Connie Nixon is no stranger to making lists. In fact, she has rewritten the list of her deepest desires no fewer than forty-eight times. And each Sunday, for as long as she can remember, she’s tinkered with it. But actually doing something about her desires is a different story—until the night she comes across a box belonging to her estranged daughter…and makes a stunning discovery. It turns out that her seemingly straitlaced Jessica is part owner of one of the most successful sex toy shops in America.
Shocked by her daughter’s secret life, Connie tucks her list in her back pocket and does something utterly impulsive: she hops on a plane to New York City to track down Jessica—and winds up on the wildest adventure of her life. Because with her daughter’s help, Connie’s about to let her own inner bombshell see the light of day.
Now, for the first time ever, things are flying off Connie’s list. Like reconnecting with her daughter. And getting tipsy before noon. And the most startlingly extraordinary desire of all: falling in love.
From the Trade Paperback edition.
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|Title of Mystery & Detective eBook: The Sunday List of Dreams|
|Release Date: 01-23-2007|
|Allowed Countries (hover)|
|Publisher: Random House Publishing Group|
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|Parent title||The Sunday List of...|
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The Sunday List of Dreams
Chapter One1. Stop being afraid.
Connie Nixon's house starts talking to her at 9:51 p.m. on a Wednesday.
She has just finished pawing through her heart and examining the long lines of desire that parade through her body like an endless roll of string and tangle in a knot inside her chest. Her left hand is holding the knot, loosened briefly by means of the pen in her right hand that has translated her dreams into the list. The 48th list. Connie Franklin Nixon's list of dreams.
Connie's list-making tonight has been assisted by one and then two glasses of red wine-a really nice dry cabernet from Australia-and she is trying to decide if she should have another glass. This would push her way over the halfway mark, as far as her usual alcohol consumption goes, and into a semi-critical "what the hell" state that she associates with the early stages of drunken folly, Saturday nights on her sister's back porch and the good old days, which did not last long enough.
Three seconds of hesitation is enough and Connie Nixon rolls over, lets the pages of her list fold against each other, drops the pen, grabs the gorgeous dark red bottle off her book-laden nightstand and pours the wine into the rounded, clear glass so close to the top that she has to lean over and sip it before she can actually pick up the glass.
That exact moment is when she hears the house speaking.
"What?" she whispers out loud. As if she is answering the walls that seem to be speaking. "What did you say?"
She pauses. Her top lip is swimming in wine and her bottom lip has wedged itself against the smooth glass, her breath in a holding pattern. Six years...