Pump Up Your Book Presents: The Shade Under The Mango Tree by Evy Journey; #BlogTour, #NowAvailable, #OutNow, #TBR, #Live, #Review

"Gripping. One of the most beautiful books I’ve read in a long time." 

-- International Review of Books

Title: The Shade Under the Mango Tree
Author: Evy Journey
Publisher: Sojourner Books
Genre: Women's Literary Fiction / 

Cultural Heritage Fiction

Pages: 288
Rating:  4 Stars

Told in the first person.  Alternating persons.

Disclosure of Material Connection: I received this book for review from Pump Up Your Book and the author. I was not compensated nor was I required to write a positive review. The opinions I have expressed are my own. I am posting this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission's 16 CFR, Part 255: "Guides Concerning the Use of Endorsements and Testimonials in Advertising"

Blurb:

After two heartbreaking losses, Luna wants adventure. Something and somewhere very different from the affluent, sheltered home in California and Hawaii where she grew up. An adventure in which she can also make some difference. She ends up in place steeped in an ancient culture and a deadly history.

Raised by her grandmother in a Honolulu suburb, she moves to her parents’ home in California at thirteen and meets her brothers for the first time. Grandma persuades her to write a journal whenever she’s lonely or overwhelmed as a substitute for someone to whom she could reveal her intimate thoughts.

Lucien, a worldly, well-traveled young architect, finds a stranger’s journal at a café. He has qualms and pangs of guilt about reading it. But they don’t stop him. His decision to go on reading changes his life.

Months later, they meet at a bookstore where Luna works and which Lucien frequents. Fascinated by his stories and his adventurous spirit, Luna volunteers for the Peace Corps. Assigned to Cambodia, she lives with a family whose parents are survivors of the Khmer Rouge genocide forty years earlier. What she goes through in a rural rice-growing village defies anything she could have imagined. Will she leave this world unscathed?

Inspired by the healing effects of writing, this is an epistolary tale of love—between an idealistic young woman and her grandmother and between the young woman and a young architect. It’s a tale of courage, resilience of the human spirit, and the bonds that bring diverse people together.

Buy Links:

Amazon:  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08KFMR9SG

Also available as an audiobook: 

https://www.amazon.com/Shade-Under-Mango-Tree-Between/dp/B09X7CPYFD/

Barnes & Noble:

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-shade-under-the-mango-tree-evy-journey/1137986157?ean=2940166256980

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/the-shade-under-the-mango-tree-1

iBooks: https://books.apple.com/us/book/the-shade-under-the-mango-tree/id16069

My Thoughts:

Luna gives us a glimpse into her life as we see what she has put down on paper. You can feel the love she has for her grandmother, and it reminds me of the relationship I had with my own. We also had similar experiences with romance books. As I got to know her at the beginning, I knew this would be a great beach read. I could see myself sitting in my chair, facing the ocean, and sticking my feet in the sand. 

 

Then along comes Lucien. He has me with my other love, coffee. That has me thinking that if it’s a rainy day, I would need to go to a coffee shop and find a comfortable chair with a table, right at hand, where I can have my cup of coffee and some type of sweet treat. And if there’s some chill in the air, a fireplace to keep me warm.  

 

I want to say it’s something of a romance but it’s more about love and its different forms. For me, Lucien became our tour guide through Luna and her thoughts. The author writes as if the reader is a voyeur watching everything taking place but not having a voice to comment. I loved the memories this story brought back for me. It had me wishing that I lived in a place where I could have the chance to sit under a mango tree. So that is something to put on my bucket list. Can’t wait to take this on vacation with me in order to experience those feelings again. 

Book Excerpt:

Prologue

Ov’s thin upper body is slumped over his crossed legs, his forehead resting on the platform. His brown, wiry arms lie limp, the right one extended forward, hand dangling over the edge of the platform. Dried blood is splattered on his head, and on the collar, right shoulder, and back of his old short-sleeved white shirt.

It seems fitting that he died where he used to spend most of his time when he wasn’t on the rice fields—sitting on a corner of the bamboo platform in the ceiling-high open space under the house. It’s where you get refreshing breezes most afternoons, after a long day of work.

The policeman looks down at Ov’s body as if he’s unsure what to do next. He lays down his camera and the gun in a plastic bag at one end of the platform untainted by splatters of gelled blood.

He steps closer to the body, anchors himself with one knee on top of the platform, and bends over the body. Hooking his arms underneath Ov’s shoulders and upper arms, he pulls the body up, and carefully lays it on its back. He straightens the legs.

He steps off the platform. Stands still for a few seconds to catch his breath. He turns to us and says, “It’s clear what has happened. I have all the pictures I need.”

He points to his camera, maybe to make sure we understand. We have watched him in silence, three zombies still in shock. Me, standing across the bamboo platform from him. Mae and Jorani sitting, tense and quiet, on the hammock to my left.

Is that it? Done already? I want to ask him: Will he have the body taken away for an autopsy? I suppose that’s what is routinely done everywhere in cases like this. But I don’t know enough Khmer.

As if he sensed my unspoken question, he glances at me. A quick glance that comes with a frown. He seems perplexed and chooses to ignore me.

He addresses the three of us, like a captain addressing his troop. “You can clean up.”

The lingering frown on his brow softens into sympathy. He’s gazing at Jorani, whose mournful eyes remain downcast. He looks away and turns toward Mae. Pressing his hands together, he bows to her. A deeper one than the first he gave her when she and Jorani arrived.

He utters Khmer words too many and too fast for me to understand. From the furrowed brow and the look in his eyes, I assume they are words of sympathy. He bows a third time, and turns to go back to where he placed the gun and camera. He picks them up and walks away.

For a moment or two, I stare at the figure of the policeman walking away.  Then I turn to Jorani. Call him back. Don’t we have questions? I can ask and you can translate, if you prefer. But seeing her and Mae sitting as still and silent as rocks, hands on their laps, and eyes glazed as if to block out what’s in front of them, the words get trapped in my brain. Their bodies, rigid just moments before, have gone slack, as if to say: What else can anyone do? What’s done cannot be undone. All that’s left is to clean up, as the policeman said. Get on with our lives.

My gaze wanders again toward the receding figure of the policeman on the dirt road, the plastic bag with the gun dangling in his right hand. Does it really matter how Cambodian police handles Ov’s suicide? I witnessed it. I know the facts. And didn’t I read a while back how Buddhism frowns upon violations on the human body? The family might object against cutting up Ov—the way I’ve seen on TV crime shows—just to declare with certainty what caused his death.

I take in a long breath. I have done all I can and must defer to Cambodian beliefs and customs.

But I can’t let it go yet. Ov chose to end his life in a violent way and I’m curious: Do the agonies of his last moments show on his face? I steal another look.

All I could gather, from where I stand, is life has definitely gone out of every part of him. His eyes are closed and immobile. The tic on his inanimate cheeks hasn’t left a trace. The tic that many times was the only way I could tell he had feelings. Feelings he tried to control or hide. Now, his face is just an expressionless brown mask. Maybe everyone really has a spirit, a soul that rises out of the body when one dies, leaving a man-size mass of clay.

I stare at Ov’s body, lying in a darkened, dried pool of his own blood, bits of his skull and brain scattered next to his feet where his head had been. At that moment, it hits me that this would be the image of Ov I will always remember. I shudder.

My legs begin to buckle underneath me and I turn around, regretting that last look. With outstretched hands, I take a step toward the hammock. Jorani rises to grab my hands, and she helps me sit down next to Mae.

Could I ever forget? Could Mae and Jorani? Would the image of Ov in a pool of blood linger in their memories like it would in mine?

I know I could never tell my parents what happened here this afternoon. But could I tell Lucien? The terrible shock of watching someone, in whose home I found a family, fire a gun to his head? And the almost as horrifying realization—looking back—that I knew what he was going to do, but I hesitated for a few seconds to stop him.

More...

 

About the Author:

Evy Journey writes. Stories and blog posts. Novels that tend to cross genres. She’s also a wannabe artist, and a flâneuse.

Evy studied psychology (M.A., University of Hawaii; Ph.D. University of Illinois). So her fiction spins tales about nuanced characters dealing with contemporary life issues and problems. She believes in love and its many faces.

Her one ungranted wish: To live in Paris where art is everywhere and people have honed aimless roaming to an art form. She has visited and stayed a few months at a time.

Website or Blog: https://evyjourney.net

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/ejourneywriter/

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/14845365.Evy_Jour

Sponsored By:

Pump Up Your Book Presents: Birthright by jeanette Baker; #BookTour, #NowAvailable, #OutNow, #TBR, #Live

Two women on a course to confront the past, one to expose its secrets, the other to bury them…

By Jeanette Baker

Publisher: Top Reads Publishing LLC

Release Date: June 21, 2022

Soft Cover: ISBN: 978-1970107296; 254 pages; 

$16.99; eBook $4.99

Two women on a course to confront the past, one to expose its secrets, the other to bury them. 

Claire Williams travels halfway across the globe from Southern California to Ireland to find the mother who gave her up and the questions that need answering. Norah O’Connor is equally determined to avoid revisiting the most shameful time of her life and the devastating decisions she was forced to make.

Claire’s presence fifty years later is the engine for the confrontations to come when neighbors Norah has known forever recognize Claire’s resemblance to a younger sister. Norah must face the man who fathered both her daughters, and decide to either hold the secrets that continue to embitter her or release them for the shame that will surely mark her.

“Jeanette Baker’s award winning novels have earned her a place in the paranormal genre beside giants such as Barbara Erskine and Kristin Hannah. Now she brings her unique writing style and compelling characters to the stage of contemporary Ireland, sharing a world as alluring as its secrets are opaque.” —Lauren Royal, New York Times and USA Bestselling Author.

“Gorgeously descriptive and unforgettably moving, Baker’s novel is a wondrous journey of the heart.” —Candi Sary, author of Magdalena 

“Birthright will find a welcome place in any library strong in stories of mother/daughter relationships, Irish culture, and the special conundrums faced by adult children who seek answers to the decisions their birth parents made.” —Diane Donovan, Sr. Reviewer, Midwest Book Review

Book Links:

Amazon: https://amzn.to/3HJjpzA 

Barnes & Noble: https://bit.ly/3tTpSlU 

Chapter 1

Tralee, Co. Kerry, Ireland

Norah

         Look at the time, half-eight, and not a child in the house washed. The expression was my late mother’s, voiced nearly every day in the house where I grew up, ten children tucked into two bedrooms with one bath upstairs.

We were never close, my mother and me, not for any particular reason I can remember, we just didn’t get on. It was Fiona and Kathleen she preferred and Jimmy, always Jimmy, her middle child, the ciotogach, the red-headed lefty of our family who wasn’t supposed to amount to much and ended up in America with more in the bank than all of us put together.

The funny thing is Jimmy loved Tralee, still does, more than Keith or Liam or Michael, certainly more than I ever did. I was desperate to immigrate and wouldn’t have come back, not after Boston, but some things can’t be planned and shouldn’t be remembered.

Never mind all that, my mother would say. Memories never emptied the sink or hung out the washing. All they’re good for is regret. She was right. I know now that she was a font of wisdom I didn’t appreciate. It was my dad I preferred, the jokester, the man’s man, always ready with a wink, a story and a pint. Even when he told me bees could be captured in a can without a lid because they never looked up and I tried it and nearly died from the experience, I blamed myself and never doubted him. Interesting how perspectives change after six decades.

 Speaking of the washing, it’s a good day for it, breezy without a hint of rain. I’m moving slowly today, feeling unsettled, looking for an excuse to avoid housework. Fergus Murphy, the postman, on his way to the door, is as fine a reason as any to sit down for a pot of tea and a scone.

“Good morning, Mrs. Malone,” he calls out. “How is the day treating you so far?”

“It’s a bit early to weigh in on the day, Mr. Murphy. Have you time for a cup of tea. It’s just made and the scones are fresh.”

He scratches his head, checks to see that his few remaining wisps of hair are positioned over the shiny dome of his head, and winks. “Wasn’t I just thinking how I’d like one of Mrs. Malone’s scones?”

“Come in, then.” I hold the door for him. “Mind the step and sit down.” I pour two cups of tea, set out the butter, a fresh knife, spoons and the milk jug. “I hear that Bridget Walsh’s son came home for good this time. Did his marriage go bad?”

“Isn’t it an awful shame?” he replies. “They’re different about marriage in America, replacing husbands and wives the same as they do their automobiles.”

As far as I’m concerned people in Ireland aren’t any different when it comes to replacing a spouse, only we don’t bother to make it legal. We just up and move in with someone else. But I won’t get any information by speaking my mind. “It is a shame,” I agree. “Poor Billy Walsh. She’s a lovely girl, though, isn’t she?” I refill his cup. He finishes one scone and eyes mine. “Would you like another scone, Mr. Murphy?”

“If you don’t mind, Mrs. Malone. This is a particularly delicious batch.”

“As I was saying, Mr. Murphy, Sheila Walsh is a lovely girl. I can’t imagine why Billy would leave her.”

“I heard it isn’t Billy who did the leaving.”

“Did you?”

“Aye. Word has it she’s tired of Billy’s drinking, that and no work for more than two years. Those American girls have expectations.”

“As we all should, Mr. Murphy.”

He drains the last of his tea. Only a few crumbs remain of the scone. “A pint now and then can be tolerated if a man brings home his earnings.”

I nod. “True enough. Given the circumstances, I can’t be too sorry for Billy Walsh.”

“We mustn’t be too hard on him, Mrs. Malone. A second chance may be just what he needs.”

A second chance with a mother who would wash his clothes, cook his meals and pick up after him.  What a pity we aren’t all so lucky. Another sentiment I’ll keep to myself. If I collect a shilling every time I bite my tongue to keep the words in, I’ll be living in an estate in Ballyard. Instead, I smile. The postman has taken enough of my time. “Have a wonderful day, Mr. Murphy. Watch out for the dog living second next door. His bark is worse than his bite, but you never know.”

“I’ll do that, Mrs. Malone.” He reaches into his bag and draws out an envelope. “I have a letter for you, all the way from America.”

“I’ll take it off your hands, thanks very much.” I stuff it into the pocket of my apron hoping he hasn’t noticed the trembling of my hands.

He tips his hat. “My pleasure, Mrs. Malone.  Tell himself I said hello. I hope he’s helping you here at home now that he’s taken redundancy.”

“He is and I will. Mind the step.” It takes enormous effort to smile and wave and watch him pass the house. I shut the door tightly and pull out the envelope. I don’t recognize the writing? Would I know it if I saw it? Would someone write after fifty years? The return address says California. Funny, I can’t see him in California. He’ll always be Boston to me, that city of uncompromising divisions, Southie and the North End, Beacon Hill and Roxbury, segregated neighborhoods amid the bluest blood in America, which, if you think about it, isn’t really very blue at all. Yes, Boston is a fitting place for lace-curtain Irish with immigrating sons, like the O’Sullivan family.

I tear the side open and pulled out the single sheet of paper. I don’t bother with the body of the letter, my eyes finding and focusing on the closing, the signature. Relief and the smallest hint of disappointment weaken my knees and I sit down quickly. Of course, it isn’t him. What do I expect after all these years?

I turn my attention to the letter. Who on earth is Claire Williams and what does she want? The only people I know in America aren’t speaking to me.

Minutes later I manage to find my way to the bathroom and lock the door. Fumbling with the toilet lid, I let it fall into place and sit down heavily. I know I’m breathing. I must be breathing, or else I’d be dead. Dear, almighty God! I’m 69 years old. How could this happen? Surely after five decades, I ought to be safe. Damn those nuns.

Jeanette Baker is the award-winning author of twenty paranormal, historical and contemporary novels, most of them set in the lush countryside of Southwest Ireland where she lives with her husband and writes during the “Seasons of Silence,” the autumn and winter months. Her ancestors, the O’Flahertys, hail from the counties of Kerry and Galway. She takes great pride in the prayer posted by the English over the ancient city gates, “From the wrath of the O’Flahertys, may the good Lord deliver us.”

Jeanette spent many years teaching 6th grade in a small school nestled under a canopy of Eucalyptus trees where the children consistently surprised her with their wisdom, their hopefulness and their enthusiasm for great stories. Currently, she enjoys the company of her own grown children and her precious grandchildren.

Jeanette graduated from the University of California at Irvine and holds a Master’s Degree in Education.

She is the Rita award-winning author of NELL.

Her latest book is the women’s fiction, Birthright.

You can visit her website at www.JeanetteBaker.com  or connect with her on Facebook.

Sponsored By:

Loving The Book Presents: Great Summer Reads; #CountdownBlitz, #NowAvailable, #OutNow, #Giveaway

Born just outside of Rome, Flavia Brunetti grew up bouncing back and forth between Italy and California, eventually moving back to the Eternal City and confirming her lifelong commitment to real gelato. 

Flavia holds a Master of Arts degree in Government and Politics from St. John's University and a Bachelor of Arts in Political Science from John Cabot University.
Today she travels the world working for an international humanitarian organization and spends her free time writing and wandering around her beloved Roma in constant search of bookstores and the perfect espresso. 

You can find her city blog on Rome at whichwaytorome.com and her portfolio of published writing at flaviinrome.com.

~ Facebook ~ Twitter ~
~ Instagram ~ Website ~

Until her dad died, Little considered herself a Californian. Now, thanks to half a letter, a symbol she can't quite remember, and writer's block, she finds herself back in Italy, the country of her birth. In a headlong rush to return to her beloved San Francisco, Little will travel throughout Italy, enlisting the help of the aunt who raised her, friends old and new, and the country itself, in her search for the answers she needs.

This is the powerful story of those in search of a balance between wanderlust and the necessity to come home, a reminder that although we may be fragments, we are never a lost cause.

~ Universal Amazon Link ~
 ~ Goodreads ~ 

Snippet:

This is a story for the third generations (the fourth, the fifth, the sixth generations), for the not-so-lost generations, for the hybrids. For the people who feel more at home in an airport than they wish they did, who yearn for one place to call home but also always, inevitably, long for something they do not know, miss places they have yet to behold, people they have yet to meet. This is for the ones who have grown up checking if the gate has changed, who have both struggled with and embraced transience, have learned to find themselves in the moments in between, that have found a place to belong in the very un-belongable
(I just made that a word). This is for the ones who always say goodbye, who have learned too well how to keep tears from falling until they’ve gotten through Security. The ones who cry inconsolably when they get on that plane but are always ready to say hello on the other side. For the ones who hear the sea even in the rumble of the 747 as it wakes up, who have chosen freedom but know that they have placed their roots everywhere, not nowhere. Everywhere, in the laugh of the friends they never forget, in the people that wait for you at Arrivals even when your flight is nine hours late and you stumble off the plane in the middle of the night during a thunderstorm. Lifetime friendships, your blood runs in my veins friendship. 

To view our blog schedule and follow along with this tour visit our Official Event Page 

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Hosted By:

#BookFeature: The Golden Son by Shilpi Somaya Gowda

A Globe & Mail #1 best-seller from the

internationally best-selling author of Secret Daughter

THE GOLDEN SON

Shilpi Somaya Gowda

February 1, 2016

ISBN 9780062391452

Price:  $26.99

“A stellar follow-up to Gowda’s excellent debut. Vivid, heart-warming, and absorbing, THE GOLDEN SON succeeds as an immigrant’s tale and love story wrapped into one because of the beautiful writing and compelling characters that illuminate universal truths of loss and identity.”
   — Heidi Durrow, New York Times-bestselling author of The Girl Who Fell From the Sky

In THE GOLDEN SON Shilpi Somaya Gowda has penned an unforgettable story of family, love, tradition, and identity, in which two childhood friends—a young doctor and a newly married bride—must balance the expectations of culture and family with the desires of their own hearts.

SHILPI SOMAYA GOWDA’S debut novel Secret Daughter is a New York Times bestseller, selling more than 1 million copies since its release.  Already published in Canada, THE GOLDEN SON (US publication February 1, 2016; ISBN 9780062391452; $26.99) has been a runaway best-seller, hitting all the major lists for five consecutive weeks, and spending two at the #1 slot on the Globe and Mail list.  Set in India and the US, THE GOLDEN SON is a tale of friendship, coming of age, and traditional values versus modern freedoms—in a compelling and timely exploration of the struggles and triumphs of modern immigrants. 

The first of his family to go to college, Anil Patel, the golden son, carries the weight of tradition and his family’s expectations when he leaves his tiny Indian village to begin a medical residency in

Dallas, Texas, at one of the most competitive hospitals in America. Navigating a major American city and a high stakes career in a busy hospital, reality versus “the dream” of living in America brings for Anil the excitement of first love—and a crushing misstep.  Anil is then hit by another blow when his father dies, and he is faced with the pressure of being the newly appointed head of the Patel household, taking on the role of arbiter for all the village disputes back home.  Anil is doubtful he has the wisdom and courage demonstrated by his father and grandfather to step into the role, and is uneasy with the challenge.

In India, Anil’s closest childhood friend, Leena, struggles to adapt to her demanding new husband and relatives.  Arranged by her parents, the marriage shatters Leena’s romantic hopes, and eventually forces her to make a desperate choice that will hold drastic repercussions for herself and her family. Though Anil and Leena struggle to come to terms with their adult identities thousands of miles apart, their lives eventually intersect once more—in a sequence of events that illumines the fraught, unforeseen nature of life, and the sometimes disappointing and perplexing developments that hold no real answer.

Tender and bittersweet, THE GOLDEN SON highlights the intense struggles of both Anil and Leena—two people caught between a traditional culture that demands the best interests of the entire family be considered above all else—and an increasingly modern world in which each individual can voice their preferences and attempt to live their dreams.

Purchase Links:

Amazon US | UK | CA | Barnes & Noble

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Shilpi Somaya Gowda was born and raised in Toronto, Canada. Her fiction debut, Secret Daughter, was published in 2010 and became an international bestseller, translated into over 20 languages, and selling more than 1 million copies worldwide. Shilpi holds an MBA from Stanford University, and a Bachelor’s Degree in Economics from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, where she was a Morehead-Cain scholar. Shilpi is also a mom, and a pottery and chess enthusiast. She lives in California with her husband and children.  For more information please visit her on the web at: www.shilpigowda.com; Tweet her @ShilpiGowda; or look her up on Facebook at “Shilpi Somaya Gowda.”