On Turpentine Lane

Review by New York Times Review

THE UNSETTLERS: In Search of the Good Life in Today's America, by Mark Sundeen. (Riverhead, $16.) Sundeen profiles three families - whom he calls pioneers, of a sort - who chose to live off the grid. They share an important commonality: "They had each taken on a fundamental aspect of how the world is broken, and had attempted, with all their might, to address it - in ways that felt sustainable, maybe even replicable." ENIGMA VARIATIONS, by Andre Aciman. (Picador, $16.) Aciman chronicles a lifetime of desire, love and loss. The central character, Paul, has an early infatuation with a craftsman in Italy that provides the story line's loose framework; the plot skips ahead to find him years later, nearly unrecognizable in an acrimonious relationship. Aciman's novel is a masterly portrayal of arousal and the selves forged by passion. LETTERS TO VERA, by Vladimir Nabokov. Edited and translated by Olga Voronina and Brian Boyd. (Vintage, $20.) For over 50 years, Vera was a "song," a muse, a protector for her husband. (She was the one to save an early draft of "Lolita" after Vladimir tried to destroy it.) "It is the prose itself that provides the lasting affirmation," our reviewer, Martin Amis, wrote, "and underlying it all the lavishness, the freely offered gift, of his divine energy." LONG BLACK VEIL, by Jennifer Finney Boylan. (Broadway, $16.) It's August 1980, and a band of college friends are looking for mischief in an abandoned Philadelphia prison. But when one of them goes missing, the night ends in tragedy. Years later, the student's body is found, and one of the survivors risks exposing two long-held secrets to protect the truth. As our reviewer, Marilyn Stasio, put it: "To the author, the prison is more than a setting, it's also a powerful symbol for the closeted life she once led." PRINCE CHARLES: The Passions and Paradoxes of an Improbable Life, by Sally Bedell Smith. (Random House, $20.) A sympathetic portrait of Charles comes down squarely in his favor, particularly with regard to Diana. He emerges as a thoughtful, intellectually driven man in Bedell's telling. The author, who has written at length about the royal family, offers a cleareyed view of the monarchy, its privilege and its faltering morals. ON TURPENTINE LANE, by Elinor Lipman. (Mariner, $14.99.) Faith Frankel is 32, perhaps more than a little bored, and has set down roots in her Massachusetts hometown. But mysterious objects in her new bungalow draw her into the neighborhood's past. Lipman's screwball romance is full of delightfully weird characters, from Faith's neo-hippie fiance to her father, an amateur artist churning out Chagall copies.

Copyright (c) The New York Times Company [August 30, 2019]

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Review by Booklist Review

Popular, funny Lipman returns to fiction after her essay collection, I Can't Complain (2013), introducing Faith Frankel, who has fallen in love with a doll's house of a cottage at 10 Turpentine Lane. Throwing caution to the winds, she buys it without consulting her erstwhile fiancé, Stuart, who is walking cross-country seeking the meaning of life. As his texts and phone calls grow infrequent while his Facebook page fills with photos of reunions with old girlfriends, Faith finally gets the courage to unravel the cheap-but-romantic red-string engagement band frugal Stuart made her before he left. There to help her untie the knot is Nick Franconi, her cute and charming coworker and confidante at the Everton Country Day School. He's also there for her when her job is on the line, her parents' seemingly solid marriage implodes, and the police show up at her door to investigate the property's sordid past. As loyal Lipman readers have come to expect, there are messages of hope, resilience, and discovery tucked behind the frothy rom-com scenes Lipman draws oh so well.--Haggas, Carol Copyright 2016 Booklist

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

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

When Faith Frankel moves from Brooklyn back to her hometown of Everton, Mass., she falls in love with a little house on Turpentine Lane. The house, because of rumors about a death that took place there, is well within her salary as a fund-raiser, so despite the asbestos and a failing roof, she decides to buy it. She's accustomed to challenging projects, starting with Stuart Levine, her longtime boyfriend who has left on a solo hitchhiking expedition with her credit card. No sooner does she move into the house does she learn that the previous owner's second and third husbands fell down the basement stairs to their deaths. Stuart is unsupportive, so she finally dumps him, encouraged by Nick Franconi, officemate and soon-to-be roommate. Faith and Nick develop a relationship while she tries to solve the mystery of the deaths at Turpentine Lane, her parents' faltering marriage, and her eligible-bachelor brother's lack of a significant other. With a witty cast of characters and her usual delightful dialogue and insightful observations of human behavior, Lipman (The Inn at Lake Devine) captures the complications of modern love. Agent: Suzanne Gluck, WME Entertainment. (Feb.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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Review by Library Journal Review

Faith Frankel moves back to her Massachusetts hometown, mostly because the stress level is lower there. She's in charge of stewardship at her alma mater, the Everton Country Day School, where she writes thank-you notes to donors and shares an office with fundraiser Nick Franconi. She's just purchased her first home, a rundown five-room cottage on Turpentine Lane, not far from her parents' home but with a slightly unappealing history. Did people actually die there? A photo album found in the attic reveals more secrets than she could imagine. She has time to fix up the place, though, as her boyfriend/sort-of-fiancé -Stuart is off on a cross-country walk to "find his own path in life." So why do his online posts show him with all those women? And since when is her insurance salesman father an artist? VERDICT For someone nearing 40, Faith has her immature moments, especially when interacting with her family. But she is also gutsy in the clutch, and readers will be more than satisfied with Lipman's (The View from Penthouse B) drive down this lane. [See Prepub Alert, 8/22/16.]-Bette-Lee Fox, Library Journal © Copyright 2016. 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 professional thank-you-note writer buys a house with a past and gets more than she bargained for.Faith Frankel is feeling like a bit of a loser. She has a futureless job writing letters to alumni in the development department of her old private school. Her fiance, who gave her a piece of red thread in lieu of an engagement ring, is on a cross-country walk to benefit his own personal growth and is documenting the trip on Facebook with selfies that include smiling ex-girlfriends in locations across the country. Her insurance-agent father has become a painter in his retirement and left her mother for the woman who convinced him to start a bat-mitzvah-gift forgery business. "She asked if he could make a copy of Chagall, but perhaps more lavender than bluepurple was their daughter's favorite colorand work her daughter's name into it, and give the angel her face, with her bangs but without her braces." This, it turns out, is a business model whose time has come. When Faith finds, in the attic of her new little house, a photo album containing images of what may be dead twin babies, she's so creeped out that she offers her empty second bedroom to her handsome, kind, newly single, and homeless officemate. Nick Franconi is another idea whose time has come. Of course things will get worse before they get better, with the local police department ripping up her basement in search of murder evidence and a scandal at the office in which Faith is accused of funneling a huge alumni donation to her fiance. Lipman (The View from Penthouse B, 2013, etc.) is known for her dialogue, so snappy, funny, and real that it cancels out any dubiousness about the kooky mystery plot. Warm, clever, a little silly, a lot of fun. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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1 What Possessed Me?   If I hadn't been naïve and recklessly trusting, would I ever have purchased number 10 Turpentine Lane, a chronic headache masquerading as a charming bungalow? "Best value in town," said the ad, which was true, if judging by the price tag alone. I paid almost nothing by today's standards, attributing the bargain to my mother's hunch that the previous owner had succumbed while in residence. Not so off-putting, I rationalized; don't most people die at home? On moving day my next-door neighbor brought me a welcome loaf of banana bread along with the truth about my seller. A suicide attempt. . . sleeping pills . . . she'd saved them up till she had enough, poor thing. And who could blame her? "Strong as an ox," she added. "But a whole bottle?" She tapped the side of her head.       "Brain damage?" I asked. "Brain dead? "       "Her daughter had to make that awful decision long distance."       I'd negotiated and settled with that very daughter. Sadder and spookier than I bargained for? A little. But now I know it was an act more logical than tragic ​-- ​what a sensible ninety-year-old felon might consider the simplest way out.   I first viewed the property through rose-colored glasses on a sunny October day. There was a brick path leading to the front door, a trellis supporting what might have been August's wisteria, and a gnarled tree that hinted at future fruit. Inside I saw gumwood that hadn't been ruined by paint and a soapstone sink that a decorator might install in a Soho loft. The linoleum beneath my feet made me want to look up the year linoleum was invented.       The real estate agent, who said she'd gone to high school with my brother, had been Tammy Flannagan then, was now divorced. How was Joel? Divorced, too, she'd heard.       "He's fine," I said, somewhat distracted by the carved pineapple on top of the newel post, yet another harbinger of domestic tranquility.       There was hardly anything to see on the second floor, just a bathroom from another century, and two square, darkly wallpapered bedrooms facing each other, one with a view of the street, the other overlooking the miniature backyard. The bathroom had a claw-foot tub, its porcelain yellowed and its plug desiccated. The small sink had separate hot and cold faucets, which, Tammy insisted, were back in style.       I asked which one had been the master bedroom.       "Does it matter? They're equal in square footage," said Tammy.       "It might matter to someone who'd rather sleep in a room where nobody died."       She pointed silently to the back room, then directed my gaze to a hatch in the hall ceiling. "When you open that, there's a ladder you can pull down."       "Then what?"       "The attic."       "Have you seen it?"       "Me personally? No. Someone from my office did, of course. I've been told it's empty and dry. Want to see the cellar?"       I knew cellars were important ​-- ​their foundations, water heaters, boilers, pipes, mousetraps ​-- ​so I said, "Sure."       "May need updating," said Tammy, "but everything's in good working order. This is a little doll house. I'd buy it myself if I wasn't already in contract for a condo."       I thought I should add, hoping to sound nonchalant about the property, "I'm engaged to be married. This would be fine for a single person, but I really need a bigger place."       She helped herself to my ringless left hand, then dropped it without comment. I said, "We're not a very traditional couple."       "Congratulations anyway," said Tammy. "Do you want to make an appointment to come back with him? Or her."       "A man, Stuart. He's away."       "On business?"       His absence was hard to explain and harder to make sense of, so I just said yes.       Whether it was the impulse to change the subject or sound less like the real estate novice that I was, I said, "I couldn't even think of moving forward without an inspection."       But I'd already made up my mind. "A little doll house" sounded exactly right to me. Two bedrooms would be plenty, and I preferred baths to showers. There was a gas stove, green milk-glass mugs hanging from cup hooks, a one-car garage, leaded glass in the china closet, and a price that seemed too good to be true. So on that day, like someone who bought and sold properties with abandon, whose profession was flipping houses, I offered two-thirds of the asking price.       Tammy said, "Well, honestly, I don't even think I can take that offer to the seller."       I reminded her that this was a one-bath cottage, surely uninsulated, with an antique boiler and a postage stamp of a backyard. I'd have to start from scratch. "The wallpaper must be from the 1950s," I scolded, at the same time thinking, I love that viny wallpaper.       Tammy looked up at the ceiling fixture, a white globe that was not unhandsome, and said, "I suppose I have to present your offer. Expect a counteroffer if she's not too insulted to make one."       "Every inch of this place needs updating. It's my final offer. And it's not like I'm in love with the place," I lied.       It took one phone call, a counteroffer that I spurned, a fax, a signature, a return fax, and a relatively small check. On the other side was a lawyer representing the uninterested daughter five time zones away.       My counsel added to the purchase and sale agreement a sentence that struck me as curious: that if the lending bank refused to close for any reason ​-- ​unrelated to my finances ​-- ​I could back out.       "Is this standard?" I asked.       "Boilerplate," she answered.       Simple. I signed it.   2 A Different Man   The aforementioned fiancé was out of town for an indefinite period because he was walking across the continental United State. His purported goal was not necessarily the Pacific Ocean, but finding his own path in life. It wasn't just his mission statement but how he talked, on the road or off, raising consciousness, searching for awesomeness in the everyday.       People often looked perplexed when I tried to explain Stuart's expedition or what I saw in him. There was a time during the period I call Stuart 1.0 when his Instagrams almost exclusively chronicled our dates and were followed by a festival of hashtags expressing affection and devotion. There was a thoughtfulness that I saw as a predictor of husbandly attentiveness; there was a full-time job with the Massachusetts Department of Transitional Assistance that paid for the tickets and trinkets he hid rather adorably around my apartment.       As for the arena I'll delicately call "relations" ​-- ​had I been dealing with amateurs before him?       But he changed ​-- ​and "overnight" isn't an exaggeration. He started using words such as potentiality and wholeness after an emergency appendectomy. During his recovery, he quizzed anyone in scrubs until a nurse confirmed, "Yes, it could have ruptured; yes, people can die from that." He emerged from his hospital stay a different man. It wasn't organic or neurological, but social, a rebirth inspired by the free soul in the next bed whose worldview sounded good to Stuart, post-surgically, supine, and dangerously close to turning forty.       I gave it some time ​-- ​accepting the new, softer, vegetarian Stuart 2.0. When friends heard about his walk and asked me if he was a nonconformist or a nut, I told them that this was just a new lifelong goal, to find himself by crossing the country on foot, a sabbatical of sorts after his agency had closed its doors. Excerpted from On Turpentine Lane by Elinor Lipman 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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