Where is hubbards point

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Firefly Beach Amazon. Leave a Reply Click here to cancel reply. Important Note: Clicking any links beside the book lists will lead you to Amazon for more details or to purchase the book. Navigation Home Characters Authors. Monthly Newsletter! Twice per month we send out a book newsletter. This will have various recommendations from various genres, a list of popular upcoming new books, new author spotlights, reader mailbags and much more!

If you wish to subscribe and check it out enter your details below. Or check out the newsletter archives to see what to expect. Popular Authors This is a list of trending authors on the site - the most popular authors within the last 24 hours! In an unforgettable novel set on her beloved Connecticut seaside, she weaves a timeless story. After every storm there is a place to return to—if you have the courage to follow your heart.

Artist Dana Underhill has always been a free spirit, traveling the world, filling her canvases with the mysterious colors of the seas she and her sister have sailed since childhood.

Firefly Beach. Under the summer sky, anything is possible…. Author of the acclaimed novels Cloud Nine and Follow the Stars Home, Luanne Rice returns with another moving portrait of a family in crisis—as three sisters come face-to-face with the past and find in each other the courage to go on.

Coolly sophisticated and steadfastly single, Caroline Renwick has always been the sister everyone could count on. As she and Clea and Skye gathered at Firefly Hill, their childhood home, Caroline thought that they had all put the past behind them.

But as summer gets under way, a mysterious man arrives—a man who has the power to bring it all back…. Joe Connor was only six when his father died at Firefly Hill. Though he and Caroline had never met, the five-year-old girl reached out to him.

They became pen pals and friends, until a teenaged Joe finally learned the truth about what had happened to his father that night. Now, after years of silence, Joe is suddenly here … and Caroline still feels a connection. And in his presence, how long will she be able to guard her heart? Share: Share on Facebook. Other Series By Luanne Rice. More about Luanne Rice. Other Series You Might Like. Today's Top Books Want to know what people are actually reading right now?

Stay in Touch Sign up. Place cut potatoes on cookie sheet, rolling in olive oil until well-covered. Add unpeeled cloves of garlic.

Season with sea salt and freshly ground pepper. Add a couple of springs of rosemary--in one piece, not broken up. Insert sheet into oven. As soon as you hear the oil starting to sizzle, after 10 minutes or so, remove pan and with a spatula turn the potatoes so they don't stick to the pan and so they brown on all sides.

Do this a few times over about 30 minutes--cooking time depends on size of potatoes. You want to cook them until they are crispy. Serve with cloves of garlic straight from the pan, still in their jackets, and tell your guests to peel them themselves. It will be fun for them, easier for you, and the garlic will taste delicious with the potatoes and shad, or even spread on slices of baguette. I miss my mom. Please comment below for the chance to win a copy of the book as well as a canvas tote bag printed with the cover of The Lemon Orchard.

I'd love to know about your mother, hear your stories and memories. Whenever Old Lyme threw a literary gathering, the writers would usually be the locals: Dominick Dunne, David Handler, and me. What a thrill I felt to be included with them. And I was always as entertained as the audience: they were as smart and funny as storytellers come.

Earlier this summer when David and I discovered each other on Facebook, we had a happy online moment. It turned bittersweet as we spoke of Dominick and how we miss him. Old Lyme's light is dreamy, reflecting off Long Island Sound, the Connecticut River, and all the tributaries, ponds, salt meadows, and marshes. Lyme Street runs through the village, lined with charming saltboxes, stately white colonial houses, stone walls, and gardens, one more seductive than the next.

There's an unquestionable reserve about our town, mystery behind the picket fences. Such a delicious place to set novels. No wonder David's are mysteries. David has a brand new blog ; I read the post while away from Old Lyme, and it made me homesick for everything about the town.

I hope we're asked to speak together again before too long. I really want to hear him tell the Sid and Nancy, well more Nancy, story again. Also, and I bet David doesn't know this, the reason I got a Fender Stratocaster is directly linked to why his character Mitch Berger first acquired his. Dominick was wickedly witty and kind and direct and famous.

He knew everybody and traveled all over, and I think he really considered Old Lyme to be his sanctuary. I loved his writing and consider his Vanity Fair article, Justice , about the murder of his daughter Dominique, to be one of the most riveting, honest, unforgettable pieces I've ever read. What a time, what a town. I want to stop by the Phoebe Griffin Noyes Library and get lost in some research, and I definitely need to play my Strat more often.

A great beach friend from childhood and, in some ways, even before--our parents had been friends when they were young, and our grandparents before that--posted on my facebook page today.

We were reminiscing about Helen Hubbard--a neighbor who lived on the Point, and for whom my fictional beach town "Hubbard's Point" is named. Betty reminded me of how we used to crouch under Helen's window to listen to her practice. Helen was an opera singer and voice teacher, and when she sang it was beach music--as much a natural sound as seagulls and wind blowing through the pine needles.

Once or twice a summer she would give recitals and invite grownups from the Point. That didn't stop us kids from sitting outside and enjoying the performance. Betty and her sisters and brother and my sisters and I were across-the-road neighbors, and pretty much inseparable from Memorial Day through Labor Day.

We loved summer and each other. The beach was OURS. As I wrote back to her, we swam and laughed all day. Mim, my grandmother, and her great-aunt Florence would hang out together too, tell old stories, go for swims in their skirted bathing suits and white bathing caps.

When Betty's family visited Ireland--often--they would come home with Irish linens, wall-hangings, and tea towels. My cottage is still filled with the many gifts they brought us. Her family had a party every Labor Day. Such a bittersweet gathering! The weather would still be summery, but fall and school and--especially-leaving the beach--were in the air. We'd walk down the steep steps from their cottage to glacial rock ledge sloping into Long Island Sound.

Black-eyed Susans, bright pink sweet peas, and lavender flowered spearmint grew at the top of the rocks. A picnic table would be set with plates of sandwiches, platters of sliced honeydew and musk-melon, and--the piece de resistance--Aunt Florence's soda bread and blueberry buckle. We'd make that party last as long as possible, because as soon as it was over it was time to pack the station wagon and head up to New Britain for the school year.

As Betty says, our memories are a treasure in themselves. She is so right. Just connecting with her today makes me remember everything, and smile, and feel so happy. I wish I had a picture of us all as children--if I did, no doubt our hair would be wet, someone would be adorned with seaweed, there'd be sunglasses, flip-flops, and a few Good Humors in the picture.

And we'd be doing our best and not succeeding to keep from laughing. Hidden paths don't reveal themselves often. They're best when you stumble upon one far from home, away from the familiar. Taking a walk you might catch sight of of a shadowy opening, calling you to duck through a canopy of interlocked branches, or through an up-island gorse-covered dune Do you accept the invitation, follow the path?

I've done that many times. They've led to buried treasure. Not pirate's gold, but beautiful sights I wouldn't otherwise have seen.

On Swan's Island, Maine, through the thickest pine forest, the almost invisible narrow path paved with soft, golden needles, leading to a private crescent beach. In Normandy, uphill through an apple orchard, to the crest with a view of wildflower fields, once painted by Boudin and Monet, sloping down to the English Channel.

Other byways through gardens, Impressionist landscapes filled with light and flowers. In Ireland, in Youghal, following a path within sight of the River Blackwater, coming upon a medieval church dating back to St.

Declan and the year Another day in East Cork, the Ballycotton Cliff Walk, a steep climb from the road, leads along the coast, high above the sea, with views of small islands grazed by sheep and goats, sea birds including terns and fulmars riding the air currents, white gannets plunging down into the rough blue sea, and the Old Head of Kinsale shimmering in the distance. That walk, and a day spent in Kinsale, provided much inspiration for The Silver Boat.

Our own Cliff Walk in Newport, Rhode Island, a mystical experience every time I take it, whether on a brilliant September day, or a snowy December dusk, or the hottest August morning. It hugs the coast for ten miles, past mansions of the gilded age on one side, the wild Atlantic on the other, through tunnels, past Marble House's Chinese Tea House. Perhaps most dear to me, and not at all far from home: the secret path in all my Hubbard's Point novels, leading to a hidden beach where people fall in love and pick beach plums to make tea and jelly and see shooting stars and take midnight swims under the full moon's silver light.

I am thinking of someone lost to me. The stories we told each other, the ghosts we summoned. We thought it would last forever. I don't even know what "it" is: our home, our closeness, our lives together. As she would say, " No body knows how I feel. To love a place so much it hurts. When I go there I am haunted by someone ten miles down the road. Our mother used to say, "You'll have many friends, but only two sisters.

Going to keep this up forever? This seems an appropriate day to ask. M's summer birthday. A favorite poem, and I know you get it. The beach is the valley our fathers called their home. Lost love Do not because this day I have grown saturnine Imagine that lost love, inseparable from my thought Because I have no other youth, can make me pine; For how should I forget the wisdom that you brought, The comfort that you made? Although my wits have gone On a fantastic ride, my horse's flanks are spurred By childish memories of an old cross Pollexfen, And of a Middleton, whose name you never heard, And of a red-haired Yeats whose looks, although he died Before my time, seem like a vivid memory.

You heard that labouring man who had served my people.