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Inheritance: A Novel

Inheritance: A Novel

3.5 28
by Natalie Danford

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Natalie Danford's exquisitely written novel Inheritance asks a simple question: How well do we know our parents? One half of the story begins after the death of Luigi Bonocchio, an Italian immigrant whose daughter, Olivia, discovers a mysterious deed among his possessions. The deed is to a house in Urbino, Italy---the hometown he barely spoke of. Intrigued,


Natalie Danford's exquisitely written novel Inheritance asks a simple question: How well do we know our parents? One half of the story begins after the death of Luigi Bonocchio, an Italian immigrant whose daughter, Olivia, discovers a mysterious deed among his possessions. The deed is to a house in Urbino, Italy---the hometown he barely spoke of. Intrigued, Olivia travels there. At first she is charmed by the historic city, the relatives she's not met before, and the young lawyer she's hired to help her investigate the claim. But when Olivia tries to sort out the deed, she is met with a puzzling silence. Everyone in the town remembers her father, but they are not eager to tell his story. However, Luigi tells his part of the tale directly to the reader as the chapters alternate between Olivia's search for the truth and Luigi's account of his history. By the end of this skillfully constructed book, the reader understands both sides of a heartbreaking yet ultimately satisfying love story.

Editorial Reviews

Barnes & Noble Discover Great New Writers
Rich or poor, we each have an inheritance -- our heritage. But how well do we know the people we call our parents? It's a question that leads Olivia Bonocchio, the heroine of Danford's debut, across the Atlantic to confront a devastating past. Olivia's mother was claimed by cancer when she was just five, and her Italian-born father, Luigi, raised her. When Luigi succumbs to the effects of Alzheimer's disease, Olivia is largely relieved. While cleaning out his house, she discovers a deed to a house in Italy, dated 1940. Curious as to whether the property could now be hers, she impulsively travels to her father's hometown, where she quickly becomes involved with a local, and much to her dismay, begins to uncover her father's chilling youth.

With uncompromising skill, Danford weaves together a novel that works as a mystery, a family saga, an unusual of coming-of-age story, and a lesson in conversational Italian. Moving back and forth from WWII to the late 20th century, readers meet Olivia and Luigi at different stages in their lives: Luigi as a young Italian and a new American immigrant; Olivia as a child, a tenacious adolescent, and finally, as a woman hoping to find herself by combing through the past. The artifacts Olivia has - indeed, even a key - help illuminate the path to the truth. But inheritance, like the discovery of a hidden truth, is often a mixed blessing. (Spring 2007 Selection)
Publishers Weekly
After her Italian immigrant father, Luigi, dies, Olivia Bonocchio discovers among his effects the deed to a property in his hometown of Urbino, Italy, though what she finds out in Danford's debut complicates her idea of who her father was. Olivia, mysterious deed in tow, travels to Urbino to learn if the deed is "a fluke." What she learns about her father's family's wartime lives shocks her. Olivia's travels are interwoven with flashback chapters that chart Luigi's life, from his teenage years in Urbino as the Germans approach, to his immigrant experience in America, where, in 1959, he settles in Shaleford, N.Y., and marries a local store owner's daughter. The perspectives of Luigi and Olivia provide intriguing takes on each other's hometown, and the tension roiling beneath the surface should carry readers though the moments of awkwardly handled Italian-sprinkled dialogue. Danford (a PW contributor) handles her wide canvas--wartime Italy, postwar America and the tricky terrain of dark family secrets--with confidence. (Jan.) Copyright 2006 Reed Business Information.
Library Journal
Danford's debut novel is an overall achievement in storytelling, giving readers the portrait of an Italian immigrant who keeps his past hidden from his daughter only to have her investigate his secret after his death. The narrative successfully moves from parent to child, recalling Amy Tan's The Joy Luck Club. Like that novel, Danford's work conveys the isolation of being both a parent and a foreigner in America, but here the emotions are not on the surface; Danford's characters are more detached, and sometimes the reader is too aware of the writer crafting her prose instead of her characters. The main character, Luigi, appears at first too unremarkable for anyone to care about, making the initial vignette tedious. Fortunately, Danford quickly introduces key elements to the story, and the characters take shape. In the end, readers will be flipping the pages in anticipation of learning the whole truth about Luigi's past and its impact on his daughter. Danford is coeditor of the annual "Best New American Voices" series. Recommended for public libraries.-Shalini Miskelly, Highline Community Coll. Lib., Des Moines, WA Copyright 2006 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
A young woman travels to Italy and discovers her father's secret past. Olivia Bonocchio's mother, who died when she was five, was an only child, and Olivia always assumed her father Luigi was too. Born in the Marche region, he arrived in America in 1944 and never discussed his past. When Luigi becomes ill with Alzheimer's, Olivia, an art teacher in Manhattan, rearranges her life to grant him his last wish: that he die in the suburban home he was so proud to own. It is there she discovers an antique brass key and a deed to a house in Urbino, which prompt Olivia to investigate once her father is laid to rest. Barely three hours after signing the hotel register in Urbino, she is startled to meet a first cousin, Claudia, that she didn't know she had. Over dinner that night at her cousin's home, Olivia leafs through a box of photographs her father had sent his sister, now dead, over the years. No notes or letters. Only photos. The next day, a lawyer she contacts tries to persuade Olivia to forget the deed. He tells her that Luigi was a collaborator during the war. The house was owned by the Levi family. When it became illegal for Jews to own property, the father signed the house over to Luigi, who was his daughter's friend. The Levis went into hiding and Luigi turned them in. Upon learning this, Olivia wishes she had never come. Is it possible her cousin, her lawyer, even a hotel maid, know her father's character better than she? Olivia decides to stay and find out. Danford skillfully interweaves Luigi's story with Olivia's to reveal a complex truth. An engaging debut. Agent: Lisa Bankoff/ICM
From the Publisher

“A slim book with outsize ambitions, an engaging subtle look at the complicated history of a family and a country . . . impressive . . . Her compact prose is studded with rich and telling detail . . . compelling.” —Los Angeles Times

“Written with a passionate clarity and with surprising wisdom, Inheritance is possessed of a genuine fictional beauty.” —Chuck Wachtel, author of Joe the Engineer

“Although it's barely 200 pages long this first novel has enough plot for several books. Danford juggles this with aplomb. She is an old-fashioned storyteller.” —The New York Times Book Review

“Danford displays remarkable stylistic prose.” —The Boston Globe

“In Natalie Danford's Inheritance, Olivia Bonocchio goes where each of us knows we should never go: past a father's persona and into the sloppy, disconcerting truth of who he really was. Danford perfectly captures the dance between the kind of knowledge that can banish a person from the garden and the sort of truth that can set her free. Inheritance may be a debut novel, but the storytelling is so assured, it reads like the work of a reliable old pro---something Danford seems destined to become.” —Mark Winegardner, author of Crooked River Burning and The Godfather Returns

author of Crooked River Burning and The Godfather Mark Winegardner
In Natalie Danford's Inheritance, Olivia Bonocchio goes where each of us knows we should never go: past a father's persona and into the sloppy, disconcerting truth of who he really was. Danford perfectly captures the dance between the kind of knowledge that can banish a person from the garden and the sort of truth that can set her free. Inheritance may be a debut novel, but the storytelling is so assured, it reads like the work of a reliable old pro—-something Danford seems destined to become.

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By Natalie Danford

St. Martin's Press

Copyright © 2007 Natalie Danford
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4299-3251-6



In the camera store, Luigi was being choosy. He smoothed the lapels of his jacket with both hands. He was thirty-seven, and the hair on his scalp was sparse. Already the same teardrop-shaped pattern that had balanced on his father's head was emerging, a tracing of the future. In order to draw attention away from that, he'd consciously weaned himself of a habitual gesture. Rather than smoothing back his hair the way he used to, he wiped his palms down the front of his jacket, settling his clothes into place.

"I don't know," he said, weighing the lens the girl had just handed him, as though its heft might determine whether it would serve his purposes.

The girl was wearing a white dress with navy blue polka dots, which did not suit her in the least, except for one feature: It wrapped in a low V over her breasts, and every time she leaned down to locate one of the lenses in the glass case that stood between them, it loosened ever so slightly and he could see one breast, like a round rosy pomegranate. He'd had a pomegranate once, in Italy, before the war. When he'd cut it open, he'd marveled at the community of seeds living inside the gel, then slurped them down.

"Maybe my father can help you," the girl offered, straightening. Standing tall, she was just an unremarkable girl, with none of the fertility promised by that one globe of flesh. The shelves behind her were filled with camera equipment, but those around Luigi were stocked with frames and photo albums.

"Is your father here?" She was seventeen, he guessed, maybe eighteen at the most. When he was stepping off that rotting boat from Naples, she'd been in diapers. Young people, Luigi considered at thirty-seven, had no sense of history. He shifted slightly, angling his left ear, his good ear, in her direction.

"He'll be back soon," the girl said. She blinked a little too hard when she mentioned her father, so Luigi pictured a bulky man, menacing in the manner of large Americans. Speak softly and carry a big stick, he thought. He'd learned that in the history class he'd taken to pass his citizenship test. Eight weeks of squeezing himself into a high school desk in the evening, and then the test had been disappointingly simple: "Who lives in the White House?" and "How many stars are there on the flag?" But as with everything, you didn't need to know the right answer; you just needed to know the answer they wanted you to give. Luigi was certain, for example, that many, many servants lived in the White House, cleaning up after the president and his family day and night, making them cheese sandwiches at 2:00 A.M. or dusting the offices late so as not to disturb, but he had also known that wasn't the correct response. He'd done what was required, and as a result, he had a shiny blue passport. The day it arrived in the mail, he threw out his old Italian identity card with the photo so faded that it was almost white and the words razza: italiana still clear at the bottom.

"He should be here in a minute," the girl said. She held out her hand and he passed the lens back to her and then admired how gently she set it on the counter, so that it made no sound as it touched the glass.

"Is there anything else you'd like to see in the meantime?" she asked, indicating the crowded shelves around them with a wave of her arm.

"No." He smiled. He had been in the United States nearly a decade and a half, but he still wasn't accustomed to the blank gentility of store employees. In Italy, shopkeepers kept their stock close and safe. No one would have put up with the manhandling of goods he saw in Shaleford. In the big, anonymous grocery store one day, a woman yanked a grape from its crowded stem and popped it into her mouth. When she caught him looking at her, she tilted her head and said, "There's no way to know unless you sample." Americans took no pride in their merchandise. You could try on clothes all day and buy nothing, and American store owners would give up with a shrug.

Luigi turned away from the girl and picked up a frame from the shelves behind him. It was filled, as were all the other frames on that shelf, with a picture of a small child — lots of freckles, bowl haircut, gender unidentifiable — hugging a puppy with floppy ears. On the shelf above, all the frames were filled with close-ups of the same smiling woman, her blond hair affecting a perfect wave across her forehead over and over.

That afternoon, Joe Preston's blond wife had picked Joe up at work, bringing along their two-year-old son, Joe junior. Never, Luigi thought, had a boy been more perfectly named. He was a miniature of his father in all respects, except that his hair looked soft and silky, not coarse, and his tiny teeth still sat obediently in perfect rows, not overlapping like his father's. He kept his left hand shoved into his pants pocket at a sharp angle, just as his father did, and rhythmically rocked his right foot onto its outside edge, just as his father did. As Joe proudly showed him around the lab ("Can you say microscope?"), Joe junior thrust his small, creased right hand on top of everything he could reach and announced, "This is my daddy's." He'd even rested that sticky hand on Luigi's thigh and proclaimed, "This is my daddy's." Joe had laughed, and so had Luigi, but when the child took his hand away, he left a miniature print of jam or grime, which Luigi unsuccessfully tried to wipe off in the men's room. The faint shape of five fingers and a palm still staked a claim to his right leg. Children marked you, Luigi realized, in ways you didn't anticipate.

He looked over his shoulder and watched the girl as she dusted the countertop with a rag. She had a steadiness to her. She worked carefully, but she didn't seem to do things just to look busy, unlike the way he sometimes sat at the lab, pencil poised over paper, but thought of something else altogether. Then again, her family probably owned the store. Some people were just lucky that way — they got things from their families. He'd watched in amazement as Joe Preston had hoisted Joe junior to face level, where he'd covered him with a series of kisses, ending with a trumpetlike burst on the child's stomach. Then Joe lifted his son so that the boy sat on his shoulders, took his wife's hand, and left work for the day.

Now a man, who looked not at all as he'd expected, opened the camera store's door and tinkled the bell that hung over it. This man was small and dark-haired, with a thin line of mustache resting on his lip. Whereas Luigi had pictured a muscle-bound giant, here was a man who carried himself confidently but kindly. This was not someone to intimidate his daughter. Maybe the girl just had a twitch.

"This man was wondering about a camera," the girl said by way of introduction. The shopkeeper in the suit stuck out his hand and shook Luigi's vigorously. "Doug," he said. Luigi nodded, but he didn't provide his own name. The one-syllable definitiveness of the name Doug had thrown him. Luigi had never seen a man that age so energetic. He was as compact as a coiled spring. Luigi smiled, then snapped his lips together to cover his teeth. For close to five years, he'd been visiting a dentist regularly. His mouth was a construction site of caps and bridges and half solutions to the faulty dental hygiene of the Italy years. His own father cleaned his teeth in the evening by chewing on a mint leaf and then rinsing with half a glass of white wine, which was believed to work as an antiseptic.

"Yes," Luigi said. "I'd like something simple, but I want to be able to control it."

"So, no Brownie for you," the man said pleasantly. He was a born salesman. Luigi sensed that, and he pulled himself up straight, ready for the pleasure of being led down a path to just what he wanted to buy.

"No, I think not," Luigi agreed. He affected a certain tone that was almost British, a combination of the Waspy accent native to Shaleford and the inflection he'd learned off a record called Speak American: Get Rid of Your Foreign Accent in Thirty Days or Less. The record jacket had a cartoon figure of a woman holding a small flag. A yellow eagle perched on her shoulder, peering suspiciously at the foreign listener.

"Well, I've got just the thing." The man unlocked a glass box along the wall and pulled out a smooth brown leather case. He set that on the counter and unsnapped it, then lifted out a shiny silver camera with a black strap. "It's a fine, fine camera. Thirty-five-millimeter."

He held the camera out to Luigi, who took it cautiously. "Do you know how to work one of these things?"

Luigi paused. "There's a manual, right?" He remembered what an instructor back in New York had told him about lab equipment: "Ninety percent of what you need to know, you'll find in the manual. The other ten percent is common sense." He'd been delighted to discover that all it took to sign up for the class was cash — no raccomandazioni, no proof of citizenship.

"Hold it up to your eye." Doug came around behind Luigi and lifted his arms so that the camera swam near his face. "Look through the viewfinder. It's that little window in the back."

Doug's arms around him were warm and soft in the wool suit. Luigi relaxed and pressed the camera to his eye.

"I see black," he said.

Doug laughed, and it reverberated against Luigi's back. "Forgot to take the lens cap off," he said. He reached his right hand around Luigi's chest and, with a click, removed the black plastic disk. "Try again."

Luigi held the camera up to his eye. Through the window was the camera store in miniature. He swung to his left. There was the door, framed in a dotted-line rectangle. He swung to the right. There was the girl, leaning into the case with a dust rag, that one breast lolling dangerously at the top of her dress.

Eagerly, Doug reached his arms in front of Luigi and moved the ring around the lens. "This is how you focus." Luigi swung the camera around again, manipulating the ring so that his vision was fuzzy, then clear, then fuzzy. Objects came slowly in and out of focus, as if he were regaining his equilibrium after being hit in the head with a blunt, heavy object.

"If you don't mind my asking," Doug said with fake hesitancy, "what do you want such a good camera for?"

Luigi was thrown. Was he not good enough for the camera? He already loved it. Unconsciously, he ran one finger gently over the logo carved into its front.

"I want to take some pictures of Shaleford," he said. "Show my family where I live now."

"Just got here, did you?" Doug asked.

"I've been in America almost twenty years," Luigi said. Fourteen, to be exact, but like a good, if naturalized, American, he'd learned to exaggerate.

"But you're just moving to Shaleford now? I thought I knew everyone in Shaleford. Town's the size of a postage stamp."

"Right. I've bought a house on Slate Street." Luigi couldn't help smiling as he pictured his house — the clean white front of it, the fence, the green lawn. He'd changed the name on the mailbox the other day. It had taken some study, but finally he'd determined that the majority of mailboxes on the block were tagged with letters that could be purchased at the hardware store for eighteen cents apiece. "Are you sure that'll fit?" the man behind the counter had joked as he doled out the letters that spelled Bonocchio. The letters came backed with adhesive, but Luigi didn't trust them to stick, so he'd carefully penned his name on a piece of paper and taped that to the inside of the metal mailbox, where he reasoned it wouldn't suffer the effects of the weather.

"Eighteen Slate Street? The Harpers' house?"

Luigi didn't like thinking about the Harpers. Despite their American house, the couple hadn't appeared to have spent much time in it together. The first time the agent gave him a tour of the house, Luigi glimpsed through the open door of the shed a man sitting on a folding chair, drinking from a can. A baseball game played on the radio. They found Mrs. Harper at the kitchen table, an ashtray at her elbow.

Now Luigi nodded to Doug.

"Well, welcome, friend," Doug said, sticking out a hand to shake Luigi's again. "The American dream, owning that first house, eh?"

Luigi smiled. It wasn't his first house, but that wasn't a story he'd tell this man. His first house had been the Levis'. In 1940, he'd sat solemnly at the Levis' kitchen table as Ester's father signed the deed to the house and hectares of land over to him. They shook hands. The Levis couldn't dodge the laws any longer. Germans were encroaching. A lot of Jews had already left.

Ottavio Levi had treated him like a man, his equal. He had handed Luigi his own pen, with a fine quill and a shiny body. Luigi used it to sign his name to the deed. When they had finished, the notary, Vittorio Leoni, brought out a large stamp, painted it carefully with viscous ink from a glass pot, and slammed it down. It left an angry black mark on the paper.

"Ci fidiamo," Signor Levi said from Luigi's left. The notary blew on the ink and studied Luigi out of the corner of his eye.

"You can trust me," Luigi said. The whole thing seemed an esagerazione to him. Things would blow over quickly. The Jews would settle back where they had been. They'd return like a river changing direction.

"Mind if I ask where you're from?" Doug said, interrupting Luigi's thoughts.

Mind your own business, Luigi longed to say, as much to test the phrase as to rebuff the man's interest. He loved the Americanness of the phrase, the way the clean efficiency of business — as if each American had his own small steel plant or candy factory — entered into everything here. (In Italy, his mother would chide him, "Fa' i fatti tuoi." The Italian — "Do your own facts" — wasn't nearly as satisfying.)

"Italy," he said instead.

"Fine country," Doug said. "It's just that ... I thought you might be Jewish — right timing and all, coming just as the war started — and this camera here is made in Germany. You know how it is." Luigi felt a wave of warmth for the man. He was a good salesman, yes, but he was ethical. Luigi glanced at the girl to see if she appreciated her father as well. She was leaning her elbows onto the counter, her cheekbones in her hands. Luigi didn't have fond memories of Germans himself — a particular color of moss green, or the sound of certain words spoken harshly, made his stomach drop the way it did on elevators. The camera, though, was so elegant that he could almost convince himself it was Italian, or at least Swiss.

"So, should we wrap this up? Or do you want to take some snaps on the way home?" Doug asked.

Luigi paused uncomfortably. "The price?"

"The price! How could I have forgotten the most important thing?" Doug slapped his own forehead. "Memory's going, that's for sure. Let me check that for you." He scampered behind the counter and pulled out a black binder. The girl stayed where she was. After looking at a few pages and doing some figures in the air with his finger, Doug smiled at Luigi. "How's three-fifty grab you?"

Luigi set the camera down on the counter gently. "I'm afraid that's far too much." Every time he discussed price, he recalled his first purchase in the United States. He'd eaten a sandwich in a coffee shop, then tried to bargain with the cashier over the cost. He hadn't realized that the wheels of commerce here weren't greased with favors and acquaintance and respect. That was how he'd met Pasquale, who'd been eating a slice of pie at the counter. Pasquale had stepped in and shown him the ropes. Later, Luigi had gotten so accustomed to not bargaining that he'd wanted to pay the asking price for the house in Shaleford, but the agent had insisted that he negotiate, and he found he'd lost the touch.

"That includes the lens," Doug said.

Luigi shook his head and held out his hands, palms up.

"It's what the camera's worth," Doug said quietly, as if he and Luigi really were friends.

"I'm not questioning the price," Luigi said. "I cannot pay that."

Doug sighed. "I like you. I want you to have the camera."

"I want to have the camera."

"How about this?" Doug tickled his own beard-free chin with one finger. "How about if I throw in a couple rolls of film, plus developing?"

Luigi shook his head sadly. "I'm sorry to have bothered you."

"Wait, wait." Doug came around to Luigi's side of the counter and placed a hand on his arm. "Don't go anywhere. At the very least I could sell you another camera."

Luigi thought he should leave. The word sell was so vulgar coming from this man's mouth that he didn't think he could tolerate it. But the itch for the camera — for a good camera with a shiny body — for pictures to send to his family to show them that he'd done it, that he owned property of his own, fair and square, wasn't fading. He stared longingly at the Leica.

Behind the counter, the girl seemed to wake up. He hadn't noticed her eyes before. They were set deep in her head, like chestnuts hiding in their shells. They were beautiful, but the right one turned in slightly, making her look haughty. Luigi, self-conscious about his own hearing problem, tried not to focus on it.


Excerpted from Inheritance by Natalie Danford. Copyright © 2007 Natalie Danford. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Meet the Author

Natalie Danford is coeditor of the annual Best New American Voices series and a freelance writer and book critic whose work has appeared in People, Salon, the Los Angeles Times, the Chicago Sun-Times, and many other publications. She lives with her husband in New York City.

Natalie Danford is coeditor of the annual Best New American Voices series and a freelance writer and book critic whose work has appeared in People, Salon, the Los Angeles Times, the Chicago Sun-Times, and many other publications. She lives with her husband in New York City.

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Inheritance 3.5 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 27 reviews.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I picked this book due to a book club section. It was a book I would have never chosen on my own. I enjoyed it. The book was easy to get caught up in. It makes you think of how little we really know our parents before they were parents. It was the author's first book and I am interested to see her grow. Well done for a first timer.I gave it 4 stars just because at time she rambled, but over all a very good book
Guest More than 1 year ago
This book is exactly what a novel should be- a great story executed in words that give you everything you need to be transported without weighing you down with trite, overly-descriptive metaphors (quite an accomplishment considering parts of the book are set in Italy). There were so many sentences in this book that I would go back over a second time right after finishng them b/c they were just so smart & observant & well done. This book is now one of my new all-time favorites. I can't wait for more from Natalie Danford.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I really loved this book, also. The characters were well drawn and the story was engrossing. Ann Lebrecht, the previous reviewer has put it so well, that I can't add anything to it except to urge you to read this book.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I have just finished reading 'Inheritance' by Natalie Danford. A small book but a gem. I think it may be the finest literary book I have had the pleasure to read in over ten years. I read many books. I consider myself an avid reader. This one I happened to see a small review in the L.A Times and it seemed interesting. What an understatement. I believe this is a first novel for this outstanding writer. I sure hope she decides to continue. This book is disturbing, with a deep and well described characters and a rich story plot. The love of a daughter for her dying father, the horror of Alzheimer's and its deterioration of the mind of a human being. The plight of a Jewish family in a small town in Italy in the second world war, all lead up to a mystery, a romance and intrigue. The story jumps constantly back and forth in time, but through a prose so rich and clear and so well written you are never lost, nor wonder where in time you are. I cannot rave enough about this gem of a novel. Thank you Ms Danford wherever you are for this pleasure. PLEASE continue to write.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I met Natalie Danford and she is really nice with good ideas. Also she just finished another book.
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Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Very much enjoyed
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Shyner More than 1 year ago
Yes! It is a heart felt story of love and history, and how we can so easily be robbed of the truth by time. Will leave you satisfied and looking for another Natalie Danford story to enjoy.
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i had high expectations for this book after reading the reviews. the story line was great but i just felt like something was missing.
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cotton25 More than 1 year ago
I enjoyed this book, more than I expected, and found myself thinking of the characters and the story after I had finished the book. The story is compelling (not kitchy or obvious) and the writing strong.
Timberlake More than 1 year ago
The author relayed this story by giving us little pieces at a time, transcending from the past to now and back to the past again. Olivia's past in some ways was a bit vague, and her ambitions other than to find peace were left untouched. This story did open up that part of many of us as to our family of past generations. So much was hidden, due to the period in which they occurred or the judgments future generations would make. Dig deep enough and there will be a secret in anyone's family...it will remain a secret or it will be uncovered in an unsuspecting way.
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Westie More than 1 year ago
I purchased this book for a mother/daughter(15 years old) book club possible selection. The parent/child relationships span 3 generations, and provide much to discuss. There is one brief passage that was a little too explicit between lovers, but thematically it was age appropriate. I wish that the author had not included it, since it added nothing. This is a thought-provoking story which reaches back to Italy during the Holocaust and the effect that had on one family, carried forward to the U.S. by immigration. We only think we know the events that may have shaped our parents.