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Mermaid Chair Kidd, Sue Monk Edition: 2005 Publisher: Penguin Group (USA) Incorporated Number of Pages: 352 ISBN10: 0670033944 ISBN13: 9780670033942 Dimensions: 5.75" w x 8.50" l x 1.13" h Weight: 0.97 lbs. Binding: Trade Cloth Language: English List Price: 24.95

Description

"Inside the church of a Benedictine monastery on Egret Island, just off the coast of South Carolina, resides a beautiful and mysterious chair ornately carved with mermaids and dedicated to a saint who, legend claims, was a mermaid before her conversion." "When Jessie is summoned home to the island to cope with her eccentric mother's seemingly inexplicable act of violence, she is living a conventio..."Inside the church of a Benedictine monastery on Egret Island, just off the coast of South Carolina, resides a beautiful and mysterious chair ornately carved with mermaids and dedicated to a saint who, legend claims, was a mermaid before her conversion." "When Jessie is summoned home to the island to cope with her eccentric mother's seemingly inexplicable act of violence, she is living a conventional life with her husband, Hugh, a life "molded to the smallest space possible." Jessie loves Hugh, but once there, she finds herself drawn to Brother Thomas, a monk who is soon to take his final vows. Amid a rich community of unforgettable island women and the exotic beauty of marshlands, tidal creeks, and majestic egrets, Jessie grapples with the tension of desire and the struggle to deny it, with a freedom that feels overwhelmingly right and the immutable force of home and marriage." "Is the power of the mermaid chair only a myth? Or will it alter the course of Jessie's life? What transpires will unlock the roots of her mother's tormented past, but most of all, it will allow Jessie to make a marriage unto herself." "The Mermaid Chair is a novel about mermaids and saints, about the passions of the spirit and the ecstasies of the body. It illuminates the awakening of a woman to her own deepest self."--BOOK JACKET. Title Summary field provided by Blackwell North America, Inc. All Rights ReservedCHAPTER ONE February 17, 1988, I opened my eyes and heard a procession of sounds: first the phone going off on the opposite side of the bed, rousing us at 5:04 a.m. to what could only be a calamity, then rain pummeling the roof of our old Victorian house, sluicing its sneaky way to the basement, and finally small puffs of air coming from Hughs lower lip, each one perfectly timed, like a metronome. Twenty years of this puffing. Id heard it when he wasnt even asleep, when he sat in his leather wing chair after dinner, reading through the column of psychiatric journals rising from the floor, and it would seem like the cadence against which my entire life was set. The phone rang again, and I lay there, waiting for Hugh to pick up, certain it was one of his patients, probably the paranoid schizophrenic whod phoned last night convinced the CIA had him cornered in a federal building in downtown Atlanta. A third ring, and Hugh fumbled for the receiver. Yes, hello, he said, and his voice came out coarse, a hangover from sleep. I rolled away from him then and stared across the room at the faint, watery light on the window, remembering that today was Ash Wednesday, feeling the inevitable rush of guilt. My father had died on Ash Wednesday when I was nine years old, and in a convoluted way, a way that made no sense to anyone but me, it had been at least partially my fault. There had been a fire on his boat, a fuel-tank explosion, theyd said. Pieces of the boat had washed up weeks later, including a portion of the stern with Jes-Sea printed on it. Hed named the boat for me, not for my brother, Mike, or even for my mother, whom hed adored, but for me, Jessie. I closed my eyes and saw oily flames and roaring orange light. An article in the Charleston newspaper had referred to the explosion as suspicious, and there had been some kind of investigation, though nothing had ever come of itthings Mike and Id discovered only because wed sneaked the clipping from Mothers dresser drawer, a strange, secret place filled with fractured rosaries, discarded saint medals, holy cards, and a small statue of Jesus missing his left arm. She had not imagined we would venture into all that broken-down holiness. I went into that terrible sanctum almost every day for over a year and read the article obsessively, that one particular line: Police speculate that a spark from his pipe may have ignited a leak in the fuel line. Id given him the pipe for Fathers Day. Up until then he had never even smoked. I still could not think of him apart from the word suspicious, apart from this day, how hed become ash the very day people everywhereme, Mike, and my mothergot our foreheads smudged with it at church. Yet another irony in a whole black ensemble of them. Yes, of course I remember you, I heard Hugh say into the phone, yanking me back to the call, the bleary morning. He said, Yes, were all fine here. And how are things there? This didnt sound like a patient. And it wasnt our daughter, Dee, I was sure of that. I could tell by the formality in his voice. I wondered if it was one of Hughs colleagues. Or a resident at the hospital. They called sometimes to consult about a case, though generally not at five in the morning. I slipped out from the covers and moved with bare feet to the window across the room, wanting to see how likely it was that rain would flood the basement again and wash out the pilot light on the hot-water heater. I stared out at the cold, granular deluge, the bluish fog, the street already swollen with water, and I shivered, wishing the house were easier to warm. Id nearly driven Hugh crazy to buy this big, impractical house, and even though wed been in it seven years now, I still refused to criticize it. I loved the sixteen-foot ceilings and stained-glass transoms. And the turretGod, I loved the turret. How many houseSue Monk Kidds stunning debut, The Secret Life of Bees, has transformed her into a genuine literary star. Now, in her much-anticipated new novel, Kidd has woven a transcendent tale that will thrill her legion of fans and cement her reputation as one of the most remarkable writers at work today. Inside the abbey of a Benedictine monastery on tiny Egret Island, just off the coast of South Carolina, resides a beautiful and mysterious chair ornately carved with mermaids and dedicated to a saint who, legend claims, was a mermaid before her conversion. Jessie Sullivans conventional life has been molded to the smallest space possible. So when she is called home to cope with her mothers startling and enigmatic act of violence, Jessie finds herself relieved to be apart from her husband, Hugh. Jessie loves Hugh, but on Egret Island amid the gorgeous marshlands and tidal creeksshe becomes drawn to Brother Thomas, a monk who is mere months from taking his final vows. What transpires will unlock the roots of her mothers tormented past, but most of all, as Jessie grapples with the tension of desire and the struggle to deny it, she will find a freedom that feels overwhelmingly right. What inspires the yearning for a soul mate? Few writers have explored, as Kidd does, the lush, unknown region of the feminine soul where the thin line between the spiritual and the erotic exists. The Mermaid Chairis a vividly imagined novel about the passions of the spirit and the ecstasies of the body; one that illuminates a womans self-awakening with the brilliance and power that only a writer of Kidds ability could conjure.Kidd's stunning debut, "The Secret Life of Bees," spent 77 weeks on "The New York Times" bestseller list. Now, in her much-anticipated new novel, Kidd has woven a transcendent tale that will thrill her legion of fans and cement her reputation as one of the most remarkable writers at work today. (more) (less)

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