I can’t remember the last time I read such a pointless story with such a ridiculous premise. Rebecca de Forde is the divorced, thirtysomething mother of a nine year old girl who learns that a former lover is dying. Jericho Ainsley is in his 60’s and resting in his home in the Colorado Rockies when Beck is summoned to his bedside. Beck and Jericho had been lovers 15 years earlier when Jericho threw his career away and left his wife for Beck, then an 18-year-old college student. He bought Stone Heights, his home in the mountains, and he and Beck escaped from a judgmental world there. The relationship was not fated to last, though, fizzling after just 18 months.
Naturally, Jericho’s two daughters, Audrey and Pamela, don’t think highly of Beck, and when she returns to Stone Heights to visit Jericho for the last time, Pamela is especially snide to her. Audrey is an Episcopal nun and works hard at playing peacemaker. Beck spends very little time with Jericho, chasing off after oblique clues he gives her when he could simply have told her what he was up to. The whole time everyone was working themselves into a lather over Jericho’s secrets, I kept thinking, “Who cares?” Why would anyone tie herself in knots over some man’s secrets when that man occupies a bed in the same house? And why, when he refused to give clear answers, did Beck stick around to dig up the story instead of getting back to her own life? Beck’s annoyingly recriminating mother needed a good, hard slap, but she did have a point. Why had Beck run off without her daughter and put her job in jeopardy to spend a couple of days in Colorado for an ex-lover? Her presence and the danger she puts herself in are absolutely pointless, and those couple of days felt like a month.
Had I not suddenly come upon a page saying “Author’s Note,” I would not have realized the book was finally over, such was the number of loose ends out in the wind. I���m sure the author intended to weave a twisting, turning plot, but unfortunately, with the book’s silly premise, it came across as a jumbled mess, circling around and around the reasons I just didn’t buy. Then, in the end, several questions went unanswered, like the truth of Pamela’s accusations about Beck. Perhaps it was done intentionally to keep me thinking about the story, but the attempt failed miserably. Had I not felt obligated to review this book, I don’t think I could have forced myself to read all the way through it.