By Anne Rivers Siddons
"They are love, these infrequent early friendships." As she travels to the Outer Banks of North Carolina for a reunion with 3 of her university pals, Kate Abrams ponders the earlier. Had she ever recognized someone as in detail as those 3? there is clever, tricky Cecie; silly, lonely Fig; and pert, prosperous Ginger, who married younger Kate's nice love. Kate wonders even if such elegant bonds -- and such deep betrayals -- can live on the years. She is, in the end, no stranger to life's ironies. Her father, a negative Southerner, crammed her lifestyles with social illusions -- and took his lifestyles within the strategy. Her husband sustained her via later deaths. And now an ongoing conflict with melanoma places Kate's personal existence at the line.
Forced to stand darkish truths approximately her 'golden' prior, Kate discovers the that means of lifestyles and the ability of real friendship. secret, insanity, revenge and awakening look forward to Kate Abrams at the Outer Banks.
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Additional resources for Outer Banks
I still have them, in a trunk in the attic. It amuses Alan no end when I try them on, as I do sometimes. Effie Lee Abrams, sweetheart of the regiment, he calls me. Randolph Macon was a world that seemed to value my good mind and manners and the Lee nose and name, and did not care if I bubbled or not. I learned some wonderful things and found a grateful and abiding love for learning, and made a few cool, light, seemly friendships, and liked those, and I probably would eventually have married a wellborn young scion who could have made my ravenous, fugitive father secure at last.
Always, always, like the music, the talking. We talked about the things that young girls in dormitories and sorority houses all over the country did, in that time: about who was dating who and who wasn’t dating at all and who had just broken up and who looked like a sure thing for a pin before the quarter was out. We talked about who we liked and who we loved and who we didn’t like and who we hated and about a few who were simply beyond dislike and beneath contempt. Because there were very few things that we could not say to each other, we were able to admit that a few of our Tri O sisters fell into the latter categories.
But it was, purely and simply, the being of young in a time of timelessness. And our music flowed through it like spilled May wine on morning grass. We would…we did…go on to other kinds of music, other voices in other rooms, and the music of those brief years seemed, in retrospect, shallow and thin to us, perhaps even trivial. At least it did to me. With a few exceptions, I did not ever choose to play those old albums again. But still, even now, when I hear a snatch of “On the Street Where You Live,” or a spilled splash of Tchaikovsky, or a sweet surge of Percy Faith, I am back with Cecie Hart, sitting on our twin beds on the top floor of the Tri Omega house in Randolph, Alabama, late into a May night, with moonlight and the heartbreaking scent of mimosa flooding into our window, talking, talking.
Outer Banks by Anne Rivers Siddons