One never really knows a novel's climate fully before investing a certain amount of time in the book. Maybe I can't say I always read within the current season. Then, seven months later, when Seattle temps were breaking record highs, I was entranced by Tiphanie Yanique's gripping Caribbean saga, Land of Love and Drowning, and Cynthia Bond's haunting Texas love story, Ruby. A year ago, I devoured two harrowing novels set amidst snow flurries and freezing temperatures: Jennifer McMahon's New England ghost tale, The Winter People, and Laura Kasischke's psychological thrill ride, A Mind of Winter. I've realized recently that I tend to read with the season. These days make it easy to forget the discomforts of August-sweltering heat, stifling humidity, sunburns, dehydration-so I find myself longing for the rising peaks of the thermometer's mercury. I'm not warm enough until I'm wearing three sweaters, a blanket and a cat. The days are getting longer but not fast enough. Because I live in the Pacific Northwest, the end of January can feel like the farthest point from carefree summer days.
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