Wednesday, July 9, 2025

Showcase of The Everest Enigma by Jeannette de Beauvoir and a Giveaway of TWO $20 Amazon Gift Cards

The Everest Enigma by Jeannette de Beauvoir Banner

THE EVEREST ENIGMA

by Jeannette de Beauvoir

June 16 - July 11, 2025 

Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

AN ABBIE BRADFORD MYSTERY


Abbie Bradford is at a crossroads.

Fresh off earning her doctorate in history, she’s unsure of her next move—until bestselling novelist Emma Caulfield, an acquaintance of Abbie's brother, presents an irresistible challenge: join her on a grueling trek from Kathmandu to Everest Base Camp in Nepal.

The Everest Enigma by Jeannette de Beauvoir
When the adventure takes a deadly turn, Abbie starts to question Emma’s true motives as she finds they may hold the key to unraveling a century-old mountaineering mystery—if they can survive long enough to solve it.

Book Details:

Genre: Women Sleuths, Mystery, Thriller
Published by: Beckett Books
Publication Date: May 15, 2025
Number of Pages: 280
ISBN: 9798992594201 (Pbk)
Series: An Abbie Bradford Mystery, Book 1
Book Links: Amazon | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

Chapter 1

I saw my first dead body when I was nine years old.

That sounds scary, but oddly enough, it didn’t feel that way at the time—something about the resilience of childhood, I expect.

We’d gone to Algeria for my father to take celestial measurements in the Sahara, and one day the local expat group asked him to accompany a doctor going to see a woman in a village outside of town—she was an American, they said, and would be reassured by the presence of other Americans.

We went along with him because my mother wanted to, and that was back in the good days, the days before she started having serious conversations with the bust of Shakespeare in the front hall of our mansion in Boston’s Back Bay.

My family members each embrace obsession in their own way. My younger brother Martin went so mad for God he had to become a priest—albeit an Episcopal one, so he can still enjoy some of the finer things in life. My father, following a patriarchal tradition of obsessive eccentricities, devotes his life to stargazing—and traveling to stargaze—while my older brother Phillip turned those same stars into scientific objects and spends his days teaching astrophysics. And my mother… well, the less said about my mother, some days, the better.

I expect we each have something terribly wrong with us.

So my parents and I went along the bumpy track in the Land Rover, with the doctor explaining that she’d been screaming, the American woman, something about great birds blotting out the sun. Ergot poisoning, he added. It happens.

By the time we arrived, the woman had died, and there was fear still etched in her face, fear of those dark wings she’d seen in the sky. Memorable. And so I saw my first body when I was nine.

I wonder, now, if that meant anything, pointed me in a direction I didn’t even know I was taking, that would be revealed only once I went to Nepal.

***

The visitor came soon after I was contemplating the dispiriting contents of my refrigerator.

I periodically go on diets, and the first step in any diet is clearing out anything remotely delicious from your kitchen. And then, of course, that first night finds you staring at a hard-boiled egg, a can of tomato juice, some healthy-looking grain, and an apple that’s seen better days.

I pulled up the online delivery menu from The Q, my favorite local Chinese restaurant. I could go back to the diet tomorrow.

So when the buzzer rang downstairs, I flung the door open with enthusiasm achieved only by a person who’s been dieting for a full eight hours. Instead of the delivery guy with a bag full of goodies, however, I was looking at a slightly older-than-middle-aged woman in an anorak with the hood up.

“Yes?”

She sniffed, wiping an errant snowflake from her cheek. “Are you Abigail Bradford?”

“Yes,” I said automatically. “Can I help you?”

The gray eyes looked me over, shrewd, intelligent, and extremely thorough. I wondered what she made of what she saw, because I can be a little startling at first: a tall youngish woman, chin-length hair currently an experimental vivid blue, brown eyes behind glasses. “You answered my post,” she said calmly.

I stared at her. “Excuse me?”

“My post,” she repeated, exasperation creeping into her voice. “I put a post up on the intranet. At Harvard.”

At that moment the dinner delivery arrived, the driver impatiently shouldering past her. “Here you go.”

I had the tip ready. “Thanks,” I said, grabbing the food and hoping this woman would take the hint and leave.

“Well,” she said, eyeing the bag, “you’ll want to get to your dinner.”

“Yes,” I agreed.

She stepped forward. “So let’s get inside. There’s supposed to be heavy snow after midnight.” She caught my eye. “Well, of course I won’t be staying past midnight,” she said. “But with the timing of things—well, I wanted to do the interview as soon as possible. Of course.”

Interview?

The wind was screaming down Acorn Street—the most-photographed street in Boston is also one of the narrowest, a perfect wind tunnel—and my dinner was getting cold. I gave up and let her in.

Five minutes later we were sitting rather cozily in my living room, her coat and hat hung up in the hall, fire blazing merrily along, boxes of fragrant Chinese food between us. “You’re sure you don’t want anything?” I asked for about the third time. I am nothing if not polite, even to people who are clearly off their rockers.

“No, no, you go ahead, dear,” she said, fluffing the pillow beside her, settling in. Seen in the light, she had no-nonsense, short salt-and-pepper hair, with lots of laugh wrinkles around her gray eyes.

Nothing distracted, however, from the sharpness in those eyes.

“Since your memory is clearly failing you,” she said, “I’ll remind you. I’m Emma Caulfield. I put up an ad for a research assistant to go with me to Nepal.”

I’d just opened the chopsticks packet. “Nepal?”

“Well, yes, of course, Nepal,” she said, frowning. “Really, dear, do you usually repeat what people say to you? Do you want the job, or not?”

I put everything down. There was a glimmer of an idea at the back of my mind. Harvard perforce means Phillip, and this was exactly something Phillip would think was funny. “I have a feeling my brother answered your post on my behalf,” I said carefully.

She was unfazed. “Then he must have known you’d want the job.”

“Going to Nepal.”

She nodded. “Going to Nepal.”

I thought about it. It wasn’t actually totally insane. My brothers and I are that most hated of species, trust-fund babies, and Phillip and I have spent a substantial part of our inheritances collecting academic letters after our names, probably to prove something to someone… well, I’ve never quite worked that part out. I was into the second year of holding my doctorate in history, and hadn’t yet found any work in academia. Boston and Cambridge might together be the hub of higher education, but even lectureships are harder and harder to come by, and guarded jealously.

And—here’s the thing—truth be told, I was slowly coming to the conclusion that I didn’t actually want a career in higher education. I liked the research part: I liked being a detective, figuring out what really happened, the story behind the story preserved for posterity. Learning about people who weren’t just stick-figures, real people who lived and loved and breathed and should be remembered. Bringing them back to life, somehow, if only on paper.

Teaching… yeah, maybe not so much. Faculty interactions, definitely not. And while it’s true I’d never need to work for a living, that didn’t mean I didn’t actually want to. To contribute to the world in some way. I just wasn’t yet seeing how.

All that meant, of course, was there wasn’t anything tying me to Boston at the moment.

“What,” I asked, “are you going to Nepal for?”

“Well, research, of course, dear.” She looked puzzled. “I thought that would be obvious.” I didn’t say anything, and she sighed gustily. “I’m Emma Caulfield,” she said again.

“Yes, I got that part.”

“I’m a writer.”

I continued to stare blankly at her, and she started looking annoyed. “I write historical romances,” she said. “I’m on the New York Times bestseller list.”

And there it was. I hadn’t heard of her for good reason: I subscribe to the academic historian’s dim view of historical fiction in general, and historical romances in particular. It’s an automatic judgment we make: slipshod research, damsels in distress, Regency dresses. I met her eyes. “Bodice-rippers,” I suggested, nodding.

To my surprise, she laughed. “Well, good for you, Abigail Bradford,” she said. “I was starting to think you didn’t have any gumption at all.”

There it was again, that sharp mind behind those eyes. “You fraud,” I said slowly. “You knew I’d react like that.”

Emma nodded. She looked thoroughly satisfied. “I am researching my next novel,” she said crisply. “I am going to Kathmandu, and then on to some trekking. I’m planning on getting up to Everest Base Camp, and I certainly don’t want to do that alone.” Her expression dared me to say anything. “I’m good at asking questions, and taking in the scenery, and all that. But I’m not always able to organize what I’m doing, and this time around I need some specialist help. I want you to help research what it was like for people on the mountain, people in the country, people in the world, in the early nineteen-twenties.”

She paused, and a trace of something vulnerable slipped into her voice. “I also need someone to—well, to go with me. I used to like traveling on my own, have done it for years, but not so much anymore. There’s too much to keep track of, and I need to be thinking and writing. So I need someone to go with me.”

“As a researcher,” I said.

She didn’t meet my eyes. “I’ve never done this before,” she confessed. “I’ve always done everything on my own. But this time feels different—and I’m not about to get a reputation for slipshod work, so I need some help. Some research, some organizing, some travel… and someone to tell me when I’m going off in the wrong direction. That’s why I need a historian—you.”

Not just any historian: me. I’d remember that, later. “You’re looking for facts?” I asked sweetly. “That must be a first for a romance novelist.”

“Historical romance novelist,” she corrected. Her eyes were steely. “So are you in, or what?”

I had a feeling I was going to regret this. “I’m in,” I said. “And now, can we eat?”

***

I Googled her, of course. The moment she was out the door.

Emma Caulfield, it transpired, was indeed a Big Name in the genre. She’d been writing novels for the past thirty-odd years. She’d been part of the big Regency romance movement, had switched things around for a while with an American Colonial period, even set a small series in prehistoric Britain.

And she was right: her novels were consistently on the bestseller list. She must be making a fortune.

“The romance bestseller list,” I reminded my friend Justine when I told her about the late-night visit. We were still deep in February, and we’d come off the ice-skating at Boston Common to the warmth of my fireplace, a pot of tea, and a bag of popcorn.

“You know,” Justine said, stretching out a leg toward the heat, “you could manage to be just a little more judgmental if you tried.”

“Do you think?” I smiled and refilled her tea. I was only half-serious.

“What I think,” she said carefully, “is that you might be surprised. Romance novels have come a long way since the oh, John, oh, Mary days.”

“And you would know this, how?”

She laughed. “Come on, Abbie. Sex and the City changed everything. There are feminist romances now. And your Emma Caulfield—she has a good reputation. I think she might surprise you, I really do. God, I think my toes are finally thawing.” She slanted a look at me. “So you’re going with her? To Kathmandu?”

I nodded. “I think so.”

“You know, you don’t have to, just because Phillip had one of his harebrained ideas.”

“Trouble is,” I said slowly, “he’s usually right, and it actually sounds like it could be fun. And… interesting. The work, the travel, the research—there’s a goal, you know? Something that might mean something.”

She nodded, her eyes on the flames. Justine knows about my past. Phillip and Martin and I are the thirteenth generation of an old, old Massachusetts family: check it out, the first governor of what would eventually become the Commonwealth was named Bradford, he was on the Mayflower that first miserable winter in Provincetown and Plymouth. Later, during the Gilded Age, the Bradfords became rich beyond understanding, though they had one saving grace—philanthropy. Hospitals, learning institutions, the arts … my ancestors helped build the knowledge-based economy that still characterizes Boston.

I have an ambivalent relationship with my family wealth—well, to be fair, with much of my family itself, too—and am always looking for ways to put it to good use; I’m not interested in a trust fund that does nothing but increase itself. I give away a lot of money, in a whole lot of ways, and that’s good, that’s important… but I’d like to be doing something important, too. I just hadn’t yet figured out what.

“So what’s the plan?” Justine asked. “What exactly is she researching?”

I shut my eyes; I can nearly always visualize conversations when I do. “She’s doing something about an Everest expedition back in the 1920s,” I said. “There was an Englishman called George Mallory who went up and didn’t come down, and there’s controversy about whether he reached the summit or not, which is an important question among mountaineers.” I paused. “And apparently he was incredible eye-candy, as was his wife, so maybe it’s a love story between them.” I found I was smiling. Okay, so maybe there was something more to romance novels than I’d assumed. “She wants me to go to Kathmandu ahead of her, and she’ll join me after she’s done some sort of conference in New York.”

“Well, it sounds exotic anyway,” said Justine. “Why not? It might be just what you need while you decide what you’re going to do with your life.”

That was, of course, the question. “I’m intrigued,” I admitted. “Phillip was right. It sounds exotic, it sounds interesting, and it’s the other side of the world.”

“Top of the world,” said Justine. “Everest’s the highest mountain on Earth.”

“I’m not actually climbing Everest,” I reminded her.

“No,” she conceded. “You’d need to be a little more of an Outdoors Girl for that. Still, it might lead to other things.”

“Like what?” I asked suspiciously.

Justine grinned. “Romance?” she suggested.

I threw the popcorn at her.

***

Excerpt from The Everest Enigma by Jeannette de Beauvoir. Copyright 2025 by Jeannette de Beauvoir. Reproduced with permission from Jeannette de Beauvoir. All rights reserved.

 

Author Bio:

Jeannette de Beauvoir

Jeannette de Beauvoir is an award-winning author of historical and mystery/thriller fiction and a poet whose work has appeared in numerous literary journals and anthologies. She has written three mystery series along with a number of standalone novels; her work “demonstrates a total mastery of the mystery/suspense genre” (Midwest Book Review) She’s a member of the Authors Guild, the Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, and the Historical Novels Society. She lives and works in a seaside cottage on Cape Cod where she’s also a local theatre critic and hosts an arts-related program on WOMR, a Pacifica Radio affiliate.

Catch Up With Jeannette de Beauvoir:

www.JeannettedeBeauvoir.com
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Pinterest - @JeannettedeBeauvoir
Facebook - @JeannettedeBeauvoir
YouTube - @JeannettedeBeauvoir
Medium - @JeannettedeBeauvoir

 

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Tuesday, July 8, 2025

COVER REVEAL of Winter's Season by R.J. Koreto and a $20 Amazon Gift Card Giveaway

Winter's Season by R.J. Koreto Banner

WINTER'S SEASON

by R.J. Koreto

July 8, 2025 

Cover Reveal

Synopsis:

Winter's Season by R.J. Koreto

In 1817 London, Before the Police, There Was Captain Winter.

London, 1817. A city teeming with life, yet lacking a professional police force. When a wealthy young woman is brutally murdered in an alley frequented by prostitutes, a shadowy government bureau in Whitehall dispatches its "special emissary"―Captain Winter. A veteran of the Napoleonic Wars and a gentleman forged by chance and conflict, Winter is uniquely equipped to navigate the treacherous currents of London society, from aristocratic drawing rooms to the city's grimmest taverns.

Without an army of officers or the aid of forensic science, Winter must rely on his wits and a network of unconventional allies. His childhood friend, a nobleman, opens doors in high society, while a wise Jewish physician uncovers secrets the dead cannot hide.

But Winter's most intriguing, and potentially dangerous, asset is Barbara Lightwood. Shrewd, beautiful, and operating as a discreet intermediary among the elite, Barbara shares a past with Winter from the war years. Their rekindled affair is fraught with wariness; she offers intimate information crucial to his investigation, but guards her own secrets fiercely. Like Winter, she is both cunning and capable of danger.

From grand houses to dimly lit streets, death stalks Captain Winter. He must tread carefully to unmask a killer, navigate a web of secrets and lies, and perhaps, in the process, save his own soul.

Book Details:

Genre: Historical Mystery
Published by: Histria Books
Planned Publication Date: January 20, 2026
Number of Pages: 300
ISBN: 978-1592116898
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads

Author Bio:

R.J. Koreto

R.J. Koreto is the author of the Historic Home mystery series, set in modern New York City; the Lady Frances Ffolkes mystery series, set in Edwardian England; and the Alice Roosevelt mystery series, set in turn-of-the-century New York. His short stories have been published in Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine and Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, as well as various anthologies.

Most recently, he is the author of "Winter's Season," which takes place on the dark streets and glittering ballrooms of Regency-era London.

In his day job, he works as a business and financial journalist. Over the years, he’s been a magazine writer and editor, website manager, PR consultant, book author, and seaman in the U.S. Merchant Marine. Like his heroine, Lady Frances Ffolkes, he’s a graduate of Vassar College.

He and his wife have two grown daughters, and divide their time between Paris and Martha’s Vineyard.

Catch Up With R.J. Koreto:

www.RJKoreto.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
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Instagram - @rjkoreto
Threads - @rjkoreto
Facebook - @rjkoreto


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Monday, July 7, 2025

Spotlight of All That Remains by Jane Darby


PHOTO SOURCE:
TYPORAMA

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ALL THAT REMAINS
JANE DARBY
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All information in this post is courtesy of Kristen Ludwigsen of MindBuck Media Book Publicity.

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All That Remains is a compelling exploration of grief, marriage, and identity from debut author Jane Darby.
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May 27, 2025
Apprentice House
Literary Fiction
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PRAISE FOR ALL THAT REMAINS:

"Darby takes on loss and grief with a subtle wisdom. Hers is a narrative for our times." - Afaa M. Weaver, author of A Fire in the Hills


"Jane Darby's taut novel speaks to the depths of life-altering loss and the power of the human spirit to transform it. All That Remains will keep you on the edge of your seat and break your heart." - Tom Lagasse, author and poet 


"All That Remains explodes off the page with domestic tension. Darby delivers a richly slanted view of contemporary American life." - Bill Ratner, author of Fear of Fish


"Darby weaves her story in clear and lyrically honed prose reminiscent of Updike." - Davyne Verstandig, poet and teacher


"Jane Darby is a master storyteller. I knew I was in good hands from page one." - Andy Christie, The Moth Radio Hour
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EXCERPT OF ALL THAT REMAINS:

All That Remains - Jane Darby 1 “I wouldn't wait until the weekend. Why not go up this afternoon? By yourself.” Richard stirred cream into his coffee and wiped the spoon clean with a paper napkin. "What do you think?" “Yes,” Anna said, trying to plumb this peace offering. “I could do that.” “You said you wanted to have some time alone. It will be good for you. Fresh air. Take a walk in the woods. That’s why we bought the place. A little peace and quiet, no?” He smiled. “You can get started on the garden." Anna sipped her coffee, wincing at the heat. She couldn’t blame him for wanting to get rid of her. Last night’s blow-out had ended in retreat: he, to the bedroom and she, to Ben's old room, now a den. Curled up on the divan, she listened to the sounds of Richard getting ready for bed: click of a light switch, rush of water in the sink, sounds of an intimate, shared life, so maddeningly calm and deliberate that each was another stone in the wall rising between them. But here at breakfast with sunlight streaming through the window and coffee cooling in their mugs, civility had returned and along with it, a fragile truce. "Yes," she repeated. "I could do that." "Good. I'm working late tonight anyway. I'll catch a train Friday evening. You'll pick me up at the station?" He smiled at her, eyebrows raised as if there were any question. "Of course." It wasn’t until she was driving up the Palisades that she realized Richard was right. The city had barely dropped away, and already she felt a lift in spirits. Trees flashed by, still winter-naked though some were shot with early sprays of green. Yellow forsythia bloomed along the side of the road. Up the rise and around the bend, she passed a small lake tucked into the landscape like a secret. Farther up, the road cut past cliffs glistening with the spring thaw. The ascent peaked and suddenly below her: a Walmart. A Chuck E. Cheese. More stores under All That Remains - Jane Darby construction, wrapped in a white membrane with the big, blue words Tyvek, Tyvek, Tyvek. All of this surrounded by a vast parking lot with rows and rows of cars where crops once grew. She needed a shovel. If she was going to cut sod and build a fence for the garden, she would need a shovel. And some chicken wire. Stakes for fence posts. Work gloves. She tried to think it through, to cast her mind ahead to what might be needed. Without warning, bile rose to her mouth and she gasped. What might be needed. She pressed her lips together and swallowed the thought whole. Pay attention. Needle-nosed pliers with a built-in wire cutter. She took the exit to the Walmart. The vastness of the store was a shock after the cramped aisles of Manhattan markets. Anna pushed a cart that could house a family of four past a bin of Easter candy marked half-off. Over the loudspeaker a voice squawked that chicken tenders were buy-one-get-one-free in the frozen food section. Everyone was in a state of fatigued awe. Anna watched a worn-out couple in their late twenties worry each other over whether they should put a wide-screen TV on layaway. A toddler with a snot-crusted nose and raw upper lip rocked and keened in the child’s seat of the cart while a five-year-old boy or girl – Anna wasn’t sure with that haircut – pulled on the woman’s arm, chanting indecipherable demands. Suddenly, the man swung his head around to the child. “Tyler, if you don’t shut up, I’ll give you something to shut up about.” Anna looked away. The selection in Gardening Supplies was slim; it was so early in the season. There were some shovels and hand tools. An entire row was devoted to poisons for pests. If she had wanted to, she could’ve bought a reflective blue sphere perched on a Grecian pedestal made out of durable plastic. She couldn't believe they didn't sell chicken wire. At least they had deer netting. She All That Remains - Jane Darby angled a couple of rolls into her cart. On her way out of the store, she paused by the vending machines. When Ben was little, it had been impossible to pass them without stopping. They would be walking down Broadway, in a hurry, as usual, to get him to school and her to work, and there the vending machines would be, banked against the storefront of a deli or a news shop. Without warning, Ben would dart over and start fiddling with the mechanisms. Mom, can I have a quarter? No, Ben. Come on. C’mon, Mom. Please. Just one. What is it you want? That. That plastic thing. Ben, it’s nothing. It’s junk. It's landfill. It’s a thing, Mom! He was always a sucker for The Claw, a glassed-in chamber filled with stuffed animals, bouncy balls, and cheap digital watches that worked for about five minutes. For a dollar a pop, you could guide a three-fingered mechanical hand to lower, grasp, and retrieve whatever your heart desired. Ben always pestered her for that one. She tried to tell him. She even let him do it once to show him it was nothing but a cheat. But out of sheer, dumb luck he managed to pull up a stuffed something, a green alien with huge almond-shaped eyes that glowed in the dark. From that day on, he was hooked. Anna pushed her cart over to The Claw. Of course, there was nothing in it she wanted, but she fished some quarters from her coat pocket and dropped them into the slot. The chamber lit All That Remains - Jane Darby up as a plinkity rendition of Under the Sea buzzed through the speakers. She studied the jumble of plush fur and plastic, steered the claw over to a purple Teddy bear, fine-tuned the positioning, and pushed the button. The claw descended over the bear’s head and pulled up. The mechanism had no more strength in it than an old woman’s arthritic hand. The fingers slipped over the bear and returned home empty-handed. What had she expected? It was night by the time Anna pulled up to the house. The footpath to the porch was so dark and unfamiliar that she had to toe her way along the flagstone and up the broad wooden steps leading to the door. She felt with her fingers for the lock and guided her key into it. Entry by Braille, she thought as she pushed against the heavy door and pawed the wall to switch on the lights. It was an old house, an Adirondack-style hunter’s lodge built in the 1930s with a stone fireplace, vaulted ceilings, exposed beams and rafters, and plenty of taxidermy left by the previous owner. A moose’s head, mangy with age, hung high over the hearth. From the moment he saw it, Richard had fallen in love with the house with its long, gravel driveway and the wooded hills that surrounded it. “A real find,” he whispered to Anna when the realtor turned her back. “The real thing.” Once it was theirs, he took to calling it “The Lodge,” or, when he was feeling particularly grand, “The Manor.” Anna referred to it as The House of Heads, to which Richard always admonished, "Don’t be ugly." It was grand and it was the real thing, but it was also terribly gloomy. The timbered walls absorbed light. From the shadows, deer looked down with glass eyes empty of life. A scent of musty, old fur and wood filled the air. Anna set her bags by the sofa and flicked on as many lamps as she could find, but still the room felt dark and heavy. A tomb. She decided to light a fire. There was plenty of firewood; the caretaker had seen to that. But Anna, a city-dweller for All That Remains - Jane Darby most of her life, hadn’t paid attention when Richard lit their first fire several weeks ago. She had been sitting right in that armchair, drifting off as usual, sinking herself with her thoughts. She could not shake her astonishment that life continued. Even after all this time – more than a year - something in her refused to understand it. How was it possible that she could sit in an armchair and watch her husband fumble about with matches? How was it possible that when he struck the match, it actually lit? Shouldn’t the world stop? Shouldn’t the laws of nature be suspended? How could a man who had lost his only child still manage to light a fire? Anna had been married to Richard for twenty-five years, yet she did not understand him. He possessed the gift of taking life in stride, while she took each new blow as if it might be her last. Even through the initial shock of the phone call, the subdued voice of a stranger on the other end, the interminable drive to Philadelphia, the awful sight of Ben in the morgue – still and waxy, not really Ben at all, more the absence of Ben – through all of that, Richard had held it together. And in the days that followed, he made the calls, the arrangements; he spoke at the memorial service, while Anna simply shut down. A couple of weeks after the service when there was nothing left to do, Anna found Richard lying in bed, pulled into a tight fetal curl. She lay down next to him, cupped his back with her body, and snaked her arm around his belly and up his chest. But he was stone: silent and cold.

ABOUT ALL THAT REMAINS:

A couple is determined to get on with their lives, but as they try to cope with the loss of their only child, the different ways in which they grieve threatens to tear them apart. 


Anna and Richard, a long-married Manhattan couple, lost their adult son and only child to a violent mugging a year ago. 


Time heals nothing. 


As they struggle to navigate the very different ways in which they grieve their loss, they meet two young people who are fighting their own demons.


Over the course of a shattering weekend, Anna and Richard face devastating secrets that have simmered beneath the surface of their marriage and threaten to tear their lives apart.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR:


Jane Darby's short stories, essays, and articles have appeared in Lynx Eye, Washington Square Review, Storyglossia, Feminine Collective, New York Runner Magazine, and This One Has No Name.

Recently she worked as a creative consultant and researcher for the documentary film, The Art of Eating: The Life of M.F.K. Fisher. 

All That Remains is her first novel(la). 

She lives in rural Connecticut.

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ADDITIONAL INFORMATION & SOCIAL MEDIA:



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Mailbox Monday - 7/7/2025

  

BOOKMAIL THAT ARRIVED THIS WEEK.

WHAT ARRIVED FOR YOU?

Mailbox Monday is a gathering place for readers to share the books that came in their mailbox during the last week. 

Mailbox Monday is now hosted by Vicki!!

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On Tuesday, July 1, I received:

1.  THE GIRL FROM THE RED ROSE MOTEL by Susan Beckham Zurenda, courtesy of the author.

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On Thursday, July 3, I received:

1.  THE LIST OF SUSPICIOUS THINGS by Jennie Godfrey, courtesy of Sourcebooks Landmark and NetGalley.

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On Saturday, July 5, I received:

1.  MRS. ENDICOTT'S SPLENDID ADVENTURE by Rhys Bowen, courtesy of Angela Melamud of AngelaMelamud.com

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2.THE WORLD AT HOME by Ginny Kubitz Moyer, courtesy of Caitlin Summie of Caitlin Hamilton Marketing.

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It's Monday!! What Are YOU Reading? - 7/7/2025

                              http://bookdate.blogspot.com/

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I hope you had a great reading week.
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This is a weekly meme hosted by Kathryn at BOOK DATE!

Post the books completed, the books you are currently reading, and the books you hope to finish at some point.
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Books Completed:

JOY MOODY IS OUT OF TIME by Kerryn Mayne - spotlight will be on August 19, 2025.

Was excited because I loved her last book.  This is a bit too out there for me.

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GONE IN THE NIGHT by Joanna Schaffhausen - review will be on August 15, 2025.

Another good one - don't miss it if you are an Annalisa fan.  It can be read as a standalone so no worries.

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TOO OLD FOR THIS by Samantha Downing - review will be on August 14, 2025.

It's a good one!!

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HIGH SEASON by Katie Bishop - spotlight will be on August 12, 2025.

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THE WITCH'S ORCHARD by Archer Sullivan - spotlight will be on August 13, 2025.

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MRS. ENDICOTT'S SPLENDID ADVENTURE - review will be on August 8, 2025.

LOVED, LOVED, LOVED this book - so uplifting except for a few things during the WWII part.

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THE WRONG SISTER by Claire Douglas - review will be on August 6, 2025.

So good - Claire Douglas can't be beat for surprises and tension.

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THE LOCKED WARD by Sarah Pekkanen - review will be on August 5, 2025.

This is a DO NOT miss read!!

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SUMMER ON LILAC ISLAND by Lindsay MacMillan - review will be on July 31, 2025.

A lovely read.

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ASYLUM HOTEL by Juliet Blackwell - review will be on July 30, 2025.

Not a favorite - I liked her historical fiction books more.

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TYPEWRITER BEACH by Meg Waite Clayton - spotlight is in the book's title.

Couldn't get into the book.

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THE LIES THEY TOLD by Ellen Marie Wiseman - review will be on July 29, 2025.

An excellent history lesson, but very heartbreaking and upsetting.

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THE UNRAVELING OF JULIA by Lisa Scottoline - review will be on July 25, 2025.

A little confusing, but turned out good.

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SECOND CHANCE AT SUNSHINE INN by Amy Clipston - review will be on July 12.

A lovely, heartwarming read with a great main character.

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THAT LAST CAROLINA SUMMER by Karen White - review will be on July 22, 2025.

An enjoyable read.

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WAYWARD GIRLS by Susan Wiggs - review will be on July 16, 2025.

Oh my is this good - another FAB read by Susan Wiggs.

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DON'T LET HIM IN by Lisa Jewell - review is in the book's title.

SO GOOD - her books are hit and miss for me - this one was a HIT!!

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THE LAKE ESCAPE by Jamie Day - review will be on July 15, 2025.

A good mystery - a slow startup, but turns out great!!

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THE NIGHT SPARROW by Shelly Sanders - spotlight is in the book's title.

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PARTY OF LIARS Kelsey Cox - review is in the book's title.

Oh YES!!  This was GOOD!!  Thriller fans won't want to miss it.

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IT'S NOT HER by Mary Kubica - review is on Goodreads, but other reviews will be on February 3, 2026.

SO GOOD - DO NOT MISS THIS ONE!!  Might be her best one yet!!  :)

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THE SUMMER OF STARTING OVER by Savannah Carlisle - review is in the book's title.

So uplifting - you will love the characters and the setting.

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DON'T OPEN YOUR EYES by Liv Constantine - review is in the book's title.

A bit slow, but the ending makes it all worthwhile.

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BEYOND THIS PLACE OF WRATH AND TEARS by Jack Ford - review is in the book's title.

Historical fiction - interesting

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Book Currently Reading:

ONE DARK NIGHT by Hannah Richell - review will be on August 20, 2025.

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Books Up Next:

THE MARIGOLD COTTAGES MURDER COLLECTIVE by Jo Nichols - review will be on August 21, 2025.

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THROUGH AN OPEN WINDOW by Pamela Terry - review will be on August 22, 2025.

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THE SECOND CHANCE BUS STOP by Alli Zetterberg - review will be on August 23, 2025.

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FORGET ME NOT by Stacy Willingham - review will be on August 26, 2025.

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THE BATTLE OF THE BOOKSHOPS by Poppy Alexander - review will be on August 28, 2025.

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SHIP OF DREAMS by Donna Jones Alward - review will be on August 29, 2025.

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THE HARVEY GIRLS by Juliette Faye - review will be on August 31, 2025.

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BODIES IN THE SAND by Crystal Murphy - review will be on September 1, 2025.

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THE CABERNET CLUB by Margie Zable Fisher and Rona S. Zable - review will be on September 2, 2025.


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THE GIRL IN THE GREEN DRESS by Mariah Fredericks - review will be on September 3, 2025.

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BEES IN JUNE by Elizabeth Bass Parman - review will be on September 4, 2025.

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THE RIGHTEOUS by Ronald A. Balson - review will be on September 9, 2025.

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A MURDEROUS BUSINESS by Cathy Pegau - review will be on September 16, 2025.

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NO REST FOR THE WICKED by Rachel Louise Adams - review will be on September 17, 2025.

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THE WASP TRAP by Mark Edwards - review will be on September 19, 2025.

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THE GUEST IN ROOM 120 by Sara Ackerman - review will be on September 23, 2025.

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THE WIVES OF HAWTHORNE LANE by Stephanie DeCarolis - review will be on September 24, 2025.

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ICING ON THE MURDER by Valerie Burns - review will be on September 29, 2025.

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THE LOST STORY OF EVA FUENTES by Chanel Cleeton - review will be on September 30, 2025.

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DINNER AT THE NIGHT LIBRARY by Hika Harada - review will be on October 1, 2025.

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THE SECRET OF ORANGE BLOSSOM CAKE by Rachel Linden - review will be on October 10, 2025.

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THE HITCHHIKERS by Chevy Stevens - review will be on October 7, 2025.

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THE GALLERY ASSISTANT by Kate Belli - review will be on October 14, 2025.

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THE MISSING PAGES by Alyson Richman - review will be on October 15, 2025.

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THE GIRL FROM THE RED ROSE MOTEL by Susan Beckham Zurenda - review wil be on October 16, 2025.

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THE FORGET-ME-NOT LIBRARY by Heather Webber - review will be on November 4, 2025.

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THE HIDDEN CITY by Charles Finch - review will be on November 5, 2025.

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THE PERFECT HOSTS by Heather Gudenkauf - review will be on November 6, 2025.

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THE MAD WIFE by Meagan Church - review will be on November 7, 2025.

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THE BRIDESMAID by Cate Quinn - review will be on November 10, 2025.

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THE LIST OF SUSPICIOUS THINGS by Jennie Godfrey - review will be on December 2, 2025.

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THE WORLD AT HOME by Ginny Kubitz Moyer - review will be on December 9.

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