Book Club
By Jaime Boust
My Review 4 stars!
By Jaime Boust
What happens when you take a group of women who all want to change things in their life, why don't start a book club dedicated to discussing those changes? But what happens when circumstances an individual dedicated to helping people reach their dreams, make those scary changes ends up in the book club....a story with adventure and most certainly a whole lot of change. Which is just what happens in this fast paced, page turning novel.
This was a fun story to read, because I was completely not expecting the impact one person could have on the 4 women's who life she simply invaded with her addicting personality. You can't help but cheer her on, even when some of her decisions are quite questionable.
Excerpt:
We sat in her leather-bound great room spreading herbed chèvre onto discs of watermelon radishes, feeling proud of ourselves for having selected a classic of English Literature that still managed to incorporate a great deal of sex. It was gratifying to be able to toss out sophisticated literary references to our lesser-read friends, and we were happy for Connie (Lady Chatterley) to have finally started living in her body once again.
But we were distracted in our discussion by a new presence, who sprawled herself on Marissa’s ice plant velvet chaise smoking marijuana from a vaporizer and listening to every word we spoke in silence. This was Hope, Marissa’s younger sister, whose life was often recounted by Marissa in a half-proud, half-cynical way. She was the baby, the black sheep, the fuck-up, the zeitgeist of modernity. She wrote poetry on the sidewalk and made experimental films in which she appeared naked and spray-painted silver. She was always in Berlin for a month or partying with Jay Z, busy designing a pop-up gallery, or eating at an underground restaurant. She was sleeping with a dancer, a doorman, and a Habsburg Prince.
Hope had arrived the day before in a mist of unanswered questions filtered from Marissa through Ashleigh to me. Something had happened in New York to make her come here, and her presence in the room was like an ornately filigreed blade. Any genetic kinks that revealed themselves through Marissa’s angular face had been worked out by the time Hope came along. Her looks were striking in the way a crow’s feathers shine blue in the sun. She wore a long curtain of black hair, dyed darker than her natural brunette, which cast her urban untanned skin as a mask of porcelain with piercing cobalt eyes. Something in her presence startled me, but whether it was her face or her scrutinizing silence I wasn’t sure. All the time I stood reading from the selected passage, and all the time afterward that I sat sipping Pinot Gris, professing my respect for Lady Chatterley for taking charge of her life, Hope watched me, watched all of us, as she drew luxurious vapor breaths from her slim gold apparatus.
She was thirty-six, one year younger than I was.
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