Book description:
From Michael Hurley, winner of the Somerset
Prize for his debut novel, THE PRODIGAL, comes a complex and ambitious,
allegorical tale of old money, young passion and ancient mystery in a classic
New England seaside village.
Ten years after their college days
together, three wounded and very different women reunite for a summer on the
island of Martha's Vineyard. As they come to grips with the challenges and
crises in their lives, their encounter with a reclusive poacher known only as
"the fisherman" threatens to change everything they believe about
their world--and each other.
Purchasing link:
Author Bio
Michael Hurley and his wife Susan live near Charleston, South Carolina. Born and raised in Baltimore, Michael holds a degree in English from the University of Maryland and law from St. Louis University.
Michael Hurley and his wife Susan live near Charleston, South Carolina. Born and raised in Baltimore, Michael holds a degree in English from the University of Maryland and law from St. Louis University.
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Michael Hurley |
Michael’s
first book, Letters from the Woods, is a collection of
wilderness-themed essays published by Ragbagger Press in 2005. It was
shortlisted for Book of the Year by ForeWord magazine. In 2009,
Michael embarked on a two-year, 2,200 mile solo sailing voyage that ended with
the loss of his 32-foot sloop, the Gypsy Moon, in the Windward Passage
between Cuba and Haiti in 2012. That voyage and the experiences that inspired
him to set sail became the subject of his memoir, Once Upon A Gypsy Moon,
published in 2013 by Hachette Book Group.
When he is not
writing, Michael enjoys reading and relaxing with Susan on the porch
of their rambling, one-hundred-year-old house. His fondest pastimes
are ocean sailing, playing piano and classical guitar, cooking, and keeping up
with an energetic Irish terrier, Frodo Baggins.
Excerpts from CHAPTER ONE:
Drowning seemed like the best option or, for
that matter, the only option. Being an inveterate planner of all things, even
the means and manner of her own death, Charlotte Harris had explored for a full
year the various ways she might best do herself in. Every possibility always
came back to the water and to this place. But now that she was finally here and
making her final crossing to the island, the greenish-gray waves pushing ahead
of the ferry across Vineyard Sound seemed too gentle—incapable, almost, of the
kind of violence necessary to end a life.
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. . . .
The pleated sundress she had
chosen for “the occasion,” as she primly regarded her own death, was neatly
pressed and folded in the valise stowed in the trunk of her car. It was her
only luggage. On the ferry, the tiny Fiat was dwarfed by the enormous SUVs and
minivans parked all around it. They needed to be big enough to land platoons of
parents, children, dogs, and bicycles, and all the assorted materiel of summer
for the annual assault on Martha’s Vineyard by the armies of New England. There
was one couple, however, who looked out of place.
They were young—very young. The
girl had a deep green tattoo across the small of her back that appeared and
disappeared as her halter top rode up above her jeans. She was clinging like a
wet dishtowel to the boy, who was better-looking than the girl, and as tall, lean,
and hard as a light pole. Charlotte was thirty-two. She guessed the boy’s age
and did the mental math. There was at least ten years’ difference between them,
maybe more. A thread of imagination flashed briefly in her mind, then vanished.
Five years ago, she might have . . .
. . . .
Dory was rich. Stunningly
rich. Although she thought of herself as someone just like everyone else, there
was no one quite like Dory. She lived her life as though everything were
possible. No objective was beyond her ability to shape reality to her ends. So,
when Charlotte had unburdened herself of the story of her failed marriage over martinis
during one of Dory’s excursions to Boston, Eudora Delano’s Search and Rescue
Service had snapped into action.
Dory decided that Charlotte
must stay with her on the Vineyard until she got over losing her child to
cancer, as if that were even possible, and got over losing her husband to the
contagion of indifference that followed, as if that were even necessary.
. . . .
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