Love and Gravity: A Novel

Love and Gravity: A Novel

by Samantha Sotto

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Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780399593246
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Publication date: 02/07/2017
Sold by: Random House
Format: NOOK Book
Pages: 284
Sales rank: 191,100
File size: 2 MB

About the Author

Samantha Sotto was born in Manila, Philippines. She fell in love with Europe’s crumbling manors and history when she moved to the Netherlands as a teenager and took up marketing at the Leiden campus of Webster University. She later returned to the Philippines and graduated with an AB Communications degree from the Ateneo de Manila University. She then went on to pursue an almost decade long career in brand management. Her fascination with Europe never faded, prompting pilgrimages during various states of her bank account’s health. She has spent the night huddled next to her backpack on a Greek beach, honeymooned in Paris, pub-crawled through London, and attended business meetings in Düsseldorf in the pleasant company of a corporate credit card. She lives with her husband and two children, and Tennant, the world’s most adorable golden retriever, in Manila.

Read an Excerpt







Nitimur in vetitum semper, cupimusque negata.





Woolsthorpe Manor





Isaac is twenty-four.



History is what men choose to remember. Truth is what a man cannot forget. Isaac recalled everything about the night he wrote his last letter to her. It was Tuesday, he was young, oak gall ink stained his cuticles, and he was more in love with Andrea Louviere than he had been the day before, and the day before that. He inhaled through his teeth and sealed his letter with molten wax.


Red, the shade of good claret, seeped from under his copper seal and cooled in the shape of a rose. Isaac lingered over the wax petals, debating whether they were blooming or withering away. Beginnings and endings were oftentimes difficult to tell apart. He nudged his letter deeper into the halo of the tallow candlestick on his desk, undecided.


Sheep lard sputtered around the candle’s wick, scenting Isaac’s small bedroom on Woolsthorpe Manor’s second level with wisps of burning fat. A dim orange flame flickered over the grooves of his wax initials. The tip of the I bled into the seal’s border and the grooves of the N were thinner than he would have liked, but he did not doubt that Andrea would know whom the letter was from. He pressed the seal to the bow of his mouth and dented it with a whisper and a kiss.




The syllables melted, honeyed and soft, over his tongue. They were a pale imitation of Andrea’s lips, but he made do. Since she’d left, her name was all he had of her. He spoke it into his pillow each night before he slept. Hope did not require a reply. It grew with every letter he wrote. He added his most recent one to the lopsided stack on his desk and wrapped a black ribbon around the bundle. “Always,” he said, tugging the ribbon tight.


A breeze, perfumed with evening dew, ripe apples, and a flock of longwool sheep, swept through the gap in the mullioned window above his desk and whipped the ribbon into a frenzy. Isaac caught the flailing strips between his long, tapered fingers. The velvet felt frailer than when he had taken it from his half sister’s sewing basket, but there was no point in hunting for an alternative. The heaviest chain in Woolsthorpe was not going to keep his mind still. Destiny was a hefty thing, and tonight he was binding two.


Isaac knotted the ribbon a second time. He reached across his desk and grabbed the window latch. A handsome young man with wavy dark hair, a chiseled jaw, and a hint of a cleft peeking from beneath a day’s worth of scruff on his chin brooded from a glazed pane. Isaac rubbed the wrinkle between his brows, smoothing the crease on his reflection’s forehead. He left the window ajar and let the breeze have its way. Andrea’s letters were going to have to fend for themselves before the night was over, and the wind was the least of his worries.


He slid his hand along the edge of his desk, finding the notches that marked the days Andrea had been away. When he ran out of desk, he had stopped keeping count. He didn’t need nicks to remember how long it had been since she had slept by his side. The cold spot on his bed stepped up to the task, sparing his fingernails from further abuse.


Isaac had never fought sleep as much as when Andrea was molded into his chest, warm, soft, and smelling of sweet cream. Her hair, red golden like the barley fields at sunset, was his favorite place to stand his ground. He nuzzled it until his dreams forced him to surrender.


His fingers reached the end of the etched trail. He heaved a sigh and looked up. Fog crept over the apple orchard and coiled against his window. His shoulders loosened. Delivering Andrea’s letters was going to be easier in the dark. He gathered them along with his sealing wax and candle, rose from his chair, and, with one brisk stride, transformed.


Though they never admitted it, Isaac’s schoolmates in Cambridge shared the same opinion of him: Isaac was two men. The first blended into his books, with only the air rising and falling in his chest to distinguish him from their pages. But when he surfaced from his thoughts and drew himself to his full height, the second Isaac owned the room. The lines of his lean, muscular frame sliced the air when he took the slightest of steps, and the wildfire in his hazel irises made it impossible to look at anything or anyone else.


Isaac did not have an audience this evening, but his bedroom’s heavy oak furniture paid him the same hushed respect. He walked past a bookshelf he’d built and knelt by his bed. He lifted its custard quilt and pushed aside the traveling trunk stowed beneath it. The trunk scraped the room’s lime-ash floor, heavy from the textbooks he had brought home with him from Cambridge. It had been a year since his alma mater, Trinity College, had shut its doors for fear of the plague raging through London, and Isaac had not relished the idea of biding his time at Woolsthorpe. Andrea had since changed his mind. She might not have found him otherwise.


Isaac hauled a small wooden box from behind the trunk. A pair of butterflies, drawn in a corner of the writing box’s slanted lid, watched him with their wings half-open, forever waiting to take flight. Isaac caressed them with his thumb, hoping that some of their patience would rub off on him. He sat on his haunches, admiring the flowers carved along the sides of the box, the trademark of the joiner he had commissioned to craft it. His eyes stopped at the two small intertwined circles scratched into the center of its front panel. His handiwork was crude compared to the joiner’s, but he didn’t mind. It was not meant as décor. He had copied the symbol from John Wallis’s book Arithmetica Infinitorum. Wallis had invented it to represent infinity; Isaac employed it to carry a promise and a prayer.


Isaac lifted the box’s sloping lid. A small pile of packages wrapped in parchment sat inside it. He plucked the largest of the parcels from the box as quietly as he’d done when he had stolen it from Trinity’s library. Not once, in the five years that had passed since his crime, did he regret committing it. None of his schoolmates would ever appreciate the fifteenth-century edition of the Roman poet Ovid’s tales as much as Andrea would. He stroked the book’s spine through its wrappings. The ridges of the winged nymph embossed on its leather binding rubbed against his fingertips. Isaac wished her a safe journey. She was going somewhere he could not. He returned the book to the box, laid his letters on top of it, and sealed the box’s entire lid with red wax.


Isaac squeezed his hand between his feather mattress and bed frame. There was one last thing he needed to do before he sent Andrea’s letters on their way. He drew out a small knife from beneath the mattress and tested its blade on his thumb. A red bead glistened in the candlelight, dribbled down his hand, and slipped under the black leather strap around his wrist. The 1952 Omega Seamaster fastened to the strap told him to hurry. He pressed the tip of the knife into the box’s lid and etched two words onto it with short, hasty strokes.



come home.



The toolshed seemed twice as far without his lantern, but Isaac did not wish to wake the farmhands or his family. His half brother, Benjamin, could snore through a thunderstorm, but his mother and two young half sisters were light sleepers. His late-night experiments had woken them on more than one occasion. Explaining the nature of gravity, white light, and fluxions was infinitely easier than having to confess his correspondence with Andrea. In their eyes, she would be the devil’s work. In his, she was the sin that he would commit over and over again.


Mud squished under his boots’ leather and wood soles. He paused at a fence post, adjusted his grip on the writing box, and summoned a lantern of memory to light his way. Except for the years he was away at school in Grantham and Cambridge, he had spent his life at Woolsthorpe and knew its grounds almost as well as he did every inch of Andrea’s body. But there was no contest which of them was more pleasant to explore in the dark. From the moment he had entwined his fingers through hers, he knew that no other place would ever feel like home.


Isaac tripped over a plow and fell to the ground, staining his breeches with mud. The writing box tumbled next to him. He scrambled to collect the box and limped down the length of the barn.


The tip of his boot found the toolshed first. He groped inside the small outbuilding, passing over the sheep shears, hay rake, and wooden beadle. A ditching spade brushed against his knuckles. Isaac pulled it out and held it under a sliver of moonlight. It was smaller and weighed less than he remembered, having been a boy when he had last handled any of his late father’s tools. He clutched it at his side and followed the fragrant trail of apples in the air.


Isaac set the wooden box by the foot of one of the taller apple trees in the orchard. He took a measured pace and shoved the spade into the ground. Its blade slammed against a rock. White heat shot up Isaac’s wrist. Isaac staggered into the apple tree’s curved trunk, knocking a verse from Amores, Ovid’s first book of poetry, from a dusty shelf of Latin lessons in the back of his mind.


Nitimur in vetitum semper, cupimusque negata. We are ever striving after what is forbidden, and coveting what is denied us.


Isaac slumped against the apple tree’s trunk. The centuries had not blunted the truth of the Roman poet’s verse. A laugh cut Isaac’s teeth. It was the cruelest of jokes that of all the obstacles that lay in his box’s path, the one thing that he had power over was a rock. He drove the spade’s blade under the stone, pried it loose, and flung it over his shoulder.


A mound of soil grew next to the apple tree. Isaac wiped the sweat from his brow and leaned over the hole. It was blacker than the night and almost as deep as the secrets he was going to bury in it. He nestled the box between two thick roots and covered it with soil, smoothing the ground with the back of his spade. He stepped away from his night’s work and held out his arms in front of him. His palms were red and blistered, but they did not burn as much as they felt empty. He found a sharp rock and scraped two tiny intertwined loops into a whorl in the tree’s trunk. The infinity symbol was far smaller than the one he had carved into the writing box. It was intended only for Andrea’s eyes.


Moonlight spilled over his watch’s glass face. Time’s two tiny silver hands sparkled. Isaac begged them to be as kind to his letters as they had been to Ovid’s ancient tales. The sealed pages bearing his words were on their way to Andrea, and all that was left for him to do was wait. He tugged the ruffle of his sleeve over the Omega and turned in the direction of the manor. The wind chilled the streaks of sweat on his back, urging him to sprint to the nearest fireplace. He reminded himself that there was no need to hurry. The three centuries before Andrea would be born was a lot of time to kill.









Every particle in the universe attracts every other particle with a force that is directly proportional to the product of their masses, and inversely proportional to the square of the distance between them.


--isaac newton’s universal law of gravitation



San Francisco



Present Day



Andrea is seven.



Apple pie à la mode. Four ice cubes. The “Butterfly Lovers”  Concerto. And a crack. These were the details of the afternoon Andrea met the boy who lived behind her wall. She turned seven that day and was good at remembering things that made her smile.


The red velvet birthday cake her father, Andrew Louviere, burned black was less memorable. He warmed a slice of leftover apple pie in the microwave, topped it with Haagen-Dazs vanilla bean ice cream, and stuck pink-and-white-striped candles on it instead. Only three fit on the melting scoop, but Andrea didn’t complain. Apple pie à la mode for breakfast was a pretty good deal. She had another serving with a double scoop of ice cream for her afternoon snack. Cello practice always made her hungry.


Andrea scraped up the last crumbs of the buttery crust from her plate and washed them down with chocolate milk. Ice cubes tinkled against the tall glass. There were four of them. She knew because she listened closely. Three sounded thin. Five was too noisy. Four was just right. Her dad indulged her little requests, believing that such quirks came with the territory of raising a musical prodigy. Andrea wasn’t sure what the word prodigy meant at that time, but she knew that her dad smiled whenever he said it. She sipped her chocolate milk and called on her four ice cubes to do an encore.


Every clink, clank, and clunk against the glass was pitch-perfect. The music room of the cornflower-blue Victorian home in San Francisco made everything sound good. If the room had had a fridge and an air mattress, Andrea would have lived in it. Its acoustic foam–paneled walls didn’t laugh the way the kids at school did when she told them how Gabriel Fauré’s Elegy made the air smell like rain or how Saint-Saëns’s Allegro Appassionato painted rainbows on the ceiling. Juilliard had offered her the same shelter when she was six, but Andrea had begged her dad to turn the music scholarship down. The conservatory’s teachers didn’t read stories from pop-up books, and its classrooms didn’t have any crayons, or goldfish named Steve. Her dad dried her eyes with a white handkerchief, smiled, and told her that Juilliard could wait.


Andrea drained her chocolate milk. Her father set his bone china teacup down next to her glass and straightened the pages of his cello duet arrangement of Chen Gang and He Zhanhao’s “Butterfly Lovers” Concerto on the stainless-steel music stand. “Knock, knock,” he said, tapping Andrea’s knee with his bow.


“Who’s there?”


“Little old lady.”


“Little old lady who?”


“Hey, I didn’t know you could yodel.”

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Love and Gravity: A Novel 4.8 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 4 reviews.
Jill-Elizabeth_dot_com More than 1 year ago
What a lovely story this was! I love stories with time travel and alternate or unusual timelines. I was a huge fan of The Time Traveler’s Wife – this one felt redolent of it for a while, although it wound up (much to my delight) traveling down a more original path than it suggested at first… There’s a beautiful timeless love story, of course, but there’s also a fascinating exploration (although I don’t know how true – this is, after all, fiction) of Isaac Newton’s early years and a very original take on the inspiration for his major discoveries/theories. The characters really come alive in this one. Isaac himself is fascinating, of course – how could he not be, he’s Isaac Newton! But more interesting, I think, is Andrea. She’s a brilliant enigma, a girl of immense talent with immensely complicated relationships. She really brought the story to life for me. The ancillary characters (her father, Nate) were always present but were clearly set up in supporting roles (even though they were essential to the story) There’s a twist – I will admit that I saw it coming, but that didn’t lessen the joy of the reveal for me at all. Instead it made it richer and feel like a coming-full-circle wrap up that tied things together nicely without feeling twee or too cozy. This was a very enjoyable and easy-going read, and I will definitely keep the author on my radar…
Jarina More than 1 year ago
Love and Gravity is the second novel by Filipino author Samantha Sotto. This story intertwines the stories of Andrea Louviere and Isaac Newton. Andrea is of the twentieth century, Isaac is of the seventeenth century but their young unhappy lives become meshed when she is only 7, he is 9. Andrea is a cellist prodigy playing music that seems out of this world. In fact, the resonance of her music has created a split in time and space such that Andrea and Isaac find each other when both need a friend. At about the same time, Andrea makes another friend in her own dimension and her own time. Nate is the new boy in class having come to live with his grandmother. He keeps very much to himself until a lunchtime incident that seals their friendship. Throughout the story Andrea is torn by her feelings for each fellow. In a beautifully told story the characters come alive in a way that makes even the most unusual aspect of this story seem perfectly plausible. The depth of Ms. Sotto's research and her understanding of Isaac Newton and his scientific discovery flavors the story and makes everything seem true. She brings into play his work with optics, light, and gravity as well as resonance and acoustics and spins the tale in such a way that the reader can absolutely understand how a rift in time occurred and the interaction from two different times. Did that interaction help form the genius of Newton and were his many gains during his Annus Mirabilis - his marvelous year, the result of this interaction? This story will make you think in this direction. I found this book to be absolutely enchanting, perhaps the story that has captured me more than any other. I read late into the night coping with the internal struggle of wanting to know what happens next with that of never wanting the story to end. I wholeheartedly recommend this book and encourage reading it, you won't be sorry.
ehaney578 More than 1 year ago
LOVE AND GRAVITY is beautifully written. I was completely enchanted by the whimsical story-telling. This is, in the true essence of the word, a romance. Not just of love, but of life and passion. It's reminiscent of The Time Traveler's Wife novel, but with a voice of its own. The story is fictional, but I almost believed, or hoped really, that Isaac Newton was capable of such fierce passion. All the characters have so much depth and emotion. I experienced so many feelings and emotions as well. What Isaac and Andrea shared was an all-consuming love that defied space and time. I can't tell you how many times Ms. Sotto had me tearing up. I'm more of a conventional happily ever after type of girl so I don't normally read this type of story, but I'm glad I took a chance. I'd definitely recommend LOVE AND GRAVITY to all readers. While reading, however, I do suggest you have plenty of tissues handy. This one's a tear-jerker! ***ARC provided by the publisher in exchange for an honest review. All conclusions reached are my own***
792393 More than 1 year ago
I thought this book was beautiful. I swear the way Sotto writes I could hear music pouring through her words as the details she writes with became notes of art. Granted the idea of star-crossed lovers separated by circumstance and time. has been done before such as in the movie Lake House or the book Time Traveler's Wife but Sotto has most definitely put her own stamp on the idea using Isaac Newton as one of the love interests. It was obvious the author put some effort into researching Newton instead of just using the basics which made it more fun to google facts from fiction or play the what if game. I recommend reading it with some cello music to really bring out the beauty of this story.