Praise for the novels of
SUSAN WIGGS
HALFWAY TO HEAVEN
âWiggsâ writing shimmersâ¦. Her flair for crafting intelligent characters and the sheer joy of the verbal sparring between them make for a delightful story youâll want to devour at once.â
âBookPage on Halfway to Heaven
THE FIREBRAND
âWith this final installment of Wiggsâs Chicago Fire trilogy, she has created a quiet page-turner that will hold readers spellboundâ¦.â
âPublishers Weekly
THE MISTRESS
âSusan Wiggs delves deeply into her charactersâ hearts and motivations to touch our own.â
âRomantic Times
THE HOSTAGE
âOnce more, Ms. Wiggs demonstrates her ability to bring readers a story to savor that has them impatiently awaiting each new novel.â
âRomantic Times
THE HORSEMASTERâS DAUGHTER
âIn poetic prose, Wiggs evocatively captures the Old South and creates an intense, believable relationship between the lovers.â
âPublishers Weekly
THE CHARM SCHOOL
âThe Charm School draws readers in with delightful characters, engaging dialogue, humor, emotion and sizzling sensuality.â
âCosta Mesa Sunday Times
The Historical Society of Saratoga Springs provided invaluable information for my research. Although Vandam Square and Moon Lake Lodge are my inventions, they were very much inspired by their real counterparts in this unique and beautiful historic city. Dramatic liberties have been taken with the townâs layout, and fictional characters are, of course, my own invention. Many thanks as always to Joyce, Barb, P.J., Rose Marie, Janine, Lois, Kate and Anjali. Thanks for being first readers, mentors and friends. And finally, thanks to H.P.R., who kept her promise.
She wore long sleeves to cover the bruises. Although the July sun burned like hellfire and damnation through the soundless houseâeven the French voile curtains in the parlor windows didnât dare to stirâshe kept herself covered in the very height of fashion.
That, after all, was what people expected of a senatorâs wife. Or, she thought with a dizzying leap of hope, his former wife. But that hope would be fulfilled only if she managed to get what she wanted out of this meeting.
She waited in the summer parlor, where the tall mantelpiece mirror was draped in mourning black. Though sheâd lived in the handsome house in Vandam Square for years, a fine edge of terror and panic sharpened her perceptions. She noticed all the elegant details and art treasures in the room as though for the first timeâthe Italianate plaster wainscoting, the Meissen porcelain vase atop a Sheridan table, the ormolu clock on the mantel, the German-made harp in the corner, a series of boring, expensive pastoral scenes of lakes and forests and fox hunts hanging on the walls.
On a wall all to itself hung the strange new painting she had chosen on her own, just last season. It was the only thing in the room she didnât find boring, the only thing she had acquired without consulting her husband.
It was a scene called Woman at Bath by an obscure French painter named Hilaire Germain Edgar Degas. Unlike the bucolic scenes that graced the halls of the vast mansion, this particular painting of a decidedly unglamorous nude drying her abundant body tended to shock everyone, even though it interested and excited her. In the bold distortions of water and light, she could see something special. The intimate, sensuous portrait depicted a woman comfortable in her own skin, and she felt like a different person looking at that painting. For that reason, she loved it. Because she so dearly wanted to be a different personâsomeone, anyone else.
There was another reason she loved the strange, light-washed picture.
Her husband hated it.
The only reason he let her keep it was that sheâd told him it had been a gift from the Vanderbilts. That wasnât true, of course, but it was the least of the lies sheâd told him over the course of their nine-year marriage.
The faint jingle of harness outside the open window startled her, even though she was expecting it. She heard the footsteps of Archie Soames, the butler, as he went to the door. She moved to the window, which was veiled by sheer curtains. The wispy fabric exuded a hot smell, like fresh ironing. Because the curtains diffused the view of the driveway, the arriving vehicle appeared like something out of a dream.