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Contemporary Literature

A Fool's Gold Christmas by Susan Mallery

By Susan Mallery

The unrelenting cheer in Fool's Gold, California, is bringing out the humbug in dancer Evie Stryker. She realized early on that Christmas miracles don't occur, at the very least now not for her. And this 12 months feels like no exception. An harm has compelled her to come to the relations fold, irrespective of that they're estranged. She won't upload to the awkward situation by means of being seduced by means of the bad-boy charms of her brother's ally, the final guy she should still ever are looking to date. even if she's recruited to degree the Fool's Gold wintry weather competition, she vows to do as promised, then flow ahead along with her lifestyles wherever yet here.Jaded legal professional Dante Jefferson is being used to the backwater city he now reluctantly calls domestic, however the pounding of little dancers' ft above his transitority workplace is greater than any guy must have to take! while he confronts their stunning instructor, he's unprepared for the allure that sears him right down to the soul. Evie is his most sensible friend's sister--off-limits except he's prepared to probability his middle. Dante has continually believed that love is the main harmful strength within the universe, yet that was once sooner than he needed to reckon with the magic of a definite small city, the place miracles do appear to happen....

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Wild boar steamed in myrtle leaves. {20 Someone having a birthday, ‘‘Tanti auguri a te,’’ the words rising in the piazza— And suddenly the light, that light. The sanctuary with its silver offering bowls, the lepers singing. Here are the goblets filled with wine. The smell of sunlight fading from the stones. Quietness that’s solitude but not isolation. And the windows lit with displays of red corals from just off the coast said to be the blood that streamed from Medusa’s severed neck when Perseus laid her head beside the sea.

I answer: Radiance will change its name. In the heat I squirm and shrug out of my summer suit and breathless split into a cotton dress. It is almost evening. There are fireflies. On the lawn of my childhood house, an operating table, doctors, a patient under a sheet. I walk up. Under the webbing of IVs, a surgeon hands me a silver comb and I start brushing the patient’s hair like I did my mother’s when I was a girl. The nurse lifts the sheet. It isn’t my mother. It’s the monkey. I bend my ear to its dying lips and it says: You haven’t much time— risk it all.

This is what I realized that night in that divided city. After playing the wretched hostel piano, I wrote: Dear N, I want to cut off my hair and tie it into brushes so I can paint the city of Belfast in its true humanity. All day long I passed an artist’s studio where the clay arms and hands of women were displayed in the window. Small hands to hold such a city. Love, K {24 grandfather outside There are sadnesses which cast in one’s soul the shadows of monasteries. —E. M. Cioran We arrived too late for the sundial.

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