The Silver Boat: A Novel
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From New York Times bestselling author Luanne Rice, a moving family story that "will strike a chord in every mother, daughter, or sister" (Marie Claire)
In The Silver Boat, New York Times bestselling author Luanne Rice has written a heart-wrenching yet heartwarming portrait of a family in all its flawed complexity. The McCarthy sisters have come to Martha's Vineyard to say good-bye to their family's beach house—the place they were happiest together. Each has her own complicated issues and is struggling with the difficult process of letting go, but when a cache of old letters spurs them to visit Ireland, each woman comes to see herself in a new light. True-to-life sisters, the beach, laughter, and passionate love—The Silver Boat is Luanne Rice at her very best.
back and forth between the huge barnacled, creosoted pilings. Chains rattled as the ferry’s metal ramp was lowered, and Dar peered into the dark hold, her heart beating fast. The Silver Boat 7 Vehicles began to off-load. She held her breath. This was the Steamship Authority’s newest ferry. Dar, her sisters, and their mother had stood on this dock, listening to Carly Simon, her son Ben Taylor, Kate Taylor, and others singing to welcome the new boat. Dar had done a drawing of the scene, given
were written in fountain pen, as she remembered, in her father’s hand. Tears caught in her throat as Dar held the letters in her lap, staring at her father’s beautiful, perfect handwriting and looking at the long-ago dates and postmarks. PA RT I I The great beach against which the sea continually beats. H e c t o r S t. J o h n d e C r è v e c o e u r , w r i t t e n o n a 17 8 3 m a p o f t h e V i n e y a r d C HAPTER SEVEN K nowing that one’s parents wrote love letters to each other
Cork? “You don’t believe in such things? Ghosts or fairies?” he asked. “They can be tricky. Just because you don’t believe doesn’t mean they’re not there.” “I trust what you’re saying,” she said. She knew Dulse would. “Does the boat you saw mean something to you?” he asked. “It reminds me of the one my father built,” she said. “He sailed solo across the Atlantic and made it safely to Kerry. I know he loved Kinsale, though, and believe he would have tried to make it here afterwards.” “Solo,” the
rising. They walked to the far end of the office. The rough-wood walls were papered with architectural renderings of sailboats, fishing boats, freighters. Tim pointed out the original drawings of the two ships they’d built to fight the British. There were figureheads of saints and angels, their faces holy, their paint peeling, their wings and scepters worm-eaten; beneath them were wooden transom signs made to hang the width of the sterns of boats, stating the vessel’s name and home port, some
with a red sash around her waist so she wouldn’t slip out. She was tiny, with skinny veined wrists. Her spine curved so acutely, she had to arch her neck to view her visitors. Her white hair was neatly brushed, tied with a piece of green yarn. Only her blue eyes—curi ous, warm—made her seem young. “We brought this for you,” Dar said, handing her the pastry bag. 160 Luanne Rice Cathleen looked inside as if it were Christmas morning. She reached inside, pulled the roll out, and began to eat.