Big Cherry Holler - Adriana Trigiani [0]
“As skillfully as Ms. Trigiani makes us laugh, she makes us cry…. This novel shares the strengths of Big Stone Gap. Its dialogue is perfectly tuned to the speech of Southwest Virginia. Its settings—a mountain town in Virginia and a mountain town in Italy—are portrayed accurately, with beautiful detail. Its pace never lags for a moment. Big Cherry Holler builds on these strengths and moves to a more involving emotional level…. Satisfying reading.”
—Richmond Times-Dispatch
“Trigiani can make you laugh in one sentence then break your heart the next. Her Big Stone Gap series is sure to become the next Mitford.”
—The Clarion-Ledger (Jackson, MS)
“A big-hearted novel that alternates dollops of comfort with moments of folksy charm and stark poignancy … Ave is a spunky and likable narrator; the novel is populated with many of the same characters readers found endearing the first time around; and the story of a mother grappling with grief over the loss of a child is genuinely moving.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Recommended … This novel of love and forgiveness delivers its story in a believable manner. Ave Maria remains someone readers would like to know, and Iva Lou, her librarian friend, still has her finger on the pulse of Mars/Venus relationships in this neck of the woods.”
—Library Journal
“Trigiani provides plenty of colorful scenery, whether she’s traversing the Appalachians or the Alps. Her narrative canters along at a lively pace, and her supporting characters, especially Iva Lou and Fleeta, supply comic relief.”
—The State (Columbia, SC)
“Big Cherry Holler is every bit as engaging as its predecessor is and bittersweet. Trigiani fans will want more pages to turn.”
—Style Weekly (Richmond, VA)
ALSO BY ADRIANA TRIGIANI
Lucia, Lucia
Milk Glass Moon
Big Stone Gap
For my mother,
Ida Bonicelli Trigiani
CHAPTER ONE
The rain is coming down on this old stone house so hard, it seems there are a hundred tap dancers on the roof. When Etta left for school this morning, it was drizzling, and now, at two o’clock, it’s a storm. I can barely see Powell Mountain out my kitchen window; just yesterday it was a shimmering gold pyramid of autumn leaves at their peak. I hope the downpour won’t beat the color off the trees too soon. We have all winter for Cracker’s Neck Holler to wear gray. How I love these mountains in October: the leaves are turning—layers of burgundy and yellow crinolines that change color in the light—the apples are in, the air smells like sweet smoke, and I get to build big fires in Mrs. Mac’s deep hearths. As I kneel and slip a log into the stove, I think of my mother-in-law, who had fires going after the first chill in the air. “I love me a farr,” she’d say.
There’s a note on the blackboard over the sink in Jack Mac’s handwriting: Red pepper sandwiches? The message is at least three months old; no one should have to wait that long for their favorite sandwich, least of all my husband. Why does it take me so long to fulfill a simple request? There was a time when he came first, when I would drop everything and invent ways to make my husband happy. I wonder if he notices that life has put him in second place. If he doesn’t, my magazine subscriptions sure do. Redbook came with a cover exploding in hot pink letters: PUT THE SIZZLE BACK IN YOUR MARRIAGE! WE SHOW YOU HOW! Step #4 is Make His Favorite Food. (Don’t ask about the other nine steps.) So, with equal measures of guilt and determination to do better, I’m roasting peppers in the oven, turning them while they char as dark as the sky.
I baked the bread for the sandwiches this morning. I pull the cookie sheet off the deep windowsill, brush the squares of puffy dough with olive oil, and put them aside. Then I take the tray out of the oven and commence peeling the peppers. (This is a sit-down job.) My mother used to lift off the charred part in one piece; I’ve yet to master her technique. The vivid red pepper underneath is smooth as the velvet lining of an old jewelry