As people learned to say cheese.

Publisher: Barbour Publishing
Pages: 309
Type: Fiction
Age: Adult
ISBN: 978-1-616-26506-9
First Published: 1st September 2011
Date Reviewed: 17th October 2014
Rating: 4/5

Addie moved to Dodge City with her uncle after troubles caused them to move from Abilene. Now Carl is dead and Addie is trying to build up their photography business by herself. She has a romance-minded friend, Fran, and then there’s the new Deputy Sheriff. Miles has started his new job, and has a few personal conflicts about the job, owing to his new found faith, but he’s excited nonetheless to be working as a lawman, especially given his past.

A Bride’s Portrait Of Dodge City, Kansas, is a pretty fair historical novel straddling the mystery, suspense, and romance genres.

Christianity features in this book. It is a big part of a few of the character’s lives however in terms of the novel itself the faith is woven in enough that the general reader should be okay with it. There are a couple of times where Miles feels he should be declaring his faith to his boss, which isn’t really appropriate, but otherwise the times the characters think of God are totally natural – Addie prays for help whilst hiding from shooting, for example. And there isn’t all that many textual references to it, it is more a case that the reader knows the characters have faith.

The language is generally very good, the characters well written. Addie is self-employed, a woman working as a photographer in the 1800s against various prejudices. She is strong throughout. Fran is a dreamer and doesn’t realise the potential danger ahead, and Vetsch does put her in some situations, including a scene of harsh words from the man who says he loves her, but overall you can see where the author was wanting to show how the good guy can be a mysterious knight in shining armour if given the chance. This said there is a scene in which a bad guy gets perhaps more nasty than he had previously seemed (yes, even for his associations) that readers may find uncomfortable for the way it plays out. Miles will appeal more to a Christian reader than otherwise, though either way you’re likely to see him as a fair hero.

There are repetitions, for instance you hear about Addie’s move from Abilene a few times and there aren’t really enough updates to warrant it until later in the book when she gives you the whole story, and these feel as though a word count was needed because as soon as the narrative moves away from it the story carries on well.

The book is somewhat predictable by fact of it’s romantic genre, but another thread that seems predictable is not so much. This said, the mystery and suspense take a somewhat surprising turn near the end and one of the most obvious suspects isn’t spoken of until this end. The suspense itself, however, is written excellently and Vetsch hasn’t shied away from the details, in fact it could be said she lures you into thinking everything will be just about drunken cowboys, red lights, and saloons, until getting to the gritty stuff. And she shows the difficult and otherwise immoral choices that must be made in times of emergency.

There is a great deal to learn about photography and the times in general. There is a lot of detail given to photography but not so much as to make it boring. Indeed if you’ve even the smallest interest in the subject you’ll likely enjoy Vetsch’s descriptions. The book is firmly in cowboy territory and the balance between ‘protect the women’ and Addie’s freedom is good. Fran could have done with more freedom to choose, but given the way she is presented from the start, you know she’s going to go back on her words somewhat.

Lastly, this may be a clean romance, but its kisses and thoughts are pretty steamy all the same. Indeed Vetsch shows you don’t need sex for a fair tale of romance.

What works in A Bride’s Portrait Of Dodge City, Kansas (it’s a long title but interesting for its difference) makes up the vast majority. There may be flaws but looking at the big picture the book is very good. Cowboys and photography, gangs and romance, independence and dependence; if you’re looking for a western with a bit of faith, you could do worse than read this book.

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Time may change, but there will always be that person in a similar situation.

Publisher: Harlequin
Pages: 234
Type: Fiction
Age: Adult
ISBN: 978-1-460-33836-0
First Published: 1st August 2014
Date Reviewed: 14th October 2014
Rating: 3.5/5

Nick won’t give up, so Grace agrees – an otherwise usual day as a property historian/gallery assistant is changed when Grace accepts the energetic Nick’s proposal that they work together on his commission to discover whether a Victorian architect designed for the Great Exhibition. Grace’s life is ruled by her partner (bed and work) Oliver, and she’s done a good job of pretending she’s happy for nine years, but Nick’s offer, whilst overwhelming, piques her interest. Little is known of Lucas Royde’s career before he became famous, but that might just be about to change.

The Crystal Cage is a dual-plot novel that studies the art world and history but later takes a long look at the expectations people have of each other, especially those less well-off (in all ways), than themselves, to good effect.

None of the characters are likeable, however whether or not they are supposed to be is not obviously stated and so it would be fair to say that if you go into the book knowing that this is the case, you are likely to finish it more content than someone who goes in expecting happiness and romance. Be not ye fooled by the name of the publisher, there is little real romance here and, given the subjects, it is all the better for it.

Lucas, for example, is assuming and takes jealousy to an extreme level. A subtle, non-violent level, but one all the same. The man who is quite obviously in lust rather than love hates his rival from the word ‘go’ with scant reason and it can be hard to feel anything for him when he puts himself in such an awkward and socially unexceptionable position with little behind it that the reader can understand. His ‘romance’ is an interesting one, however, in part because of the way the author does not include any details from the point of view of the woman. Indeed the book would have been too long if she had been given a voice and so it may simply be that she was left out for no literary reason, so to speak, but nevertheless the effect is intriguing. You don’t hear a word from Alessia except through Lucas and therefore it is easy to believe that perhaps she is less in love with him than Lucas thinks, she is certainly more desperate and less powerful than Lucas can comprehend. Their story may be sad, and it may be true as much as the fiction can be, but what is left out ensures that there is a further link in the main social theme.

This theme is of control, the expectations I have stated above. Grace became Oliver’s partner in every sense of the word, but it was/is a case of what Oliver says, goes. He was the lifeline she needed – the security, the job, perhaps even the man in a sexual sense – as long as she was at his beck and call. It is somewhat a spoiler to say this, so you may want to move on to the next paragraph if you’d rather not know too much, but the theme continues somewhat with Nick. Bounding, get-up-and-go Nick, whom Grace likens to Tigger. Whereas Oliver’s persona may have been obvious from the start, at least it would have been if Grace had been less in need, Nick allows the author to show how control can come in different forms. Similarly Alessia is controlled by her reported love for Lucas, and by her husband. It’s interesting to compare the two situations because the contemporary version may hit harder, being closer to home than the Victorian period. But of course both are equally damning.

This all sounds very good, and it is, but this theme consumes the end rather than the main section of the book. The book is overwritten. It’s wordy, flowery, and rather repetitive, with ideas being repeated mere pages after they have already been stated. There is also an element of prolonged angst to it that can be difficult to read. The insistence by Lucas that he’s in love when the reader can see that it is pure lust makes the story difficult to continue.

Nick and Grace are rude. They literally run away from people who had made time for them as soon as they, Nick and Grace, realise the person doesn’t have much information for them. They are well-matched in their lack of tact and in their attitudes to others. Lucas is jealous, as said, hateful of too many, and assumes too much.

The mystery has many, many dead ends, and these are convenient, a way to keep the story going. After a couple of these occasions wherein a search looks promising but is then fruitless, it becomes too predictable and the meetings and searches boring. Then, later, this turns 180 degrees when ideas about Royde appear out of the blue with no ‘evidence’ (for Royde is fictional) behind them. Grace makes guesses that are correct, but they are too much of an assumption without the information the reader has been privy to.

Lastly there are a few names and places that invite confusion, and areas that, other than the filler content, could have used more editing.

Yet the history itself is appealing and there is enough factual information for the interested reader to jump from it into their own research. And the ending itself is highly appropriate and rather excellent. Allingham shows all the worries and backtracking of someone in a difficult situation but writes the ending that you could say is expected. She doesn’t make sweeping changes or include roses on doorsteps – she gives you the realistic truth and has her character remain strong. And she shows that backwards can often be a step forward.

Granted the history works best for the themes of control and independence and less so for the romance. It could be argued that the book would have been better without the Victorian romance, and certainly Grace’s story of discovery is more compelling, but the theme itself makes it all worth it in the end.

The Crystal Cage as a title is exactly what it seems to be, just as relationships often are not. It takes time and yes, effort, to get there, but the book is recommended.

I received this book for review from Historical Fiction Virtual Book Tours.

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Time passes. Separately.

Publisher: Peirene Press
Pages: 96
Type: Fiction
Age: Adult
ISBN: 978-1-908-67016-8
First Published: 2012 in French; 2014 in English
Date Reviewed: 2nd September 2014
Rating: 4/5

Original language: French
Original title: La Compagnie des Tripolitaines (The Company of Tripolitans)
Translated by: Adriana Hunter

Hadachinou, a child in 1960s Tripoli, Libya, tells the reader about his mother and neighbours, citing with a child’s frankness the differences in gender, religion, and race.

It would be fair to say that Under The Tripoli Sky is a society-driven book. Neither character nor plot driven, even though there is time spent on Hadachinou’s development, the novella is very much a vignette rather than a ‘proper’ narrative, more ripe for study and deep thought than average enjoyment.

Hadachinou spends his days with his mother (as much as she will let him), observing her friendships and the relations and lives of others. It should be noted that although he is frank, the narrative is written in a way that suggests hindsight and so there is a maturity to his discussions of slavery and freedom as though he has since grown up. Hadachinou the majority of his time observing, meaning that time is spent solely on the issues and cultural dynamics.

There are many cultures at play, though you could place them into three categories: the original Muslim culture of Tripoli, the cultures of the Jews, Christians, and American forces discussed, and the new hybrid that arrived with the European and American people who have settled there. Most of the attention is on the Muslim culture and the way it differs from the new hybrid, and this illustrated by the family dynamics. The women gather together to discuss their dreams, their wishes, and much is said of those who don’t align with the accepted values. The woman who killed her abusive husband; the woman who has had many men. Hadachinou, who neither condemns nor agrees, tells us about the beatings and unhappiness some of the women suffer, meaning that we hear three ‘sides’ – the women’s, the women’s from Hadachinou’s observations, and the men’s, also from Hadachinou. In this case, given the focus of the book, life from the men’s perspective is not needed. The book looks at the future through a lens of equality, tradition balanced by the new.

As for race, Tripoli is multi-cultural. Hadachinou talks of those who have assimilated themselves (somewhat) into the community, people who have been slaves or whose ancestors were slaves, those of African origin. In race, the book is interesting, introducing the differences between the native Tripolitans and the story of a white Jewish woman whose community left her alone due to her relations and later pregnancy with a black American man. The Tripolitans may still regard others as different, but there is more of an emphasis on similarity. In this way the different ways cultures mix and stay apart are explored.

The writing style is very literary; the wording is superb. Kudos must be given to the translator, Adriana Hunter, but it’s not hard to see where the original text is behind the English. The book is about culture and difference, and those must come first, but of great importance is the text itself. At times it’s so lovely that you may find yourself having to read over a passage again as you end up focusing on the words rather than the message.

Under The Tripoli Sky is simple and the issues are dealt with in a nice, obvious, way, thanks to Hameda’s use of a child. Indeed Hadachinou at times sounds older than his treatment may suggest, but that does not matter so much as what is said. It’s a short read, with a lot to say, and potentially plenty to use for the reader up for a bit of research.

I received this book for review from the publisher.

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This is the first time I’ve read Christian fiction (besides C S Lewis and Tolkien) and I’ll be reviewing this book as I do any other so it may be the case that this review differs in its main focus than it ‘ought’.

Finding a painting, discovering history, and perhaps (hesitantly) falling in love.

Publisher: Thomas Nelson
Pages: 323
Type: Fiction
Age: Adult
ISBN: 978-1-401-69059-5
First Published: 8th July 2014
Date Reviewed: 19th August 2014
Rating: 3.5/5

Gallery owner Sera has been searching for a painting, seen once as a child and instantly loved, for several years. When her assistant tells her another is looking for it and wants the gallery’s help, she jumps at the chance and flies to the other side of the country. The family looking for the painting is wealthy but that wealth is in jeopardy and the painting is the key. In 1940s Austria, the subject of the artwork and the daughter of a general of the Third Reich is branded a traitor and sent to Auschwitz after it is discovered she aided an attempt to provide safe passage to a Jewish family. Both Adele and Sera search for security and happiness, hoping that God will provide.

The Butterfly And The Violin is a Christian dual plot line historical that looks at art, the Holocaust, and the plight and faith of two young women.

It’s often the case that a reader will prefer one plot line over another when there are two of them, however The Butterfly And The Violin is a book less likely to pull you one way. This is because although very different, both stories are of equal strength, the characters somewhat similar, and the stories well balanced. Though of course nowhere near as significant as Adele’s, Sera’s life has that present-day regularity that is compelling simply because of the emotions included in it. Whilst the time periods are fairly standard for dual plot stories, the fact of the Holocaust and Adele’s ‘role’ in it make the book stand out from others. Although Adele may be in a place of privilege, even in Auschwitz, Cambron never shies from showing you what was going on.

The biggest similarity between the women is their faith. We know more about Sera’s, descriptively, than we do Adele’s, but still it is not simply that both women are Christians. In The Butterfly And The Violin the emphasis is on the way faith is playing its part at that very moment, and for both Sera and Adele, at the time we join them, falling in love and being happy in love are two of the most important aspects of their lives. Both look to God for help, Adele prays she will see Vladimir again, and Sera prays that she will trust another after having had her heart broken. Indeed Sera’s faith is a little shaky – she still believes, and would never not believe, but the disappointments and losses have taken their toll and she hasn’t made much time for her faith since.

Obviously there are quite a number of references to God, faith, and Christianity (also Judaism, but as that isn’t a ‘subject’ so to speak, Christianity is what I’ll be focusing on). More often, at least for the first two thirds or so of the book, God is present in Adele’s story. On the surface it can seem that the references are too many and placed at inappropriate times. However if you step back from your reading and put yourself in the situation of the characters, in this case Adele, it seems perfectly natural. It is really more the case that where faith happens so much more in the mind than in conversation (generally) it’s simply that it can seem odd being actually stated, the things most often thought but not said are here, being voiced. This said, there is a sudden increase in references towards the end in both stories that do not work as well for different reasons. In Adele’s case it’s inevitable that in a crisis, a group of faithful people will look to God – it’s simply that the constant references slow down the pace and pull the focus away from the tragedy of the situation at hand. In Sera’s case it’s that it becomes a bit confusing, although it’s well placed as part of her self-discovery and improvement.

The confusion is part of a larger aspect that needs discussing. There are a few sections of the story that don’t quite add up and occasions where there is too much detailing. People tap their feet a lot, for example, and we have many descriptions of hair. Some of the phrasing doesn’t work. And there are also frustrating occasions wherein questions – literal, spoken questions – are not answered for a while and it seems the case that it’s so Cambron can keep the story going longer. There is one place where answers are ignored so that the author can detail a room, and by this time the reader just wants to know what’s going on. It’s not that the characters ignore the questions, it’s that they are left out completely until detail has been included.

Where Sera and the confusion come in is in the numerous references to faith. The problem is that the issues get lost behind the references so that you realise Sera’s faith has been tested and that she wants to trust and get back to God more fully, but you’re not always sure what’s happening to cause this transition. As it’s not a transition from faithless to faithful (Sera never speaks of going to church but one can assume she does sometimes) it is a problem. Simply put, sometimes narrative is not clearly explained.

Unclear is the way the inheritance issue is concluded. That William and everyone else is happy is not believable and the grandfather’s plans come across as thoughtless, having emphasised William’s role and not really considered the rest of his family. Yes, it allows William to be able to choose the life he has always wanted, but it leaves his family in the lurch and we’re not given all that much information about it. It may work for William, but are his family going to be happy with what is effectively a loss for them? It’s also not clear exactly why the grandfather decided to change his will and leave the fortune previously left to his family to someone else.

Yet still on the whole, The Butterfly And The Violin works. There is a lot of information about the Holocaust, including much that isn’t covered by your usual school education, and Cambron has taken a path rarely if ever used, applying a specific sort of artwork and using that as the basis for one of the stories.

The romance, too, works very well. Whilst we don’t read all that much about Sera and William, appropriate time passes off stage to suggest they make a good couple and the somewhat inevitable discovery of a shared faith is included to very good effect. Adele’s relationship with Vladimir successfully details both the horrors of WWII and your everyday social prejudice. And both the painter and the owner of the painting may prove to be unexpected (but welcome).

And finally the characters are believable and people you’ll find yourself rooting for. Adele’s impulsive choices are maddening sometimes, but exactly the choices you’d expect a naïve, hopeful person in her situation to make, and whilst Sera becomes cross and can’t always see what’s staring her in the face, again, in her situation it makes perfect sense.

Definitely, obviously, this book will be appreciated most by those who share the characters’ faith, but there is enough here for a general historical romance reader or dual plot line lover to enjoy as well.

The Butterfly And The Violin isn’t perfect, but nevertheless you may find yourself racing through it.

I received this book for review from the publisher.

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Who am I? Who are you? Do we care?

Publisher: Macmillan
Pages: 295
Type: Fiction
Age: Young Adult
ISBN: 978-0-330-39797-1
First Published: 1990
Date Reviewed: 14th August 2014
Rating: 4.5/5

Ginny’s not really sure whether or not she fits in. At sixteen, she’s happy in Wales, has a great relationship with her devoted father, and a fair few friends. But being one of only two black people in her town, she doesn’t feel quite… right. Okay, so she’s not completely black, unlike Andy, because her father is white, but when her skin colour is added to her artistic nature the question of who she is starts to become more prevalent. Yet suddenly this isn’t so important. Her father’s about to bring an unknown brother home. If he’s never told her she has a brother, what else is he hiding, and if she was wondering where she fit in before, where does this leave her now?

The Broken Bridge is a fantastic little novel that, although a YA book, has just as much if not more to offer the adult reader. I’ve read it three times now – as a child, as a teenager, and just yesterday, and each experience has been very different, but this last time had the most impact on me.

Perhaps it’s to do with the book’s age – as in all Pullman’s books, the content is not censored and real issues are confronted, and in the 90s when subjects such as homosexuality and racial diversity weren’t discussed quite so openly, and given that The Broken Bridge was written for teenagers, it is somewhat ahead of its time, or at least it feels as though it is. This is a major reason why I say it offers a lot to adult readers.

The story revolves around the theme of identity. Racial identity, familial identity, identity in the world in the long term. Pullman effectively pits one after the other, showing that everything is just as important – Ginny feeling happy in herself is important, but here’s her brother and her identity in this new set-up is just as important, and hey, look, here are a bunch of questions about her mother and where all her memories of her childhood stem from and what impact do these have on her?

There is the furthering of the theme beyond Ginny, and it touches on her brother, father, and in a rather compelling way her mother, too, but the main focus of course remains on Ginny as she makes mistakes, makes rash but good decisions, and works out who and what she is.

Pullman asks us to consider what makes a family and what is and isn’t ‘right’ in this context. He sets some difficult challenges for the reader – reunions that do not go the way you would expect them to and for their subject are very hard to read, relationships that are full of angst. He challenges the status quo almost to excess when you consider the book as a whole. But it’s a good excess. And, anyway, what is family and what is important? Almost everyone in the book lies somewhat or keeps the truth hidden, but Pullman does let go at the end, explaining everything. It’s particularly unsavoury but a good look at how people view independence differently, and how others can view dependence and routine as important.

And, somewhat obviously, the author takes time to look at racism. He shows how it isn’t always in your face, so to speak, how it can be quiet, how it can be worse depending on the situation, and how sometimes it can be part of a bigger burst of anger.

Lastly, if you are an artist or lover of art, of any kind – not just painting or drawing – you will love the detailing in this book. Pullman doesn’t just inform you about the great artists and about good paintings, he brings to mind the utter pleasure and passion that comes with working out what another is saying through their art, and the sparks, the love, that creators and enthusiasts feel.

The Broken Bridge is one you don’t want to miss. My copy, at least, looks to be very much a children’s book, and as Pullman’s writing is at times quite literary and of that earlier decade, you would be forgiven for starting it and wondering if it’s going to be a satisfying read. But it is, so much.

Mend this bridge – read this book.

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