The Geography of You and Me by Jennifer E. Smith

By Jennifer E. Smith

Lucy lives at the twenty-fourth ground. Owen lives within the basement. It's becoming, then, that they meet within the center -- caught among flooring of a brand new York urban residence development, on an elevator rendered lifeless via a citywide blackout. After they're rescued, Lucy and Owen spend the evening wandering the darkened streets and marveling on the infrequent visual appeal of stars above big apple. yet as soon as the ability is again, so is truth. Lucy quickly strikes in another country together with her mom and dad, whereas Owen heads out west together with his father.

The short time they spend jointly leaves a mark. And as their lives take them to Edinburgh and to San Francisco, to Prague and to Portland, Lucy and Owen remain involved via postcards, occasional e-mails, and contact calls. yet can they -- regardless of the chances -- have the ability to reunite?

neatly saw and fantastically romantic, Jennifer E. Smith's new novel indicates that the guts of the area isn't inevitably a spot. occasionally, it may be someone.

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The shed, although tumbledown, is really rather handsome when looked at with a sympathetic eye, the wood of it weathered to a silky, silvery grey, like the handle of a well-worn implement, a spade, say, or a trusty axe. Old Brides-in-the-Bath would have caught that texture exactly, the quiet sheen and shimmer of it. Doodle deedle dee. Claire, my daughter, has written to ask how I am faring. Not well, I regret to say, bright Clarinda, not well at all. She does not telephone because I have warned her I will take no calls, even from her.

The waves were depositing a fringe of soiled yellow foam along the waterline. No sail marred the high horizon. I would not swim, no, not ever again. Someone has just walked over my grave. Someone. The name of the house is the Cedars, as of old. A bristling clump of those trees, monkey-brown with a tarry reek, their trunks nightmarishly tangled, still grows at the left side, facing across an untidy lawn to the big curved window of what used to be the living room but which Miss Vavasour prefers to call, in landladyese, the lounge.

I was too ambitious. She says she cannot get her fingers around the notes. Your mind, more like, I do not reply. Recreant, recreant thoughts. I wonder that she never married. She was beautiful, once, in her soulful way. Nowadays she wears her long grey hair, that formerly was so black, gathered into a tight loop behind her head and transpierced by two crossed pins as big as knitting needles, a style that is to my mind suggestive, wholly inappropriately, of the geisha-house. The Japanese note is continued in the kimono-like belted silk dressing-gown that she wears of a morning, the silk printed with a motif of brightly coloured birds and bamboo fronds.

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