that Spanish magic

My mother sent me a piece from the New York Times this morning about a woman who falls under the spell of a man she meets at a wedding abroad.  At first I was distracted by a nagging suspicion that she was subliminally suggesting that Dave and I only like each other because we met in Spain. But then I realized the piece was actually pretty wonderful, passive-aggressive maternal messaging or not. I plan on reading Maggie Shipstead’s debut novel immediately, and have no shame in abandoning the other twelve books currently collecting dust on my night stand and weighing down my work bag day in and day out.

Jane Eyre, please note that you’re not included in that tally of the cast asides. I will continue reading you in five page increments until I die or no longer have trouble falling asleep. Either way, you’re in a category all your own and safe from the hot new book in town indefinitely.


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