Grace Dorian, a sixty year-old mother suffering from Alzheimer's, moves in with her daughter Francine who becomes burdened by the strain of having to manage two people's lives at once
A tale of three women whose lives are affected by a tragic disease, Delinsky's (For My Daughters) latest novel adroitly pulls the heartstrings while exploring generational responsibilities. After years of giving advice in her nationally syndicated newspaper column, ``The Confidante,'' domineering Grace Dorian, 61, has a problem she can't share even with her only child and dependable assistant, Francine. Some months after being diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease, Grace grudgingly permits handsome Dr. Davis Marcoux to tell her daughter the truth. But she still clings to one secret: the true identity of Francine's father. Francine is a divorced mother of Sophie, a 23-year-old diabetic, who also works on the column and has resented her grandmother as a rival for her mother's love. For her part, Francine is determined to protect ``The Confidante'' and keep the public including an aggressive reporter, Robin Duffy from discovering her mother's condition. She begins to ghostwrite the columns while also embarking on a romance with Dr. Marcoux. To help her mother write her promised autobiography, Francine hires Robin, whose own mother was one of Grace's ardent admirers. Delinsky creates only lukewarm suspense in Francine's and Robin's respective quests to unearth Grace's secret past, but readers will sympathize with the characters as each comes to grips with a life-changing situation. (Jan.) -- PUBLISHERS WEEKLY.
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1 . You will not be dissappointed!
Posted December 14, 2007 by kat , ilThis was my 2nd e-book purchase. Love love my new e-book reader. If you're a fan of B. Delinsky, which I am, you will not be dissappointed in this book. A great buy for 6.39 even if you've never read books by this author before.
October 31, 2005
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Excerpt from Shades of Grace by Barbara Delinsky
"Character is a commodity best set off by tasteful clothes, refined speech, and dignified carriage. Any good merchandiser knows that the wrapping is a preview of the gift inside." --Grace Dorian, from an interview with Barbara Walters
Grace Dorian stared in bewilderment at the papers on her desk. She had no idea how they had gotten there, had no idea what they were for.
She riffled the stack, searching for hints. Not papers. Letters. Some were handwritten, some typed, some on white letterhead, colored stationery, torn notebook paper.
"Dear Grace . . . "
"Dear Grace . . . "
"Dear Grace . . . "
Think, she cried, fighting panic. People were writing her letters, lots of people, judging from the courier pack that stood open on the chair. It brimmed with more of what she had on her desk. They were there for a reason.
She put a hand to her chest and willed herself to stay calm. The heel of her hand pressed her thudding heart. Her fingertips touched beads.
Rosary beads? No. Not rosary beads. Pearls, Grace. Pearls.
Frightened eyes cast about for the familiar, lighting on the mahogany credenza, the velvet drapes, the brocade settee, the burnished brass lamps. The lamps were off now. It was morning. Sun spilled across the Aubusson.
Shakily she fitted her reading glasses to her nose, praying that if she studied the letters long enough, hard enough, something would click. She noted return addresses--Morgan Hill, California, Burley, Alabama, Little River, South Carolina, Parma, Ohio. People were writing her from across the country. And she was in . . . here was . . . she lived in . . . Connecticut. There, over the rim of her glasses, scripted elegantly on an antique map on the wall. Setting the glasses aside, she crossed to the map, touched the gilded frame, took comfort in its solidness and, yes, its familiarity.
She lived in western Connecticut, on the sprawling estate left her by John. The original house had been in his family for nearly as many generations as the old sawmill had. The sawmill was silent now, craggy with vines and as bent as John in his final years, but what time had taken from the mill, it had given to the house. Initially a single stone homestead facing west, it had grown a north wing, then a south wing. A garage had sprouted and multiplied. The back of the house had swollen to include a suite of offices, the largest of which she stood in now, and the solarium. Beyond the solarium was the patio she adored, flagstoned and April-bare, but promising. It opened to a rolling lawn beyond which, framed by firs, lay the Housatonic. In late summer it meandered along the eastern edge of her property. This time of year it rushed. She could hear it even now, through the mullioned panes.