Greetings, everyone!

If you need an end of summer novel, my new book is out today.

A short and sweet summary:

1) Toni Koslovsky lives on a yellow tugboat on the Willamette River in Oregon. She needed space to breathe.

2) Toni has two sisters. They can sometimes hear each other in their heads, a message coming through. It’s odd, it’s inexplicable. It’s a gift handed down through the Sabonis family line through their widow’s peaks. Their mother had it, too.

3) The family escaped from Russia when Toni was a little girl. They left a lot of secrets there…and the secrets have been chasing them down ever since.

 

4) The Kozlovsky family has many eccentric and odd members and the dynamics are complicated. You might relate to some of them.

5) Love. Laughter. Funny stuff. A blue heron, a woman named Daisy, a DEA agent who lives down the dock, a family restaurant, a scary man. Pillow making, skinny dipping, too much wine. More laughter.

The first chapter is below.

I so hope you like it.

If you’re in the Portland, Oregon area, I’ll be speaking at Powell’s Books, Cedar Hills, in Beaverton, on Monday, October 3 at 7:00. I would truly love to see you there.

Happy day to you.

Cathy

Amazon https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0190HGQR4/ref=dp-kindle-redirect?_encoding=UTF8&btkr=1#nav-subnav

Powell’s Books http://www.powells.com/book/the-language-of-sisters-9780758295101

Barnes and Nobles http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-language-of-sisters-cathy-lamb/1123105717

 

Chapter One

I was talented at pickpocketing.

I knew how to slip my fingers in, soft and smooth, like moving silk. I was lightning quick, a sleight of hand, a twist of the wrist. I was adept at disappearing, at hiding, at waiting, until it was safe to run, to escape.

I was a whisper, drifting smoke, a breeze.

I was a little girl, in the frigid cold of Moscow, under the looming shadow of the Soviet Union, my coat too small, my shoes too tight, my stomach an empty shell.

I was desperate. We were desperate.

Survival stealing, my sisters and I called it.

Had we not stolen, we might not have survived.

But we did. We survived. My father barely, my mother only through endless grit and determination, but now we are here, in Oregon, a noisy family, who does not talk about what happened back in Russia, twenty-five years ago. It is best to forget, my parents have told us, many times.

“Forget it happened. It another life, no?” my father says. “This here, this our true life. We Americans now. Americans!”

We tried to forget, but in the inky-black silence of night, when Mother Russia intrudes upon our dreams, like a swishing scythe, a crooked claw emerging from the ruins of tragedy, when we remember family members buried under the frozen wasteland of the Soviet Union’s far reaches, we are all haunted, some more than others.

You would never guess by looking at my family what some of us have done and what has been done to us. You would never sense our collective memory, what we share, what we hide.

We are the Kozlovskys.

We like to think we are good people.

And, most of the time, we are. Quite good.

And yet, when cornered, when one of us is threatened, we come up swinging.

But, pfft.

All that. In the past. Best to forget what happened.

As my mother says, in her broken English, wagging her finger, “No use going to Moscow in your head. We are family. We are the Kozlovskys. That all we need to know. The rest, those secrets, let them lie down.”

Yes, do.

Let all the secrets lie.

For as long as they’ll stay down.

They were coming up fast. I could feel it.