New York Times bestselling author Luanne Rice made her triumphant debut with this delicately drawn but emotionally powerful portrait of a woman’s extraordinary journey of the heart and soul–a timeless story of love, sisterhood, and the hope that emerges even out of heartbreak....
Una Cavan doesn’t believe in ghosts. But ghosts seem to believe in her. At least, her father’s ghost does, walking into and out of her life as casually as if he were entering and exiting a room. Una has always believed the Cavan women had the power of witches, and from the beaches of Connecticut to the bustle of New York City they’ve shared the special unbreakable bond of sisters. No man has been able to come between them…until Lily marries the “perfect” man and begins to drift away and Margo gets engaged. With another failed relationship behind her, and a thriving career as an actress ahead of her, Una wonders if she’s destined to be alone–or if there isn’t something more, something magical that life has in store for her. Then an unexpected encounter gives her the answer she’s been seeking….
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|Title of History eBook: Angels All Over Town|
|Release Date: 03-28-2006|
|Allowed Countries (hover)|
|Publisher: Random House Publishing Group|
This eBook download is available in the following formats:
|Parent title||Angels All Over Town|
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Angels All Over Town
The problem was not that I believed in ghosts. I did not believe in ghosts, but I was visited by one. I could not deny it. When I least expected to, I would see my father, solid of body, curly of hair, in true corporeal splendor, even though he had died months earlier. Once I saw him across the floor at the Rose Room in the Algonquin Hotel. I spotted him from behind. He was dining with two other men, and his graying golden-brown hair looked as springy as ever. I made no attempt to speak to him. I sat in my seat, not eating my chef's salad, watching his familiar movements: the way he drank his martini, smoked his cigarette, gestured expansively. I guessed that he was trying to sell some land to his table companions. I had no doubt that he would pick up the tab.
The next time I saw him was at the apartment I shared with my sisters in Newport. It was a small, dingy, second-floor walkup, made cool by a breeze off the harbor. One close August morning Lily and Margaret had left for the boatyard where they worked, and I had just finished another cup of coffee. I grabbed an old Redbook and headed for the bathroom. There I found my father, seated on the toilet, reading the New York Daily News.
"Oh, I'm sorry," I said, backing out and slamming the door behind me.
"Hang on a sec, I'm almost through," he called. My heart was racing, but from embarrassment, not shock. I did not ask myself how my father, a man who had died wearing two colostomy bags, could be taking a normal shit. Nor did I wonder why he was reading the Daily News, a tabloid he had considered vulgar in life, and which, besides, was not readily available in Newport. I just