"A compassionate story of healing while dealing with love, guilt and loss!"
Reviewed by Audrey Lawrence
Posted March 7, 2016
Women's Fiction
As if being overwhelmed with all-consuming grief and the
loss of her beloved husband are not enough, Susannah
Gilmore is confronted with the economic realities of
supporting her two children on her own and the snarky
barbs of her sixteen-year-old daughter Cally who is
intent on blaming her mother for her father's death.
Their brownstone home in Brooklyn is filled with
wonderful memories, but too expensive to keep, so
Susannah decides to move to an inherited old family house
on Primrose Pond, near the very small town of Eastwood,
New Hampshire. It is the middle of winter and not the
best time to move to a rural area with two city kids, but
what can she do when someone offers cash for an early
move-in date.
Despite some glitches, Susannah begins to believe
she has found her safe haven, and her easy going affable
son Jack is adapting well. Cally is another story, but
surely she will settle down. What will happen if she
doesn't?
As Susannah starts to organize things in the house, her
perception and remembrances of her mother are completely
turned around when she discovers an intriguing love note.
As a distraction from her grief and her problems,
Susannah starts to obsess about the note and wants to
find out more. Meanwhile, she must pay the bills and as
an historical writer, supposedly she can write from
anywhere. Can she settle enough to write again?
Author Yona Zeldis McDonough is known for her
inspirational stories of the heart and her existing and
new fans are sure to enjoy this latest offering. THE
HOUSE ON PRIMROSE POND is a wonderful "story within a
story". While a contemporary novel, McDonough
very effectively uses Susannah's occupation as a writer to
bring in
an historical regional story
that resonates many of the emotions Susannah is
experiencing as she attempts to help her children adjust
to their changed circumstances and learn more about the
mystery in
her
mother's life.
THE HOUSE ON PRIMROSE POND gives a realistic description
of small town life, which McDonough has lovingly
populated with interesting and likeable characters of
varying ages who are dealing with what life has brought to
their
door. As part of the story, there is an intriguing
interplay of love, grief and change in the triangle
between Alice, an older neighbour, and Cally as they
connect on common interests and Susannah as she misses
the closeness she once had with Cally. A new
relationship with a man also brings its own share of
emotional turmoil as does past secrets. Can hearts be
open to new possibilities? THE HOUSE ON PRIMROSE POND is a lovely heartfelt story of
resiliency, compassion and emotional pain and healing.
While there are some elements of predictability,
McDonough offers some keen insights on handling children
facing loss as well as in moving forward in difficult
situations. While the story line makes THE HOUSE ON
PRIMROSE POND a wonderful stand-alone read, I for one
would love to find out more about what happens to these
well-crafted characters. So snuggle up and enjoy an
intriguing winter read in THE HOUSE ON PRIMROSE POND!
SUMMARY
A compelling novel about one woman’s search for the
truth from the author of YOU WERE MEANT FOR ME.
After suffering a sudden, traumatic loss, historical
novelist Susannah Gilmore decides to uproot her life—and
the
lives of her two children—and leave their beloved
Brooklyn for the little town of Eastwood, New Hampshire.
While the trio adjusts to their new surroundings,
Susannah is captivated by an unexpected find in her late
parents’
home: an unsigned love note addressed to her mother, in
handwriting that is most definitely not her father’s.
Reeling from the thought that she never really knew her
mother, Susannah finds mysteries everywhere she looks: in
her daughter’s friendship with an older neighbor, in a
charismatic local man to whom she’s powerfully drawn, and
in
an eighteenth century crime she’s researching for her
next book. Compelled to dig into her mother’s past,
Susannah
discovers even more secrets, ones that surpass any
fiction she could ever put to paper...
ExcerptIt’s 2:00 p.m. on a freakishly warm afternoon in January.
Susannah Gilbert reluctantly looks up from her laptop.
Standing in the doorway of her home office is her
husband, Charlie. “Have you seen what it’s doing
outside?” he asks. She nods, attention drifting back to
the screen. “It’s sixty-nine degrees.” “The January thaw, right?” She’s read about this some
place, though she can’t recall where. “Whatever. We should take advantage of it, though.
Let’s go for a bike ride before the kids get home.” “I wish I could.” She turns to him. At six foot three,
he’s lanky and lean. Ginger hair, great smile and under
his shirt, a constellation of freckles dotting his
shoulders and upper back. Forty-three, yet still so
boyish. “But I’ve got a deadline.” “One afternoon is not going to make or break you. Not
even an afternoon. An hour and a half, max. Carpe diem
and all that.” She smiles at him. “I really can’t. But you go.” “It’ll be more fun with you.” “Next time,” she says. “I promise.” He sighs and Susannah turns back to her work. But
Charlie remains standing in the doorway. “What?” she says, trying to conceal her impatience. “Are you sure?” She hesitates. But the chapter, the deadline, the meal
she’ll need to prepare in a few hours—the perpetually
revolving domestic wheel keeps her rooted to her chair. “All right.” He sounds a bit deflated but finally heads
toward the stairs. Susannah barely registers his
leaving. She wants to get back to the novel she’s
writing, a novel in which a minor English noblewoman has
become ensnared in a dangerous court intrigue. Tapping
on her keypad, Susannah follows Lady Whitmore along vast,
tapestry-lined corridors and up curving flights of steep,
stone steps. Now Lady Whitmore enters the bedchamber of
the young and essentially powerless queen and closes the
heavy, oak door behind her. Will she be able to help the
sovereign outsmart the cunning noblemen who want her out
of the way, making room for an even more pliant pawn? Some time after three o’ clock, Susannah registers her
son Jack’s arrival home, and a short time later, her
daughter Cally’s. Leaving Lady Whitmore, Susannah switches off the computer, and goes downstairs.
Time to start dinner. As the sky darkens—despite the warmth, it is still
winter, and dusk comes early—she moves around the narrow
but cozy kitchen of her Park Slope brownstone, getting
the meal together. Charlie built this room almost single-handedly when they
moved in nearly twenty years ago. The wood for the
counter tops was reclaimed from the bar of an old Irish
pub that was going out of business, the floor tile was a
manufacturer’s overstock that he’d bought for next to
nothing. That was so like Charlie—he could see
possibilities in the most unlikely of places, and he was
a consummate craftsman, able to turn his vision into a
reality. Susannah checks the clock on the stove. Charlie had said
an hour and a half and it’s been more than three hours.
He must have gotten sidetracked. She pictures him
peddling up the hill on his green bicycle, exertion
making his cheeks glow pink. He’ll be all excited about
his outing, and eager to tell her where he’s been, what
he’s seen. He really is a big kid. Four days a week, he
teaches illustration at the School of Visual Arts in
Manhattan; on Fridays, he works at home. His current
project is a picture book about inter-galactic travel and
the preliminary drawings of the spacecraft—sleek and
silvery blue—are pinned up around his studio. She likes having him home on a day when the children are
not here; sometimes she fixes them a special lunch or
sometimes they go upstairs for what Charlie loves best:
daytime sex. “I’m an artist,” he always said. “And for
an artist, there’s no light like daylight.” As Susannah bastes the chicken, she feels a small tug of
guilt. Maybe she should have gone with him today. She’ll
make it up to him, she decides. She’ll work extra hard
this week and next Friday, she’ll take the whole day off.
She’ll bring him breakfast in bed and then climb back in
with him. He’ll like that. So will she. “Where’s Dad?” Cally walks into the kitchen and begins
setting the table. “He went for a bike ride; he should be home soon.” It’s
almost six o’ clock, the time they usually eat dinner.
The roast chicken is ready and Susannah debates whether
to keep it in the oven or take it out; does she want it
dry or does she want it cold? “He’s on Dad time,” Cally says. But she’s smiling. They
all know Charlie is dreamy and easily distracted: by the
sight of a splashy sunset that tinges the clouds with
gold, by an old buddy who wants him to stop for a beer,
by a picture he just has to take with his iPhone. Jack,
who has just walked in, goes over to the cutlery drawer
and is now handing silverware to his sister; they are a
good team. “Well, I hope he gets here soon. I’m
starved.” “Me too.” Cally straightens a place mat. “He will,” says Susannah, though she is pricked by
annoyance. She takes the chicken out of the oven. Cold is
fixable. Dry is not. Both Cally and Jack have washed
their hands and are sitting down, waiting. Everything is
ready, everyone is here. Except her husband. She picks
up her phone, and as she could have predicted, the call
goes straight to voicemail; Charlie routinely turns off
the ringer on his phone. But it is now four hours since
he left. Couldn’t he have at least called to say he was
going to be late? “Where the hell is he?” She does not
actually mean to say this aloud. “Don’t curse at Daddy!” Cally scolds. “I’m not cursing at him.” Susannah is instantly contrite.
“I’m just…cursing.” “Well, you shouldn’t!” “You’re right, sweet pea. He probably stopped to get
something.” Charlie is apt to do that—tulips for the
table, or an extravagant dessert. “Remember last week
when he brought home that salted caramel pie?” “Don’t even talk about pie!” says Jack. Then the bell rings. Oh good—Charlie’s home. Obviously
he forgot his keys—he does that a lot—and she hurries to
let him in. But instead of Charlie, apologizing
profusely, leaning down to kiss her, pressing his
offering into her arms, she finds two police officers
standing at the door. One has a blond crew cut showing
from under his blue hat; the other is a dark skinned
woman. “Mrs. Miller?” She flashes her badge. “May we
come in?” Susannah tenses but steps aside. “Your husband,
Charles--” “My husband isn’t Charles. He’s Charlie.” Susannah seizes
on their mistake; whatever they think their mission here
is, they have gotten it all wrong. And she isn’t Mrs.
Miller anyway. She kept Gilmore, her maiden name, the
one her grandfather Isaac Goldblatt decided would help
him move more easily through the world. “There’s been an accident. It was in Queens and--” “What kind of accident?” Susannah is aware that Cally and
Jack are standing close behind her. “Bicycle.” The word is delivered by the young blond
officer. “Your husband was thrown off. He sustained a
serious head injury.” “Queens? What would he be doing in Queens?” Charlie
barely knows where Queens is; they joke about this
occasionally. But the words “head injury” send her
panicked glance over to the row of hooks by the door.
Suspended from one of them is the expensive, glitter-
flecked helmet she bought Charlie for his last birthday,
the one he swears up and down that he’ll wear—and then
almost never does. The two officers look at each other, and in that look,
Susannah knows everything. She will not let herself
believe it; still, her gaze is pulled almost magnetically
back to the helmet. Charlie thinks it is an encumbrance;
he only wears it when she reminds him. But today she
didn’t remind him. Today she’d been busy and wanted to
get back to work. “I think maybe you should sit down,” says the female cop. There is a sickening numbness gathering around her, a
horrible, this-can’t-be-real feeling that she desperately
wants to swat away. But Susannah allows herself to be led
to the table. Cally and Jack silently follow. “How bad
is he?” The officer shakes her head. “I’m sorry. The injury was
fatal. By the time the ambulance got there, he was
already gone.” There is a pause before she adds, in a low
voice, “We’ll need you to identify the body.” Jack starts sobbing. Cally emits a single, strangled
sound. But Susannah cannot speak. Identify the body?
Charlie’s body? It’s just not possible. He was standing
there, in her office, mere hours ago. “It’ll be more fun
with you,” he had said. Why hadn’t she gone with him?
Why? Jack is crying noisily but Cally marches over to the row
of hooks, takes down the helmet and thrusts it in front
of her mother. “He wasn’t wearing it.” “No,” says Susannah. “He wasn’t.” The helmet has a
reinforced safety strap and an impervious, mocking gleam.
She turns her head away so she doesn’t have to see it any
more. “You didn’t remind him.” There is recrimination in her
words. Also, a cold, adult-sounding fury. “It’s your
fault. You let Daddy get killed!” And with that, she
bolts from the room. The officers stand with their heads
bowed, and Jack continues to sob. Susannah cannot move
and the sounds of Jack’s continued weeping, the blond
officer’s abashed cough, recede. All she can hear, in a
relentless, repetitive loop, are her husband’s last
words: Are you sure?
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