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- KurzbeschreibungSpending the summers on her family's private island off the coast of Massachusetts with her cousins and a special boy named Gat, teenaged Cadence struggles to remember what happened during her fifteenth summer.
- AutorE. Lockhart
- VerlagRandom House LCC US
- Seiten240 Seiten
- Gewicht243 g
- Leseprobe1<br>Welcome to the beautiful Sinclair family.<br>No one is a criminal.<br>No one is an addict.<br>No one is a failure.<br>The Sinclairs are athletic, tall, and handsome. We are old-money Democrats. Our smiles are wide, our chins square, and our tennis serves aggressive.<br>It doesn't matter if divorce shreds the muscles of our hearts so that they will hardly beat without a struggle. It doesn't matter if trust-fund money is running out; if credit card bills go unpaid on the kitchen counter. It doesn't matter if there's a cluster of pill bottles on the bedside table.<br>It doesn't matter if one of us is desperately, desperately in love.<br>So much<br>in love<br>that equally desperate measures<br>must be taken.<br>We are Sinclairs.<br>No one is needy.<br>No one is wrong.<br>We live, at least in the summertime, on a private island off the coast of Massachusetts.<br>Perhaps that is all you need to know.<br>2<br>My full name is Cadence Sinclair Eastman.<br>I live in Burlington, Vermont, with Mummy and three dogs.<br>I am nearly eighteen.<br>I own a well-used library card and not much else, though it is true I live in a grand house full of expensive, useless objects.<br>I used to be blond, but now my hair is black.<br>I used to be strong, but now I am weak.<br>I used to be pretty, but now I look sick.<br>It is true I suffer migraines since my accident.<br>It is true I do not suffer fools.<br>I like a twist of meaning. You see? Suffer migraines. Do not suffer fools. The word means almost the same as it did in the previous sentence, but not quite.<br>Suffer.<br>You could say it means endure, but that's not exactly right.<br>My story starts before the accident. June of the summer I was fifteen, my father ran off with some woman he loved more than us.<br>Dad was a middling-successful professor of military history. Back then I adored him. He wore tweed jackets. He was gaunt. He drank milky tea. He was fond of board games and let me win, fond of boats and taught me to kayak, fond of bicycles, books, and art museums.<br>He was never fond of dogs, and it was a sign of how much he loved my mother that he let our golden retrievers sleep on the sofas and walked them three miles every morning. He was never fond of my grandparents, either, and it was a sign of how much he loved both me and Mummy that he spent every summer in Windemere House on Beechwood Island, writing articles on wars fought long ago and putting on a smile for the relatives at every meal.<br>That June, summer fifteen, Dad announced he was leaving and departed two days later. He told my mother he wasn't a Sinclair, and couldn't try to be one, any longer
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