The way life should be

Review by Booklist Review

Angela Russo, a 33-year-old event planner in New York City, has a job she finds monotonous, a lackluster love life, and a best friend who suggests trying an online dating service. Angela signs up and, on a whim, extends the site's geography search to include Maine, picturing herself in a cozy, rustic cottage by the shore. Before the inveterate Italian cook can say cacciatore, she's met her Maine man the handsome sailing instructor Richard Saunders. He sends her a flurry of haikus and flirtatious e-mails, and after a professional disaster befalls her, Angela finds herself driving up the coast to explore a new life with him. When she arrives in Maine, however, it is not the picture-perfect storybook scene she anticipated. But with her love of cooking and dreams of a cottage by the sea as guiding lights, Angela learns to live life and achieve success on her own terms.--Boyle, Katherine Copyright 2007 Booklist

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

Thirty-three-year-old New Yorker Angela Russo, dissatisfied with a career that amounts to "gliding across a smooth plateau of predictability" and fed up with "abysmal" blind dates, responds to an online personal ad written by Rich, a sailing instructor from Mount Desert Island, Maine. Angela begins to fall in love with the idea of Maine life just as much as she finds herself falling for Rich, and when her career suddenly goes up in flames, she moves to Mount Desert Island. Once she arrives, however, she learns that her vision of perfect New England life-and her perfect New England man-is far removed from reality. Rather than return to New York, Angela rents a rundown cottage and begins teaching an impromptu cooking class (based on recipes from her Italian grandmother). She befriends an eclectic handful of locals and carves out a new identity for herself. Initially, this tale of a lovelorn city girl out of her element feels like another foray into well-covered territory. But Kline (Desire Lines; Sweet Water) has a perfect sense of character and timing, and her vivid digressions on food (recipes are included) add sugar and spice to what could have been a stale premise. (Aug.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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Review by Library Journal Review

Narrator Angela Russo's sardonic and self-deprecating humor saves Kline's (Desire Lines) third novel from being just another story of a single woman (age 33), frustrated with life in the city (New York), leaving for a simpler place (Maine), hoping she has found Mr. Right (or, in this case, "Maine Catch," his online dating site screen name). Seen through Angela's eyes, what could have been stock characters on the road to self-discovery-the Italian grandmother, remarried father, concerned friend from high school, new gay friend in Maine, callow lover, handsome stranger-turn out to be real people with pasts of their own. Hurtling into a new life after a career-ending event-planning disaster, Angela observes her own behavior critically, surprised at how she is able to throw caution to the wind. As winter approaches on Mount Desert Island, Angela's passion for cooking is reawakened, and she begins to believe in the gift (il regalo) her grandmother told her she had. Recommended for public libraries, especially where Elizabeth Berg and Elinor Lipman are popular.-Laurie A. Cavanrugh, Brockton P.L., MA (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

A New Yorker moves to Maine in the latest from Kline (Desire Lines, 1999, etc.). As she approaches her mid-30s, Angela Russo is finding her life less than satisfying. True, she successfully made the move from Nutley, N.J., to Manhattan after college, but she hasn't done much since. Her job as an events planner for an art museum has become routine, and she hasn't had a proper romance in quite some time. She loves to cook, but she long ago ceased to bother, and she daydreams about leaving the big city behind for an adorable cottage on the coast of Maine. Everything changes, though, when she clicks on a banner ad for a dating service and discovers a pleasingly disheveled, blue-eyed blond who calls himself "MaineCatch." Flirtation by e-mail and phone ensues, and Angela neglects the other areas of her life as she pursues this new dalliance. Her distraction culminates in disaster--she hires a mentally unbalanced fire-eater for a museum gala and fails to buy supplemental fire insurance. Subsequently left jobless, she decides to take a chance on love. She gives up her apartment, puts most of her stuff in storage and moves to Maine, where she discovers that MaineCatch is not quite the rustic Renaissance man she'd been imagining. He does not, for example, live in the seaside cottage of her fantasies, but, rather, in an alarmingly charmless condo in a barren new subdivision, and Angela quickly realizes that he was not being clever or ironic when he sent her this haiku: "Soon you'll be coming / We'll have lots of sex I hope / My bed is king size." MaineCatch, it turns out, is not just a philistine, but also a bit of a bounder. Realizing this, Angela finds herself alone in Maine. Never fear: She makes friends, rediscovers her love of cooking and, by novel's end, finds herself on the brink of a new, better romance. Earnestly unoriginal. Copyright ©Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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The Way Life Should Be Chapter One After college I wanted to apply to culinary school, but my father, who is an accountant, objected. "Cooking isn't a real job," he said. "Too much hard work," my stepmother chimed in. "Terrible hours. Take my advice, Angela: Get a normal job where you can leave at five. You'll thank me when you have children." "Nonsense. Carpe diem!" my mother exclaimed long-distance, but I wasn't inclined to take her advice. When she ran off with Murray Singer, she didn't just leave my father, she abandoned my brother and me. I overheard the arguments before she left--she needed a clean break, she wasn't emotionally equipped to deal with needy children, my father had always been the better parent anyway. She and Murray moved across the country to Portland, Oregon, and I only saw her three times before, in my midtwenties, she was killed in a car accident. My brother and I flew out to the funeral, but it was hard to feel much for a woman who had written us out of her life fifteen years earlier, when we needed her most. So after college I moved to New York City with Lindsay, my best friend from high school. We rented an apartment near the river on the Upper East Side and did temp work at consulting firms while looking for normal jobs where we could leave at five. I cast a wide net for positions available to liberal arts majors with no discernible skills except the ability to make lists, follow directions, and look fairly presentable. As in a game of musical chairs, the music stopped at event planning, and I sat down. For the past five years I've been planning events at the Hunts-worth Museum, a modish showcase for contemporary art in lower Manhattan. While I like some things about my job--the long-term planning combined with last-minute urgencies, the immediate gratification of momentary accomplishment, the blinking red light on my phone and the jaunty sherbet pop-up Post-its in a little box on my desk--I also have to admit that it's no longer much of a challenge. For the first few years the learning curve was steep, but now my days are spent gliding across a smooth plateau of predictability. I can't erase the nagging sense that there's something else out there for me, if only I knew which direction to take. It's midmorning and I'm sitting at my desk sipping my second cup of coffee, researching novelty circus acts online. My big project at the moment is a black-tie gala four weeks from now, a benefit for a new wing of avant-garde art featuring the works of the French artist Zoë Devereux. Mary Quince, the curator and my boss, has said only that she wants "color, pizzazz, an element of the outrageous." My idea is to stage an evening that animates figures from Zoë Devereux's paintings--circus and carnival performers, acrobats and fire-eaters and jugglers. Mimes, jesters, clowns, you name it, apparently they're all for hire, à la carte or as a group. I print out a selection of options to discuss with Mary and start e-mailing several of the acts to see if they're available to perform on September 19. As I'm tapping out an e-mail, my glance strays to the small ad at the bottom right of the screen: Looking for Your Love Match: Do Soul Mates Exist? My finger hesitates for a moment over the mouse, and then I click on the tiny blue typeface. I have found that the biggest moments in life, the ones that change everything, usually catch you by surprise. You might not even recognize them as they happen. Your finger is straying over the mouse and you click on the icon and suddenly you find yourself at the portal of a website--an embarrassingly named website, one that makes you wince: kissandtell.com. Now why would you ever be drawn to such a place? More important, why would you linger? A few days ago, during our usual Monday morning check-in, I told Lindsay about the abysmal blind date I'd been on the Saturday night before, and then waited to hear the details of hers. "Well," Lindsay said, "it wasn't, actually." "Wasn't what?" "Abysmal. Believe it or not." Riffling through the cluttered filing cabinet of my brain, I retrieved a scrap of memory: Lindsay joined an online dating service about a month ago. An amateur photographer took her picture. The resulting image, an off-the-shoulder embarrassment in soft focus, provoked a deluge of responses, mostly from shady guys on Long Island. "Don't tell me--it's Hot4U," I joked. Lindsay laughed uncomfortably. It was clear she regretted sharing this detail. "Actually, it is," she said. "But the name is tongue-in-cheek. You know, an ironic commentary on the whole online-dating thing." "I see," I said dubiously. She sighed. "This guy is so great, Ange. So cute, so nice. So smart. I don't know. This is going to sound crazy, but I think maybe I've found my soul mate." "Are you kidding? It's--pretty soon to be talking soul mates, isn't it, Linz?" "I know!" she said. "Aren't you happy for me?" That night, after a dinner of four warm Krispy Kremes straight from the bag, I climbed into a sudsy bath and closed my eyes. How many people, I wondered, can actually claim to have found their soul mate, the one person in the world destiny has set aside for them? Not many, I'd bet. I'm skeptical that there is such a thing. I'm inclined to believe that the whole concept of a soul mate is like Sasquatch, the giant hairy ape-man of legend who turned out to be nothing more than a guy in a monkey suit running through a forest. But now, sitting at my desk, I think--if Lindsay believes she's actually found her soul mate, who am I to scoff and ridicule? When you read the Sunday wedding section--the women's sports page, as Lindsay calls it--to see . . . The Way Life Should Be . Copyright © by Christina Kline. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold. Excerpted from The Way Life Should Be by Christina Baker Kline All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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