The Love Season | Page 1 of 196

Author: Elin Hilderbrand | Submitted by: Maria Garcia | 12548 Views | Add a Review

Few books are only available in 'with images' version.

For Margie Holahan—

a friend for all seasons

XO

Contents

Part One Provisions

August 19, 2006 • 6:30 A.M.

Part Two The Dinner Party

August 19, 2006 • 6:32 P.M.

A Reading Group Gold Selection

In Her Own Words

Food for Thought

Keep on Reading

Reading Group Questions

Part One

Provisions

August 19, 2006 • 6:30 A.M.

Marguerite didn’t know where to start.

Each and every summer evening for nearly twenty years, she had cooked for a restaurant full of people, yet here she was in her own kitchen on a crystalline morning with a seemingly simple mission—dinner for two that evening at seven thirty—and she didn’t know where to start. Her mind spun like the pedals of a bicycle without any brakes. Candace coming here, after all these years. Immediately Marguerite corrected herself. Not Candace. Candace was dead. Renata was coming tonight. The baby.

Marguerite’s hands quivered as she brought her coffee mug to her lips.

The grandfather clock chimed just as it had every fifteen minutes of its distinguished life—but this time, the sound startled Marguerite. She pictured a monkey inside, with two small cymbals and a voice screeching, Marguerite!

Earth to Marguerite!

Marguerite chuckled. I am an old bat, she thought. I’ll start by writing a list.

The phone call had come at eleven o’clock the night before. Marguerite was in bed, reading Hemingway. Whereas once Marguerite had been obsessed with food—with heirloom tomatoes and lamb shanks and farmhouse cheeses, and fish still flopping on the counter, and eggs and chocolate and black truffles and foie gras and rare white nectarines—now the only thing that gave her genuine pleasure was reading. The people of Nantucket wondered—oh yes, she knew they wondered—what Marguerite did all day, hermited in her house on Quince Street, secreted away from the eyes of the curious. Although there was always something—the laundry, the garden, the articles for the newspaper in Calgary (deadline every other Friday)—the answer was: reading. Marguerite had three books going at any one time. That was the chef in her, the proverbial more-than-one-pot-on-the-stove. She read contemporary fiction in the mornings, though she was very picky. She liked Philip Roth, Penelope Lively, as a rule no one under the age of fifty, for what could they possibly have to say about the world that Marguerite hadn’t already learned?

In the afternoons, she enriched herself with biographies or books of European history, if they weren’t too dense. Her evenings were reserved for the classics, and when the phone rang the night before Marguerite had been reading Hemingway. Hemingway was the perfect choice for late at night because his sentences were c

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Comments

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Alice
Great book, nicely written and thank you BooksVooks for uploading

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