The Widow Nash

by Jamie Harrison Narrated by Elisabeth Rodgers

Overview

It is New York, 1904, and Dulcy Remfrey, despite an idiosyncratic, traveling childhood, faces the predictable life of a woman of the time. But all that changes when her eccentric father returns from his expedition to Africa without any of the proceeds from the sale of a gold mine. It seems he's lost his mind along with the money, and Dulcy's obsessive ex-fiancé (and her father's business partner) insists she come to Seattle to decipher her father's cryptic notebooks, which may hold clues to the missing funds. When her father dies unexpectedly, taking the truth with him, Dulcy looks at her future, finds it unbearable, and somewhere in the northern Rockies, disappears from the train bringing her father's body home.

Is it possible to disappear from your old life and create another? Dulcy travels the West, reading stories about her own death, and finds a small Montana town where she's reborn as Mrs. Nash, a wealthy young widow, free from the burden of family. But her old life won't let go so easily, and soon her ex-fiancé is on her trail, threatening the new life she is so eager to create.

The Widow Nash is a riveting narrative, filled with a colorful cast of characters, timeless themes, and great set pieces-Europe in summer, New York in fall, Africa in winter, and the lively, unforgettable town of Livingston, Montana. This is a book that surprises with its twists and turns, ribald sensibility, and rich historical details. And in Dulcy, Jamie Harrison has created an indelible heroine sure to capture the hearts of readers everywhere.

Editorial Reviews

The New York Times Book Review - Jean Zimmerman

Sweeping and richly hued…Harrison has rendered her imagined world anachronistically, but Henry James might still have approved.

From the Publisher

Winner of the 2017 Reading the West Award
A New York Times Book Review Editors' Choice

"This novel from the daughter of Jim Harrison features a character set loose to wander the American West at the turn of the 20th century, a woman whose early experiences seem drawn from the worldly peregrinations of the era of Henry James. Sweeping and richly hued . . . Harrison has rendered her imagined world anachronistically, but Henry James might still have approved.” —The New York Times Book Review

“What keeps you reading is not just the quality of the writing, which is just absolutely wonderful, but also to find out: Is [Dulcy] going to [remake herself]? Can this be successful? Or is she going to be found out?” —Nancy Pearl, Morning Edition, NPR

“This gorgeously written historical novel follows Dulcy, a young woman in 1904 who attempts to flee her late father's business problems—and her violent ex–fiance's grasp—by traveling west and posing as a wealthy widow.” —Entertainment Weekly

“Jamie Harrison . . . shares a number of traits with her father [Jim Harrison]—superior storytelling skills, love of landscape, wry humor, and a knack for gorgeous writing about food. The Widow Nash reverberates with a daughter’s affection for a larger–than–life father, surely a tribute of sorts to a real–life relationship.” —Newsday

“A languid yet intriguing read . . . Harrison has debunked the idea that women in the early 1900s had no control over their lives and only looked to men for direction and happiness. There is a love story but it is not standard, and Dulcy certainly isn't dependent upon a man to rescue her. All of the characters have the kind of quirks that feel natural to the reader. No one character is perfect, and Harrison shines at creating a cast of friends and associates that I would happily spend an evening drinking and chatting with . . . Harrison is artful in her writing and most of the events influence the plot in important ways . . . The Widow Nash delivers an excellent story. Harrison has crafted an atmospheric historical novel with original characters for readers to enjoy. Her writing is sophisticated and quick witted, ideal for a pleasurable summer read.” —The Missoulian

“Richly descriptive, The Widow Nash is the luminous story of a woman suspended between two worlds, one promising, the other catastrophic.” —BookPage

“Harrison . . . writes atmospheric historical fiction featuring both drama and bizarrely entertaining humor. There are Whartonesque touches in the demarcations of society . . . A subtler comedy of errors among a quirky cast of characters.” —Booklist

“Debut novelist Harrison paints a lovely and memorable portrait of a desperate woman's flight to a new life . . . Harrison's lead is a strong and clever woman who is easy to admire, while the rest of the heroes, villains, and ambiguous sorts are as vividly drawn as the raw and terrible scenery of Montana. Readers will treasure Harrison's rich characterization and sharp turns of phrase.” —Publishers Weekly (starred and boxed review)

“When Walton dies before anyone can figure out what's happened to Victor's money, Dulcy decides that her only option is to disappear. Thus, Dulcy Remfrey turns herself into the young widow Mrs. Nash. This baroque setup is nicely balanced by Harrison's prose; the narrative voice here is restrained, with just a hint of quiet irony. And there's the fact that, as fantastical as the scenario might seem, Walton Remfrey is an entirely believable Gilded Age figure . . . Thoughtful, richly written historical fiction” —Kirkus Reviews

“With The Widow Nash, Jamie Harrison breathes fresh life into a fascinating period of American history. Indeed, the past has not passed. An adventurous, ambitious, inventive novel by a writer to relish.” —Colum McCann, winner of the National Book Award for Let The Great World Spin

“This deliciously ambitious novel delivers one memorable character after another. None is more magnetic than the 'Widow Nash' herself, a fabulous heroine and irresistible travel companion. Jamie Harrison is a clever, gifted writer, and this shining book is flat–out terrific.” —Carl Hiaasen, New York Times bestselling author of Razor Girl

“With Technicolor, vibrant prose, Jamie Harrison's novel The Widow Nash re–invents the Western from a feminist perspective; from the first page, the fierce Dulcy brings the reader into her unforgettable world. A novel as wildly original and memorable as the West itself.” —Karen E. Bender, author of Refund, a Finalist for the National Book Award

Kirkus Reviews

2017-03-21
A literary turn from an author known for mysteries (Blue Deer Thaw, 2000, etc.).Dulcy Remfrey is returning from a party when she gets a phone call. Phone calls aren't exactly common in 1904, so she assumes the worst: her father's dead. As it happens, he's not, but neither is he well, and it seems that he has misplaced a very large sum of money. His business partner, Victor—also, once upon a time, Dulcy's fiance—wants her to leave New York immediately and head for Seattle, hopeful that she might tease the truth of the missing fortune from her father's syphilis-addled brain. Victor, a man with violent tendencies, is dismayed both by the prospect of being ruined—Walton was supposed to be returning from Africa with the proceeds from selling several mines—and the presence of the woman who jilted him. When Walton dies before anyone can figure out what's happened to Victor's money, Dulcy decides that her only option is to disappear. Thus, Dulcy Remfrey turns herself into the young widow Mrs. Nash. This baroque setup is nicely balanced by Harrison's prose; the narrative voice here is restrained, with just a hint of quiet irony. And there's the fact that, as fantastical as the scenario might seem, Walton Remfrey is an entirely believable Gilded Age figure: a mining magnate who got his start digging copper as an orphan in Cornwall, a lowborn man who built an empire with hard labor, constant hustle, and a lack of regard for ethics. He's a raconteur and a libertine as much as he is an engineer and entrepreneur. Indeed, how readers react to this novel depends in large part on how beguiling they find Walton. While this is ostensibly Dulcy's tale, she is trapped in a Seattle apartment with her dying father—not to mention the volatile Victor—for almost a third of the book, and, even after he dies, the story of her reinvention is, again and again, interrupted by vignettes from her travels with her father. Some readers will enjoy these picaresque episodes, while those who require narrative momentum will likely find them distracting. Thoughtful, richly written historical fiction.

Product Details

BN ID:	2940192638729
Publisher:	Blackstone Audio, Inc.
Publication date:	06/13/2017
Edition description:	Unabridged

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1 ALMOST ALL SOULS' DAY


People paid attention when they arrived because Carrie was beautiful and Dulcy had jilted a rich man. Dulcy hadn't been to the city since, and once she had a glass in her hand, she found she enjoyed the spiky, expectant whispers, the open curiosity. They wore black dresses and masks, because they were in mourning for Martha, but most of the other women were pretending to be Marie Antoinette or Cinderella, and the dust from their powdered hair dropped like dandruff. Dulcy studied the men, skimming over the earnest costumes—kings and knights—for odder types like headhunters, sheiks, and Vikings, but as she often did, she found she liked the idea of people more than the reality. An insurance man at her elbow put aside his bullfighter's cape and cap and began talking about oysters— their different shapes, their increasing rarity—and for a little while his obsession, his sliver of strangeness, was interesting. But he didn't bear long study; he dissolved like a bad mint.


"I met your father once, at my club," he said. "A genius, but such a character. A little all over the place. I gather you are always in the process of traveling."


The insurance man came from a good family, with bundles of money, but his eyes were evasive, and she could see him work through his memory, try to suss out stories of the lost engagement. As he thought, he pursed his lips and moved them in and out.


All around them, Carrie's friends were playing divination games, courtship games: people were supposed to drip candle wax in finger bowls, blow out lines of candles and count the years they'd stay unwed, throw peels over a shoulder and guess what letter they formed, and bob for apples. There was no one in this room Dulcy felt like bobbing for, and probably no one who wanted to bob for her, but she allowed herself to be herded toward a dangling, tarnished hand mirror, to look behind her reflection for the man she would marry. For Carrie, who'd left a trail of peels every Halloween since she was three, the man in the mirror was peachfaced, hovering Alfred Lorrimer, who seemed to expand with wine and her attention that night, not so much opening like a flower as swelling like a sponge.


Dulcy stood obediently in line and opened her eyes on cue: she saw her face and a black curtain, and felt a train move below them, not a sound but a shudder. "Of course it was black," Carrie hissed in her ear, pointing to the drapery that faced the mirror. "I want you to have fun. Can't you just do that for a bit?"


A line of handsome, placid-faced men in silly costumes, waiting to be picked, found this amusing. "All right," said Dulcy, finishing a second glass. "How do you say yes in Halloween?" "As if it were a language?" asked one man. "As if it were a language," she said. The whole strange city vibrating around her, and here she was in a puddle of normal. "We give up," they said. "Oui," she said. "And ja." "Hohoho," said the bullfighter. And: "Let me fetch another glass for you." When he headed off, as Dulcy slid toward the door, she could hear Carrie pipe away: her sister had spent years with their difficult father, months at the farm in Westfield helping their dying grandmother, but she was so happy to see people again, happy to be social. In the front hall, Dulcy put her finger to her lips when she asked a maid for her coat.


Outside, she walked away from the line of waiting hansoms, heading south down Fifth Avenue and Broadway. The champagne had done wonderful things for her brain, now that she was alone. In Madison Square she stopped at a cart for a cheesy Greek pastry and skipped on, giddy, wiping oily fingers on a churchyard's brick wall. Past the half-lit triangle of the Fuller Building, she turned east at the Rivoli Hotel and waved to the doorman, who was loading a collection of large people into a carriage. A moment later, she heard footsteps and turned to find the doorman hurrying up behind her. "A telephone call," he said. "We just sent someone to the apartment to find you."


In the Rivoli lobby the German at the front desk pointed to the telephone, and she tried to think through her panic as she reached for the receiver. If someone was dead, a telegram arrived. Telephones meant someone was still dying—an aunt upstate in Westfield—and there was a point to haste.


But it was Henning Falk, calling from Seattle, and Dulcy's champagne mood evaporated while the operator finished introductions. "Walton's dead," she blurted out. "His ship went down. You're calling to say he's drowned."


The man at the desk flinched.


"No, no," said Henning. "I met your father this morning at the docks. But things are missing."


She hadn't spoken to Henning in almost three years, and never before on the telephone, but he sounded so much like himself— perhaps the voice was a little tighter, maybe there was less of a Swedish lilt at the end of each sentence—it took her a moment to find a new way to worry. "Missing. Documents?"


"Well, yes, those too, but the money," said Henning. "We need your help; you need to come."


Dulcy's face was hot from alcohol and her bolt through the city, and she wiped a last flake of pastry crust from her coat. Jabbering people floated around the lobby, and a little man who looked like death was sneezing ten feet away, each seizure driving him deeper into the soft upholstery of an armchair. This "we" meant Victor Maslingen, her father's business partner and her former fiancé: a royal summons. "You know that's not possible. I'm sure Walton's simply spent it."


"Nobody could spend that much. Your father is not well."


"Not well in what way?" There were so many possibilities.


"He's lost his mind," said Henning. "What little remained. He is having problems with his memory, problems with logic. He is balmy. Barmy."


"Put him on the train. I can meet him halfway and take him home."


"No, Dulce. He's weak and he's feverish and he unbuttoned in the cab and fiddled himself. And it's all of the money, entirely, every drop gone. Victor is very upset."


Every drop, fiddled. She felt Henning pick his way around a second language and an audience. At least six people in the hotel lobby could hear her end of the conversation; only the operator, who kept clearing his throat, could hear Henning's. She wondered if Henning was standing in Victor's library, if some of the static crackle was Victor, holding his breath, actually worried enough to have Henning beg her to come to Seattle.


"I don't want Victor near me. I don't want to have to talk to him or see him every day."


"He won't touch you," said Henning. "He doesn't want to see you, either. Please, Dulcy."
Everything pleasant was over, again. A door slammed a continent away, Victor leaving the room.

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