worth reading

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    • Anonymous

      Posted July 20, 2005

      Good but not great!

      This was not one of Luann Rice's better books. It seemed very confusing in the beginning and seemed like too many story lines in one plot. About half way through it did get better than turned into a page turner at that point. I just started the sequel to this and it seems much better.

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    • Anonymous

      Posted July 21, 2005

      Beautiful Book

      This is a splendid book, totally recommended for everyone. It is loving, kind, funny and touches the heart, some parts made me wanna cry and then other parts laugh. I will be buying Summer of Roses (second part to this book)...cannot wait to receive it.

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    • Anonymous

      Posted August 31, 2005

      I loved it!!

      The sweetest story. Made you feel like you really knew the characters and were really there with them

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    • Anonymous

      Posted July 9, 2005

      A Sheer delight!

      Am reading this book now & enjoying every page. Have read many Luanne Rice novels & find each a reading pleasure.

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    • Anonymous

      Posted July 9, 2005

      touches your heart

      This was the kind of book that you really care about the characters and what happens to them. Summer's child is a defenite must read

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    • Posted December 9, 2008

      more from this reviewer

      The suspense grips the audience from the start

      Every June 21, the Connecticut media makes a big show of the vanishing of pregnant pixie Mara Jameson nine years ago. Like everyone else retired State Police Officer Patrick Murphy, who worked the still unsolved case, reflects on how the married Mara went out to work her grandmother¿s rose garden, but vanished; but unlike most people who believe her spouse Edward Hunter got away with killing Mara Patrick believes she is alive....................... In Cape Hawk near the Gulf of St. Lawrence, Lily Malone owns the store In Stitch while raising her almost nine years old daughter Rose alone. Rose has a heart condition that has required surgery and will require one more operation. Lily reflects back to when she was Mara knowing she misses her beloved grandmother but fears what Edward would do to their child if he ever found them; that dread that he will do something ugly made her run in the first place. However, the past is catching up to Lily who fears Rose will be his victim if he finds them................ The suspense grips the audience from the start even though the lead protagonist does not make an appearance until a few chapters into the gripping story line. Instead readers ¿see¿ Mara through the eyes of her grandmother and Patrick; ironically Edward¿s perspective comes out much later well after the audience has met Lily, Rose, the child¿s best friend Jess and their kind neighbor Dr. Liam Niell. Lily is a courageous soul struggling not to be a ¿bruised rose¿ before returning home (see the upcoming SUMMER OF ROSES for those events) with Liam at her side ready to protect both of his females................ Harriet Klausner

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      Posted February 20, 2011

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      Posted August 19, 2009

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      Posted September 22, 2009

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