A Review of Looking for Lucky I Was Given This Book to Read and Review
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A Review of Looking for Lucky I was given this book to read and review prior to its release. My thoughts are unbiased and are given only after allowing this story to sink in. To be perfectly honest, I didn't think I would like a story about following a dog cross country. Though I adore dogs, I just didn't believe this would be my cup of tea. Boy was I wrong. From the first page to the last I was glued to this book. Each stop along Lucky's path will involve you with excellent, well-developed characters. Some will bring tears to your eyes while others will leave you laughing and sorry to see them go. Each stop on Lucky's jour- ney is outstanding, and all tie together in the end. Shirley must have done a lot of research to cover the most interesting stories in this book. I nearly became a vegan and wanted to give up alcohol after reading factual antidotes on some of these subjects; all beautifully woven into the story. Skiing might not be a bad sport to take up if I had the strength to swoop down those slopes. Julie Gettys, Author Dedicated to animal lovers everywhere and with fond remembrance to the animals I was privileged to know and love in my life. Dogs: Tippi, Butch, Prince & Hot Shot Cats: Sierra, Anabelle, Caesar, & Romeo Horses: Heathcliff & Handsome Joe Bar Feathered friends: Tiburon & Featherly Copyright © 2014 by Shirley Kennedy All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously ISBN 978-0-9769238-3-1 (Paper) ISBN 978-0-9769238-2-4 (Ebook) Looking for Lucky By Shirley Kennedy Desert Sky Publishing Las Vegas, Nevada Books by Shirley Kennedy Deadly Gamble, Inkspell Press The Last of Lady Lansdown, Camel Press Heartbreak Trail, Camel Press Three Wishes for Miss Winthrop, Signet Lady Flora’s Fantasy, Signet The Irish Upstart, Signet The Selfless Sister, Signet The Rebellious Twin, Signet The London Belle, Signet Lady Semple’s Secret, Ballantine Chapter 1 Santa Marta, California Doctor Harvey Linderman was in an especially fine mood as he backed his red Lincoln MKZ out the driveway of his suburban Santa Marta home. Heading for Linderman Laboratories, he tuned in a classic music station on his satellite radio, settled into the multi- contour seat, hummed to a Mozart concerto as his brain darted from one pleasant thought to another. Finally the sun, thank God, after dreary days of coastal fog. Wintry weak but welcome just the same… At last the New England Journal of Medicine had published his article in the April edition, just out. This morning he'd be flood- ed with congratulations from his colleagues. He would play it casu- al, of course. Modesty was always the key... Today the new funding from the National Institutes of Health would be approved. New money. New experiments. More recognition… 2 Last night, what a triumph. Nothing could be more prestigious than being the main speaker at The Western Medical Research Association's annual banquet. Hectic, but he loved the flurry and hustle of it all. The quick flight up to San Francisco, reception committee at the airport, the Hil- ton, cocktails, dinner, splendid introduction. To those of you who have been exposed to the brilliance of his re- search, Doctor Harvey Linderman needs no introduction. Physician, pathologist, virologist, Director of Linderman Research Laboratories, distinguished staff member of Santa Marta General Hospital, Doctor Linderman is a recipient of NIH grant support for his work in pathol- ogy as well as other grants from The March of Dimes, The American Heart Association and The American Cancer Society…. The applause, long and loud, still rang in his ears. Just one thing wrong. One item was missing from the introduc- tion and it really pissed him off. Where was Member of The International Academy of Sciences? Talk about an outrage. The most prestigious scientific society of all and he wasn't a member. By everything holy, the distinguished scientists on the election committee should have nominated him for membership long ago, but for reasons unknown, they had not. Distinguished shitheads. What more did he have to do? If anyone deserved to be a member, he did. He had published, published, and published some more. Still they wouldn't give him the recognition he was due. Well, forget it. Just keep publishing. Sooner or later they'd accept him or he'd know the reason why. Meanwhile, the sun was shining, good things were happening… Connie. Why. why, why? Dammit, every time his mood light- ened and his spirits began to soar, he had to think of his wife. Well, by God, this time he wouldn't let her ruin his day. Absolutely not. So what if another maid quit? He didn’t care anymore. Actually, this latest fiasco was so off-the-wall it was amusing. What was this last maid called? Juana? Juanita? Whatever. He couldn't remember their names, they came 3 and went so fast, all looking alike—short, dark and foreign. When they quit, and they always did, they simply took their wages and disappeared without notice, without an explana- tion, except Juana—Juanita—whatever. He could almost admire the determined way she'd marched into his den, suitcase in hand, black eyes sparking with anger. “I no work for you no more.” Hell, she could hardly speak English. An illegal, fresh from Mexico. Ought to be grateful to have a roof over her head. “Senior Linder- man, I leave. Su esposa esta loca. She scream at me. She pee her bed. I no change sheets...” Su esposa esta loca. Jesus Christ, what next? The maid could go and good riddance. Plenty more where she came from. They sneaked across the border by the thousands. On- ly...not even the frigging wetbacks would work for Connie long. That did it. From now on, if she wanted that rat's nest of a bedroom cleaned, she could do it herself. He'd tell her tomorrow at breakfast, that is, if she was sober again. Come to think of it, that was strange... This morning, for the first time in months, Connie ap- peared at breakfast not soused as usual. What had gotten into her vodka-soaked brain? He'd been so startled he hadn't thought to mention the maid. Connie was downright civil, almost like the girl he used to know except she looked terri- ble. Gray-faced and shaking, clothes stained and wrinkled, as if she'd spent the night in a dumpster. Why had she post- poned her first little nip of the day? She couldn't be out of vodka, not when he always made sure the liquor cabinet was full. Grey Goose. Nothing but the finest for old Connie, in remembrance of the good old days if nothing else. They'd had a good marriage once, long ago before Christie died, before Connie's drinking got out of hand, before the night- mare memories that still made him cringe... His humiliation when his wife fell, fully clothed, into the swimming pool at Doctor Clarence Osborne's Silver An- niversary party… 4 His agony of embarrassment at the awards banquet when she screamed “Go fuck yourself!” at the president of the A.M.R.A. when he, in all kindness, suggested she go lie down. That was years ago, back when he was so worried she'd ruin his career he nearly divorced her, before he realized his colleagues and their wives not only understood but sympa- thized. Poor Harvey. What a terrible thing that was, losing his little girl and all the fault of that awful wife of his. Where does he find the patience? He deserves a medal. Most men would have dumped her years ago. She drinks, you know. How the mighty had fallen. Constance Stanhope Lin- derman, once proud, haughty, beautiful. Stanford grad from snobby Burlingame. Disgusting lush. Dammit, let her change her own wet sheets. But why should he be upset? Connie didn’t embarrass him anymore. She hardly ever left the house now, or her bedroom, for that matter. She just holed up and drank. Fine. Now he could do as he damn well pleased. That meant women, all he wanted, more than he could use, the way he attracted them. “You're a soap opera doctor,” one called him. Yeah, he was. He had it all—money, power, polish, prestige. At fifty-five, he looked forty-five with his year- round tan, his full head of silvery hair, his tall, trim body, fine-tuned three times a week at his health club. Best of all…if the woman of the moment looked into the depths of his sky-blue eyes, she would discover the hint of tragedy he tried so bravely to hide. Almost. How it wrung her heart. What a marvelous excuse for never getting serious. The scenario was always the same. “Please, please try to un- derstand, darling. God, how I love you, how I want you!” (Grip her arms brutally tight. Gaze with desperation into her pleading face.) “But how can I leave my wife? It broke her heart when...(choke up) forgive me...(bite lips and look away) even now, after all these years, I can't bear to talk about my little girl.