YA Novel - The Weight of Echoes by Erin Giannini - With Music Playlist...

  They pushed me out of the way to clasp Dad’s hand, pat his back. I backed up, wanting to be far away from all of them. As I started to turn away, to run to my room, and wait for Mom to come home to find out if she was infected with this, too, the guy who seemed in charge turned to stare at me. He’d been handsome before he got all soft and jowly. He turned his round blue eyes on me and my knees went watery. When our eyes met again, I could see the flames Dad talked about, like a forest fire behind his eyes. I turned and ran into my room and locked the door...

There was only one thing I could think of that scared me, Robert James. Even thinking of his name made me shudder and I wondered if Dad finally got a taste of that. --Veronica

Imagine if you would, as I did, that the setting of this book is in a small town, either at present, or as planned for the near future... No, I rarely know the storyline before I get a new book... Title and cover is enough, as long as it is within my budget... I have to admit that I'm beginning to feel like these books are coming into my hands "supernaturally..." Because this story is too close to what we've been learning about plans of "project 25..." where government at the lowest levels is being taken over by Christian Nationalists... or MAGA...or whoever is behind all the chaos!

Veronica is our main character and the book ranges from her being 12 through to present as she is moving toward high school graduation. Veronica is an only child of two loving parents. The father has been offered a job and they move to Dalesville where he will be working for Faith Fellowship...

With absolutely no explanation as to how, when, or the possible why, Veronica has a special psychic gift of, upon touch, she is able to read another person's mind... There is no reference that even her parents know about this ability... Of course, Veronica may not have been given this ability until the relocation.

Because since they've been to Dalesville, Veronica's mother has disappeared. Her only clue since that happened, is that, in shaking hands with a woman at church, she saw a vision of her mother, in bed as if ill. Of course, there was no way for her to question a church member as to how she had seen her mother...

Veronica saw a definite change in her father. He was changed from the fun-loving father she remembered:

Dad was the lively one, in both voice and manner. He was always enthusiastic about something, whether it was stoking the coals of the barbecue or scribbling notes in books or on articles. I’d pick those up later, most sailed high and wide above my head. “Colonization of the other?’ or “PG again,” although not all, I picked up one article praising former president Nixon full of margin notes reading “asshole” and “dipshit.” Dad caught me with it and yanked it away, blushing. Then he gave a big booming laugh and ruffled my hair. “Your old man’s got some strong opinions, kiddo.” “I don’t mind.” I pointed at the picture of Nixon in the center of the article. “He looks shifty.” He’d swept me up in his arms and planted a kiss on my forehead, the tickle of his beard made me giggle. “My kid’s a friggin’ genius.” Mom came in at that moment, a stack of papers in one hand, a gallon of milk in the other, and asked what we were laughing about. Dad told her, and then she kissed me, too, and told me I’d earned a special trip to the bookstore. That was years ago. It was easy to see things were different.

The four who wind up as the lead characters in this YA novel are among the outsiders... Not because of who they are, necessarily, but because the town has two major institutions--one a corporation; one a church... Actually there is a tendency to realize that the two have leaders who are representing all of the town in some major way--either as employers, as a church member or student at the church school, or as those who have spent time at a facility run by the church but in another town... 

I tried to think objectively about the situation. There was a certain degree of comfort, even relief, in knowing one’s purpose, of being told exactly what you have to sacrifice—autonomy, career—in order to achieve it. But was anybody really ever aware of how big their sacrifice would be?

And then somewhere along the line, I learned that this was an evangelical college... No wonder I recognized the authoritarian aspect of the town...

When he did speak, it was the same kind of thing I’d been hearing for years. “I’m going to have to be gone a great deal over the coming weeks. I trust you’ll continue to behave in the ways I’ve taught you. What I don’t see, God does.” The words were the same, but the tone was wrong, it crackled with something unspoken, something that couldn’t be said. The knuckles that gripped the chair were white. “Do you understand?” Was he talking about Theo following me?

These four students became friends, perhaps, caused by their own rebellion--maybe they were unhappy with the way things were in their own homes... As mentioned, Veronica's father moved to Dalesville to be employed by the church. Chris is also a high school student but writes for the school paper. His father is "Big Pat" and is the owner of the company which supplies most of the jobs for the community, outside of the church campus and other activities they sponsor. The other two are gay; most people don't accept them... I "think" one may be also black, which, well...you know...

We meet the four of them at The Club which is the only entertainment location in town. Veronica sneaks out to go there. Chris dresses differently in rebellion to his father by wearing dark clothes, painting his nails black and adding other goth-type accessories... Being together as a gay couple is fine at this Club... A mosh pit gets the action going...

Now Veronica, who, as mentioned, has a gift or a problem, depending upon how you look at it, and stays away from dancing most of the time... And, she also has a personal reason for getting to know Chris. She's hoping, as a reporter, that he may be willing to help her either find her mother or discover what happened to her. But, little by little, the heat between these two becomes a reality and when a slow jam then starts, Chris asks Veronica to dance and she finally decides to try it...

After I pulled it shut and twitched the curtain closed, I made my way down the alley that ran the length of our subdivision toward Sunset, the road that ran east-west through this crappy town. Toward downtown, where all the freaks hung out, hoping this was the time I’d run into Chris. I thought he might be able to help me keep my promise to myself to find out what happened to Mom. Whatever other motivations I had I did my best to deny as I walked down the hill leading to Sunset. “I’m trusting you,” Dad had said. More’s the fool him. Trust was for suckers. 

I MOVED, THEY MOVED, we moved together. The bounce and sway of the mosh pit, the black-clad mass pressed against my body, the music pressed against my eardrums, colored lights pressed and flashed against my eyes. We were one. I flailed and fell, drowning. I leapt up and slammed against another. So much noise, I couldn’t hear my own thoughts...or anybody else’s. I was no longer Veronica Simon, alien and alienated. I was no longer alone. Just because I had a plan didn’t mean I couldn’t have a little fun, right? 

The song ended, segued into a slow jam suitable only for the love sway, couples hugging one another with no visible rhythm. Of course, my mocking was only the slim coating over a bitter pill. Seventeen-years-old, and the only commandment I’d managed to break, goddamn it, was not taking the Lord’s name in vain. I still honored my mother, but Dad cared more about his stupid Faith Fellowship Community than me, so he didn’t deserve it. And maybe I’d done a bit of coveting of a certain sharp-faced, black-haired boy reporter with a quirky little smile. The thought of him made me smile as I plowed through the crowd, trying not to touch anyone. I wouldn’t mind breaking a few more commandments with him. Much as Dad and his cohorts tried to convince us otherwise, “Thou shalt not engage in sex before marriage” hadn’t actually made it onto Moses’s big stone tablet. I almost wished it had, for the fun of breaking it. Then again, I thought, as I got closer to the bar, who knew what would happen with that much closeness? I shuddered. Keep my distance. Tamp it down. Caution: use only as directed. And if a few things still slipped through the cracks, all the more reason to keep to myself. Best to concentrate on this opportunity. I rapped my knuckles on the bar to get Mike the bartender’s attention, and gave him what I hoped was a winsome smile. I hadn’t had a lot of practice with talking to people since we’d moved to Dalesville, but the few times I’d made it to The Club, talking to Mike had been easy. Someday, I might even be able to talk to someone else. He grinned when he saw me, his natural expression. He had a kind of teddy bear face and physique that was made for tapping kegs and giving the highest of fives. “What can I get you, Veronica Simon?” “Vodka tonic, if you’d be so kind, Michael Higgens.” I matched his tone. He crossed his arms, tried unsuccessfully to settle his round face in hard lines. “ID?” “Mike. Do me a solid. Jesus’ll love you for it, you know.” The grin reappeared before he could stop himself. “You could go to hell for saying shit like that.” I felt my good humor crack a bit. It was a reminder of things I wanted the drink to forget. My smile and banter felt rubbery and fake, but I pushed on regardless. “My bad. I thought this was hell.” He coughed and laughed simultaneously. “Fine. Three bucks.” I put four on the bar. “Price-gouging bastard. Thanks, Mike. May God bless you.” He laughed all the way down the bar. 

I swiveled in my chair, sipped my drink, and watched the dancers. An involuntary sigh escaped me, and I took a large gulp of my drink. Pathetic. I lit a cigarette from the pack I’d bought at the beaten-up little store around the block and commenced watching again, but the dizzy dance-induced endorphin rush was long gone, replaced by the slow-simmer anger I’d carried for the past four months. What did I expect, coming to this place? I didn’t know anybody. Five years of home, school, church, or church-related activities had rusted any social skills that didn’t involve quoting the Bible or praising Jesus. Even with Nancy, my best friend until Jeremy Barnes asked her out and proceeded to monopolize her, every word had to be monitored and measured, so I wouldn’t offend her. She’d never be caught dead in a place like this. And Mr. Mulligan, sadly, was nowhere to be seen. I crushed out the cigarette, half-smoked, polished off the last of the vodka, adjusted my gloves, and slid off the stool. I snaked again through the dancers to the exit and out into the cold night air to be actually alone. I wasn’t alone. On the outer rim of the streetlamp outside the parking lot of The Club was a guy, leaning against a station wagon festooned with an array of discordant bumper stickers from an NRA “from my cold dead hand” to an Earth Day decal. He held a cigarette between long pale fingers, nails painted black to match both his hair and ensemble. My laugh was both unstoppable and loud. He looked up and saw me, then shoved himself off the car and ambled in my direction. Despite the vampire drag and the dark parking lot, I wasn’t remotely scared. I knew who he was, the reason I’d started haunting The Club in the first place, hoping it might be one of the places he’d hang out. Finally, risk met reward. I leaned against the wall of the club, bass thrumming through the plywood, a soothing counterpoint to the fluttery sensation in my stomach as he came closer. I told myself it was the nervousness of asking for a favor from a stranger. 

He reached into the pocket of his coat and produced a pack of cheap cigarettes, offering me one. I took it and the offered lighter. It was only then he spoke. “Were you laughing at me?” No accusation in that deep, soft tone, only curiosity. I darted a glance at him, smiled. “Yes.” He returned it. “Just checking.” I took a drag of my cigarette, exhaled the smoke toward my boots. “Are you offended?” “Terribly.” His somber voice was immediately undercut with a laugh. I chanced looking up again, and let my smile widen. “Then please accept my deepest apologies...” “Chris Mulligan.”

 “Veronica Simon.” He squinted at me as if the fluorescents above the door hurt his eyes. “You look familiar.” “I think we go to the same school, although your distinctive style should’ve made you more... distinctive,” I finished lamely. I was lying. I’d been noticing him for a long time, a math class here, an English class there, sneaking glances at his profile over my copy of Huck Finn, reading his stories in the Dalesville High Journal with a little more interest than a profile of Coach Blake necessitated. I didn’t want to open with that, though. I thought I might come off as a stalker, especially since I’d never actually worked up the courage to talk to him until now. I watched him as he took a drag on his cigarette, the sharp plane of his cheek sucked in slightly. It should’ve made him look gaunt, but his face was softened by long lashes and lips whose curves always seemed to quirk on the edge of a smile. Not that I’d ever visualized kissing those lips or anything, or thought about running my hands through that shiny black hair. Nope, not me. I wasn’t remotely disconcerted by his proximity and was in no way having any problem paying attention to what he was saying. Absolutely not. This was purely professional.

 “...anyway, there’s a day-Chris and a night-Chris. Mostly ‘cause day-Chris has enough to do getting up and getting dressed without killing someone to manage more than jeans and a shirt. Then again, my dad hates it when I dress like this.” “That’s enough of a reason to do it, yeah?” 

My voice didn't shake at all. Go me. “Pretty much.” He finished his smoke and ground it out under his boot. “My friends are going to think I died. I should get back in. I’ll look for you.” “Do that.” He smiled and was gone again into the bowels of The Club, so named because it was the only one in town. I hefted myself upright from the wall, turned and stared at the door that shut behind him. In the minute after he left, I knew I could pull open the door and follow him inside. Hell, maybe I could ask him to do the sway. Instead, I crushed the smoke, turned again, and made my way through the parking lot and out into the streets of downtown Dalesville. The night was sullen with silence as I walked past alleys lively with trash and their furry inhabitants, boarded or soaped windows of stores and restaurants, victims of the now decades-old mall where the shinier kids took their economic and social business. As I meandered past the shuttered Blue Moon Café toward the square, I wasn’t sure why I hadn’t gone back inside, found him, and asked him to do the clutch and sway on the dance floor. I’d been waiting for this opportunity. Keep your distance. Find out what happened. All my planning and thinking hadn’t given me any idea on how to achieve both. Focus on the latter, I lectured myself as I continued my walk, the square coming into view. That was the important thing, wasn’t it? Not the way his smile quirked on and off, like a shorted-out lamp, or his gangly walk, or the shock of black hair he kept pushing back from his forehead. I wanted him intrigued, not me. You could just ask him. My foot stumbled over a rock on the sidewalk. I kicked it hard into the street. 

When had asking nicely ever gotten me anything? The nip of night air felt nice on my skin, and I let my sudden bad mood trail away. I dug another cigarette out of my bag and lit it, focused on the fact I’d kept my head around him, and known to quit while I was ahead. The light from a trashcan fire in the alley next to the St. James Hotel—formerly the “jewel of downtown Dalesville” and now home to anyone who could pay the ten dollar a night charge—illuminated the stark dark branches of the catalpa in the center of the square. I ambled over there, took a seat on the warped wooden bench under the tree, and leaned back, sending smoke up toward the icepick stars above. Alone was better. 

Dad would be home on Sunday, in time to drag me to church, where I had the joy of being surrounded by people whose only connection was how much they hated everything not like them. I wasn’t like them, and the effort to hide that was exhausting. Worse, the collective crazy of Dad’s church of freaks had a way of sneaking through the chinks in my mental armor even without touching them. I hugged my arms more tightly around myself. Alone was definitely better. 

The square was deserted, and the silence loud. My ears strained to pick up a sound, any sound. Relief came in the form of an idling car nearby. A door slammed, and I stood, turned away from the street. It was time to move on, sneak back into the house. “Hey. I thought it was you.” I spun around again, on my guard, and was facing Chris, giving me that same flickering smile. He stepped back, the smile gone. “Unless you didn’t want to be bothered.” 

I let my face relax. “No, it’s fine. I wasn’t doing anything important.” It quirked on again. “Cool. We’re,” he gestured toward the station wagon, where two shadows lurked in the depths of the car, “going to Sam’s for some coffee and grease. Wanna come with?” “Well...” I thought about the walk and the pleasure of solitude, that smile and the sharp teeth of the wind. Thought about sitting next to Dad and being harangued for my sinful nature in this our sinful world, anger like incense lingering in the air. Smiled, because it worked. “Why not?” We walked together toward the car. Chris opened the passenger door for me. Up close, I noticed two boys in the backseat sporting a motley collection of piercing, tats, and other blasphemous attire, and scrambled right in and slammed the door behind me.

~~~~

The smell of incense was worked into the wooden pew. In front of him was the doleful face of the suffering Christ. He saw no judgment there, no expression carved into the face that said, “Chris, you have sinned. You are cast from my kingdom.” There was enough of that in the pinched faces of the communicants’ heel-toe-ing it up the aisle. He stared instead at the lip of the pew where he was kneeling, trying not to slump and lay his head there. The wages of sin were falling asleep in church and waking up to see the red creep up his father’s neck, and the disappointment in his mom’s eyes. His father—his Dad’s friends called him Big Pat, and so did Chris in his head—was always angry about something lately, and thus easy to dismiss. Mom’s disappointment was rarer and harder to take. Be a good boy. When he was little, he’d wanted that life. A modern-day Saint Francis, working with the sick and poor. A life of service to the greater good. Christ’s representative on earth. That was all gone. He wasn’t sure exactly where it had gone. Maybe it was as simple as getting old enough to be horrified at the idea of never getting laid. Maybe it was Catholic grade school and the bitter nuns and pietistic priests and the hypocritical good boys and girls they praised, who were no better than anybody else. If it hadn’t been hard for him to figure out they were full of shit, shouldn’t people who’d devoted themselves to God be able to see through all that crap, too? There was one thing left that could still give him an echo of that old magic. The darkened church, priest in the nave with a large candle, and then the parishioners lighting their candles, each to each, until the church was full of hundreds of flickering flames. Easter vigil: 

the return of Alleluia, the return of the Lord from the hell of death. Eventually, the candles were snuffed, and he’d start counting the hours until the vigil was done. “The mass is over. Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.” 

The organist crashed into the recessional like he was playing Notre Dame rather than a mid-sized Midwestern Catholic church. Chris wasn’t the only one who jumped. He suspected Big Pat actually had dozed off, given the wide-eyed bleary gaze he returned to the priest. Still, he managed to get himself together to lead the procession out of the pew as soon as Fr. Nickols and the altar boys had swept past. Chris outdistanced his family almost immediately, pulling on his jacket as he walked down the aisle and out the doors into the sharply cool sunlit Sunday morning. He lit a cigarette the minute his feet hit the mended asphalt of the parking lot, picked out their rust-bitten station wagon among the shiny sedans and SUVs of the other parishioners, and strode in that direction. Their newer truck was in the shop, and money was tight while Big Pat was on disability. From that vantage point, he could watch his parents nod and smile at Fr. Nickols, watch his sister Meg squirm with irritation at being forced to stand still after an hour of sitting in church. He took a drag of his cigarette and followed the lazy drift of his thoughts to Friday night and the girl who got into the car. They’d driven over to Sam’s, the mangy twenty-four-hour diner on Sunset amid with strip malls and dollar theaters and fast food joints like neon pimples on the green backside of the hills surrounding the town. The fries were undercooked, the pie was rubbery, the coffee could either strip paint or be thin enough to read through, and the air was thick with cheap cigarette smoke, old grease, and beer sweat from the good ole boys who’d stumble in when The Rambler across the street closed, but it was theirs. The girls with shiny hair, the guys with visible biceps? They never set foot in Sam’s. It was the boys clad in black, pale from choice or from spending hours in their parents’ basement reading Lord of the Rings or playing Dungeons and Dragons, the girls who pierced their noses or dyed and spiked their hair in electric blue or Kelly green or cherry red. Even more subtle outcasts—the girl who’d rather read English lit or was too fascinated by string theory, the boy who liked to draw, or even the ultimate crime in a mid-sized Midwestern town in the mid-nineties, the boy who like other boys—flocked to Sam’s. Sam’s, The Club, the Blue Moon coffee shop, Lou’s Used Records—those belonged to all of the above. To hell with the rest of the town. 

Chris was counting the days, and his savings, until he could leave for good. They’d stood in the doorway, and he could recognize almost everyone under twenty. Mark, who could quote verbatim from The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and laughed at any mention of the number forty-two, or Cecilia and Tim, with heads both shaved on one side so when they sat together, it looked like one head of dyed black hair. They were the town’s answer to Kim Gordon and Thurston Moore, and played their brand of odd, intellectual rock every other Saturday at the Blue Moon. 

Veronica? He couldn’t remember her at any of those places, only coming out of the ground fog at The Club, laughing at him, or sprawled on a bench under the worn catalpa in the square, staring up at the sky. That was weird. She was memorable. Tall, with dark brown hair in a careless ponytail, and a glance so sharp, it could cut glass...

...he realized what it was: he felt chosen. But for what?--Chris

Robert James, staring at me with that smug little smile as he said, “No one will stand in our way.”

Reading this book set in the '90s was a new experience for me... I realized just how little the gulf between people actually was and, still, is... That's sad, don't you think? My thoughts turned to just exactly when large churches became so influential and massive, often separating parents from their children--their children who witnessed a change of the level of fun and happiness in their home, which was the only barometer that could be used at their age...

Once again, I am caught trying to understand just how white men ever got the idea that they are special... especially knowing that the greatest man who walked on earth, at least in my opinion, was not... 

“You know, sweetheart, the fear of the moment is always worse than the reality.” Mom’s voice was so clear in my head I could be sitting next to her in our old white truck, with its sprung seats and tall stick shift one of us would always knock into getting in or out. We’d sat outside of school for what seemed like forever, the truck growling and rumbling as it idled. I hadn’t wanted to go in, something bad happened—a fight with a classmate, maybe, or something embarrassing like my shorts falling off in gym class, too many humiliations to count—and I hadn’t wanted to walk through those doors either. “Always?” She leaned over, knocking her elbow on the stick shift, she ignored that and kissed me on the cheek. “I promise.” I took one last drag and stood up, dropping the butt in the ashtray by the door. I could disappoint Dad and drive off Chris, but I owed it to Mom to be strong.

Here's one reader who hopes there will be at least a sequel to this extraordinary novel! The book was published this year, so I didn't expect another to be available, but I still went looking... The book did close out the theme that was running through the book, but... Either this book is a fantastic first book with some type of follow up book/series, or it lacks the closure that I needed to see. I don't regret reading the book, but if the things that remain hanging, especially with Chris and Veronica, it's my guess that 95% of readers will be heartbroken, especially the teens... I've done a little research and can find no reference to there being a next book... BUMMER! Rating reduced to 3 then...

GABixlerReviews 

Angie Stone: Queen of Neo Soul - May She Rest in Peace - A Fan Tribute by Carol Denise Mitchell

 “When I was younger, I was taught that a winner never quits, and a quitter never wins.” --Angie Stone

“Funk You Up,” has lost its glowing star 

in Angie Stone.

...it ultimately led to the creation of the R&B/hip hop group It's Us, which was later renamed Vertical Hold. In 1988, they released their debut single "Summertime" under Criminal Records.

After Mack departed from the group, Stone, Bright, and Bruno secured a new recording contract with A&M Records. Their first album, A Matter of Time, released in 1993, was preceded by the top 20 R&B hit "Seems You're Much Too Busy" and reached the top forty on the US Top R&B Albums chart, selling over 62,000 copies in the United States.

Angie Stone was like us - Her beautiful dark skin complimented all colors. Her love for The Lord was unmatched. Now, that you know all about how Angie became The Queen of Neo Soul, let’s go back to see how this great entertainer is just like you! Rodney Stone, Lil’ Rodney C entered the scene, and he was affectionately known as Little Rodney C. This young man would soon capture Angie’s heart, leading to marriage and the birth of their child. Initially, he educated Angie, and they eventually tied the knot. Although Angie remarked that they conducted business well together, she felt their marriage was flawed. Despite this, the couple collaborated on three self-written albums in 1984. When Sequence sought answers, Rodney and Angie welcomed a daughter named Diamond. Angie found opportunities performing in commercials and playing the saxophone for Lenny Kravitz. Subsequently, MCA Universal signed her to write songs for another artist, earning her $25,000. In 1993, Angie joined Vertical Hold, channeling her emotions into her music. The song "Seems You’re Much Too Busy" solidified her musical career. Despite facing challenges, Angie persevered in pursuit of her aspirations. After releasing two albums with Vertical Hold, she ventured out on her own but also contributed to D’Angelo’s "Brown Sugar," recognizing their deep connection. However, falling in love meant that Angie had to pause her career. By the late 1990s, her relationship with D’Angelo had ended. Angie recorded demos that reached Arista Records, eventually catching the attention of Peter Edge and Clive Davis. This led to a deal for her first solo album, "Black Diamond," which included the hit "No More Rain." After two decades in the industry, Angie finally embraced her identity as a solo artist. "Black Diamond" achieved gold status, and as Clive Davis launched J Records, he brought Angie along. She later found success with the powerful track "Brotha," dedicated to Black men, and although it didn’t make it onto the album, "Wish I Didn’t Miss You" soared to number one on the dance charts. Angie is known to have said that this was a song she didn’t even like. Angie Stone was amazed how popular it became. We learned this tune was inspired by the O’Jay’s' "Back Stabbers." Angie Stone celebrated two gold albums by the year 2000. She advised Jazzy not to revisit her earlier work, leading to the creation of another single, "I Wanna Thank You," which also reached number one on the dance charts... 

Music: “Love Language”  - Angie did an interview that showed her softer side and I really want to share this with you.  On June 20, 2023, June Archer did a charming interview with Angie Stone. She was a remarkable woman. She told Archer that one notable aspect of my mother was her ability to stay true to herself. She navigated life on her own terms, never intruding on others' paths. She discovered her niche, focused on it, and pursued her endeavors in her unique way. As a result, she found great satisfaction in her life choices, and I believe I have inherited that trait from her. 

I, too, carve out my own space, finding happiness in my independence and the decisions I have made. Then Archer said: “You have also made remarkable choices, Angie, and I must commend you for your body of work, which has helped many individuals through challenging times. When you share your experiences, people turn to you, your music, and your lyrics, finding hope and inspiration. Thank you for your resilience and for being a strong,  unapologetically remarkable Black woman.

I would like to discuss your new album, "Love Language." To begin, I want to ask you: what is your love language, Angie? Is it expressed through music, food, a stroll in the park, or something else?” Archer asked. And then Ms. Stone chimed in: “It’s interesting that you pose this question, as many have been inquiring about it since the album's title is "Love Language." My love language encompasses all of those elements. Each track on this album reflects my essence—how I move, act, and think, as well as what stirs my emotions. You can gain insight into who I am simply by listening to my music. My love language embodies a humble spirit, one that seeks to avoid unnecessary drama and instead fosters joy and generosity. I resonate with those who are eager to give and share abundantly. 

Angie Stone’s Famous Quotes 

“Let us have some more fun with some very interesting quotes we found on line by Angie Stone. Be prepared to laugh and remember Angie Stone the way she’d love for her fans to remember her. 

Because I am just a giving person spiritually, I feel that if your intentions are to use or abuse or take advantage of, then you might get what you’re getting in the meantime; but there’s still a price to pay.”

“Music always hits me when I’m driving so, I keep a recorder in my bag.”

“I’m the kind of woman you might say is too good. I’ll massage a man’s feet, have dinner cooked when he gets home. But once they leave, the door is closed, and the locks are changed.” “They always come back when they learn that no other woman’s going to treat them this good!” – Angie Stone

After I had finished Carol Denise Mitchell's latest book about Angie Stone, I wasn't quite sure how to begin to share about the book... You see, given my emphasis on reading/books, I don't have the knowledge to talk about those who specialize in other creative arts... People like Angie Stone... But, after reading what Mitchell had written, I knew two things: that Carol was one of the greatest fans Angie Stone had ever had... And, two, when a fan like Carol Denise Mitchell gets angry about what was done to a friend, she's going to write about it... after doing a lot of research!

At one point in her book, Carol writes to her readers that she knows she's repeating herself. And then adds, she is so shocked that she can't ever forget all that she discovered, or similar words... Now, from a book reader, I noticed more about her format rather than repetition of material. And, to me, that was more important...

 

She started out by talking about her own relationship with Angie... and shares as much as she wants. She has titled each chapter and becomes repetitive as she "bundles" material to talk about in each chapter... thus, each reader may decide a chapter is more significant and want to emphasize it more. One of the things that I didn't know even at hearing of the tribute being made was the breadth and scope of Angie Stone's accomplishments! 

Carol talks about each of her activities from songwriting, singing (on Soul Train and other shows) as well as television performances, being spotlighted by Rolling Stone and so much more...

If you have not heard of author Carol Denise Mitchell, you will learn that her writing is more based upon what she wants and needs to write about rather than one or two genres... She's written fiction as well as nonfiction and so you will find that her books can be separated by topic as well as reading straight through. But no matter how she presents it, Mitchell has a specific purpose to writing this tribute--that is, besides expressing her emotional feelings about Stone.

Mitchell has experienced much abuse as we all know happens with those who are different in some way... meaning, not being a white man... And, she has written enough and done research to show how Black people, in particular, can be scammed by those individuals who are producers and/or hired to take care of specific duties and financial affairs while the creative artist does what she is being paid to do.

Mitchell refers often to what is found as  documentation on YouTube. I found quite a bit that was not allowed to be shared from that site, including several recent posts to followup after Stone's accident. . I made no effort to learn more than the fact that I saw that there were many people talking about Stone's beginning to speak out about where her money had gone... And, a possible correlation to the fact that she was killed in a car accident...

What I do know is that, although I had never heard of Angie Stone before, I took the time to listen to her wide variety of music and I found her, in my opinion, a wonderful multi-talented role model for young girls and others. I was totally entertained by spotlighting all that I've shared with you all today! Angie's ability to move from one type of music to another, without any problem reveals just how much her talent exceeded many other singers who stick within, say, a country genre... Her obvious writing skills in poetically setting thoughts to music places her, also, above those who did not write and sing her creations... In fact, from what I've read, it is quite easy to see just how others had decided to, on an ongoing basis, take advantage of her generous nature, so much so that, as she was looking toward retirement, she was unable to do so because of lack of money... I couldn't help but think of similar situations where young, beautiful creatives have been manipulated to the point that they are being ignored once the funds begin to run dry... 

While I am making no accusations myself, I suggest to those who are close to Stone, that they find somebody to trust and start looking, based upon the groundwork in this book... Carol is a great researcher--she's found more to write this book than necessary as a fan... But, Carol, is not just a fan of Angie, She's a black woman that cares about how all women and others who are being ignored or purposely taken advantage of based upon some bias or prejudice that has no foundation of Truth... To find her on this blog, you may need to use a variety of her name in the right column--I read Carol's first book and as many as I've been able since then... I've been honored to support her writing career... 

For those those who are interested in music as a career, or music in general, this book will be fascinating for fans of Blues, R&B, Jazz and just about any beat, including one that sounded Latino... Stone had no limits to what she was able to "dream up..." This would also be a valuable educational book for those in the music business... There is every evidence from her "sound" as well as how she was "slid out" on some activities for one reason or another, that this woman could have been even more of a star than she was as evidenced by this Fan Tribute! At a minimum, have as much delight as I did as I listened to this playlist I was able to find relatively easily... Each recording was an amazing discovery of a supremely talented female singer! And I didn't even get into her television and other activities! Angie Stone deserves to be remembered! And she's probably already singing in the heavenly choir!

GABixlerReviews

Emma Jameson Presents Blue Christmas: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Lord and Lady Hetheridge Mystery Series Book 6) Not Your Usual Christmas Story!

 The foot protruded from under the duvet, his toenails hoary and jagged, his toes greenish-white. Wasn’t that the universal fear? That if one’s foot slips from beneath the covers, something terrible is waiting to take hold of it?

“About our victim,” Tony began. “I’ve searched my memory, but the name Barnaby Galen doesn’t ring any bells.” “Let’s return to our old friend, Officer Google.” Swiping at his mobile, Paul read off the screen, “‘Barnaby Galen, a diversified multimillionaire, made the bulk of his fortune in the payday loan industry. Mr. Galen, 72, has never married. He has no children. He resides in Knightsbridge, London, in a house once owned by Victorian train designer and steam engineer, John Covetly Cooper. In the early 2000s, Mr. Galen’s payday loan company, Ye Olde Money Man, was targeted by the pressure group Humanity First. This group alleged that the company had flagrantly predatory lending practices, such as £35 interest per month for every £100 borrowed….’” Kate made a disgusted sound. “Lord. That ought to be illegal. Isn’t it?” “These days, yes,” Tony agreed. “When I was a young man, that sort of naked usury wasn’t permitted, either. You know how the cycle goes. The lending industry is regulated, over-regulated, set free to do absolutely anything for a period, and reined in again.” “He picked the right time to profit, I guess. Is there anything else?” Kate asked Paul. “Not really. His name has appeared on the Forbes list at least once, and if you search for the company name, Ye Olde Money Man, it links back to some investigatory journalism and op-eds about income inequality. That’s as much as a quick look with Officer Google can reveal. Gulls will dig up plenty more in the next few days, I promise.” “Multimillionaire,” Tony repeated. “He must’ve lived like a hermit. Not on the board of any charities, never seen at gallery openings or political fetes.” “Should I know who John Covetly Cooper is?” Kate asked. She always felt a bit thick when the conversation turned to historical personages she’d never heard of. Tony shrugged. Paul said, “I don’t think he was famous, apart from railway enthusiasts, maybe. But doesn’t he sound like a character in a steampunk TV show? Lieutenant Major J.C. Cooper at your service, milady,” he said, slipping into his Colonel Blimp voice. “‘I can steer this airship and fight duels with my rapier. But alas, my heart is only a cold clockwork mechanism, powered by aether.’” 

“Should I call a doctor? Have you taken leave of your senses?” Giana asked, placing Paul’s lager before him. “No, no, just fine,” he said, tasting his drink. He didn’t even try to catch Giana’s eye as she set down Kate and Tony’s pints, then retreated. It was true; the earlier flirtation had been an act. “I got to see the kitchen lot,” Kate volunteered, after they’d all had a moment to savor the round. “There was no time for me to talk to any of them, and honestly, they might not have been in a fit state. They were giving poor Kincaid a right royal time. Gulls said the neighbors are quite friendly with one another along Holywell Street. But they weren’t fond of Mr. Galen.” “Certainly not,” Paul said. “Remember when one of you asked if the old man was a sort of neighborhood project? The sad, lost little pensioner who everyone looks in on? Well, it was just the opposite. They watched out for Galen, the way you watch out for a rabid dog. None of them even pretended to be surprised that someone would murder him.” “What did he do to them?” Kate asked. “I didn’t get the comprehensive list. I imagine Kincaid did, though. But mostly it came down to rudeness,” Paul said. “Shouting when a dog was walked past his front garden. Calling the police on harmless parties. Dumping slop-pots in other people’s yards.” “Oi,” Kate muttered. “Quite the charmer.” “But were they surprised by the method?” Tony asked. “Did any of the neighbors say anything interesting on that score?” Paul considered the question. “They did… only because they didn’t, if you know what I mean. It’s hard to be certain. But when I arrived on the scene and saw Granny, I shrieked. And so did you,” he told Kate. “Only a little.” “Even Tony got pale. He said something like, ‘It’s not real,’” Paul said, imitating Tony as if he, too, were Colonel Blimp. “And poor Trevor, the M.E. who looks like Ronan Farrow⁠—” “Oh, you’re right, he does look like Ronan Farrow,” Kate cried. “I don’t sound like Colonel Blimp,” Tony said. “Nor do I know who Ronan Farrow is. But do you mean to say, the neighbors were sort of, well, blasé about a human skeleton that rode up from under the bed on miniature train tracks?” Kate burst out laughing. “It was Lieutenant Major J.C. Cooper’s ghost. He did it! Death by a steampunk skeleton.” “Well, that’s it. You’ve cracked it. Time for me to pack it in,” Paul said with mock despair. “And I thought Tony was onto something with the kitchen lot. They all thoroughly despised Galen. They didn’t need psychiatric triage after taking in a completely bizarre death scene. Maybe because they were all in on it? Meaning we’d finally achieved….” He paused, taking a breath. “A Murder on the Orient Express crime,” Kate, Tony, and Paul said in unison. They laughed again, and finished their pints. “Quattro Formaggi,” Giana announced, placing a large pie in the center of the table. The moment Kate laid eyes on it, she realized how very hungry she actually was. She and Tony had grabbed a quick lunch before boarding the train to London, but that had been hours ago. Worries over the scale or her personal numerical value, as determined by the size of her knickers, went up in smoke. She ate with gusto. “This is amazing. There’s no decent pizza in Shawbridge, just the frozen stuff Henry and Ritchie like,” Kate said. “I didn’t know how much I missed the real thing until I took a bite.” “I didn’t realize how much I missed the real thing until I set foot inside it,” Tony said. “To London,” Paul said, lifting his glass. “To London,” Kate said. “To London,” Tony said, with feeling. Kate smiled at him, and he patted her thigh under the table. “So, what did you discover when you made that last circuit around the house?” Kate asked, getting back to her pizza. “No security system with motion detectors, I assume?” “From what the kitchen lot said, Galen was far too frugal for anything like that,” Paul replied. “Even the CCTV cameras mounted beside the front and back doors were fakes,” Tony said. “Bad enough when they film night and day, but aren’t properly monitored. These are obvious dummies. The flimsy, bargain-bin kind.” “Were any of the doors forced?” Kate asked. “No,” Tony said. “The windows were in good shape, too. I think it’s likely someone gained easy access to the house, either with Galen’s permission or with a duplicate key.” On that thought, they suspended the conversation until they’d reduced the pizza to a smattering of crumbs on a scarred pie plate. Then came another round of pints and a deeper discussion of what Kate really wanted to focus on: Granny. “I want you to have a look at my pictures,” Kate said, bringing up the images on her iPhone. “I crawled around on that disgusting carpet to get them, so you could study Mr. FX’s handiwork.” “Mr. what?” Tony looked blank. “F.” Kate drew the letter in the air. “X. As in the abbreviation for special effects. You know. The cinema.” “Mr. FX. A fitting name,” Paul said, leaning back in his chair the way Tony often did when contemplating a case. Paul, however, kept one hand on the table, lest he get wrapped up in his thoughts and overbalance. “You know, I watched a documentary about haunted attractions not long ago. The American kind, with actors in costumes, where they really try to terrify the patrons. Did you know haunted houses were invented in England?” Tony looked up from his pint to find Paul awaiting an answer. “Why are you staring at me?” “Oh, I thought you might have attended the opening. The Orton and Spooner Ghost House was wildly popular in 1915.” Tony said nothing. He also forgot nothing, as Paul very well knew. Kate giggled at the face-off. “I suppose it was here in London?” “No,” Paul said. “It was in Liphook. Still is, I reckon. As coincidence would have it—assuming there is such a thing as coincidences in this world—the Orton and Spooner Ghost House was a marvel of steam power. Possibly right up the real John Covetly Cooper’s alley, unless he was the dull sort who hates flights of fancy,” Paul added. “The floors rocked. The patrons felt ghosts brushing by them. Blasts of steam, actually. The whole place vibrated. And since they walked through it in total darkness, it was just scary enough to be a hit with the general public.” “Sounds like you absolutely devoured this documentary,” Kate said. “It was fun. Really all I remember are two things—the Orton and Spooner Ghost House, and the term, ‘startle scare.’ That’s what Granny looks like to me,” Paul said. “When you go through haunted houses, there are usually dark corridors where something brushes against you, like the steam blasts in the Orton House. Then there are tableaus, where you see a terrible scene, vampires feasting or so forth. But what makes a haunted house great are startle scares coming along at deliberate intervals. They usually drop down or spring up.” “I think Granny—the skeleton component, I mean—folded flat while under the bed,” Kate said, passing her mobile to Tony and Paul so they could study her image of the under-bed tracks. “Then once she was out, the platform slid backwards, tipping her body upright.” “Diabolical,” Tony murmured. “Anyone who could get that sort of access to the man’s bedroom could have hidden in one of that house’s disused rooms, then come out and strangled him in his sleep. Not to mention the fact Galen kept his essential medications out in plain sight. The killer could’ve switched the pills and had him dead in a matter of days. Plus, that sort of demise would very likely be written off as natural in a man Galen’s age.” For what felt like a long time, no one spoke. Then Kate said, “I suppose we’re dealing with a true psychopath. Another true psychopath.” “I would’ve preferred the Orient Express scenario, if I’m being honest,” Tony said. Paul began to hum under his breath. The tune was “Jingle Bells.” “That’s your answer? ‘Jingle Bells?’” Kate kicked him under the table. “Ow! Violence in the workplace! You’ll end up in an MPS reeducation camp, and you’ll deserve it,” Paul said. “I’m caroling because this case is Scrooge all over again.” Tony set down his near-empty pint with a bump. “You’re right.” Kate didn’t see it. “You mean, with Tiny Tim and Bob Cratchit and whatnot?” “Yes. Think about it,” Paul said eagerly. “Galen’s a rich old man. He has no family. He has no friends. He got wealthy lending money but he doesn’t enjoy his riches. He lives alone in a wreck of a mansion. One night a terrible specter visits him in his bed. Except in this case, he doesn’t learn a valuable lesson. He drops dead.” “We don’t know that Galen had no friends. Gulls said his P.A. was gutted over the murder. We also don’t know that Galen didn’t enjoy his money,” Kate said reasonably. “He might have hired a cleaner,” Tony said. “If I’ve learned one thing from my service on the Toff Squad,” Paul said, blazing on as if neither of them had spoken, “it’s this. Rich people never go it alone. Not even if they’re full-on paranoids and misanthropes. Galen might have been too much of a skinflint to pay for things like cleaners. And plumbers. And authentic CCTV cameras. But I promise you, he had one dogsbody. One miserable, downtrodden, afraid-of-his-own-shadow employee. Enter the P.A.” “His Bob Cratchit,” Tony said. “You’re probably right.” “I am,” Paul said breezily, signaling Giana for the check. “Now we just need to find out who in Galen’s life fancied playing the Spirit of Christmas Yet to Come, and we’ll have the case wrapped in time for Christmas lunch.”

~~~

I'm not convinced that this book should be related to Christmas even if the time is near, lol--rather, Halloween... Sure Scrooge was a miser and quite unpleasant, but even he didn't get murdered or live in a cesspool of a home that defied a quick description! Think no working plumbing, no attempts to make a home out of a house, and certainly not worth his neighbors involvement.

On the other hand, there are wonderful romantic scenes by two of the main characters--Lord and Lady Hetheridge. Lady Hetheridge is a cop and the Lord is a consultant as times. Key is that Kate has been on leave due to what happened to her during an investigation... So her husband had done everything to help her get her mojo back to normal. One of the reasons was that he missed being in London, working...

And Paul, Kate's partner on the job, had been keeping a secret even from his mother, who, admittedly was very overbearing. But now Kate was being hounded by his mother, trying to get his new address! Loved this sub-plot with a little touch of Grinch... or Scrooge! I mean seriously, when you learn about how he lived, you'll start thinking why he might have been murdered... And realize during the investigation that there could be hundreds who wanted...him...gone!

But just like the Christmas Carol, there was one man who had worked for this multimillionaire and he also had a son who was often in his house... But all three of the officers on the case decided that they couldn't be involved in the murder, even if there were many clues and reasons that they "could" have wanted to do it... they went deeper and deeper into the lives of neighbors and those with whom Barnaby Galen had been involved, including some criminal acts through the years.

Now here's the things that put a delay in tracking the killer... it involved a part of a real skeleton, a fake plastic skeleton hand, bones from multiple people, a female head with a plastic cap glued to it and an extremely hard job of trying to find clues in a sewage-based floor, sheets that were so dirty they were gray, curtains that fell apart when touched... you get the idea...

Reminds me of another Christmas song who probably became a creature developed in this man's house with black mold as its base...

So why was he murdered? You know, I just had to change the "flavor"
of the play list to match what was happening...

Now before we get too far ahead of the book, you should know that a man who was worse than the Grinch, or Scrooge was indeed murdered and discovered in his bed. Seems he was scared to death... Let's face it, this guy was neither naughty nor nice. He was dead. And there was nobody grieving, nor were there any significant clues...

This is my first book by Emma Jameson. Her creativity in the murder scene is worth your reading... Plus, watching Kate get back into her role as a police officer was both informative and tragic, recognizing that it was a similar tragic incident that led her to, at one point in this book, losing track of everything around her. I've had this happen to me just one time and it was a devastating event, even though it wasn't caused by the activity in which I was involved. Let me just say, that I applaud the author for creating a storyline that is both amazing, as well as, quite effectively done! Highly recommended!

GABixlerReviews

Maxine by Carol D. Mitchell - Makes Readers Laugh, Cry, and Wanting More... Best of Mitchell's Best!

 How did I get so lucky to find my rib in you?

Find out who said this?

Chile, you ain't never gonna call Glenda a gossip evah again! Who're ya to speak nasty words just because I'm a hateful person... But have I hated on you, girl? No! I just hated on my daughter's choice of men... Can I be at fault when sayin' "I told ya so!" to her at least a hundred times a day since they been hitched? Ya know what, I just can't stand the man who lies about always working for the good of mankind? Yep, that's what I said, mankind! "Cause he never did care about women, even when my angel ran after him all those years ago, yappin' about marrying him someday... I tell you, I ain't no gossip just cause I repeat what that blond racist pig said about grabbin' women anywhichway he wants...Heck chile, my Angel hasn't been grabbed anywhere since that doctor started worrying about his patients and the poor and the corporation leaders who don't pay no taxes like we poor folk... No wonder she went out to become one of those "LA Women Married to Doctors," turnin' to clothes, jewels and all things costin' big bucks since he decided to spend all his time with those drunks brought in after knife 'n gun fights... Now that ain't gossip, chile, that's honest truth with a small "t" cause I save the big "T"when I yak about what that boss of mine says about anybody and everybody... He's the biggest liar of Truth I ever seen, ya betcha! 

And chile, don't pretend I ain't the narrator of your story, as well as a worried mother wantin' her chile to have her cake and eat it too, even if she chose not to get preggers as long as she wasn't gettin' much of anythin' except lots of money to soften her burden... Do you know anybody better to break in on a tender moment or a catfight with a little nonsense and gossip, oops...not gossip, but merely disinfo! as I've learned to say speaking of the orange man...

~~~

I have to add a note...I so enjoyed Carol's reference to "me" Glenda as someone Madea-like that I just had to share the above...of course talking about the book, but as Glenda the gossip... I have to admit, that I enjoyed getting into the character...LOL Have you every become a different character than the one you are? Hope you enjoyed my Madea...

(Fitting In Carol's, and a few of mine, playlist as breaks)

Some of you may remember the book/movie Love Story. If you do, you may feel that same emotional pull of the story as Maxine meets her soulmate... But that will not be the whole plot readers will find in Maxine by Carol D. Mitchell... I read this book in one sitting and quickly added it to my personal favorites for 2024--and it has little to do with the fact that my name was included in the book. LOL... Well, maybe it helped... I've been reading Mitchell's books since her first...do take the time to do a search for reviews on her other books...

For, you see, as you will learn from the beginning of this post, Glenda is describe as Madea-like and a gossip about anybody she dislikes... And that includes her daughter's husband...and anybody else that gets in her way... By the way, included in this book is a narrator who sets the upcoming scene for readers... It, too, is often humorous, so enjoy a sample below...

Okay, y’all fasten your seatbelts reason being it’s about to hit the fan with Doctor Brad Montgomery and his ride-or-die Angela. If dreams are made in heaven, this marriage was made in hell. Let me give you a jump start on their past, then, honey, we will be there for the landing! Check this out. 

She was the girl he grew up with in Hunters Point who was supposed to make a difference for a conservative good guy like Doctor Brad Montgomery, but after a decade of marriage, she turned out to be a bitch from hell. Angela’s mama did not like the idea of her marrying a medical doctor who spent hours upon hours in the hospital emergency room. When they were kids, Angela’s mother, Glenda, set the two of them up for marriage before they were in grammar school. “Angela, Richard’s fast. But Brad’s sneaky. He’s the quiet type, the worse kind you should set your sight on but he’s going to do something great one day, and raise you out this Hood” she said. Sure enough, from junior high to high school, Brad only dated Angela. From the time they were younguns holding hands at the shipyards, they were always cool until they married, and, honey, that’s when all hell broke loose. 

For two-decades, ole nosey Glenda held nothing back when Angela began having problems in her marriage with Board-certified Doctor Brad Montgomery. “I  told you before the wedding that man was too cerebral for you Angela, but your ass don’t listen to nobody,” her mother said. The former Hunter’s Point gossip made good when she traded one husband in for another, got a job with the state, and moved out of the Hood to a swank four-bedroom home in Concord, California. 

Now, Glenda, who ran two of her adult children out of state, sat out to ruin her daughter’s marriage. “Mama, we have known each other too long since grade school. I never knew if I married him he would close up on me like this and never be home,” Angela yelled to her mother. “Ten years is a long time to be married to somebody Angela. When he was in medical school, you stuck to that man like glue, only to realize that person wasn’t right for you. I have never seen you so unhappy. You planned your whole life around being with that one man. You know what you have to do. I have been hearing about how unhappy you are, and I am tired of hearing about it now. You flew to Clovis to live with him while he was in medical school, because all you wanted to be was a doctor’s wife. Now, you can’t stand him. I honestly believe you should leave this doctor and marry a regular person who has time to be there for you. Anyone who is smart and returns to medical school after fifteen years of schooling to do two more years for a specialty is crazy. Doctor Brad Montgomery has a few screws missing in the brain,” Angela’s mother said.

~~~

 

Chile, that session at Glenda’s house in Concord got so hot, Glenda called a divorce attorney. Now, Angela was going to take all this shit home to an  unsuspecting husband who despised her mama! You don’t want to miss this! Because honey, this is the last straw for Angela Montgomery. 

~~~

The Good doctor has had enough! “Mama, that’s not what you said in Hunter’s Point, when he saved Richard from being a drug addict like his mom. 

“Oohee. Ain’t we glad that boy was at the  Montgomery’s house when his mama died on them drugs,” you said. Brad was quiet then; he’s quiet now, and a lot of it has to do with how much his parents fought when he was a kid. Cops at his house every night? It ran that child crazy. I do believe Angela, one day all of that is going to take a dangerous toll on Brad,” said Glenda. “Mama that’s his personality. He keeps things inside. I love him, mama. Giving him divorce papers from your attorney is going to be so hard to do, considering he’s the man responsible for all my firsts in life. I thought he was the one. To have been friends all of our lives and then to be in this marriage feeling empty, I am afraid of what the future holds for me,” Angela ended. “Baby, I am more afraid of what the future holds for him,” ended Glenda...

~~~

Three children had grown up together. Two boys and Angela... The boys were Brad and Richard who were close friends even if they were almost the opposite in personalities... Brad and Angela had started dating and carried their relationship through to marriage...

When Richard's mother died from an overdose, his uncle decided to bring him to live with him and, as that rich uncle in the family, had offered to include his friend Brad as well. Both boys were so excited. They had both decided that they wanted to become doctors and when the uncle learned this, he agreed to financially support both of them... Years passed both were now working at the same hospital, still close friends... Only one difference...

While Brad had always been a one-woman kind of man, Richard was a player, which was quite easy to be, of course. When a good-looking man also is a doctor, there were many ladies (and mothers) who thought marriage to him would be great... But there was only one thing that Richard looked for--hittin' that bod...and another one, and then one more... and even Maxine's girlfriend! Which is a no-no, right?!

But Richard held a secret deep within him, he was falling in love with Maxine. Richard and Maxine had become friends when his uncle helped Maxine get started in a cosmetics enterprise. She worked hard and made it big, making even more money than either Brad or Richard as doctors... The thing is that Maxine has been such a close friend while they were working to get her started, that she also quickly realized that Richard liked having many women and felt little need to settle down... So, whenever Richard had tried to make a play, she would laugh and let him know that she just would remain his best friend...

In the meantime, Brad's wife, Angela, had divorced him and was already remarried with two kids... So Brad and Richard got together after work since he was single now and enjoyed watching all the ladies who called out or walked by the most attractive and eligible doctors around... Until the time Richard decided he would be noble and see if Maxine might be interested in meeting Brad...

You know folks, every time that something becomes a problem, it seems that it is because there is such an inability for many of us to say exactly what needs to be said...until it is too late... And that is what happens in this extraordinary book that will both shock you as well as teach you so much about just how people don't really know how to say what they need to say...

On the other hand, Maxine has found her soulmate, but which one is it--Brad or Richard... because there's a lot more happening in this book and tragedy is a major part, along with an everlasting love story... and Maxine has fallen in love...forever... Wow! If you love to cry along with a fantastic love story, also enjoy situational humor, surprises and a narrator who won't stop till Madea holds her hand over her mouth... This is a very special and memorable book and I highly recommend you check it out!

GABixlerReviews

The Secret Pianist: Sisters. Traitors. Spies. An Historical Novel by Andie Newton

 

Both men leaned in, only to back away in shock after reading about the Monsigny performance and their special guest of honor. Smith took his glasses off. “Date and time of Hitler’s whereabouts.” “My God, sir. This is proof we can’t stop now!” Guy smiled broadly. “We have to call the Air Ministry, get a flight in the diary.” Smith shook his head. “Afraid not.” 

Prologue - Somewhere over France 

The pilot had been trained to fly his RAF Whitley over enemy territory at night, memorizing the bends of the French coastline, the railways, and the location of the villages, while trying to avoid German emplacements. He was prepared for almost everything that night except for a change in the weather. Thick clouds blanketed the moon, dangerously concealing the cliffs along the shore and threatening not only the crew’s lives but the fifty special agents he was ordered to drop over Belgium. It didn’t take long before the pilot had flown off course, lost above enemy territory with only a vague idea of where they were when anti-aircraft fire popped against the fuselage. Tink, tink, tink, tink… As the pilot struggled to keep his crew alive and the aircraft steady in the air, he got annoyed with himself for even flying at all. Why was he taking such risks for pigeons? Pigeons indeed. He’d had quite the discussion with his supervisor about the birds before he’d taken off from the airfield at Newmarket. Nobody at the Air Ministry thought messenger pigeons would win the war. Nobody. He’d heard the few pigeons that survived previous missions had flown back with hand-drawn cartoons and personal messages to family, but no hard, usable intelligence. Definitely not information that was worth his life or his crew’s, he’d decided. He shouted to one of the crewmen in the back. “Dump the cargo!” “But we don’t know where we are, sir!” he answered. “We’re turning around,” the pilot said, hands white as chalk gripping the yoke, “and I’m not taking those birds back up again! Dump the bloody things!” A barrage of enemy bullets punched holes in the wing. “Now!” he barked. The crewman pushed the pigeons out of the plane as the enemy fired—all fifty of them, individually packaged in tiny bird boxes with parachutes like agents of war. “Rest in peace, you poor little buggers,” he said as they spiraled toward their doom. 

~~~

The story begins in 1944 and the German soldiers have invaded France. As is known, war brings nothing but misery for the citizens in a country--no matter which country it is... We meet the main characters--three sisters who have lost much and have been forced to become seamstresses in a little shop which barely provides for their needs... But it is now night and Gaby has heard noises in the house and hurried downstairs to discover what is happening. It was known widely that the German soldiers would often visit homes, taking anything and everything they wanted. But why had they picked this house? Perhaps they knew there were no men? She shivered at the possible ramifications...

When she discovered that it was only Martine, her sister, she felt both relief and disgust. Martine was just coming from the basement, she was dirty and was hesitant to explain what she was doing. She had to ask, "are you hiding a boy." which could really cause problems. But, no, that was not the case. Even as they stood there looking at each other, an outside noise made them stand rigidly, counting steps, trying to determine how many there were... Two were talking to their neighbor, who was a bossy, nosy French woman, and two were heading to their home...

Both of the sisters now worried, would they search the basement which, of course, had something to hide, even though Gaby didn't know what... And, of course, a search soon began, moving about, one plunking on the piano which Gaby greatly resented. But it was she who thought fast enough, telling them don't forget to check the closet, maybe they needed a coat? Interested in buying one? Explaining that they were seamstresses who used the old coats for patching others which were damaged and could not be replaced due to the rations...

But it was that late visit that was to begin confusion and turmoil for the women who now was seen as being able to provide something that, indeed, a German leader needed... He wanted her to teach his step-daughter how to play the piano!

It was wartime, and while everybody hated the invaders, there were those who were French who either willingly or not were forced to connect in some way with the invading troops. Good French refused. But if somebody was forced into it, they were seen as Bad French... Which could lead to problems in getting the rations that were due them. That was already a problem for the sisters who had, as a firm agreement by the three, chose to share rations with a mother who needed help given her son's health.

Gaby had tried to refuse to teach the little girl, but the Commandant knew of this arrangement and threatened to take it away if Gaby refused his request.

And what was in the basement? Why, it was a pigeon, a carrier pigeon in fact; and it had been thrown out of the plane, but saved by Martine... Of course, Simone's, a sister who was now home from sneaking out to meet her beau, plan was to eat him! But Martine knew that the pigeon was used to spy and was thinking about how to help that happen! And soon that pigeon was flying back to its home...

Bombing had occurred and Martine realized that it had hit where the map that had been attached to the pigeon had designated! The sisters pledged together, they would work with the pigeons whenever they came across one--or went out and captured those locked in by their neighbors--they would become spies!

A loss by Gaby had earlier forced her to reject her schooling, her future in music...But now Gaby was also forced to go to the home of the Commandant where she would teach... If she was seen going into his house, she would forever after be called a bad French...But even there, Gaby was caught in secrets when she realized that the little girl had already been taught in her former life, but is afraid to reveal that...

And as Gaby taught, they would in secret allow the little girl to play what she wanted--hiding when the Commandant was in the house, bound by running scales or picking out the notes one by one...

But now, Gaby was also seeking possible secrets that could be sent out via the pigeons...The sisters had been able to hide a small radio and waited for a message. Beethoven's 5th was the signal!

And among all that, a man fell in love--in love with a woman who had created such a beautiful piece of music that he could not help but fall deeply in love... For Gaby had once created the masterpiece and the music was now being used to prove her identity... and before the book ended, they were to meet! What a beautiful additional plot to the book! And, how I wished that there was really a creation on piano that was later named and published... Sadly, only the love it produced was to remain...

People's lives change during wartime. Not because they want to have them changed, but because, sometimes, those who seek power or those who are greedy or violent... bring it about...

It is impossible to read The Secret Pianist without thinking about what is happening across the world today. Hitler's leadership of the country was quite familiar to what we are watching each day... Putin for instance, a president of Russia who seeks power over more territory and decides to invade Ukraine...

Iran's Hamas attacks a music festival in Israel, but, is really unprepared for fighting against the power of Israel. However, the Prime Minister of Israel, who was already being pressured to vacate his position due to his desire for power, a willingness and seemingly desire for violence, no matter who may be killed... is going beyond what is necessary...

In the United States, under a former president who chose to use violence to stay in office also reflects how war can affect an entire country... when his followers attacked the nation's Capitol to try to stop finalization of the election!

Andie Newton, however, succeeds in centering in on just those who wish to stop the violence and are willing to work behind the scenes to make it happen. Many are doing that today. But Newton's novel, while difficult to read, knowing that people are being killed, starved, and more too horrible to mention, and there are so many mere citizens of a country affected, is a wonderful way to enter into history to see just how, exactly, ideas such as carrier pigeons, can be conceived which are able to stop and, hopefully, prevent a longer war than necessary. Her story is wonderfully developed within a devastating framework. The characters are wonderfully drawn, especially those who are participating as Spies (very hard to determine who is good and bad French) or as Traitors... And, of course, for me, using music as a central role throughout the book deserves Kudos for excellence by the author!

This historical novel has no actual scenes of violence. I can recommend it highly for those who, especially these days, want to learn more about how things can occur behind the scenes. The three sisters are delightful in their different personalities, yet who, through a difficult period, chose to maintain a sisters' promise to not act unless they all agreed. A difficult thing that rarely occurs, but which had to be accepted during such a time of devastation. Again, conceptually, this writer presented us with a novel that has much to share and much to think about! It is highly recommended!

GABixlerReviews