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The Ghost Orchid: A Novel

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The Ghost Orchid: A Novel Cover

 

Synopses & Reviews

Publisher Comments:

Chapter One

I came to Bosco for the quiet.

That's what it's famous for.

The silence reigns each day between the hours of nine and five by order of a hundred-year-old decree made by a woman who lies dead beneath the rosebushes--a silence guarded by four hundred acres of wind sifting through white pines with a sound like a mother saying hush. The silence stretches into the still, warm afternoon until it melts into the darkest part of the garden where spiders spin their tunnel-shaped webs in the box-hedge maze. Just before dusk the wind, released from the pines, blows into the dry pipes of the marble fountain, swirls into the grotto, and creeps up the hill, into the gap- ing mouths of the satyrs, caressing the breasts of the sphinxes, snaking up the central fountain allee, and onto the terrace, where it exhales its resin- and copper-tinged breath onto the glasses and crystal decanters laid out on the balustrade.

Even when we come down to drinks on the terrace there's always a moment, while the ice settles in the silver bowls and we brush the yellow pine needles off the rattan chairs, when it seems the silence will never be broken. When it seems that the silence might continue to accumulate--like the golden pine needles that pad the paths through the box-hedge maze and the crumbling marble steps and choke the mouths of the satyrs and fill the pipes of the fountain-- and finally be too deep to disturb.

Then someone laughs and clinks his glass against another's, and says . . .

Cheers. Here's to Aurora Latham and Bosco.

Here, here, we all chime into the evening, sending the echoes of our voices rolling down the terraced lawn like brightly colored croquetballs from some long-ago lawn party.

God, I've never gotten so much work done, Bethesda Graham says, as if testing the air's capacity to hold a longer sentence or two.

We all look at her with envy. Or maybe it's only me, not only because I didn't get any work done today, but because everything about Bethesda bespeaks confidence, from her slim elegant biographies and barbed critical reviews to her sleek cap of shiny black hair with bangs that just graze her perfectly arched eyebrows--which are arched now at Nat Loomis, as if the two of them were sharing some secret, unspoken joke--and set off her milk-white skin and delicate bone structure. Even Bethesda's size--she can't be more than four nine--is intimidating, as if everything superfluous had been refined down to its essential core. Or maybe it's just that at five nine I loom over her and my hair, unmanageable at the best of times, has been steadily swelling in the moist Bosco air and acquired red highlights from the copper pipes. I feel like an angry Valkyrie next to her.

Magic, says Zalman Bronsky, the poet, sipping his Campari and soda. A dream. Perfection. He releases his words as if they were birds he's been cupping in his hands throughout the day.

I got shit-all done, complains Nat Loomis, the novelist. The famous novelist. I'd had to stop myself from gasping aloud when I recognized him on my first day at Bosco--and who wouldn't recognize that profile, the jawline only slightly weaker than his jacket photos suggest, the trademark square glasses, the hazel eyes that morph from blue to green depending (he once said in an interview) on his mood, the tousled hair and sardonic grin. Along with the rest ofthe world (or at least the world of MFA writing programs and bookish Manhattan), I had read his first novel ten years ago and fallen in love--with it, with its young, tough, but vulnerable protagonist, and with the author himself. And along wi

Synopsis:

Journeying to the luxurious Bosco estate in upstate New York to work on a book based on the troubled events that took place there in the summer of 1893, novelist Ellis Brooks uncovers the dark secrets of the wealthy Latham family, entangling the past with the present as a series of sinister accidents threatens to engulf the modern-day guests in a shadowy web. 40,000 first printing.

Synopsis:

Chapter One

I came to Bosco for the quiet.

That’s what it’s famous for.

The silence reigns each day between the hours of nine and five by order of a hundred-year-old decree made by a woman who lies dead beneath the rosebushes—a silence guarded by four hundred acres of wind sifting through white pines with a sound like a mother saying hush. The silence stretches into the still, warm afternoon until it melts into the darkest part of the garden where spiders spin their tunnel-shaped webs in the box-hedge maze. Just before dusk the wind, released from the pines, blows into the dry pipes of the marble fountain, swirls into the grotto, and creeps up the hill, into the gap- ing mouths of the satyrs, caressing the breasts of the sphinxes, snaking up the central fountain allée, and onto the terrace, where it exhales its resin- and copper-tinged breath onto the glasses and crystal decanters laid out on the balustrade.

Even when we come down to drinks on the terrace there’s always a moment, while the ice settles in the silver bowls and we brush the yellow pine needles off the rattan chairs, when it seems the silence will never be broken. When it seems that the silence might continue to accumulate—like the golden pine needles that pad the paths through the box-hedge maze and the crumbling marble steps and choke the mouths of the satyrs and fill the pipes of the fountain— and finally be too deep to disturb.

Then someone laughs and clinks his glass against another’s, and says . . .

“Cheers. Here’s to Aurora Latham and Bosco.”

“Here, here,” we all chime into the evening, sending the echoes of our voices rolling down the terraced lawn like brightly colored croquet balls from some long-ago lawn party.

“God, I’ve never gotten so much work done,” Bethesda Graham says, as if testi

About the Author

Carol Goodman is the author of The Lake of Dead Languages, The Seduction of Water, and The Drowning Tree. The Seduction of Water won the 2003 Hammett Prize and her other novels have been nominated for the Dublin/IMPAC Award and the Simon & Schuster Mary Higgins Clark Award. Her fiction has been translated into eight languages. She teaches writing at the New School University in New York City.

Product Details

ISBN:
9780345490902
Subtitle:
A Novel
Publisher:
Random House Publishing Group
Author:
Goodman, Carol
Subject:
Fiction-Mystery & Detective - Women Sleuths
Subject:
Fiction-Suspense
Subject:
Fiction : Mystery & Detective - Women Sleuths
Subject:
Fiction : Suspense
Subject:
Fiction : General
Subject:
Fiction : Literary
Subject:
General
Subject:
Mystery & Detective - General
Subject:
Suspense
Subject:
Biographers
Subject:
Literature-A to Z
Subject:
Mystery-A to Z
Subject:
main_subject
Subject:
all_subjects
Publication Date:
20060131
Binding:
ELECTRONIC
Language:
English
Pages:
336

Related Subjects

Fiction and Poetry » Mystery » A to Z
Fiction and Poetry » Popular Fiction » Suspense

The Ghost Orchid: A Novel
0 stars - 0 reviews
$ In Stock
Product details 336 pages Ballantine Books - English 9780345490902 Reviews:
"Synopsis" by , Journeying to the luxurious Bosco estate in upstate New York to work on a book based on the troubled events that took place there in the summer of 1893, novelist Ellis Brooks uncovers the dark secrets of the wealthy Latham family, entangling the past with the present as a series of sinister accidents threatens to engulf the modern-day guests in a shadowy web. 40,000 first printing.
"Synopsis" by , Chapter One

I came to Bosco for the quiet.

That’s what it’s famous for.

The silence reigns each day between the hours of nine and five by order of a hundred-year-old decree made by a woman who lies dead beneath the rosebushes—a silence guarded by four hundred acres of wind sifting through white pines with a sound like a mother saying hush. The silence stretches into the still, warm afternoon until it melts into the darkest part of the garden where spiders spin their tunnel-shaped webs in the box-hedge maze. Just before dusk the wind, released from the pines, blows into the dry pipes of the marble fountain, swirls into the grotto, and creeps up the hill, into the gap- ing mouths of the satyrs, caressing the breasts of the sphinxes, snaking up the central fountain allée, and onto the terrace, where it exhales its resin- and copper-tinged breath onto the glasses and crystal decanters laid out on the balustrade.

Even when we come down to drinks on the terrace there’s always a moment, while the ice settles in the silver bowls and we brush the yellow pine needles off the rattan chairs, when it seems the silence will never be broken. When it seems that the silence might continue to accumulate—like the golden pine needles that pad the paths through the box-hedge maze and the crumbling marble steps and choke the mouths of the satyrs and fill the pipes of the fountain— and finally be too deep to disturb.

Then someone laughs and clinks his glass against another’s, and says . . .

“Cheers. Here’s to Aurora Latham and Bosco.”

“Here, here,” we all chime into the evening, sending the echoes of our voices rolling down the terraced lawn like brightly colored croquet balls from some long-ago lawn party.

“God, I’ve never gotten so much work done,” Bethesda Graham says, as if testi
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