Flora by Gail Godwin

Published by Bloomsbury USA on May 7, 2013 

A keen observer of life, Gail Godwin is both a student and a teacher of human nature. Her novels tend to be probing studies of characters who struggle with their disconnection from the world around them.

At the age of ten (going on eleven), Helen Anstruther has already developed the most disagreeable characteristics of her mother, who died when she was three, and of her grandmother Honora, who has just died. Helen has inherited their haughty sense of superiority, their tendency to see the worst in others. Her mother's twenty-two-year-old cousin, Flora Waring, is recruited to look after Helen during the summer, when Helen's father (a principal during the school year) will be away supervising construction of buildings that will house the Manhattan Project. Although Flora has earned a teaching degree and is hoping for a job offer in the fall, she is woefully insecure, a trait that Helen feeds upon. Helen regards Flora as white trash from Alabama, a hugely embarrassing addition to her life. At the same time, she is blind to the faults of the father and grandmother who raised her.

Two children in town have contracted polio, causing Helen's father to issue an injunction from afar: Helen is not to leave the house. Although Helen complains, she feels a strong connection to the house, still full of her grandmother's things. The house, once a home to recovering tuberculosis patients (less charitably described as "a halfway house for rich malingerers"), is virtually a character in the novel. Helen's isolation isn't truly troubling. She has little use for friends (as one of them complains, she forgets she has them when they aren't around); she lives largely within her own imaginative mind.

Helen parcels out her time, instructing Flora on the art of being a teacher and, when she can, sneaking a peek at the letters her grandmother wrote to Flora over the years -- letters that reveal family secrets in guarded language that Helen isn't old enough to understand. As Helen makes her way through the summer, she develops a crush on the delivery boy from the grocery store, a young man named Finn whose physical and mental issues earned him a medical discharge from the Army. That he is Flora's age does not deter Helen from viewing Flora as an unworthy competitor for his attention.

Every now and then an older voice intrudes, an adult Helen filled with unfashionable remorse as she looks back on that formative summer. The richness of the characters is astonishing, given the novel's brevity. While we usually see Flora through Helen's unreliable eyes, we see her from a different perspective when we read Honora's letters or hear Finn describing her. While Helen is convinced that she is spending her summer educating Flora, it is actually Flora who teaches the novel's most valuable lessons.

Flora is, in fact, the story of the lessons Helen learned from a teacher she despised: that other people's lives are as worthy as her own; that their tragedies are more real, and more serious, than her own self-invented woes; that risking the pain of opening our hearts to others is essential to a fulfilling life. Godwin tells this dramatic story in radiant but understated prose; even a bombshell in the concluding pages explodes quietly. This is a story that touches feelings without obvious manipulation, a book that fills a reader with joy and sorrow in the same instant and leaves the reader wondering how that's possible.

RECOMMENDED

The Ophelia Cut by John Lescroart

Published by Atria Books on May 7, 2013 

Anthony Ricci, NYPD police sergeant and part-time hit man, enters a witness protection program to avoid swimming with the fishes. Now known as Tony Solaia, he finds himself swimming with Dismas Hardy in the chilly waters of San Francisco's bay. Soon after that, Hardy is representing Solaia, now working as a bartender, on a charge of selling alcohol to minors. The raid of the bar in which Solaia was working has been orchestrated by a politician, in concert with the owner of several massage parlors, as part of a Machiavellian scheme to achieve their mutual goals.

Solaia is the connecting thread in a story that weaves together a number of characters, many of whom will be familiar to fans of the series. Other than Hardy, the most significant to the plot are Hardy's brother-in-law, Moses McGuire, and Moses' daughter, Brittany McGuire, a beautiful young butterfly who briefly alights on Goodman's arrogant chief of staff, Rick Jessup, before landing on Solaia. Jessup's political machinations and history of violence give birth to the novel's primary storyline, culminating in a murder that provides Hardy with another case to defend. The plot turns into a whodunit, as neither Hardy nor the reader know who committed the murder. In addition to Hardy's client, there are a number of possible candidates from whom to choose. To his credit, John Lescroart kept me guessing until the novel's end.

As is common in series fiction, much of the story focuses on the interaction of established characters, their relationships and conflicts. The character of Brittany is drawn with particular sensitivity. The courtroom drama that is the hallmark of legal thrillers is absent in the first half of the novel, as Lescroart sets up the story and develops his characters. The leisurely pace of the novel's opening half might not appeal to some readers, but I appreciated the time Lescroart took to fine-tune the friendships and divided loyalties that are so integral to the plot. Once the story gets moving (about the time the trial starts), it moves swiftly.

Lescroart has a good handle on the games played by police, prosecutors, and judges to protect their own turfs. He also has a jaded (i.e., realistic) understanding of the political motivations that underlie high profile arrests, followed by futile prosecutions, of low-impact crimes like underage drinking. At the same time, he doesn't use the novel as a soapbox -- his characters express their opinions within the context of the story. Like all good legal thrillers, the novel is full of "Inside Baseball" lore about the art and pitfalls of criminal trials, from greedy expert witnesses to the perils of eyewitness identification, the burdensome hurdles the defense must overcome before it can argue that some other person committed the charged murder, and the ever-tricky problem of how a defense lawyer deals with the suspicion that a client, or some other defense witness, is telling a lie. Both Hardy and the prosecutor engage in the kind of theatrics that, if they happened more often in real life, would make trials a whole lot more fun to watch ... but those theatrics make the story fun to read.

Some aspects of the story stretch credibility, but never beyond its breaking point, and certainly no more so than is common in modern thrillers. The ending is a shocker, in a way that is perhaps a bit too karmic. It might make some fans of the series unhappy, but it reflects the reality that actions often have unexpected consequences, karmic or otherwise. Besides, by the fourteenth novel in a series, it's probably time to shake things up. In the end, and in addition to the ending, there are enough small but nifty twists in the story to make The Ophelia Cut thoroughly absorbing.

RECOMMENDED

The Morels by Christopher Hacker

Published by Soho Press on April 30, 2013 

The Morels might be summarized as a book by Christopher Hacker about a writer named Arthur Morel who writes a book titled The Morels. Yet that summary, while accurate, would not do justice to Hacker's stimulating novel. The Morels is actually two absorbing novels merged into a successful whole. Alternating between philosophy and storytelling, the first half of The Morels is an examination of art: the purpose of art; the meaning of applause; whether the creation of literature should be driven by readers' demands; the difference between literature (solitary in its performance and reception) and most other art (experienced communally and offering immediate feedback to the artist); the extent to which the act of writing literature can be blended with artistic performance. The second half is an examination of an artist. It tells the riveting story of a writer who becomes lost in the blurry gap between the real and fictional worlds he inhabits. What is the difference, Hacker asks, between reality and its artistic representation?

In his desire to create an emotional impact that his audience will experience honestly, Arthur Morel, an accomplished but socially inept student of the violin, does something shocking during a performance. His friend Chris (the novel's narrator), playing the cello in the orchestra, does not see Arthur again for fourteen years. While Arthur seems to have fallen into an ordinary domestic life, complete with wife (Penelope) and child (Will) in Queens, he's also authored a best-selling book -- a fortunate development since, according to Penelope, he's otherwise "barely employable." Chris, a struggling filmmaker who feels adrift and craves guidance, renews his friendship with Arthur with the hope that Arthur will become his mentor. Yet the roles are reversed when Chris tries to become Arthur's teacher, an advocate for responsible limits on artistic license, limits that Arthur dismisses as evidence of limited taste.

The first half of The Morels poses penetrating questions and challenges the reader to form his or her own answers: Is art worthwhile if it fails to provoke, if it appeals only to people who have weak stomachs? Should a writer be shunned for depicting, without judgment, an act that society would universally condemn? Are decency and moraltiy essential components of enriching literature? Is it the obligation of literature (as John Gardner argued) to promote moral conduct? Or is (as Arthur argues) "the death of transgression" also "the death of art"?

Most of the story's drama surrounds Arthur's second novel, The Morels, a book that is about "the dilemmas of everyday life." In other words, like much contemporary fiction, "there's little story to speak of." It is a self-referential novel of "exquisitely rendered scenes, well-observed prose." It also has a shocking ending. Its publication causes repercussions that drive the story's second half.

Does this description of Arthur's novel also apply to Hacker's? Yes and no. Arthur is portrayed as a literary genius. Hacker is not quite of that caliber, although his skills are admirable; his prose is wonderfully descriptive and he wields it to tell a compassionate, intelligent story. Arthur's book "uttered what can't be said" while Hacker found a way to write about provocative art without actually producing it. Arthur reveres and emulates writers like Gass and Barth and Burrows, precisely the writers Gardner eviscerates. They are (Arthur tells us) writers who don't try to make us feel good, who leave us feeling confused about who we are rather than confirming our understanding of ourselves. Hacker straddles the line: he allows the reader to feel good by making it possible for the reader to understand why the artistic representation of depravity might have value -- and to understand why an artist might be driven to produce it. Hacker's novel might be less "courageous" than Arthur's, but that doesn't diminish its worth. And, unlike Arthur's version of The Morels, Hacker's has a plot (in addition to, but intertwined with, unraveling "the puzzle of Arthur Morel"), although it doesn't blossom until the novel's second half. This isn't a courtroom drama, but it does generate dramatic tension as Arthur and his family become entangled in the criminal justice system as it engages in the difficult and error-prone task of separating fact from fiction. And if the ending of Hacker's novel isn't shocking, it is sufficiently surprising to cast the entire story in a new light.

The Morels pulls no punches. It isn't the right book for a reader who craves sunny characters and upbeat endings. Arthur, tortured by the past, learns something meaningful about living in the present, but this isn't a story about someone who learns a valuable lesson and lives happily ever after. No character emerges unscathed (although, as one character learned in Vietnam, "given time, even scorched earth recovers"). While Arthur, Chris, and Will each learn something about how to live a life, the true lessons of The Morels are more subtle. Mining the depths of this memorable novel to unearth them is an enriching experience.

HIGHLY RECOMMENDED

The Darlings by Christina Alger

Published by Viking Penguin - Pamela Dorman Books on February 16, 2012

Carter Darling is a principle in a money management firm called Delphic. His daughter Merrill is married to Paul, recently hired as Delphic's general counsel. One of Delphic's hedge funds is heavily invested in an outside fund managed by Carter's friend, Morty Reis. When Reis apparently commits suicide, Paul's ex-girlfriend, an SEC lawyer, warns him that Reis' fund is under investigation. Delphic's future may depend upon a power struggle at the SEC between an idealistic enforcement lawyer named David Levin and his ambitious boss, Jane Hewitt. Events reach a climax in a whirlwind of activity during a Thanksgiving weekend.

Intrigue abounds in The Darlings, from office politics in the SEC to divided loyalties in Carter's family to the inevitable clash between the press and everyone else. At times the novel's dramatic tension and brisk pace give it the feel of a thriller (albeit without the action and violence that thrillers provide). The response of Carter and his lawyer to the threat of criminal prosecution is deliciously Machiavellian. Paul eventually faces a moral crisis that provides the novel's most interesting moments, one that forces him to choose between self-interest and the interests of the Darling family.

Carter's wife, Ines, is a model of repressed efficiency. She is at the center of a perfect storm as her long-standing (and long-ignored) grievances against Carter merge with the financial crisis that threatens to destroy the family. Her daughter Merrill is a securities lawyer who is painted just a little too brightly. She's ultra-competent, friendly, likeable, always willing to pitch in and help others during late night hours despite her own overwhelming workload. (One wonders whether the author modeled Merrill upon an idealized version of herself.) On the other hand, Merrill isn't perfect: she recognizes and regrets her attempts to turn her husband Paul into her father. Some of the novel's best drama arises when Merrill must choose between them.

The Darlings (at least the older ones) value illusion over reality, appearance over substance. They don't talk about their family problems because that would require acknowledging that the family has problems. The social lives of New Yorkers with old and new money (and, more often, their hangers-on) fill out the novel. This is usually a subject matter that tempts me to start skimming, but Cristina Alger is equally adept at portraying the declining expectations of investors and of New York's single women. Her grasp of the novel's subject matter is masterful, and the story she tells is often unexpectedly moving. The Darlings is a novel that should appeal equally to fans of financial thrillers and family dramas. For that matter, it should appeal to any fan of strong, sensitive writing.

RECOMMENDED

Close to the Bone by Stuart MacBride

Published in the UK in January 2013; published by HarperCollins on May 14, 2013 

The connection between a body that has been wedged into a tire and set ablaze and a movie called Witchfire being filmed in Aberdeen isn't immediately apparent to Acting Detective Inpector Logan McRae, although the reader knows that the connection must exist or Stuart MacBride wouldn't have included both events in the novel's opening pages. In another apparently unrelated incident, two eighteen-year-olds have gone missing, and while Logan assumes they are lovers who ran away together, his boss makes him investigate to placate the girl's bothersome parents. The reader soon learns that the girl is a big fan of "Harry Bloody Potter, Twilight, and that stupid Witchfire book." Then there are the neighborhood pranksters leaving chicken bones at Logan's front door ... or so he assumes.

About a third of the story has passed before the connections become reasonably clear. The seasoned reader will expect more deaths to follow and will not be disappointed. This is only a wee bit of a whodunit, but the plot does take a surprising twist at the end that will satisfy whodunit fans. Not everything is as it seems, but the various storylines come together in the end. No loose ends are left to dangle.

In a pleasant departure from most police procedurals (and from earlier novels in the McRae series), MacBride doesn't take his characters or his story too seriously. Humor permeates the novel and the tone is nearly always light-hearted despite the serial killings. Logan is often carrying on multiple conversations at once, talking on the phone at the same time he's speaking to investigators at a crime scene, with amusing results. A thug who "looks like someone took a burning cheese grater to his face" comes to Logan's door and punches him in the nose, but the Grampian police not only take their time finding the thug, they don't have much interest in looking for him. Logan's oversexed boss is unreasonably demanding and keen on taking credit for Logan's work. A new detective sergeant named Gertrude Chalmers drives him crazy with her cheery gung-ho attitude and bad driving. A crime boss wants to make Logan the administrator of his will, leaving Logan the task of parceling out his criminal empire. Too many women are telling Logan what to do, one of whom can't even speak. It's no wonder Logan always feels stressed.

Sometimes the characters are slightly over-the-top, but not so far over that I stopped laughing at them. MacBride takes his time developing the plot and the characters, but the pace is never slow. Minor characters have the distinct personalities you'd expect from series regulars, and the beleaguered Logan is easy to like. The novel stands well on its own; it isn't necessary to read the earlier books in the series to get the full flavor of this one.

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