Her father is gone for good—not on a business trip like her mother said—and Annie knows it. Her little brother, Gus, might believe that he’ll come back, but Annie is too sharp, too observant, to believe this comforting lie. In their little house by the shore of Lake Michigan, where everything is the same and yet not, Annie, Gus, and their dreamy, beautiful mother, Paige, are on their own. Then, to add to Annie’s confusion, her mother starts to date Shepherd, a well-meaning and steadfast man who isn’t deterred by Paige’s frequent refusals of his affections. His devotion to her mother and kindhearted interest in her and Gus aside, Annie can’t tell if letting this man into their small, odd family will be the solution to their problems or the start of new ones.
Revealing the intricacies of the adult world through the simple eyes of a child, Now You Love Me is a heartbreaking yet genuinely funny story about the joys and pitfalls of growing up and growing older.
I was born in Harbor Springs, Michigan. More precisely, I was born in Petoskey, seven miles down the road, and was swiftly removed to Harbor Springs to live out my childhood. If you make a mitten shape with your left hand, Harbor Springs is located along the western edge of your middle finger as it rises above the ring finger. It’s a small town on the shore of Lake Michigan. That left hand of yours should be floating in water. I forgot to add that part. Si quaeris peninsulam ameonam, circumspice: If you seek a pleasant peninsula, look about you. This is Michigan’s motto and it has always struck me as fairly bossy—like, if you’re not happy here, you’re not really trying. But my point is that in Michigan we’re surrounded by water on three sides, and I grew up on the shore of a huge lake, an inland sea, in the midst of other lakes, and this childhood geography has had a strong influence on my writing. My family later moved to Fort Worth, Texas, then back to Michigan, and I spent my senior year of high school in Brazil as an exchange student. As an adult, I’ve moved and traveled frequently, but in my writing, my mental landscape has remained the same. At night, the sky goes blue-black very late and you can still see all the stars there, the full constellations. The great thing about remembered places is that they never really change.
I’ve always loved stories—written or spoken. As a child, I liked to listen to people talk, the way each person put his or her life into words, the way things were described or made funny or made sad, depending on who was doing the talking. I was a big eavesdropper. Later, as an adult, I’d remember something I’d heard someone say years before and think So that’s what that meant. I come from a long line of storytellers; I’m just the first one to get the sentences down on the page. Since I grew up without the benefit of cable TV—not much TV at all, cable or otherwise—reading was always important. I was one of those kids who tried Anna Karenina in the third grade. It made my arms hurt to hold it. That began my adventures with age inappropriate reading materials. I read In Cold Blood in the sixth grade and then all of Capote after that. I discovered Flannery O’Connor, Eudora Welty, Nabokov, Garcia Marquez, and Hemingway—whose sister was my grandmother’s best friend and lived down the shore on Walloon Lake.
I wrote my first novel in third or fourth grade. The Very Bad Man involves a kidnapping and espionage plot in Brazil. Ironically, when I ended up in Brazil years later, I found myself living in a town that looked a lot like the one I had invented in that childhood novel. I think the line between writing and life can sometimes be pleasantly blurred. Once in a while, I’ll see someone walking down the street and I’ll recognize her immediately, think I know her from somewhere. Then I’ll remember that I’m thinking of some fictional character I either read about or created myself. That’s an interesting moment. Books and the people in them have always been my friends.
If it weren't for Gus (namely his habit of calling adults by their first names and the ape suit debacle), this would be rated one star, no hesitation. The narrator is ostensibly in third grade but sounds far older, and honestly, the story just isn't interesting. Some books can achieve a meandering plot because the prose is so beautiful, but this isn't one of them. It's not particularly introspective, entertaining, or realistic.
I’m rounding up; closer to three and a half stars. Annie tries her best to keep it together for her little brother when their father leaves them and then their mother essentially has a nervous breakdown. This is hard for her to do, however, being that she’s in third grade. It was pretty slow-paced, but I liked it.
Without relying on pop culture references, as is so often the case, this is a great capture of childhood in the Upper Midwest in the late 70's. Anyone who remember childhood then, and can smell the Tater Tots and see the yellow shag carpet and paneling without the writer even having to be tell us they were all there. Very autobiographical, I'm guessing, and that may be where the plot lost a lot of its steam. But a lovely, poignant portrayal of a childhood from a very believable child's POV.
This book was promising but never really went anywhere. I liked the characters but did not feel they were fully developed and the plot was too thin. A short book I read it in one afternoon.
I loved the characters in this book...so simple but so quirky...I laughed out loud several times. I found this author to really be different than anything I've read before!