'Tis The Season

'Tis The Season

2.7 9
by Lorna Landvik

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Bestselling author Lorna Landvik shines in this delightful holiday novel of redemption and forgiveness.

Heiress Caroline Dixon has managed to alienate nearly everyone with her alcohol-fueled antics, which have also provided near-constant fodder for the poison-pen tabloids and their gossip-hungry readers. But like so many girls-behaving-badly, the…  See more details below


Bestselling author Lorna Landvik shines in this delightful holiday novel of redemption and forgiveness.

Heiress Caroline Dixon has managed to alienate nearly everyone with her alcohol-fueled antics, which have also provided near-constant fodder for the poison-pen tabloids and their gossip-hungry readers. But like so many girls-behaving-badly, the twenty-six-year-old socialite gets her comeuppance, followed by a newfound attempt to live a saner existence, or at least one more firmly rooted in the real world.

As Caro tentatively begins atoning for past misdeeds, she reaches out to two wonderful people who years ago brought meaning to her life: her former nanny, Astrid Brevald, now living in Norway and Arizona dude ranch owner, Cyril Dale. While Astrid fondly remembers Caro as a special, sweet little girl left in her charge, Cyril recalls how he and his late wife were quite taken with the quick-witted teenager Caro had become when she spent a difficult period in her life at the ranch as her father was dying.

In a series of e-mail exchanges, Caro reveals the depth of her pain and the lengths she went to hide it. In turn, Astrid and Cyril share their own stories of challenging times and offer the unconditional support this young woman has never known. The correspondence leads to the promise of a reunion, just in time for Christmas. But the holiday brings unexpected revelations that change the way everyone sees themselves and one another.

At once heartfelt and witty, ’Tis the Season bears good tidings of great joy about the human condition–that down and out doesn’t mean over and done, that the things we need most are closer than we know, and that the true measure of one’s worth rests in the boundless depths of the soul.

From the Hardcover edition.

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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly

Just in time for Christmas, Landvik gets into the head of a Paris Hilton-like celebuditz in this lively "novel" propelled by e-mails, tabloid gossip and letters primarily written by, about or to young celebrity bad girl Caroline "Caro" Dixon. The gorgeous heiress's boozy rampages have made her notorious, but now she's considering a 12-step program, hence the bitter apology letter she writes to "everyone I have supposedly hurt." She tosses it out, and, in true Hollywood fashion, the catty missive turns up in a trashy tabloid. The ensuing firestorm of negative publicity and hate mail convinces Caro to give sobriety a shot. Caro's effort to dispel her image as "Little Miss Hangover" has its moments, but the choppy epistolary structure leaves much to be desired. Still, readers who love snark-it's doled out here by the shovelful-will dig this. (Oct.)

Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
Library Journal

Landvik's first holiday novel features her signature sense of humor and quirky characters. Young socialite Caroline Dixon gets out of rehab and attempts to live a more stable life. Having alienated everyone she knows, she goes into hiding and tries to reach out to people from her past. Narrated in a series of letters, emails, and gossip-column snippets, this quick, charming read is suitable for all popular fiction collections. [See Prepub Alert, LJ7/08.]

—Rebecca Vnuk
Kirkus Reviews
Form trumps content in this slight holiday package from Landvik (The View from Mount Joy, 2007, etc.). The story unfolds through a series of e-mails and notes, as a debauched heiress leaves her life of tabloid embarrassments for a state of sober normalcy. Though the tale has a certain lurid interest-think Paris and Britney, shaken and served-the method of conveyance doesn't do the novel any favors; the prose is about as elegant as the average e-mail. Through exchanged missives, we learn of 26-year-old Caroline Dixon, rich, beautiful and usually drunk (a kind of holy trinity for the world's paparazzi). Interspersed are updates on Caro's exploits from the gossip column "Here's Buzz," which is cruel and, of course, quite popular. She winds up in rehab and afterward reaches out to those she's hurt. Most of her flimsy friendships evaporate, but she gets encouraging responses from two ghosts from her past: Cyril, the owner of an Arizona dude ranch she visited at 13, and Astrid, her Norwegian nanny. Truth be told, they need Caro as much as she needs them. Widowed Cyril has lost all interest in people, and Astrid is holed up on a tiny Norwegian island, hoping that seclusion will protect her from any future pain. The trio have three-way communiques, pour out their respective souls and decide that Christmas together at the dude ranch would all but guarantee a happier new year. Unfortunately, Cyril has a surprise guest who might push all good will out the window-the one and only "Buzz," who has been shish-kabobbing Caro for years. Will everyone get along? Is romance in the air? Will the spirit of giving triumph? The story, a succession of page-long messages followed by longer e-mails jam-packed withnone-too-subtle character exposition, sacrifices much for a gimmick that was worn out several years ago. A rare stumble from an entertaining author who usually has a strong, sure hand with character.

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Random House Publishing Group
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Read an Excerpt

From the “Here’s Buzz” column in Star Gazer magazine, August 7, 20—

The reason yours truly tips waiters so well is because they often tip me. And ey-yi-yi, sometimes they tip mucho grande!! Ladies and gents, boys and girls, we were recently handed a doozy of a document by one intrepid waiter who works poolside at an oh-so-swank Beverly Hills hotel. The Pentagon Papers helped bring down a president—maybe these purloined papers will help bring down a gadabout heiress who’s way too big for her size 4 bitches—oops!—I meant britches.

Here’s the scoop: As you loyal Star Gazer readers know, Caro Dixon has taken tippling to the nth degree, hitting the sauce like an Animal House frat pledge. Our accompanying photo album documents her in all phases of dress and undress, demonstrating why style and drunkenness so rarely coalesce. (Is she doing on that yacht what I think it is she’s doing?)

Perhaps inspired by her many friends who’ve walked those recuperative twelve steps (rehab and plastic surgery clinics—home away from home for the oh so chic), our Miss Caro decided to skip a few steps and wrote (or tried to write) a letter of apology to those she’s hurt because of her overindulgence in martinis, margaritas, and Manhattans. Now this is where it gets good and why I would earn a Pulitzer were the nominating committee hip to stories the people really want to read.

One recent southern California afternoon, Caro Dixon, slathered in coconut oil, lay on a chaise longue, writing furiously on a legal pad. Our plucky waiter took note of her scribe work, especially when the redheaded mega-heiress ripped the paper out of the pad and lobbed it into a nearby potted palm. (Let’s applaud her for trying to throw away her own trash—people of her ilk usually leave that job to the help.) After she staggered out of the pool area, her towel dragging behind her like the train of one of her designer gowns, our waiter, curiosity piqued, casually extracted the crumpled wad out of the potted palm. What follows, dear reader, is Caroline Dixon’s verbatim letter of “apology.” Mee-ow!

Dear everyone I have ever supposedly hurt:

Silly me—I thought I was going to a party the other night at my “friend” Penny Englehart’s to celebrate her new body (the boobs looked all right, although in my humble opinion, they could have tucked a little more tummy), only it turned out to be a gathering in celebration of a friend’s one-year anniversary of sobriety. Which of course meant no drinks . . . and no fun.

Mr. Clean told everyone how much his life had improved now that he’d gone through rehab and followed “the program.” I said the only program I care to follow is America’s Top Model and only because I like to bet on the loser!

He yammered on and on and I tried to listen, but could I help it if I nodded off? Lectures do that to me.

Okay, so a week later I was in Biarritz, dancing with Andreas Stenapoulos, and I accidentally stepped on one of his two left feet and broke his toe. A couple days later I got caught peeing on Laird Wright’s musty old yacht (note to his interior designer: is it my fault or yours that I mistook one of your decorative urns for a toilet?), and then at Princess Marlena of Austria’s luncheon, I broke a teacup that Queen Victoria had given to her great-grandmother. She did not seem to find it helpful when I asked her if she’d ever heard of superglue. Not even when I said, “Das superglue.”

Anyway, I realized that at all three of these events the common denominator was that I was plastered, and I thought, hmmm, should I forgo the deMarcos’ cruise invitation and book a vacation at Betty Ford’s instead? Then I sobered up and thought, “Nahhhhhhh, where’s the fun in that?”

But I can apologize, and apparently that’s a big thing in the “recovery program.” So here goes. To those I’ve ever supposedly hurt: sorry. I didn’t mean to do whatever it is that caused harm to you, but what can I say? I was drunk!

Besides, some of you deserve bigger apologies than I can give you. Penny—demand one from your plastic surgeon! Gina—ask for an apology and a refund from your acting teacher. Brad Somerset—whoever’s responsible for your lousy personality, make them say they’re sorry! My dear family—well, you’re exempted because I know you don’t believe in apologies, yours or anyone else’s!

But I do, and in fact, I’m sure that all of you are sorry for hurting me. If that’s the case, an apology will be taken into consideration.

Your friend, relative, employer, client, whatever,


Some show of sincere remorse, eh, people? Well, let’s not be petty, folks. Let’s send out to the poor little rich girl our best wishes for health and sobriety. Or not—why wish her something she obviously doesn’t want?

Hudson & Ashton Attorneys at Law Newport, Rhode Island

August 10, 20—

Dear Miss Dixon,

On behalf of Mr. Bradley Somerset, I am writing to inform you that a restraining order and/or charges will be filed should you make any further contact with my client.

Mr. Somerset requests the return of the engagement ring through my office.


Arthur Ashton Attorney at Law AA/ws



Dear Arty,

Thanks for the day-brightener. I might have DTs, but your client has delusions if he thinks I ever considered that crappy piece of zircon an engagement ring. Give me a break—I’ve found better rings around my tub. And believe me, Mr. Bradley Somerset doesn’t have to worry about any further contact from me—I’m taking penicillin right now to ward off anything I may have caught from earlier contact with him.

Have a nice day suing people,

Caroline Dixon

August 14, 20—

Dear Meg,

Thanks for listening so long last night. You alone know what a hard anniversary it is for me to mark. (I can hear you now: “Then get out and make more friends to whom you can confide!”) I’ll take under advisement your suggestion to write the Kvitruds, but writing the letter isn’t the problem. The problem is mailing it.

I look forward to your visit. Friends like you are treasures in this life of mine that is increasingly lonely. It’s funny—I chose to be alone as a buffer against getting hurt, but lately I am finding loneliness brings with it its own pain.

Now I know for certain I won’t mail this note either; I can’t have you worried over what I’m sure is a passing mood—made worse, I’m certain, by the fact that I let myself run out of coffee. As you know, a morning started without coffee is a morning not really started.

Love, Your whining friend, Astrid

9:32 a.m. August 15, 20— To: revbill From: dfarms Subject: This weekend

Dear Rev:

Hope you’ve settled into your new retirement digs without too much hassle. Are you still wearing your collar on the golf course? No one would dare accuse you of cheating then. . . .

I’d love to visit Hot Springs and check out the new place, but not necessarily your new “cute” neighbor, so I’m going to take a rain check this weekend. I know it’s Bev more than you who tries to arrange these dates, but please, Bill, I’d rather you find new ways to serve the Lord than my social life.

Anyway, Becky just foaled and I’m not about to tear myself away from the fun of these next couple days.



August 17, 20—


Mummy and I were thrilled when your “letter” crossed the Atlantic and made an appearance in all the English papers! And then, what an added thrill to see the accompanying photo montage! How lovely to see Caroline ready to relieve herself on Laird’s yacht! Oh, and look at Caroline coming out of Versace greeting the world with her middle finger! And there she is photographed in a knock-down, drag-out fight in the lobby of the Bangkok Four Seasons with Gina Whelvan! Need I tell you that all these thrills sent Mummy directly to her bed?

When is it all supposed to end, Caroline? When will you take “tormenting friends & family” off your to-do list? You’re long past using “youthful indiscretion” as an excuse.

Also, in your “heartfelt” apology, I didn’t read any mention of you stealing my tennis bracelet or Garrett Tyson. But I suppose if you listed all your wrongdoings, it never would have been published because you’d still be writing it.

Gillian Caroline Dixon

August 20, 20—


In my defense:

1.That urn looked an awful lot like a toilet.

2.You try to shop with thirty million Roman paparazzi surrounding you.

3.Gina Whelvan started it. She filmed a ninja movie this past spring and apparently likes to reenact scenes from it in hotel lobbies.

4.I’m only twenty-six years old, hardly ready to cash in my pension, but then again, what would you know about youthful indiscretions? You’ve been a senior citizen since the day you were born.

5.I never stole your lousy tennis bracelet, and believe me, I did you a favor by stealing Garrett Tyson. Besides, I read his wife’s divorcing him, and if the prenup doesn’t hold up, maybe he’ll still have enough money for your taste. So go sic ’em, Gil!

Tell my mother and your mummy thanks for the support, as usual.


From the Hardcover edition.

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'Tis The Season 2.8 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 9 reviews.
Star_Prairie_reader More than 1 year ago
Lorna, I loved your other books and thought they would make excellent movies! What happened?
Although a short novel I did not finish reading it. The typo on page 39 made me leary [check the dates].
The jumping around of the fonts was distressing to the eyes [although I understand they were to represent fonts used in e-mails].
The lack of firm character styles made it difficult to relate to any character except the heroin who appeared to be someone we all read about in the national gossip papers.
I think this book was written too fast and there was no proof reading or editor input.
Save your money for any of Lorna's other books and skip this one.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
This was an OK book, just nothing like any of her other books... Lorna Landvik usually writes novels about women (not mushy romance novels) that I love. I was expecting another book of similar writing style. This however, was not. It is written as a series of emails and letters - nothing else. I read it in one sitting. Something to keep in mind while the book is in hardcover. If I pay that much I like my books to last me more than a couple of hours. This would be great to read on a plane or while waiting for the doctor....
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stephenborer More than 1 year ago
I enjoyed 'Tis The Season ; a fast read, a unique read, & topical. Recommended.
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