by Luanne Rice
—Flint Journal
“Rice continues the compelling story she started in Summer’s Child . . . [she] gives her readers an in-depth look at the devastation abuse causes to both the primary victim and her loved ones while simultaneously illuminating the healing that comes from love and loving relationships.”
—Booklist
SUMMER’S CHILD
“Resonant and beautifully written, this novel offers a lyrical meditation on healing, a setting as soft and colorful as beach glass and a story that’s both suspenseful and tender. Rice excels at weaving the familiar staples of popular fiction into storytelling gold; her talent for portraying both children at risk and good men scarred by circumstance also dazzles. Above all, this book—one of Rice’s best in recent years—depicts the magical endurance of love with the sensitivity and realism for which she’s known.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Rice, a terrific storyteller and a poetic stylist, takes on a difficult and brutal subject and transforms it into a source of light and hope.”
—Booklist
SILVER BELLS
“Lost souls, found again . . . Lyrical and lovely: a standout Christmas story.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Book after book, Rice never fails to deliver a beautiful tale full of emotion. This book is destined to become an enchanting Christmas classic for future generations to enjoy for years to come. Stirring and poignant, it is full of hope and love both lost and found. It speaks to the reader of magic, miracles and pursuing your dreams, no matter what the cost. When the hustle and bustle of the holiday season start to get you down, pick up this book and let its magic work wonders as it enlivens your soul.”
—The Best Reviews
BEACH GIRLS
“Like a milder Northern cousin of Secrets of the Ya Ya Sisterhood, Rice’s latest celebrates the near mystical persistence of female bonds. . . . Gorgeous descriptions and sensitive characterizations . . . Few writers evoke summer’s translucent days so effortlessly, or better capture the bittersweet ties of family love. Those who can’t get to the beach will feel transported there upon opening this book, which will likely be a seaside essential for many readers.”
—Publishers Weekly
“[A] beautiful and tender love story set against an idyllic backdrop of sand and surf and dealing with many facets of love. Another winner for Rice, who breathes life into poignant tales not only about love but also about forgiveness.”
—Booklist
DANCE WITH ME
“A return to what the author does best: heartfelt family drama, gracefully written and poignant.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“In Dance With Me, Luanne Rice once again shows her ability to craft characters readers can relate to, both in their good and bad times.”
—Orlando Sentinel
“Rice, always skilled at drafting complex stories, again reveals her special strength in character development—including all the ancillary personae who round out this tale of love, loss and hope.”
—Newark Sunday Star Ledger
THE PERFECT SUMMER
“A beautifully crafted novel . . . Rice’s ability to evoke the lyricism of the seaside lifestyle without oversentimentalizing contemporary issues like adultery, anorexia or white-collar crime is just one of the many gifts that make this a perfect summer read.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Rice has done it again. The Perfect Summer is hard to put down until the last page is turned.”
—Sunday Oklahoman
“If you’re into stories that explore human emotions, that delve into different psyches and extol those who manage to triumph over some of life’s tragedies, then you’ll enjoy The Perfect Summer.”
—Detroit News & Free Press
THE SECRET HOUR
“Familiar Rice themes of sisterhood, loss and the healing power of love are spotlighted, but Rice’s interest in the human psyche has its dark side as well. . . . The shore scenes, including a cinematic climax . . . [are] among the novel’s strongest. Rice’s heartfelt personal tone and the novel’s cunningly deranged villain make this a smooth-flowing and fast-paced effort, with justice served all around at the satisfying . . . conclusion.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Intense and emotional, The Secret Hour has everything [readers] have come to expect and enjoy in novels by Luanne Rice . . . infinitely appealing characters . . . a sense of family that is rich and satisfying. Beyond these familiar elements is the underlying current of the unsolved mystery—the suspense is spine tingling and well developed. This added dimension in The Secret Hour elevates the novel to more than just a deep, meaningful novel of family relationships, and makes it one of Ms. Rice’s best yet—A Perfect Ten.”
—Romance Reviews Today
TRUE BLUE
“With its graceful prose, full-bodied characters and atmospheric setting, this uplifting and enchanting tale is likely to become a beachside staple.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Rice, as always, provides her readers with a delightful love story filled with the subtle nuances of the human heart.”
—Booklist
SAFE HARBOR
“Luanne Rice has a talent for navigating the emotions that range through familial bonds, from love and respect to anger. . . . A beautiful blend of love and humor, with a little bit of magic thrown in, Safe Harbor is Rice’s best work to date.”
—Denver Post
“Irresistible . . . fast-paced . . . moving . . . Through Rice’s vivid storytelling, readers can almost smell the sea air. Rice has a gift for creating realistic characters, and the pages fly by as those characters explore the bonds of family while unraveling the mystery.”
—Orlando Sentinel
“Luanne Rice’s exploration of the difficult emotional balance between professional success, personal fulfillment and family ties is pure gold. Evocative descriptions add interest to an already compelling tale. Equal parts romance, mystery, and character study . . . Readers beware: don’t start this book at bedtime; you may not sleep at all!”
—Library Journal
FIREFLY BEACH
“A beautifully textured summertime read.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Rice does a masterful job of telling this powerful story of love and reconciliation.”
—Booklist
SUMMER LIGHT
“Few . . . authors are able to portray the complex and contradictory emotions that bind family members as effortlessly as Rice. . . . This poignant tale of love, loss and reconciliation will have readers hitting the bookstores.”
—Publishers Weekly
“The prolific Rice skillfully blends romance with magic.”
—Booklist
“Luanne Rice awakens in the reader the excitement of summer and love at first sight in this enjoyable novel.”
—Abilene Reporter-News
DREAM COUNTRY
“A moving story of love and reunion . . . an absolute joy to read . . . I finally put Dream Country down at 2 a.m. and almost called in sick the next day to finish it.”
—Denver Post
“Superb . . . stunning.”
—Houston Chronicle
“Captivating . . . Dream Country will cast a spell on readers.”
—Orlando Sentinel
“Highly readable . . . moving . . . a well-paced plot . . . Rice pulls off some clever surprises.”
—Pittsburgh Post-Gazette
FOLLOW THE STARS HOME
“Addictive . . . irresistible.”
—People
“Involving, moving . . . stays with the reader long after the last page is turned.”
—Denver Post
“A moving romance that also illuminates the tangled resentments, ties and allegiances of family life . . . Rice spins a web of three families intertwined by affection and conflict. . . . [She] is a gifted storyteller with a keen sense of both the
possibilities and contingencies of life.”
—Brunswick (ME) Times Record
CLOUD NINE
“A tightly paced story that is hard to put down . . . Rice’s message remains a powerful one: the strength of precious family ties can ultimately set things right.”
—Publishers Weekly
“One of those rare reading experiences that we always hope for when cracking the cover of a book . . . A joy.”
—Library Journal
“Elegant . . . Rice hooks the reader on the first page.”
—Hartford Courant
“A celebration of family and the healing power of love. Poignant and powerful . . . One of those rare books that refresh and renew the landscape of women’s fiction for a new generation of readers.”
—Jayne Ann Krentz, author of Sharp Edges
HOME FIRES
“Exciting, emotional, terrific. What more could you want from a late-summer read?”
—New York Times Book Review
“Rice makes us believe that healing is possible.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Good domestic drama is Rice’s chosen field, and she knows every acre of it. . . . Rice’s home fires burn brighter than most, and leave more than a few smoldering moments to remember.”
—Kirkus Reviews
BLUE MOON
“Brilliant.”
—Entertainment Weekly
“A rare combination of realism and romance.”
— New York Times Book Review
“Eloquent . . . A moving and complete tale of the complicated phenomenon we call family.”
—People
STONE HEART
“A highly suspenseful, multilayered [novel], about the complex subtleties that lie beneath the surface of a family.”
—San Francisco Chronicle
“Powerful . . . electrifying . . . The contrast between romance and reality is what gives this novel its wonderful, terrifying, always compelling tension.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“A joy to read. Luanne Rice has hit her stride as a novelist. The sense of foreboding is almost overpowering.”
—Atlanta Journal-Constitution
“Deserves a place among the best fiction of its kind, alongside Judith Guest’s Ordinary People and Sue Miller’s The Good Mother.”
—Eileen Goudge
ANGELS ALL OVER TOWN
“The Cavan sisters are an inseparable trio. The complexity of their relationship will be appreciated by anyone who comes from a family of sisters.”
—Cleveland Plain Dealer
“Miss Rice writes as naturally as she breathes, and this exhilarating first novel is obviously but the first of many.”
—Brendan Gill
“Breezy, romantic, and entertaining.”
—Booklist
MORE CRITICAL ACCLAIM FOR
LUANNE RICE
“What a lovely writer Luanne Rice is.”
—Dominick Dunne
“Ms. Rice shares Anne Tyler’s ability to portray offbeat, fey characters winningly.”
—Atlanta Journal-Constitution
“Luanne Rice handles with marvelous insight and sensitivity the complex chemistry of a family that might be the one next door.”
—Eileen Goudge
“Rice has an elegant style, a sharp eye, and a real warmth. In her hands families, and their values . . . seem worth cherishing.”
—San Francisco Chronicle
“Rice’s great strength is in creating realistic characters readers care about.”
—Denver Post
“Luanne Rice touches the deepest, most tender corners of the heart.”
—Tami Hoag, author of Dust to Dust
“Pure gold.”
—Library Journal
COMING IN PAPERBACK
APRIL 2006
Angels
All Over
Town
by
LUANNE RICE
Coveted by fans, long unavailable, and coming soon in trade paperback for the first time, Angels All Over Town is New York Times bestselling author Luanne Rice’s dazzling, delightful debut novel, a timeless story of love, sisterhood, and the hope that emerges even out of heartbreak—and a treasure for readers everywhere who have made her a star.
“The Cavan sisters are an inseparable trio. The complexity of their relationship will be appreciated by anyone who comes from a family of sisters.”—Cleveland Plain Dealer
“Miss Rice writes as naturally as she breathes.” —Brendan Gill
“Breezy, romantic, and entertaining.”—Booklist
Angels All Over Town
On Sale April 2006
1
THE PROBLEM WAS NOT THAT I BELIEVED IN ghosts. I did not believe in ghosts, but I was visited by one. I could not deny it. When I least expected to, I would see my father, solid of body, curly of hair, in true corporeal splendor, even though he had died months earlier. Once I saw him across the floor at the Rose Room in the Algonquin Hotel. I spotted him from behind. He was dining with two other men, and his graying golden-brown hair looked as springy as ever. I made no attempt to speak to him. I sat in my seat, not eating my chef’s salad, watching his familiar movements: the way he drank his martini, smoked his cigarette, gestured expansively. I guessed that he was trying to sell some land to his table companions. I had no doubt that he would pick up the tab.
The next time I saw him was at the apartment I shared with my sisters in Newport. It was a small, dingy, second-floor walk-up, made cool by a breeze off the harbor. One close August morning Lily and Margaret had left for the boatyard where they worked, and I had just finished another cup of coffee. I grabbed an old Redbook and headed for the bathroom. There I found my father, seated on the toilet, reading the New York Daily News.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, backing out and slamming the door behind me.
“Hang on a sec, I’m almost through,” he called. My heart was racing, but from embarrassment, not shock. I did not ask myself how my father, a man who had died wearing two colostomy bags, could be taking a normal shit. Nor did I wonder why he was reading the Daily News, a tabloid he had considered vulgar in life, and which, besides, was not readily available in Newport. I just sat at the kitchen table and waited.
Presently he flushed the toilet and opened the door. He wore a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of faded madras shorts. Now, that detail shocked me: he had pale, bony, freckled legs covered with curly reddish hair, and I had never seen him wear shorts.
“Sweetheart,” he said, opening his arms to embrace me.
I raced toward him and gave him a huge hug. “Dad, are you real?” I asked, feeling queer for asking: he felt solid and sweaty.
“Yes, sweetheart, I am. Unfortunately, I can’t stay long.” He checked his watch, a cheap Bulova, the one he had worn ever since I could remember.
“Tell me everything. What has it been like?”
We sat opposite each other at the kitchen table. Lily’s plastic birth-control Pilpac was open beside the pepper shaker, and I tried to surreptitiously glide it under a napkin. My father waved his hand.
“Don’t bother doing that,” he said. “I’ve seen it already. That’s the sheer hell of it. I can see everything, the good along with the bad, and I can’t tell you a damn thing about what to do.”
Instantly my mind was flooded with images of things, the good along with the bad, that I had done since he had died. Alastair “Boom-Boom” Brady’s face kept swimming to the forefront, and I kept blinking my eyes to push it away.
“That puke you’re thinking of now, for instance. What is he, Australian?”
“Yes, he’s a sailor. He’s the bowman on a famous racer.”
“I don’t give a goddamn if he won the America’s Cup, for godsakes. He’s no good. You’re a fine actress, even if it is for a soap opera. If you aren’t going to have respect for yourself . . .” He patted his breast pocket and removed a pack of L&Ms. He g
lanced around, and I handed him a matchbox from the Candy Store. Examining the logo, one gilded mermaid with two graceful tails, he lit his cigarette and handed the matchbox back to me. “And you should stay away from that place. The Candy Store. A bunch of guys with their hands in the cookie jar.”
I fought to keep my mind blank. “Mom’s good,” I said.
“I know. I like the way she finished the living room. Tell her the beam’s sagging, though. She’d better get a brace. In fact, have her call Creighton Albermarle—he owes me money. He’ll do a good job.”
“What do you mean, the beam’s sagging? Is there any danger?” Just before my father died, he and my mother began renovating our summer cottage on Long Island Sound, converting the old screened porch into part of the living room, replacing the screens with huge Thermopane windows, removing the wall that had separated the porch from the living room, leaving one beam to bear the weight of the house. My mother lived alone there, year round now, painting watercolors. My father’s words frightened me; I thought I had noticed a slight bow myself.
“Nothing immediate, my angel. But have her take care of it before winter. I don’t like the thought of snow on the roof.”
“Dad, can I tell her I’ve seen you?”
He grinned then, a wide, easy grin that lifted his hazel eyes and made creases in his pale cheeks. He had a lean face and a long, straight nose. The Cavan nose. I had it myself. When I was young I once looked in a mirror and called my nose long. “Aristocratic,” my father had corrected, only partly pretending to be angry.
“Telling people could be a problem, couldn’t it?” he said now. “They’ll wonder why I don’t stay.”
“Why don’t you stay?” I asked.
His face went sad. My father’s expression could run through emotions the way a flutist plays scales. “I just can’t, Una,” he said.
“But you’ll come back?”
“If I can.”
I stared at him, thinking that he needed another haircut. The day before he died, I had given him a bad haircut. He was lying in his hospital bed, weak and shrunken from cancer, and his thick, curly hair made his head itch. “They won’t get me a barber,” he had said. So I had picked up a pair of scissors, the crooked kind used by nurses to cut bandages, and chopped off all his hair. The remaining tufts sticking out on his skull, combined with his wide, darting eyes, had made him look like an owl.
