Fiction

I do not exactly know what I was expecting when I opened The Language of Flowers and started reading, but I do not think that I was expecting to be completely and utterly amazed and captivated by the story right from the very first paragraph:

For eight years I dreamed of fire. Tree ignited as I passed them; oceans burned. The sugary smoke settled in my hair as I slept, the scent like a cloud left on my pillow as I rose. Even so, the moment my mattress started to burn, I bolted awake. The sharp, chemical smell was nothing like the hazy syrup of my dreams; the two were as different as Carolina and Indian jasmine, separation and attachment. They could not be confused. (pg 3)

The month of March always brings out the Irish in me, and I have just enjoyed two books set in Ireland: the audio version of Patrick Taylor's Irish Country Girl and the print version of Maeve Binchy's Minding Frankie.

The first is read by John Keating and it is delightful to hear his variety of Irish accents, changing for each character. This book is the latest in Taylor's Irish country doctor series and fills in the background of the doctor's housekeeper, Kinky Kincaid. In Minding Frankie, I love the continuing saga of Binchy's residents of St. Jarlath's Crescent, in Dublin. She skillfully interweaves the lives of a diverse population and makes the reader want it to keep on going. I can't wait for the next book in either series!