Be-Mused — Karen Templeton

Here’s the review I’m going to post later on Amazon and bn.com. The book should still be on the stands. So get it. Now.

A GEM OF A BOOK

At sixteen, Allyson Cole was forced to give up her baby daughter for adoption, an excruciating situation made even more so by her not knowing, or understanding, why Sonny McGraw, the baby’s father and her first love, had simply taken off without a word of explanation before he knew Allyson was pregnant. Yes, he was only eighteen, himself, but in the six months they’d been together, they’d been each others’ worlds, and Allyson had trusted Sonny more than she’d ever trusted another human being. Now Allyson’s in her early fifties, a successful restaurateur in Portland, in a solid, long-term relationship with a terrific guy who wants to marry her more than anything in the world. But Allyson – who sees the baby she gave up in every redheaded woman who crosses her path – is still saddled with too much guilt, and too haunted by too many unanswered questions from her past, to fully embrace her future.

Then, her previously-unknown sixteen-year-old grandson shows up on her doorstep, with the shattering news that his mother, Allyson’s daughter, has died three weeks previously. With that, Allyson’s tenuous hold on the present is shaken as well, leading her to the decision to embark on an extended roadtrip to Texas with the equally shattered, and wary, teenager to meet his grandfather. . .and possibly find the answers to at least some of the questions that have plagued her for more than three decades.

THE ME I USED TO BE is a warm, witty and poignant exploration of some of the most realistically complex, and appealing, characters I’ve encountered in a long time. Jennifer Archer’s prose is lovely without a hint of pretension, never getting in the way of Allyson’s narration of her own story. Characters are vulnerable, screwed up and courageous all at the same time, and I loved them for it. Fans of both women’s fiction and romance will find a lot to make them happy here. I see a very bright future for this extremely talented new author.

The husband and I traipsed through a bunch of houses in the local Parade of Homes yesterday, each one uglier and more pretentious than the last. Form-follows-function is, apparently, a thing of the past, with details like stairs leading up to the entrance, followed by more leading down to the living room, then back up to the kitchen. . .which is no where near the dining room. Which, aha! Is around the corner. . .and down more stairs. I ask you, who the hell wants to navigate steps with a twenty-pound turkey on a platter???

But our biggest beef was with this current trend (at least here in Albuquerque) toward Tuscan Ostentatious. We’re talking twelve-foot ceilings (in the kitchen!) and lots of rough-cut stone floors and heavily-carved, ENORMOUS furniture upholstered in assorted dreary brocades like olive and baby poop gold. I kept expecting Count Dracula to swoop down the overblown curved staircases. Or at least Edgar Allen Poe. Does one really need massive wing chairs in the breakfast nook?

No, I take that back. Our biggest beef is with builders who basically ignore the whole point of building a million-dollar- plus house in Albuquerque, which is take advantage of the incredible views. Sky and mountains and city lights, people. Not your neighbor’s bathroom window. Sheesh. Really, does the football-sized TV really need to go on thatwall?

Anyway, we were so dispirited and gloomed out by the end, I came home and crashed. For two hours. I didn’t take a nap as much as I was sucked into another dimension. But I told the husband it was because one of the cats was with me, and her complete ability to give herself over to sleep proved extremely inspirational. I think he bought it.

Then, to follow through on the Dreary and Pretentious theme, we rented ALEXANDER, because the husband had just watched a wonderful PBS documentary about the early Greeks and the like, so wanted to see it. I kept thinking thank God Alexander died as young as he did or we’d still be watching the movie. Here’s a clue for you, Mr. Stone — long, tedious exposition doesn’t work any better on the screen than it does in books, no matter how esteemed the actor struggling to bring life to the words. And what was up with that strange amalgam of accents? Scottish? Irish? Angelina-Jolie-does-Maria-Callas? Of course, there was the glimpse of Colin Farrell’s danglies. . .

Sigh. There’s three hours I’ll never get back.