The Widow's Season by Laura Brodie

By Laura Brodie

A captivating debut novel approximately love, grief, and the ghosts who appear the place we least count on them.

Sarah McConnell's husband have been useless for 3 months whilst she observed him within the grocery store.

What does a girl do while she's thirty-nine, childless, and entirely by myself for the 1st time in her lifestyles? Does it suggest she's loopy to imagine she sees her past due husband beside a reveal of pumpkins? Or is it simply what humans do, a typical reaction to grief that may fade in time? that is what Sarah McConnell's buddies advised her, that it was once typical, may final a season, after which fade away.

yet what if there has been one other resolution? What if he used to be quite there? They by no means discovered the physique, finally. What if he's nonetheless the following by some means, and approximately to stroll again into her existence?

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Sample text

Of course, Sarah assured herself as she looked up at her huge Victorian house—the house David had chosen. Love was complicated, that was all. Or was love simple, and marriage was complicated? In seventeen years of marriage David had often left her feeling frustrated, and furious, and disgusted, yes—but he had also made her feel beautiful, and protected, and loved. And oh, what she would give to feel loved right now. She hoped Mrs. Foster wasn’t looking out her window—staring down the street and seeing Sarah at her driveway, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater.

She had a vague idea of what she might touch. Something cold, something sharp, a set of teeth. She both dreaded and desired another pair of hands, to grab her own and pull her in. But all she felt was a mesh of branches. With a sudden jerk, she divided the bush to the left and right, and looked straight through to the fence beyond. There was another crunch of leaves, a blinding rush of wings, and when she opened her eyes she saw a pair of blue jays ascend into the darkening sky. • 4 • Early the next morning, while the eastern horizon lingered in a predawn blue, Sarah woke to a slow tapping.

Sometimes in her angriest moments she even hated God—what had she ever done to Him, to have cast so many shadows upon her life? With that thought she put down her wine, walked to the garden shed, and retrieved a hoe. She carried it to the face of the middle burning bush, six feet tall with leaves so thick she could not see beyond them. Carefully she inserted the handle of the hoe into the shrub like a giant thermometer until it hit the fence on the other side with a dull thud. She repeated the gesture four times, imagining a man on the other side, contorting his body to avoid the thrusts of her horticultural sword.

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