New York Times bestselling author Pamela Redmond delivers a beautifully written novel about three generations of women in New York City and the experiences that shape and connect them to each other.

The Possibility of You weaves together three interlocking stories involving three women dealing with issues of pregnancy and motherhood at key moments in history of the last century: On the brink of the First World War and the dawn of the modern ...
See more details below
The Possibility of You

Available on NOOK devices and apps  
  • NOOK Devices
  • Samsung Galaxy Tab 4 NOOK 7.0
  • Samsung Galaxy Tab 4 NOOK 10.1
  • NOOK HD Tablet
  • NOOK HD+ Tablet
  • NOOK eReaders
  • NOOK Color
  • NOOK Tablet
  • Tablet/Phone
  • NOOK for Windows 8 Tablet
  • NOOK for iOS
  • NOOK for Android
  • NOOK Kids for iPad
  • PC/Mac
  • NOOK for Windows 8
  • NOOK for PC
  • NOOK for Mac
  • NOOK for Web

Want a NOOK? Explore Now

NOOK Book (eBook)
BN.com price


New York Times bestselling author Pamela Redmond delivers a beautifully written novel about three generations of women in New York City and the experiences that shape and connect them to each other.

The Possibility of You weaves together three interlocking stories involving three women dealing with issues of pregnancy and motherhood at key moments in history of the last century: On the brink of the First World War and the dawn of the modern age; as the liberalism of the ’60s and ’70s gave way to Reagan’s 1980s; and during the autumn of Barack Obama’s election. Contemporary heroine Cait, an African-American journalist raised by white adoptive parents, goes on a search for her birth mother inspired by her own unplanned pregnancy. Orphan Billie travels from her hippie upbringing in San Francisco to discover the upscale New York grandmother she never knew existed. And Irish nanny Bridget loses the boy she cares for and loves in the 1916 polio epidemic, only to try and replace him with a child of her own.  
Delving into the complex emotions that lie at the heart of unplanned pregnancy, motherhood, and the definition of family, this sweeping inter-generational saga illuminates the struggles of these very different women—and shows how the search for belonging is a connection that remains universal.
Read More Show Less

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
Redmond’s latest novel takes place against the backdrop of 20th-century American feminism, following three generations of women struggling with unplanned pregnancies, broken homes, family tragedies, and the lifelong consequences of bad choices. In the present day, Cait, a globe-trotting reporter, gets pregnant after a one-night stand, forcing her to confront the decision her mother made 35 years ago to put her up for adoption. In 1976, orphaned and impoverished Billie is taken in by her eccentric grandmother Maude—a woman she’d long thought dead—and slowly uncovers the torrid circumstances of her family’s estrangement. And in 1916, Irish nanny Bridget works for Maude, a suffragist and socialite too busy to care for her infant son. When the baby contracts polio, Bridget and Maude’s relationship takes a perverse turn that will influence their families for generations. Redmond has written a crisply paced novel, but she also traffics in stereotypes and sentimentality and makes a misstep in turning real-world feminist icons—including Margaret Sanger, Beatrice Hinkle, and Patti Smith—into minor characters to explore modern sexual politics. Despite effective layers of suspense and intrigue, the story fails to overcome its shortcomings. Agent: Melissa Flashman, Trident Media Group. (Feb.)
From the Publisher
“Seamlessly weaving the present with the past, THE POSSIBILITY OF YOU is an exploration of love and family, of race and relationships that combines the best elements of a family saga with an intricate, Chinese box of a mystery story. Complex and compelling and compulsively readable."

—Geraldine Brooks, Pulitzer Prize-winning author of PEOPLE OF THE BOOK

“[E]ngrossing…Bring this on your next beach vacation. Order a margarita. Open to page one and dig in.”


"Deeply satisfying and enjoyable and juicy. I loved the characters, loved the history, and felt like I was absorbed in a world that I didn't want to let go."

—Peggy Orenstein, New York Times Magazine columnist and author of CINDERELLA ATE MY DAUGHTER

"Every mother, daughter, wife, and friend will love this novel about women's lives across the generations: their passions, their challenges, their unbreakable bonds. A gift to savor for yourself and to share with every woman you know."

—Dorothea Benton Frank, New York Times bestselling author of FOLLY BEACH: A LOWCOUNTRY TALE

“For big fans of stories of mothers and daughters and intergenerational ties, Redmond delivers.”

Library Journal

Kirkus Reviews
Separated by decades, three women face difficult choices about motherhood. Redmond (Babes in Captivity, 2004, etc.) keeps her heroines' stories separate for most of the novel, but readers will decipher the heavy-handed connections early on. Present-day Cait, now in her 30s, has been raised lovingly by her adoptive parents, middle-class, suburban Catholics. When she finds herself pregnant and in love with a fellow journalist she's met while searching for a missing child—unbelievably sensitive Martin is married but his wife is a shrew and may be cheating on him too—she decides she must find her birth mother. In 1976 California, 19-year-old Billie is orphaned when her drugged-out father dies, but she finds letters that lead her to her wealthy grandmother Maude, a selfish but charming old woman dependent on her housekeeper Bridget. Billie moves into Maude's Manhattan mansion as Maude's heir. She also begins to sleep with her African-American bisexual best friend Jupe. When she gets pregnant, medical student Jupe says he's not ready to have a baby. Billie gives birth, suffers postpartum depression, is disowned by racist Maude and leaves the baby girl with Bridget. In 1916, Bridget is a newly arrived Irish nanny caring for Maude's first son. A former Ziegfeld girl now married to a wealthy Jewish candy manufacturer, Maude runs in a suffragette circle and pays little attention to her baby, but when he dies suddenly she is distraught. Bridget is her main support, but Bridget is being wooed by George, Maude's former chauffeur. Maude fires Bridget when she becomes pregnant and marries George. After his death in World War I, Bridget and her son are penniless. Maude takes her back on the condition that she can raise Bridget's son as her own. By the time modern Cait has her baby, she is in the bosom of her family, genetic and adoptive. The message is not subtle: Adoption is good, abortion should be a legal choice but is basically bad, men can be nice but are basically irrelevant.
Read More Show Less

Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781451616439
  • Publisher: Gallery Books
  • Publication date: 2/21/2012
  • Sold by: SIMON & SCHUSTER
  • Format: eBook
  • Pages: 384
  • Sales rank: 473,139
  • File size: 2 MB

Meet the Author

Pamela Redmond Satran is also the author of Younger, Babes in Captivity, and The Man I Should Have Married. She lives in New Jersey with her husband, who is an editor for Reuters, and their three children. The coauthor of the bestselling baby-naming books Beyond Jennifer&Jason, Madison&Montana and Cool Names, Satran is a regular contributor to Glamour, Good Housekeeping, and Parenting.
Visit Pamela's website at www.pamelaredmondsatran.com.
Read More Show Less

Read an Excerpt


Cait, Present

They were in the woods, hundreds of them—police officers and firefighters and volunteers and dogs and finally, after a week of living with the heartrending story, journalists as well—walking hand in hand in hand in a sweep across the leaf-covered ground, the dense canopy of trees overhead turning black against the darkening August sky.

“Okay, that’s it!” called the police chief. “This is the end for us.”

Everyone froze. Cait felt the dry bony hand of the woman who’d been searching on her right slip away; on her left, Martin held fast. After a moment of stillness, they moved with the rest of the crowd to tighten their circle around the chief.

“We’ve done all we can in these woods,” the chief said. “I thank you for your efforts, but you can go home. I’m turning this case over to the FBI.”

Cait looked in alarm at Martin, already shaking her head, appalled. “I can’t believe he’s giving up.”

“He’s not giving up,” said Martin. “It’s just time to try something different. It’s dark now, it’s . . .”

But she was having trouble listening, the images that had haunted her throughout this increasingly desperate week rising up again: Riley, five but no bigger than a three-year-old, buried beneath the dense carpet of leaves, trapped under a rock, cowering in a cave, mauled by a bear, or caught in a fox trap. She wasn’t ready to give up on him. She couldn’t believe the rest of them were.

“We’ve got to keep looking,” she told Martin. “That little boy, nobody ever cared about him, and now it’s like we don’t care, either.”

Martin tried to gather her close. His shoulder looked so tempting, strong beneath his dark blue T-shirt, its cloth soft as a pillowcase. She could smell the sweat on him from the long day of searching in the late summer heat, but something else, too: the sweet scent of clothing carefully laundered by a wife.

She pulled away, mortified, swiping at her cheeks. “I’m all right.”

“No you’re not.” His hands, large, gentle, were still on her. “What is it?”

They had found each other across the crowded fire hall the night after the story broke: the little boy, son of a meth addict, foster child of a great-aunt who was descending into Alzheimer’s, wandered into the woods and never came out. Cait, visiting her parents in New Jersey for the month of August and going out of her mind with boredom, had volunteered to cover the story for the website where her college friend Sam was editor. Martin, an editor at the Times, had similarly volunteered for the gig, since many of the paper’s reporters were off on vacation and his wife was visiting her own parents at the beach with their kids. She’d wanted a break, he’d told Cait, his soft-looking lips twisting into a frown. Which may not have been a bad thing.

They were two of the tallest people in the room, he notably older than she—late forties, she guessed—with dark hair and a heavy five o’clock shadow and myopic brown eyes blinking behind tortoiseshell glasses. She noticed him first, scribbling notes like a cub reporter, earnest and sweating in his white button-down shirt and chinos, gold wedding ring glinting in the bright overhead lights of the country hall.

Then the fire chief said something inadvertently funny and she’d noticed him—noticed Martin—suppressing a smile as he ducked his head and scribbled faster. She must have been staring at him—must have been smiling, too, because he suddenly looked up, caught her eye, and grinned full out.

They were a pair after that, swapping information on the story, comparing theories on what had happened to Riley, gossiping about their fellow reporters, drinking on side-by-side swiveling stools at the Blind Pig every night, then shuffling next door and saying good night beneath the bare bulb that lit the portico of the motel where they both were staying, he in Room 10, she in 11.

“I’m going to keep looking,” she told him now, pulling free, really believing she was going to head out herself with her little flashlight into the now-dark woods. “Will you help me?”

“You’re not going anywhere,” he said, taking hold of her.

She looked down at his hand, big, pale against her tan arm. She’d spent the whole of the two weeks before coming up here at her parents’ little lake club, the poky place where they’d been going since she was a kid, baking on the dock while her mom sat reading in an Adirondack chair under the dense pines. Cait never burned and her hair, as dark as Martin’s in winter, had bleached the same tawny gold as her skin.

“What if that were your son?” she asked him.

Noah, she remembered. Noah was fourteen, his sister Natalie seventeen, heading to college next year.

“That wouldn’t be my son,” Martin said quietly.

“What if it was me?” she said, and then she broke down for real, pressing her face against his shoulder now, feeling his arms wrap tightly around her, letting herself go, feeling safe in his embrace—so safe, she managed to think, that it was dangerous.

One of his hands moved through her hair, got tangled, then got deliberately more tangled.

“It’s not you,” he said into her ear.

“It could be me,” she told him, pulling back to look at him.

“What do you mean?”

She took a breath but then decided not to say what she’d been preparing to say. “Nothing,” she muttered.

There was Riley in her mind’s eye again, lost, alone, scared, damaged. Why did she, who’d never felt anything but safe and adored, feel that could be her?

Maybe because she was prone to wandering into the woods. Maybe because she felt, now, like she was lost.

“What?” he pressed.

She shook her head. “Nothing. We better go file our stories or everybody’s going to beat us.”

They sat, as usual, facing each other across the long folding table that served as a makeshift desk for the reporters covering the story. They each banged out their last Riley stories on their laptops. She found herself reworking her sentences more than was necessary, going back to her notes again and again in search of a better quote, reining in her pace as surely as if she were riding a horse when she felt herself approaching the final paragraphs. As long as she didn’t finish the story, she felt, he might still be out there, waiting to be found and written about the next day.

Martin finished first, packed up his computer, and sat playing with his phone till she was done. Then they set off, as they had every night, walking down the dark highway toward the motel. The only thing that was different was that tonight they held hands, loosely, noncommittally, but without letting go.

“Feeling better?” he asked her.

“A little.”

“Want to tell me more?”

She took a deep breath and didn’t answer. I want to tell you everything, she thought. I want to know everything. But wasn’t the very fact that he was married, however ambivalently, the very reason she’d let herself develop this kind of crush on him? Because she knew there was no danger of actually having him, of getting too close?

The night was darker than usual, the moon that had lit their search and their walks home all week narrowed to a fiery sliver. And there was something else: no lights emanating from the Blind Pig.

“Shit,” he said, stopping. “If there was ever a night when I needed a beer.”

“I have beer,” she said, tentatively. “Well, not beer, actually. Whisky.”

He laughed. Stood on the shoulder of the moonlit highway and studied her. It felt nice, tipping her head back to meet his gaze. Nice and even more dangerous than heading into the black woods.

“If you have whisky, I have glasses,” he said. “The finest plastic.”

“I have water. The finest tap.”

“I might even have ice,” he said. “Or at least I know where I can get some.”

And then there was that moment, the moment she might have said, “God, but I’m so tired,” and he might have said, “Maybe we can have lunch sometime,” but instead, after they let the silence settle for an extra beat, he leaned toward her and they kissed, his mouth salty with sweat, gritty with dust, hungry against hers.

She’d been traveling light for so long, emotionally as well as literally, giving in to sex only when she was desperate and nonattachment was all but guaranteed, when the man looked as if he could satisfy the body without leaving any imprint on the heart.

But that wasn’t Martin. I could love this man, she thought as they half stumbled, half twirled toward the motel, their kisses harder and more insistent with every clumsy step. I could love him but I won’t. Or I’ll let myself love him tonight and then tomorrow we’ll both leave and I’ll never see him again. He’ll go back to his family and I’ll go off to Addis Ababa or to Manila and I’ll think of calling him every time I’m in New York but I never will.

They forgot the whisky. She paused only long enough to duck into the bathroom and rummage through the big cosmetics case she’d never bothered to unpack at her parents’ place, miraculously finding her old diaphragm in its case. And a twisted tube of jelly last used who knew where or when.

He was waiting for her, stretched out long and lean on top of the sheets, his eyes without the cover of his glasses looking like the most naked thing about him. She lay down beside him, leaving the bedside lamp on. The smell of the woods, of the dead leaves they’d spent the day wading through and the trees that had towered all around them, filled the room and seemed to emanate from his skin. She kissed him lightly, tenderly, without force. The decision had been made and they no longer had to pretend to be swept away by passion.

She’d never had sex with someone as old as he was, and though he looked better to her than the hard-body expats who usually landed in her bed, his skin felt looser on its bones, as if it was beginning to slip away. He looked at her more softly, too, taking his time, turning her away from him and lifting the mass of curly hair so he could kiss the back of her neck.

“I’ve been dreaming of doing that all week,” he told her.

She turned back toward him and kissed him again, more insistently this time. What she’d been dreaming of was climbing on top of him, feeling small against his largeness, vulnerable against his ability to care for her. She wanted something from him beyond his cock, beyond obliteration, something more permanent and harder to define.

It wasn’t until the sex was over and she was still again, dozing on top of him, that he spoke.

“I want to be with you,” he said.

I want to be with you, too, she thought. But no. No.

“You’re married.”

“The way I feel with you—now but not just now; all week, from that first time you smiled at me—I never feel that way with her.”

She moved away from him so that he slipped out of her.

“Married guys always say that.”

“‘Married guys always . . .’?”

“You’re not the first,” she said shortly, standing up, crossing to her suitcase, getting the whisky.

“I didn’t think . . .”

“Listen,” she said, getting back into bed, switching off the light. “Obviously, there’s something special between us. But you’re going back to Park Slope, and your wife and kids will come home from the beach, and you’ll make up and be together again. And I’ll go to New York and get my next round of assignments and head out on the road.”

She could already imagine it, all the steps, the way it was every year: a few weeks back at her parents’, her mom fighting tears the whole time at the thought of another separation and her dad pretending it was fine, the month in Little Italy at her usual sublet seeing Sam and her other editors, and then the long plane ride, the new city, the next story, the place and people and job unfamiliar and foreign enough that she could forget how foreign she felt herself.

“I want to see you when you’re in New York,” he said.

She unscrewed the cap on top of the whisky bottle, took a long swallow, passed it to him. “No.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not a home wrecker.”

To her surprise and his credit, he laughed. “And this isn’t a 1950s B movie. My home is already in shambles.”

“Call me when you’re divorced,” she said. “If you still want me, if I’m still single, then maybe we can talk.”

Tough girl. This was so much easier than the way she’d felt in the woods. So much easier than the way she’d felt kissing him.

“Cait,” he said. “I’m serious.”

He set down the whisky bottle, turned the light back on, took her in his arms.

“You don’t want to be with me. I’m a mess.”

Just agree with me, she thought. Everything will be so much simpler that way. And really, she knew for a fact that love didn’t change anything. She loved her parents and they loved her, too—she’d always been sure of that—but it wasn’t enough to make her want to settle down in their safe suburban town, as her mother might have wished, and be happy going to the mall on Saturday mornings, having dinner together on Sunday nights. She loved her friends, but one rollicking night out every six months was usually enough to sustain her. She even loved the apartment she always sublet in New York, but she’d never had the urge to stay there rather than move through a procession of motel rooms as anonymous and ugly as this one.

“Does that have anything to do with what happened in the woods today?” he asked her.

Did it? She couldn’t now access the feeling she’d had out there, her identification with the child, if that had been it, or the urge to rescue him. Had it been merely exhaustion that made her lose control, or the feelings for Martin she’d been struggling to keep under the surface, or something else, something deeper?

“Cait,” he said. “Tell me. Talk to me.”

She made herself focus on him. His eyes were so steady on her, trusting and trustworthy. She could almost imagine being with him, in the lovely little apartment hidden away in the building behind the building in Little Italy. She imagined him in his glasses, and his soft blue T-shirt and worn jeans, bringing her a sandwich in the captain’s bed raised so high off the floor that you needed to climb a step stool to get into it, folding himself into the bed beside her where they would gaze out at the treetops over the cemetery.

This vision seemed so appealing, so palpable, that she thought for a moment she might really be able to tell him what she’d really felt in the woods today. That Riley might have been her. That she’d been adopted, so soon after birth that it couldn’t possibly have made any difference and by parents who’d never been anything but wonderful, and yet the fact of her adoption had always made her feel completely lost.

Instead, she rested her head on his shoulder and asked, “Do you think Riley’s alive?”

He sighed deeply. “I don’t know. I want to think so. But that’s not the way these things usually turn out.”

“I think he is,” she said, the boy’s small pale face, animated from the countless pictures she’d seen of him, grew vivid in her mind. “I just . . . I don’t know. I think he’s out there, looking for something.”

Martin made a sound, not a laugh, but a bark of surprise. “What would a five-year-old be looking for?”

She slid down so that her cheek was pressed to his chest, her entire world reduced to the thump-thump of his heart. It was so warm down here, so comfortable, so safe-feeling. She remembered herself at five, at seven, even at twelve, standing on the beach holding a shell against her ear, listening to its whoosh, so distant yet so provocative, the faint wind of a faraway land. She’d dig in the sand, down, down, hoping to find clams, gold, China.

“Treasure,” she told Martin. “Adventure. Something all his own.”

She listened to his heart and willed her own to match its pace. How long had it been since she’d felt so satisfied to be exactly where she was? Had she ever felt that way? She had no desire to leave him and move across the planet, across the room, even across the bed. All those years she’d been digging, she thought, and it turned out the treasure was not in the woods, hidden in the dirt, and it was not in China. The treasure was right here beside her and, for at least tonight, it belonged only to her.

© 2012 Pamela Redmond Satran

Read More Show Less

Customer Reviews

Be the first to write a review
( 0 )
Rating Distribution

5 Star


4 Star


3 Star


2 Star


1 Star


Your Rating:

Your Name: Create a Pen Name or

Barnes & Noble.com Review Rules

Our reader reviews allow you to share your comments on titles you liked, or didn't, with others. By submitting an online review, you are representing to Barnes & Noble.com that all information contained in your review is original and accurate in all respects, and that the submission of such content by you and the posting of such content by Barnes & Noble.com does not and will not violate the rights of any third party. Please follow the rules below to help ensure that your review can be posted.

Reviews by Our Customers Under the Age of 13

We highly value and respect everyone's opinion concerning the titles we offer. However, we cannot allow persons under the age of 13 to have accounts at BN.com or to post customer reviews. Please see our Terms of Use for more details.

What to exclude from your review:

Please do not write about reviews, commentary, or information posted on the product page. If you see any errors in the information on the product page, please send us an email.

Reviews should not contain any of the following:

  • - HTML tags, profanity, obscenities, vulgarities, or comments that defame anyone
  • - Time-sensitive information such as tour dates, signings, lectures, etc.
  • - Single-word reviews. Other people will read your review to discover why you liked or didn't like the title. Be descriptive.
  • - Comments focusing on the author or that may ruin the ending for others
  • - Phone numbers, addresses, URLs
  • - Pricing and availability information or alternative ordering information
  • - Advertisements or commercial solicitation


  • - By submitting a review, you grant to Barnes & Noble.com and its sublicensees the royalty-free, perpetual, irrevocable right and license to use the review in accordance with the Barnes & Noble.com Terms of Use.
  • - Barnes & Noble.com reserves the right not to post any review -- particularly those that do not follow the terms and conditions of these Rules. Barnes & Noble.com also reserves the right to remove any review at any time without notice.
  • - See Terms of Use for other conditions and disclaimers.
Search for Products You'd Like to Recommend

Recommend other products that relate to your review. Just search for them below and share!

Create a Pen Name

Your Pen Name is your unique identity on BN.com. It will appear on the reviews you write and other website activities. Your Pen Name cannot be edited, changed or deleted once submitted.

Your Pen Name can be any combination of alphanumeric characters (plus - and _), and must be at least two characters long.

Continue Anonymously
Sort by: Showing all of 4 Customer Reviews
  • Posted April 7, 2012

    A must read.

    Enjoyed this novel very much...laughed, cried but most of all felt. Three lives that have one complete unity.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted August 22, 2012

    Hollyleaf 11

    "Where's the sun gone?" Brambleberry shimmered into view beside Featherwhisker, her fur sparkling with stars. Out of StarClan, the dead cats' fur shimmered like stars. Mothflight stalked from the long grass, eyes round as she adjusted to the gloom. "Now what?" Yellowfang's pelt brushed his flank as the ShadowClan medicine cat joined them. "Each of you must go to your Clan and bring your cats here." Brambleberry stared down to a muddy river flowing from the lake. Yellowfang faced the swath of dark pine forest spreading beside it while Mothflight fixed her gaze on the rolling moorland beyond. Featherwhisker could see the tops of the mighty oaks where ThunderClan sheltered beneath. "I'll bring every cat I can find." Yellowfang headed down the hillside, followed by Mothflight and Brambleberry. Featherwhisker headed down the hill and into the woods. A white pelt moved at the edge of his vision. He snapped his head around. Whitewing! The ThunderClan warrior was stalking prey. Tail down, muzzle low, she crept foreward, her eyes fixed ahead. A mouse skittered over a tree root a tail length away. Whitewing sprang and landed on it squarely, killing it and sitting up with a purr rumbling in her throat. Featherwhisker padded out from the shadows. "I'm glad there is still prey here." Whitewing jerked around, blinking. The mouse dropped from her jaws. "Who are you?" "I am Featherwhisker. Follow me Whitewing, it's important. We must gather the Clans." Whitewing tipped her head. "Everyone?" "As many as we can." Featherwhisker bounded foreward and broke into a run. Whitewing chased after him. "But what about Clan boundaries?" "The other medicine cats are helping me gather the other three Clans." He ducked just in time to avoid the prickly stem of a bramble. Featherwhisker caught sight of a matted old gray tom snoozing in the shelter of a fern. "Purdy! Come! We're gathering the Clans!" The old ThunderClan tom lifted his head and hauled himself to his paws, his eyes shining with questions. Featherwhisker raced away. He crested a rise to find Squirrelflight picking her way along an ivy choked trail. "Follow us!" He didn't even pause to explain. The ground grew muddy underpaw and ferns gave way to bracken. "Dovewing!" The gray she-cat was reaching up into a cloud of tumbling leaves, batting at them with her paws. Her gaze widened as she saw Whitewing, Purdy, and Squirrelflight on his tail. "Join us!" Featherwhisker called, racing past the she-cat and heading for a swath of brambles. "Bramblestar!" The ThunderClan leader was eating a vole under highledge. He loiked up in surprise. "Follow us!" Featherwhisker told him. Bramblestar glanced down at the vole, then bounded toward them, her eyes shining in excitement. "Where are we going?" "Wait and see!" Featherwhisker led the cats down a ravine that cut through the middle of the woods. As they scrambled up the other side, Featherwhisker glanced over his shoulder, surprised by the long line of cats trailing in their wake. Lionblaze, Ivypool, Rosepetal, Foxleap, Cloudtail, and Graystripe had joined them. He reached the top of the ravine and caught sight of a gray pelt lurking around the trees. "Jayfeather?" His blind blue eyes narrowed as he called out to him. "Come with us!" He urged. He curled his lip. "What are you up to?" Featherwhisker stumbled to a halt. "I am uniting the Clans!" "Why would I follow fools?" Jayfeather spat.

    0 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted March 23, 2012

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted April 24, 2012

    No text was provided for this review.

Sort by: Showing all of 4 Customer Reviews

If you find inappropriate content, please report it to Barnes & Noble
Why is this product inappropriate?
Comments (optional)