Books By Ann Patchett Novels & Stories

Emma said, walking deep into the living room. "Thanks." She walked to a set of shelves on the far side of the room, running her fingers over the spines of his books. A lot of them were classics, novels by Dickens, Voltaire, Dumas, Melville, and Hemingway. She smiled when her fingers ran over the spine of not one, but three copies of Mitchell's Gone with the Wind. There were modern novels, too, including Stephen King and Sidney Sheldon, but they didn't look as well read as some of the others.

Just sneakers and a light jacket. The city was unusually quiet. I ended up at a small antique bookstore tucked between a florist and a tailor. It had no flashy signage, just a brass bell on the door and a handwritten welcome note in cursive. Inside, the scent of old paper and cedar wrapped around me like a story waiting to be told. I let myself drift between the aisles until a book caught my eye—Letters Never Sent. It was a collection of real, unsent letters from women over the last century. To lost loves, estranged mothers, unborn children.

I replied happily. It's 3:05 am according to my phone. That gives me five minutes for a shower, five minutes to get dresses, and 5 minutes for breakfast. Knowing my mom it's already done and waiting on the table for me. We had to leave by 3:30 am to be to the airport by 4 am. I have no idea why I have to check in two hours before my flight but that's the rules. I knew I could sleep on the plane. Dad had gotten me a first class ticket. So I knew I would have a seat all to myself with plenty of room to sleep. The first part of my journey would be on a quick flight to Seattle then onto a plane to Greece. Well technically a ten hour flight with a 1 hr lay over in Paris and then an almost 3 1/2 h

There haven't been any night duty since forever. "Okay then, stay safe. I love you." "Love you more." I hung up. Challenging? Yeah. And frustrating. I can't do anything without Kyle. * I stared long at the brown leather cover book on my reading table, "Changing Destiny." by Annabelle Steele. It looks more different to me now. I've had it there for years and I pop into it from time to time whenever I'm in need of motivation or energy. I love Annabelle. She changed my life, her books. I wouldn't have been the lawyer that I am now if not for her. But I never really met her in person, when she was alive. I was one of those people who cried uncontrollably when her death was announced. She was the

but it’s not a book, no way. But as he eased closer to the counter he couldn’t deny what he saw. The object looked just the right size for a hardcover novel. He squinted, trying to make out the author’s name or the book’s title . . . No. No, his stubborn mind protested, it can’t be. But as he moved closer, his unbelieving eyes discerned an adolescent boy’s gray profile, features shrouded by darkness, and printed across the bottom was: Gavin Patchett.

No one has found the bodies yet, though, so theres still a lingering hope out there that they're alive. I sigh as I crawl under the thick quilt, flicking on the lamo beside me as I pull out my latest find at Barnes and Nobels: The Winter Garden by the famous Kristin Hannah. This woman's books are truly amazing. Then, after an hour long reading session, I find my eyes beginning to shut against my will, so I set down the book on the bedside table and shut off the lamp. ~ The next morning...

He returned his attention to the bookshelf at the rear of his office, the one he’d been browsing when he’d first heard the strange sounds outside, only being made by the cats, after all. The top shelf held purely “literary works.” Poetry collections of Blake, Yeats, Robert Frost, and Shakespeare. Prose collections of Zora Neal Hurston, Hemingway, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Flannery O’Connor, and folktales collected by the Brothers Grimm. Novels, from The Man in the Iron Mask to Madame Bovary, to Villette and Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte, to A Passage to India by E. M. Forster.