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BETWEEN THE TIDES by Patti Callahan Henry
On Sale: June 5th
Paperback
352 pages
ISBN-10: 0451221141
ISBN-13: 978-0451221148
What if your father’s
dying wish was for you to return to the one place you never wanted to
see again?
Catherine Leary’s father told her that all of life is a story. Her
story began with a childhood tragedy. Now her father’s last request
is for her to confront her past, unravel a family secret, rediscover
her heart and start a new chapter of her life.
“Known for her lyrical writing” (Booklist, starred review),
bestselling author Patti Callahan Henry has become one of the South’s
most unforgettable voices. Now, in her emotionally engaging new novel,
she portrays a woman burdened by the past --- and the choices she must
face to break free…
Nine months after Catherine Leary’s father, a literature professor,
passed away, she still has not fulfilled his last wish: that she scatter
his ashes in the Seaboro River in South Carolina. The scene of a childhood
tragedy that forced her family to move, Seaboro is the last place Catherine
wants to see again. But on the evening of her thirtieth birthday, her
father’s young colleague --- whom she once dated --- pays a visit…
Forrest Anderson comes bearing gifts --- and a challenge from Catherine’s
dead father: three probing questions that he had planned to put inside
a birthday letter to his daughter. But it’s the news that Forrest
plans to memorialize her father in an article about Seaboro…and the
surprising revelation that her father visited there in recent years…that
sends Catherine reeling. Hoping to stop Forrest from exposing her family’s
secrets, she agrees to accompany him to her once-beloved Lowcountry
town --- and embarks on a poignant journey back to the past.
Patti Callahan Henry is the National Bestselling author of three novels with Penguin/NAL.
(Losing the Moon, Where the River Runs, When Light
Breaks). BETWEEN THE TIDES will be released on June 5, 2007.
Patti is hailed as a fresh new voice in southern fiction. She has been
short-listed for the Townsend Prize for Fiction and has been nominated
for the Southeastern Independent Booksellers Fiction Novel of the Year.
She is a frequent speaker at luncheons, book clubs and women’s groups
where she discusses the importance of storytelling and anything else
they want to talk about.
Patti grew up as a Minister’s daughter, learning early how storytelling
effects our lives. She grew up spending her summers on Cape Cod where
she began her love affair with the beach, ocean, tides and nature of
the coast. Moving south at the tender age of twelve, she found solace
in books and stories. While attending Auburn University, she met a southern
boy who later proposed on Daufuskie Island, South Carolina, next to
a historic lighthouse overlooking the Sound. After earning her Master’s
degree in Child Health, Patti worked as a Clinical Nurse Specialist
until her first child was born.
Patti is a full time writer, wife and mother living with her husband
and three children outside Atlanta on the Chattahoochee River where
she is working on her fifth novel.
The first thing that will strike readers about Patti Callahan Henry's new novel, BETWEEN THE TIDES, is the lovely and unusual cover image and treatment. And unlike so many other beautifully packaged novels, the content delivers on the promise of the cover. This is a thoughtful, well-written story that fans of WHEN LIGHT BREAKS, WHERE THE RIVER RUNS and Henry's previous efforts will savor.
Henry once again sets her plot against the memorable backdrop of the South Carolina Lowcountry, an area that has inspired numerous novelists. Catherine "Cappy" Leary is just turning 30 years old and grieving the loss of her father, a literature professor, who died nine months earlier. Her mother is also dead, and it's up to Cappy to scatter her father's ashes back in the Lowcountry town of Seaboro where she grew up. Fear holds her back. Cappy was marked by tragedy in adolescence there, which changed the course of her family's life forever. She has never returned.
Enter her father's literary colleague, Forrest Anderson, who is ready to help Cappy reconcile the past and move on toward a future where she can reach her full potential. Leaving her job at the Athletic Office of Southern University, where she works in the media relations department, Cappy and Forrest set out to execute her father's last wishes and uncover the whole truth about her past.
Henry includes several love interests for Cappy: Forrest, the kind, loyal academic; Cappy's handsome but dishonest and rather slick boyfriend, the university's basketball coach; and Cappy's childhood love, Boyd Loughlin, who was also scarred by the earlier tragedy that has marked his life differently than it has Cappy's.
Adroitly, Henry uses the opening chapter of her novel to show the horrific accident that cost a young toddler his life and left Cappy guilt-ridden and grieving. Some authors would have left readers in suspense about what "secret" Cappy carried, but Henry's masterful unpacking of it in the first chapter allows the audience to focus on Cappy and her own emotional healing rather than center on the tragedy itself.
One of the most interesting facets of Henry's novel is the chronicle of a grown-up returning to her childhood community and the oddness of seeing adults and familiar, remembered settings and events in a new light. Anyone who has ever revisited their old hometown --- or, for that matter, gone to a class reunion for the first time after many years --- will relate to Cappy's mixed feelings.
Lovely, competent writing permeates the pages. After opening one chapter with an excellent quote from C.S. Lewis, "No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear," Henry writes these descriptive first lines: "The gray sequin curl of river glittered in front of me: the geography of childhood reflecting the same sky of Sam's last day --- the day of the shrimp boil, a celebration of Seaboro's bounty. The land had given and then ceased offering cotton and rice, but the gift of shrimp was celebrated yearly." Henry imparts a wonderful sense of place, and readers who have never visited the Lowcountry (and this reviewer is one of them) nevertheless will feel a connection to it. It's an area that has inspired some good stories: Older readers may be familiar with Eugenia Price's trilogy on St. Simon's, and South Carolina Lowcountry has been rich fodder for other contemporary novelists (and deservedly so).
The idea of the tragedy Cappy deals with is nothing new; it's been used as a plot element in countless works of fiction. However, in Henry's hands, readers who are grappling with any type of childhood wounds or feel undeserving of love will find empathy and healing in the pages of this poignant novel.
--- Reviewed by Cindy Crosby. Contact Cindy at phrelanzer@aol.com.
 Click here now to buy this book from Amazon.com.
Q&A with Patti
Callahan Henry
Q: When did your affinity for storytelling begin? What made you take
that initial leap and begin writing your first novel? And why do you
write?
PCH: I grew up with my nose in a book and have always been fascinated
with beautifully told stories. I also grew up as a preacher’s daughter,
which is nothing more than listening to the same truth being told over
and over in story. I slowly came to realize the power was not in the
lecture, but the well-told story. My daughter is the one who reminded
me I wanted to write novels. When she was six years old she told me
she wanted to be writer of books and this spurned me on to my original
childhood dream.
My first novel---actually a memoir---was called MY LIFE and was
never published. I wrote it when I was twelve years old. Although I’ve
been writing ever since then, professionally I pursued a medical career.
I am a nurse with a Master’s degree in Child-Health.
Seven years ago, I finally understood that writing is all I’ve ever
really wanted to do. When I knew I had no choice---that writing was
a necessary part of who I was---I pursued it as seriously as I did my
master’s degree. It became essential that I take classes, read books
on the writing craft and actually write every day. The path I took to
publication required belief in my work, along with persistence, courage,
faith, serendipity and a willingness to study the craft of writing.
The catalyst for each step of the journey was the decision---the commitment
to write.
I write because I believe in the power of story! My Daddy is a lively
Irish preacher and I grew up understanding the innate power of story.
When I was a child, I was a book-worm, ignoring all those who made fun
of me while my nose was stuck in the Narnia Series. I’ve always used
story to make sense of my life. The driving force behind my writing
is the hope that my story will touch someone’s heart, that I will
tell a story that will tell a ‘truth’…and of course my deadlines
are a wonderful driving force.
Q: Reviewers have compared your novels to the works of Anne Rivers
Siddons, Pat Conroy, Mary Alice Monroe, and Patricia Gaffney. What is
it like to join the ranks of such illustrious writers?
PCH: I am humbled and grateful to be compared to such outstanding
writers. They are masters at crafting sentences rich in description
and meaning. I can only hope that the comparisons arise from the deeper,
shared truths we each explore in our novels. Or I can only hope they
aren’t offended.
Q:Your writing has a lyrical quality, what I call
“a dance,” a rhythm that charms the reader. It also convinces the
reader that these people and places are real. How do you do that?
PCH: Wow, What a beautiful compliment. The writer spends hours
and hours in solitary work trying to craft a sentence and when someone
calls the writing “lyrical”, the heart sings (or at least mine does
because my voice definitely can’t sing). I’m not sure how it’s
done or if I do it all beyond the daily act of reading and writing,
reading and writing – almost like an obsession. And, as for the characters
being real – well, they are when I’m writing them, when they are
moving and talking and living on the page in front of me.
Q: What does it take to be a good novelist in today’s world?
PCH: Guts, courage, belief in your work and of course…shameless
self-confidence. There are so many people out there who will tell us
why we CAN’T write, there aren’t very many voices telling us how
we CAN write. If I knew what it took to be a good novelist, I’d never
waver from it, but I believe the best we can do is tell the truth as
we feel it. I also think the novelist needs to be very aware of the
kind of book he/she wants to write. It is so easy in today’s marketplace
to get swayed by what is hot and what is not---what’s on the ‘lists’.
A writer must spend a lot of time searching their own heart about what
kind of stories they want to tell.
A new writer must also spend the time and energy to learn about the
publishing business.
Q: What is your favorite quote?
PCH: “It is never too late to be who you might have been.”
George Eliot (1819-1880). And anything C.S. Lewis ever said.
Q: What is one of the most valuable lessons you’ve learned?
PCH: One of the most valuable lessons I’ve learned is to always
check my children’s pockets for crayons before I put the clothes in
the dryer. Other than that---I think my life lesson over the past few
years has been to learn and relearn that the more I attempt to fall
into other people’s plans for my life, the more God’s purpose for
my life is blocked and remains unfulfilled.
Q: Can you offer any advice to the aspiring writer who wants to be
published?
PCH: First I believe you must have an innate and driving passion
for writing, the written word and story. After that, I believe that
the biggest contributor to one’s work finally getting published is
a recognition that there is an art and a craft---in other words there
is the deeply creative aspect of writing (ever notice the word art is
inside the word heart?), but one must also learn the mechanics, the
business, the rules of submission and the technical aspects of writing.
Educate yourself on the business of publishing and the specifics of
the kind of novel you want to write (the genre).
All writers receive rejections because there are so many different opinions
and tastes out there in the publishing world. The key is taking the
rejections and using them to your advantage (ex: improving your work,
finding the right editor). And if writing is your passion, calling and
gift – never give up.
And of course, write and write, read and read, and then write some more.
Q: What urged you to change careers from a Clinical nurse specialist
to southern fiction writer?
PCH: I tell this story because it is inspiring and true: I was
playing doll house with my daughter (she was six years old at the time)
and I asked her what she wanted to be when she grew up. She told me
“I will be a writer of books.” Now she didn’t say she wanted to
win a Pulitzer Prize or be on the New York Times Bestseller list, she
just said she wanted to write books. It was a huge “aha” moment
for me and a life-changing moment as I decided, right there on her bedroom
floor, that I was going to finally do this thing – I was going to
write a book.
Q: How do you fit in time for being a mom and a best-selling author?
Is there a secret to this?
PCH:Everyone has a passion. Mine is writing and telling stories.
Motherhood comes first and it is the biggest joy in my life, but writing
is a calling and an important role incorporated into woman, wife and
mother. I always say that I don’t ‘find’ time to write; I ‘make’
time to write. Which means I sacrifice some other time-spending endeavors
to sit down and write (or edit).
Now when I discover the real secret, I’ll shout it from a mountaintop!
I only know how to go day-by-day, believing that my beautiful, raucous
family is my priority and then moving on from that place to the writing
which nourishes and inspires me.
Click here now to buy this book from Amazon.com.
Prologue
Before that summer of my twelfth year, we always jumped from the end
of the dock, rather than enter the river from the shore's safe edge.
God help us, maybe that was why Sam went in that day. Maybe after watching
us so many times, he too jumped when the sunlight fell in sharp edges
onto the moss-encrusted grass, the tide flowed in, and the day whispered
good-bye.
His mother's voice ripped through the evening, tearing it in half. "Where's
Sam?"
I looked up at Ellie standing at the river's edge, the picnic basket
at her feet, the lavender-azure rays of a sunset surrounding her like
a blessing.
"He's hiding in the hole of that oak tree," I answered, pointed
to the fallen tree. "Boyd scared him."
Ellie walked toward the tree and I felt it then: what had haunted me
all summer, followed me, wakened me with sweat; what I had labeled expectation
or youth or even love now had a name-pure, immeasurable fear.
Ellie bent over the tree and called two-year-old Sam's name, and then
she stood and screamed his name. She did not turn to me for help. She
never fully turned her face or her voice or her all-encompassing love
toward me again. She screamed Sam's name with a mother's primal terror,
which brought her husband, Jim, and my parents running to the river.
I screamed too, but not Sam's name, just a sound of such total animalistic
fear that Sam's brother, thirteen-year-old Boyd, clapped his hand over
my mouth. "Stop, Cappy. Stop. We'll find him. Let's find him .
. . now." Then Boyd hollered Sam's name in a cracked and wounded
voice I had never heard from him before. This, and this alone, let me
know my fear was alive for a reason, a solid and unequivocal reason-Sam
was gone.
The voices overlapped. I couldn't identify which adult spoke each phrase,
and I could not, in any way, answer.
"Sam. Sam. Who was watching Sam?"
"Did you put on his life jacket yet?"
"Do you have Sam?"
"I was packing the picnic."
"Cappy had him."
"Cappy had him?"
"No, Boyd had him."
"Yes, Cappy."
"Cap, where is he? Where is he?"
"Is he hiding behind the old oak?"
"Shit, quit arguing, find him."
"Find him. . . ." Ellie's voice rent time and space into the
before and after of Sam. "Find him."
Nothing, no answer. But not silence either, just the clamor of screeching
seagulls, arguing blue jays, croaking frogs, peeping cicadas, slapping
waves-sounds of nature as harsh against Sam's silence as the mangled
screech of metal against metal.
I turned to Boyd, who stared at me with his mouth open, as if unformed
words were trapped in the same place as Sam's breath. I looked up to
the top of the dead oak tree, to the screeching osprey in her nest;
she stared down at me with her yellow eyes, then covered her babies
with her wings. I ran sobbing with the violent realization of Sam's
death. My childhood was destroyed, never to be repaired, never sewn
into a whole piece. It was my fault. Nothing good could ever come to
me again.
ONE
Eighteen Years later
"I had always felt life first as a story. . . ."
-G. K. Chesterton
I knew I looked like a complete fool, standing on the front step of
the porch in drawstring pajama bottoms and a tank top, watching Thurman
drive away in the gritty light of predawn. My unruly hair fell out of
a tangled ponytail while a strap slipped off my shoulder. The taillights
of his car moved down the street like two open eyes staring at me, and
I hoped, in vain, that I'd see the brake lights, that he'd stop, turn
around, and remember it was my birthday, that he'd throw his arms around
me and say with a laugh, "Oh, Catherine, how could I have forgotten
it was your thirtieth birthday?" I would hug him back, kiss him
and run my hand up his neck and through his blond hair before he left
again.
But, of course, he didn't return to me; he was late for his trip to
Alabama. In our four years together, this was the first time he'd ever
forgotten my birthday. I saw this fact as a bad omen even as I told
myself it was probably nothing more, or less, than the result of forgetfulness,
fatigue, and preoccupation.
I sat and watched the streaks of morning come over the South Carolina
mountain peaks in a stretching, yawning awakening. I closed my eyes
and grasped like a child for that elusive but palpable sense of possibility
I remembered from childhood birthday mornings.
I'd once believed that each new year brought me closer to becoming one
of the beautiful and brave characters in the novels piled around my
bedroom. This, I would think when I was young, will be the year I'll
be as curious as Lucy in Narnia, as courageous as Scout in Mockingbird,
or as cunning as Nancy Drew.
In that fateful summer of my twelfth year, however, I discovered that
such story-time fantasies were not and never would be mine. No Atticus
would rush to my rescue; no clue in the old clock would fix my family;
Aslan would not save me from my sin. For some people sudden realizations
in life come in one breath of their own, but mine had come in a breath
not taken by another.
Now, at thirty, I'd found all I needed in the sweet, real world of Cedar
Valley, where I lived-the mountain peaks forming a torn-edged horizon,
like a castle's crenellated walls, protecting me within a bowl of neatly
laid out streets lined with well-established homes and mature trees.
I never climbed to the top of the surrounding hills to enjoy the distant
vistas other people talked about after hiking up the mountainsides.
I was content in my leafy bower.
I hadn't left Cedar Valley-except for family vacations to Disney World
or the Florida beaches to visit Dad's parents in Sarasota-since I'd
moved here eighteen years ago. Even those few times I had traveled with
my parents, I didn't feel completely right until we returned. Away from
home, it seemed as though every encounter and experience held more import,
more chance for pain, than it did when I was inside my safe valley home.
I sat on my front steps, breathed in the green-rich air of another year
and thought how I might spend that particular birthday. My boyfriend,
Thurman, the head basketball coach for Southern University, was off
on a recruiting trip, but right then I missed Dad more than Thurman.
Dad, a man of books who lived, moved, and had his being in the themes
and metaphors of novels, who believed that all of life was a story,
had been gone for nine months. Just thinking about him with a book in
one hand and a huge grin on his white-bearded face made me smile.
He had been the English department chair, and taught one freshman class
on Southern literature. He'd passed away from a heart attack while teaching
his class the literary nuances of Faulkner's The Sound and the Fury.
In the middle of his attempt to make the students understand that Faulkner's
words conveyed many meanings, he grabbed his chest. His students thought
he was acting, being dramatic about an asinine comment just made by
a boy in the back row. Even when he fell to the floor, they were still
laughing. I was certain this was exactly, and I mean exactly, how Daddy
would've wanted to go: teaching, laughing, standing in front of the
classroom wearing his tweed jacket with the patches on the elbows, holding
a piece of chalk in one hand, a book in the other, his junior professor,
Forrest Anderson, at his side.
Soon I discovered I was wrong about this, and then that I was wrong
about so many other things too. But at that moment, the thought of him
dying in his element, with the man he'd mentored for ten years, was
a comfort to me.
After Dad was gone, I discovered that as an only child I inherited his
house in this valley of South Carolina, in which I now lived, and all
his earthly belongings, including our beloved dog, Murphy. I was also
heir to his last request, handwritten in a letter attached to his will:
to scatter his ashes in the Seaboro River. I had still not completed
this task. There I sat, on my birthday, and thought, with stomach-turning
regret, how I had not fulfilled his last request of me. Yet since I
was a child and we lived on the shores of the South Carolina Lowcountry,
he had always been the one to make my birthday special: a pink ribbon
on the magnolia tree in the front yard, a cake with so much icing you
couldn't find the cake inside, a present hidden in boxes inside boxes
until I found the small gift at the bottom. Even when Mother was alive,
she believed that this sort of indulgence spoiled a child. Of course
she did, but she tolerated it for Dad's sake.
I hadn't scattered Dad's ashes not because I didn't love him and respect
his wishes, but because I couldn't imagine returning to the place I
still mourned, a place where my childhood lived as its own entity without
my permission, and more important, a place I had forced my family to
leave. I didn't know why Dad would want to send me back there.
I rubbed my eyes, stood, and stretched to face another day at the Athletic
Office at Southern University, where I worked in the media-relations
department. "Happy birthday to me," I said to the ripening
chestnut tree in the front yard, not yet knowing that the gifts I would
receive that day would make me agree to return, reluctantly and to protect
sacred secrets, to the grief-breathing place of childhood, to the Seaboro
River.
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