Three stars align at Christmastime to bring about the recovery of a lost—and highly prized—object. One of those stars points the way to an honest stranger named Angel.
Thirty-three years ago, after two years spent living on a sailboat, my husband and I decided to head home. But where was that? Fred needed ocean, I needed warmth, and we both needed jobs. Neither of us remembers why we decided on Savannah, Georgia (est. 1733), but it turned out to be the right choice.
Harry Burn thought about the letter that he carried in his pocket. “Dear Son,” his mother had written. “Hurrah, and vote for suffrage! Don’t keep them in doubt . . . Be a good boy. ”
“Here you are at last,” says your mother, reaching up to embrace you. Her brittle body trembles like that of a twisted, fragile bird. Dismayed, you wonder if this is how you will be in twenty-five years.
My husband knows a lot. About many things. But when it comes to building a fire, Erick knows squat.
Books are my drug of choice. I gotta have ’em. Unfortunately, no labels forewarn of the way they multiply.