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The Perfect Ghost [NOOK Book]

Overview


Mousy and shy to the point of agoraphobic, Em Moore is the writing half of a celebrity biography team. Her charismatic partner, Teddy, does the interviewing and the public schmoozing. But Em’s dependence on Teddy runs deeper than just the job—Teddy is her bridge to the world and the main source of love in her life. So when Teddy dies in a car accident, Em is devastated, alone in a world she doesn’t understand. The only way she can honor his memory and cope with his loss is to finish the interviews for their...

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The Perfect Ghost

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Overview


Mousy and shy to the point of agoraphobic, Em Moore is the writing half of a celebrity biography team. Her charismatic partner, Teddy, does the interviewing and the public schmoozing. But Em’s dependence on Teddy runs deeper than just the job—Teddy is her bridge to the world and the main source of love in her life. So when Teddy dies in a car accident, Em is devastated, alone in a world she doesn’t understand. The only way she can honor his memory and cope with his loss is to finish the interviews for their current book—an “autobiography” of renowned and reclusive film director Garrett Malcolm.

Ensconced in a small cottage near Malcolm’s Cape Cod home, Em slowly builds the courage to interview Malcolm the way Teddy would have. She finds Malcolm at once friendlier, more intimidating, and much sexier than she had imagined. But Em soon starts hearing whispers of skeletons in the Malcolm family closet. And then the police begin looking into the accident that killed Teddy, and Em’s control on her life—tenuous at best—is threatened.

In The Perfect Ghost, a stunning breakout novel from the beloved author of the Carlotta Carlyle mystery series, Linda Barnes slowly winds the strings tighter and tighter, leading the reader ever more deeply into the lives of her characters with pitch-perfect pacing and mesmerizing prose.

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Editorial Reviews

Library Journal
Shy Em Moore is the perfect ghostwriter, taking her gregarious partner Teddy's interviews and turning them into cohesive "autobiographies" for celebrities. When Teddy dies suddenly in a car crash, Em is determined to finish their current project about Hollywood legend Garrett Malcolm. Em keeps up a running monolog to Teddy as she is swept up by Garrett's charismatic personality, moving into his home—ostensibly to finish the interviews—and then his bed. Parallels to Shakespeare's life and works, particularly Hamlet, are strongly drawn: the play within a play, ghost of the father, treachery, betrayal, eavesdropping and familial skeletons resonate throughout. Nothing is truly what it seems in this world populated with ghosts, both literary and figurative. VERDICT In this standalone (and Barnes's first book in five years) by the multiple award-winning author of the Carlotta Carlyle mysteries (Flashpoint), the fast-paced action, compelling characters, alternating interview fragments, police reports, and Em's first-person narration will keep readers up long into the night, waiting for the full revelation of the particulars, which include a sharply surprising and satisfying twist. [See Prepub Alert, 11/4/12; library marketing]—Charli Osborne, Oxford P.L., MI
Publishers Weekly
Anthony Award–winner Barnes (Lie Down with the Devil and 11 other Carlotta Carlyle novels) crafts a stand-alone with Shakes-pearean ambitions. Em Moore, an agoraphobe who ghostwrites celebrity biographies under the joint pseudonym T.E. Blakemore, worries whether she can complete her current project—an “autobiography” of famed actor-director Garrett Malcolm—without her writing partner, Teddy Blake, after his death in a car crash. Though timid Em always left the interviewing to Teddy, she summons the resolve to talk to Malcolm in his isolated Cape Cod, Mass., beach house. At first, Malcolm casts her aside dismissively, but as Em perseveres and wins his trust and admiration, she persuades both him and herself of her own worth. As she grows closer to Malcolm, secrets about his life begin to pile up—as well as secrets about Teddy’s life. Although the mystery is slow to build, Barnes delivers a captivating story of love, rivalry, and revenge. Agent: Gina Maccoby, Gina Maccoby Literary Agency. (Apr.)
From the Publisher
Praise for The Perfect Ghost

“Linda Barnes reaches new heights with her novel The Perfect Ghost, a tale of celebrity and the dangers the desire for it can bring. Em, the flawed and fascinating protagonist of this literary mystery, is wily and driven, perhaps too driven, as she barrels down a twisty road leading to a spectacular and unexpected ending. Bravo.” — B.A. Shapiro, New York Times bestselling author of The Art Forger

“Hooked from the first chapter, Linda Barnes’ The Perfect Ghost makes me wonder what the hell I’ve been doing all these years not reading Linda Barnes.”— Lisa Lutz, New York Times bestselling author of The Spellman Files

“A delicious twist…Em’s dramatic story of rebirth, addressed to Teddy in absentia, unfolds with the fitting precision of a stage play…An outstanding effort from Barnes.”—Booklist (starred review)

“Barnes delivers a captivating story of love, rivalry, and revenge.” —Publishers Weekly

“An eerie, suspenseful stand-alone.”—Kirkus Reviews

Kirkus Reviews
An unappreciated ghostwriter finds herself in the spotlight. Em Moore was first a student of Teddy Blake, then his lover and, finally, half of the writing team of T.E. Blakemore. Before Teddy was killed in an auto accident, he and Em had been working on the authorized biography of actor-turned-director Garrett Malcolm, scion of a famous acting dynasty. Teddy has always been the charming face of the duo and Em, a plain girl subject to panic attacks. But somehow she persuades the publishers, who want to cancel the project, to let her go ahead with it. Armed with the tapes Teddy made while he was interviewing Malcolm on Cape Cod, Em sets out to finish the book. Malcolm is working on a production of Hamlet on his father's large estate, a place that will eventually belong to his actress daughter, who is currently in Europe, or maybe Australia. At first, Malcolm puts off Em, but then he invites her to stay at the estate, where he seduces her. Both Malcolm's jealous cousin and a scandalmongering local blogger insinuate that Malcolm has a dirty secret to hide. Enchanted by Malcolm, harassed by the blogger and questioned by the police, Em fights off panic attacks while working hard to find the truth behind Malcolm's facade of wealth and celebrity. The police, meanwhile, express their doubts that Teddy's death was really an accident. Barnes puts aside her Carlotta Carlyle series (Lie Down With the Devil, 2008, etc.) for an eerie, suspenseful stand-alone that focuses more on the characters and their dark pasts than on a clever mystery.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781250023643
  • Publisher: St. Martin's Press
  • Publication date: 4/9/2013
  • Sold by: Macmillan
  • Format: eBook
  • Edition description: First Edition
  • Edition number: 1
  • Pages: 320
  • Sales rank: 130,447
  • File size: 817 KB

Meet the Author

Linda Barnes

LINDA BARNES is the author of sixteen previous novels, including her Carlotta Carlyle mystery series. Her work has won the Anthony and American Mystery awards, and received numerous nominations for the Edgar and Shamus awards. Born in Detroit, she now lives in the Boston area with her husband and son.

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Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER

one

 

 

Teddy, you would have been proud of me.

I left home on my own, and not just to pace up and down Bay State Road like a restless feline, either. I made arrangements online, but I physically climbed into a puke-stinking cab, pinched my nose during the ride to South Station, and raced onboard the 9:50 Acela. I almost bailed at New Haven because I was terrified, because my Old Haven no longer existed, because it sounded so damned hopeful: “Five minutes to New Haven, exit on your right.” I squeezed my eyelids shut and resisted the impulse to flee. Instead, I thought about you. I conjured you. I imagined talking to you, telling you about the strangers on the train.

There was a snooty woman, tall, imperious, cradling a full-length fur, patting her mink absentmindedly, as if it were a friendly dog. Two teen lovers, a Celtic cross tattooed on her neck, a too-big-to-be-a-diamond stud in his right ear, entertained their fellow passengers by crawling into each other’s laps. A bald man with a hawk nose trumpeted his importance into his iPhone.

Something makes people want to confide in me, no matter how hard I stare at my book. I wish I knew what it was so I could change it. When the businessman abandoned his cell and adjusted the knot in his tie, I had the feeling he was going to start complaining at me, like I was his secretary or his wife, and then just in time I remembered the quiet car. Really, Teddy, it was like you whispered in my ear, Em, go sit in the quiet car. I shot to my feet as though the engineer had electrified my seat, lurched down the aisle, and found a place among the blessed book-readers and stretched-out sleepers where I collapsed and breathed until the pulse stopped throbbing in my ears.

I considered swallowing a Xanax, but as I stared out the gray-tinted window at the passing shoreline, I got a better idea: I could pretend there were thick glass windows between me and the crowds, a bulletproof tunnel running straight to Henniman’s. I could keep myself mentally separate, isolated and alone. I could figuratively stay on the train and lock everyone else outside, and I wouldn’t open the door for anyone but Jonathan.

When an elderly woman peered at me over her rimless reading glasses and smiled encouragingly, I let my face go blank, willing her to turn away, to not mistake me for some friend’s college-bound daughter in need of a comforting pat. I must have looked desperate, stricken, agonized in spite of my careful preparation. You can’t imagine how much time I spent modeling outfits in the mirror, changing my mind about this scarf, that pocketbook, these pants, this sweater, before winding up in a sophisticated version of what you called my uniform: ink-black jeans and a wheat-colored edition of my usual V-necked T-shirt. At the last minute I added a black suit jacket because everyone in Manhattan wears one. Simple gold jewelry: a necklace and a ring. All those wasted hours and I still screwed up the shoes. I made a mistake and chose the heels you once jokingly termed my “power shoes.”

At the time, I figured I’d take a cab from Penn Station to Henniman’s. But I was early. When have I not been early? I roamed the station for eighteen minutes, but they kept making scary announcements over the PA. Watch for suspicious persons, abandoned parcels, don’t leave your luggage unattended. The lights were bright and hot, and the air reeked of rotting pizza with a hint of urine underneath. A seedy-looking man focused hollow eyes on my pocketbook, sizing me up for a mugging, so I made the snap decision to walk. I visualized a dot on a map: me. The dot would slide smoothly from Penn Station to the meeting with Jonathan.

I erected my imaginary tunnel and under its protective shell sped crosstown to Fifth Avenue, silently reciting sonnets to counter the boom-and-thud construction noise, the screeching traffic. Shakespearean iambs moved my feet, and the map-dot made steady progress until I reached the corner of Fifth. There, despite the simplicity of the directions, I halted, confused. Right or left? Shaken, I almost panicked. My breathing shifted into second gear, but I knew the numbered cross streets would inform me if I erred. I turned right, which proved correct, and then I simply had to scoot down to the Twenties, which would have been fine except for the shoes.

Never look like you need the money when you go in for a loan. That’s what I thought when I tried them on in front of the mirror. New and expensive, practically unworn, they seemed glamorous and carefree, but how can you look carefree if your toes are getting squeezed in a vise?

I was hopelessly early. Twenty-two minutes. So I detoured, backtracking up Fifth, bypassing the library because the stairs seemed too steep a challenge, taking refuge in Saks, pushing through the heavy door, thinking I could stand there motionless without attracting notice, flexing my toes and inhaling the overly perfumed cosmetics-counter air. I checked myself in the mirror over the Guerlain counter, and really, I could have been someone else, any one of the young professional women in their late twenties who milled about the store. I looked unruffled, as serene as a Madonna in a painting.

I didn’t want to be early, Teddy. Early is so desperate. And that couch in the glass reception cage? It would have been like trying to relax on the rack while the hooded torturers elbowed one another and rubbed their sweaty palms together in anticipatory glee. I was picturing their evil grins when a frozen-faced saleslady showed her teeth and asked if she could help me.

Jesus, Teddy, the days I waited for someone to say that. The years. Can I help you? And when exactly was it that “Can I help you?” started to mean “Can I sell you something?” When was the last time anyone genuinely wanted to help me? Help as in aid, as in succor, as in give sustenance?

I could have moved into scarves or hats or shoes. Shoes would have been best. I could have sat in a cushy chair, removed those awful blister-makers, and wriggled my achy toes. But I felt forced outside into the cold.

I joined the downtown parade, marching behind a man in a leather blazer chatting loudly into his cell. Each cross street thundered with traffic, pedestrian and automotive. Plunging into intersections, I felt like a chipmunk darting under the carriage of an eighteen-wheeler. I wondered if the leather blazer–clad man was talking to his wife or his lover, if the woman was telling him she loved him or hated him, if he’d continue the rest of the day in lockstep or if something he learned during that particular conversation would shatter and spin him around, alter his life and change his path. Irrevocably, the way mine had changed.

I walked right past the Flatiron Building, herded by the press of pedestrians, afraid to stop for fear of getting trampled. Where were all these purposeful souls headed? Were they late, afraid that if they paused and lifted their eyes to the murky sky, they’d stop, paralyzed by fear and uncertainty, dismount their painted carousel horses, collapse on the bare pavement, and howl?

I worked my way to a corner and turned left onto a calmer cross street. I stepped into an alcove and watched the slow drip of water off an awning. My clothes felt too tight. I needed to pee. I should have used the restroom at Saks. It was time to meet Jonathan. I backtracked and opened the door, signed my name on the list. The guard glanced at my wavering signature with an expressionless face. I added the time in the provided space, and he nodded me toward the elevators.

I was one of twenty waiting in the lobby. I couldn’t bring myself to squeeze into the first elevator, and the second took its own sweet time. I pressed my lips together and thought, Relax, nobody cares if you’re a little late, but my body didn’t hear me. I looked for the stairs, but I didn’t have time for twelve flights. It would have to be the box.

The elevator stopped at every floor. Pause for the doors to part, wait for strangers to shuffle in and out. Wait, wait, wait for the doors to close again, then hover, hang, while the mechanism debated whether to rise or drop. During the slow-motion endurance test, I ran through the upcoming scene: You’ll see Jonathan, you’ll shake hands. I wiped a damp palm on the thigh of my pants. You’ll see him, you’ll shake hands.

The new receptionist looked like a replica of the old receptionist: young, remote, plastic. I gave my name, and she invited me to take a seat on the agony couch. I stood by the bookshelf instead, pretending to read the titles of upcoming releases.

The latest as-told-to T. E. Blakemore, front and center, was well displayed. The cover credit, long sought, was no more than our hard-won due, and it took an effort to keep my hands from paging to the inside back flap and staring at your photograph. You were such a splendid public face for us. So charming and witty, so quick with a clever remark. I didn’t need to open the book to see you. Remember? Such a bitterly cold day, and I wanted the frozen Charles River in the background? I wanted that glint in your eye, that devil-may-care smile, tousled hair, craggy face. The wind snatched your hat off.

“Em? Are you okay?”

Jonathan, starched white shirt, navy suit pants belted too high, tie slightly off center, stood in front of me and I had no idea how long he’d been there. He looked exactly like the editor he was, the indoor pallor, the wire-rimmed glasses, the narrow, stooped shoulders. His right arm was extended as though he’d stuck it out for a handshake and gotten no response.

“Bring us some water, please,” he ordered the receptionist. “We’ll be in my office.” He placed a hand between my shoulder blades and propelled me down the hallway. “You’re not going to faint, are you?”

I told him I was all right.

“You did faint,” he said accusingly. “Once.”

I concentrated on the rush of air entering and leaving my nostrils. It started, anyway, the rapid heartbeat, the sudden feeling of suffocation. The mind knows no end of dread, and if it does, the body takes over.

But, Teddy, I didn’t faint.

I didn’t handle it perfectly. Jonathan asked if I needed a paper bag to breathe into, so I was far from perfect, but I perched on a chair and composed myself and asked Jonathan how he was doing.

He admitted he was fine while gazing at me as though I might detonate my bomb-vest. The door burst open, and the receptionist thrust two bottles of Poland Spring into his outstretched hands.

The water slid down my throat, deliciously icy, while he asked about Marcy, whether she was coming to the meeting. When I told him it would just be me, he said he wasn’t disappointed, au contraire, he was delighted. Trying to be gallant, but I could see how uncomfortable he was. And I thought I could use that to my advantage. You know how good I am at staying quiet. He squirmed, then managed a weak smile and asked what he could do for me.

I didn’t answer.

“I hope you’re not worried about the advance. It’s a heartless business, all right, but nobody’s going to give you any trouble.”

“Jonathan,” I said, “listen to me. You can’t cancel this book.”

The words spoken; the battle joined.

He pushed back his chair, stood, and took three steps to the window, where he fussed with the angle of the blinds. He had a good view; a tiny closet of an office, but a glorious panorama of rooftops.

“I’ll finish the book,” I said. “I know: Teddy’s not here—but I can do it. You can put it out as a Blakemore, or you can use my name alone—whichever works for you.”

He kept his focus on the sky, as though waiting for a fireworks display. “I don’t know that we can go along with that.”

The royal we. The evasive, weaseling we. As if it weren’t Jonathan himself who had stabbed me through the heart. As if he hadn’t cast his vote of no confidence.

He returned to his desk and lowered himself into his chair. “I’m sure when you think things over, you’ll realize it’s for the best. You must be completely overwhelmed. Distraught.” If I hadn’t frozen him with my eyes, he might have leaned over and patted my hand.

“Teddy and I were colleagues,” I said. “Colleagues. Not lovers.”

“I thought—”

“A lot of people thought.” My throat dried up, and I took a hasty swig of Poland Spring.

“Don’t get yourself in a snit about repaying the advance right away. Take your time. We all know that—”

“Time is what I need. Time to finish the book.”

“Em, we’ve been over this—”

“Jonathan, what do you imagine my role was in the partnership?”

“I’m sure you did all—”

“I wrote the last book. Every word in it is mine.”

“Teddy’s reputation sold this project. You know that. Garrett Malcolm could have had anybody. He asked for Teddy.”

“Teddy? Or T. E?”

He glared at me like I was parsing him too closely, nitpicking.

“Jonathan. I’m the E. I’m the Moore.”

“You don’t handle the interviews.”

“I can manage the rest of the interviews,” I said, and the minute I said it, Teddy, I knew I could do it. “There aren’t that many. I have all Teddy’s tapes. He was almost done when…” I swallowed. “I have entire chapters of a finished manuscript. The early years are complete.”

“But—”

“I have a contract.”

Jonathan took some time unscrewing the cap on his bottled water. “The contract is an agreement with the two of you as the single legal entity T. E. Blakemore.”

“You could make it happen, Jonathan.”

“Malcolm can’t delay. He’s got other commitments.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“When you’re Garrett Malcolm, it doesn’t much matter, does it?”

“It’s basically follow-up now. A few meetings.”

“He liked Teddy.”

“Everyone liked Teddy.”

Jonathan wasn’t expecting me to agree with him. It threw off his timing. He fidgeted, then addressed himself to his desk blotter. “Malcolm won’t like working with a woman.”

“Jonathan, that’s exactly why I didn’t bring Marcy in on this. I didn’t want her to threaten you with a discrimination lawsuit.” The thought had truly never entered my head; it was like my tongue was talking without me.

“It’s that he’s had bad luck with … I didn’t mean—” He sputtered to a halt.

I knew I had him worried, that I’d somehow grabbed his attention, made him reconsider. “There would be a great deal of public sympathy for my position.”

“The project can’t be late.”

“Why not? It’s not like Malcolm’s in the news every day. He’s an icon. He’ll still be an icon.”

“You’re serious about this.”

“Completely.”

He gave me a careful once-over; I tried to look like a woman who’d never fainted in her life.

“What about the other interviews?” he asked. “Not the sessions with Malcolm. The prepublication interviews, the media, the talk shows?”

I gave him my best smile. “What Teddy used to say: ‘We’ll burn that bridge when we come to it.’”

He tapped his fingers on his desk, swiveled his chair, sipped his drink. “Malcolm won’t like it.”

“But he’ll agree to it. He’ll agree if you tell him it will be fine, that the book will be everything it would have been if Teddy were still here. He trusts you, Jonathan.”

He stared at his hands. “I don’t know.”

“I need this book, Jonathan. That’s my bottom line. If you go after the advance, I’ll fight you every step of the way.”

“Em, I have to say I’m surprised.” He raised his eyebrows and looked at me as though he were seeing me for the first time.

“I’ll fight. I want you to be clear on that.” My heart was racing, pounding like it was trying to jump out of my chest.

His tongue edged between his teeth. “I’ll have to talk to some people.”

“You do that.”

“And Malcolm will have to agree to give you access.”

“I’m sure you can manage that, Jonathan. He signed the contract, too.”

I watched as Jonathan carefully balanced the pluses and minuses, the possibility of another bestseller, the threat of a lawsuit, the difficulty of dealing with a woman who might faint.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said finally.

“I won’t keep you then.” Terrified my knees would buckle at each rapid step, I made it down the corridor, onto the turtle-slow elevator, all the way outside and around the corner before I collapsed on a concrete planter, drawing deep heaving breaths.

It hadn’t gone that badly; it hadn’t gone terribly wrong. He hadn’t refused me. A passing jogger smiled, and I raised my face to the sun.

 

Copyright © 2013 by Linda Barnes

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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 3.5
( 8 )
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Sort by: Showing all of 8 Customer Reviews
  • Posted May 17, 2013

    This story really delivers! It is quite unique in theme, charac

    This story really delivers! It is quite unique in theme, character development and format. I would say it is much more Girl With The Dragon Tatoo and beyond than the author's Carlotta Carlyle series. (I have read, own and love every one of them btw.) I encouraged you to step out of your comfort zone and embrace something different. Page by page you'll discover why Em suffers from panic attacks and other odd behaviors. And "Teddy" the last paragraph of Part One is stunning, brilliant, exquisite!! My advice is: If it comforts you to read the same-old, same-old, along with its requisite "no surprises," then this is probably not for you. As for me, I can't wait to reread the book and I hope someone has purchased the movie rights because THIS will make one blockbusting cinematic thriller!

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted July 18, 2013

    As the cliche goes, I chose the book because of its cover. But i

    As the cliche goes, I chose the book because of its cover. But it quickly became so much more than a pretty cover.
    The story is captivating, the characters are realistic and the prose is brilliant.  The Shakespeare references really enhance the story. It is definitely more than a casual beach read, but it captured my interest such that I couldn't wait to get back to the book when interrupted.  I also discovered the Charlotta Carlyle serries and am delighted to be reading more of Linda Barnes' work. 

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  • Posted June 16, 2013

    It's probably more of a 3 1/2 star book. But I liked it well eno

    It's probably more of a 3 1/2 star book. But I liked it well enough. The narrator and main character sets up the reader's view of herself and you don't know until much later what to really think of her. It's light reading and a summer beach kind of book, but has a good deal of story with unraveling plot with some surprises and salty characters. Many of the story's complexities and surprises came very late in the book and I wish I had had more suspicion about a few things, but the clues didn't appear to me earlier. I felt that so much happened so fast in the end that it was a bit too abrupt. But a good story nonetheless.   

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  • Posted May 15, 2013

    This was a very boooring story. It was very discriptive for no

    This was a very boooring story. It was very discriptive for no reason. Discribing everything in the room throughout the whole book did not add to the story. Seemed like a page filler. This story could have been told in one chapter....I want my time back for reading this!!

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  • Posted May 11, 2013

    A book to consider if you really need something to read

    I didn't care for this book very much. The style of writing and the presentation of the story didn't do much for me, but others may not find that true. There are some good twists to the story, but I had a hard time relating to the heroine of the story. It was a very unusual story line, however, that others might find enjoyable.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 11, 2013

    Skip it

    Fairly boring....

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 27, 2013

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted May 3, 2013

    No text was provided for this review.

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