{"product_id":"sister-mine-isbn-9780307351678","title":"Sister Mine","description":"Shae-Lynn Penrose drives a cab in a town where no one needs a cab—but plenty of people need rides. A former police officer with a closet full of miniskirts, a recklessly sharp tongue, and a tendency to deal with men by either beating them up or taking them to bed, she has spent years carving out a life for herself and her son in Jolly Mount, Pennsylvania, the tiny coal-mining town where she grew up.\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003eTwo years ago, five of Shae-Lynn’s miner friends were catapulted to media stardom when they were rescued after surviving four days trapped in a mine. As the men struggle to come to terms with the nightmarish memories of their ordeal, along with the fallout of their short- lived celebrity, Shae-Lynn finds herself facing harsh realities and reliving bad dreams of her own, including her relationship with her brutal father, her conflicted passion for one of the miners, and the hidden identity of the man who fathered her son.\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003eWhen the younger sister she thought was dead arrives on her doorstep, followed closely by a gun-wielding Russian gangster, a shady New York lawyer, and a desperate Connecticut housewife, Shae-Lynn is forced to grapple with the horrible truth she discovers about the life her sister’s been living, and with one ominous question: Will her return result in a monstrous act of greed or one of sacrifice?\u003cbr\u003e     \u003cbr\u003eTawni O’Dell’s trademark blend of black humor, tenderness, and a keen sense of place is evident once again as Shae-Lynn takes on past demons and all-too-present dangers.“Tawni O’Dell’s energy bursts off the page. \u003ci\u003eSister Mine\u003c\/i\u003e is one of those novels that insist on being read, front to back, as fast as possible.” \u003cbr\u003e— \u003ci\u003eBoston Globe\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Bitterly poignant in places, it’s also a rollicking good read — and Shae-Lynn’s richly drawn character resonates long after her final wisecrack.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e — People \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“\u003ci\u003eSister Mine\u003c\/i\u003e delivers a luxurious read, a novel worthy of the literary equivalent of a Grammy or an Oscar. This is a novel for people who devour good writing and craft-intensive storytelling, who savor the haven, both safe and fraught with danger, of a world in which fiction becomes the kind of truth that sets you free.  Or, at the very least, makes you laugh and think and wish you’d discovered Tawni O’Dell before now.” \u003cbr\u003e— \u003ci\u003ePortland Oregonian\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“The strength of O’Dell’s narrative is that she lets her characters tell the story.  There is much to recommend.  Shae-Lynn’s voice is entrancing in its honesty, and O’Dell’s ability to continue to freshly capture her mining communities is impressive… a worthy read.” \u003cbr\u003e— \u003ci\u003eDenver Post\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“\u003ci\u003eSister Mine\u003c\/i\u003e is packed with flawed characters formed by violence and neglect who quickly become embedded in the reader’s heart. O’Dell sketches her characters with telling details and cop-shop crackling dialogue..Amid chick lit and knit lit and Brit lit, \u003ci\u003eSister Mine\u003c\/i\u003e rates as true-grit lit.”\u003ci\u003e \u003cbr\u003e— USA Today\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“O’Dell hits her stride here; one hopes this is not the last we’ll hear from her punch packing, pink Stetson-wearing heroine.” \u003cbr\u003e— \u003ci\u003eEntertainment Weekly\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Sister Mine \u003c\/i\u003eis a page turner for lots of reasons that take you turn by turn.  You become mesmerized by the characters, the crackling dialogue, the description of the skin of a miner looking as if pencil point have lodged beneath it, the pathos of good people facing futures that are cetain to be hard and cheap and yet doing so with grace and optimism and whip smart banter.  And it’s spot-on for in its depiction of a coal mining town.” \u003cbr\u003e— \u003ci\u003eLexington Herald Leader\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Dark, funny, and very Elmore Leonard in its way.”  \u003cbr\u003e— \u003ci\u003eCincinnati Enquirer\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This is a masterfully unfolded, absolutely engrossing story as smart and sassy as it is wise…A knockout.”  \u003cbr\u003e— \u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“With genuine, fully developed characters and abundant humor, it's easy to fall into this exceptional story and never want to leave.”  \u003cbr\u003e— \u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e, galley talk column\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Family saga O’Dell-style crackles with conflict and a deep understanding of the complications and burdens that follow attachment, sex, love and kinship.” \u003cbr\u003e— \u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Tawni O’Dell is a great American storyteller. \u003ci\u003eSister Mine\u003c\/i\u003e is hilarious and poignant; the details glitter like King Coal from a writer who knows it well.”\u003cbr\u003e—Adriana Trigiani, author of \u003ci\u003eHome to Big Stone Gap\u003c\/i\u003eTawni O’Dell is the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of Coal Run and Back Roads, which was also an Oprah’s Book Club selection. She lives in Pennsylvania with her two children and her husband, literary translator Bernard Cohen.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor more information about the author, visit www.tawniodell.com.Chapter One\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    I drive a cab in a town where no one needs a cab but plenty of people   need rides. I've been paid with casseroles, lip gloss, plumbing   advice, beer, prayers for my immortal soul, and promises to mow my   yard, but this is the first time I've ever been offered something   living.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The girl's around eleven or twelve. About twenty years too soon, she   already possesses the self-centered, self-destructive attitude of a   survivor of a string of bad relationships, failed diets, a drinking   problem, and the realization that life is just a bunch of confusing,   painful stuff that fills up the time between your favorite TV shows.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Her outfit looks like it's been picked out by a pedophile with a   penchant for banging hillbilly girls, but more than likely her mom   bought it for her. She's dressed in a pair of tight denim shorts with   eyelet trim, a pair of clear plastic platform sandals encrusted in   silver glitter, and a skimpy halter made from red bandanna material.   Her exposed midriff sports a unicorn tattoo which I hope is water   soluble.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    She wants a ride from Jolly Mount to the mall and wants to pay for it   with her four-year-old brother.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"I'm not doing this for my health,\" I explain to her as I put the   nozzle back into the gas pump. \"This is my job. I have to make a   living. I can't pay my mortgage or my heating bill with a toddler.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"You could sell him,\" she suggests.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"That's against the law.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"The law won't ever find out.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    I screw my gas cap back on. She watches me while she stands with all   her weight positioned on one skinny leg, one nonexistent hip thrust   out with her hand resting on it, the bent angle and sharp point of   her elbow making an almost perfect triangle of bony flesh against the   yellow custom paint job of my Subaru Outback.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Her other hand holds the hand of her brother, not tightly but not   casually either, the way a daisy holds on to its petals.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Maybe he doesn't want to be sold,\" I tell her. \"Maybe he wants to stay here.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Then you could keep him. He can't do much now but when he gets older   he could be like a slave for you.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    I look down at the little guy. The spray of freckles across his nose   and the hand-me-down jeans with rips in the knees and the cuffs   rolled up several times remind me of my own son, Clay, when he was   that age.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    He turns twenty-four today. I have to remember to give him a call   later. I don't make a big deal over his birthday now that he's grown.   I don't let myself get emotional either, since the emotions   surrounding his birth have always left me feeling torn up inside. I   guess that's what happens when the best thing in your life is the   result of the worst mistake of your life.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    I wasn't all that much older than this girl standing in front of me   now when my dad dropped me off at the entrance of the Centresburg   Hospital, already two hours into my contractions, and told me to call   him when I was \"done.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Shannon was with us, sitting in the cab of the pickup crushed between   the enormous globe of her sister's belly and the silent, hulking   presence of our coal miner father who'd been pulled out of the damp,   black earth midway through his shift in answer to my emergency call.   Since he was going right back to work, he hadn't bothered to clean up   or change out of his dirty coveralls. His face and hands were coated   with rock dust: the crushed limestone sprayed inside mines to control   the combustible coal dust. It gave his skin a bluish-white pallor,   like someone who'd been frozen solid and dug out of a snowdrift.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Shannon was this girl's age and full of the same sort of generalized   contempt and misplaced confidence in her ability to not care about   anything as long as she told herself nothing was worth caring about,   but I remember she looked worried that day as I climbed down out of   the truck wincing and breathing funny and cradling the baby still   inside me. I couldn't tell if she was afraid for me or afraid for   herself because she was going home with dad alone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"I don't believe in slavery,\" I tell the girl. \"Besides, maybe he   wants to stay with you.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"I don't think so.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"I think he's pretty attached to you.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    We both look at the boy this time. He doesn't have the exuberance of   most children his age. He hasn't been fidgeting or whining or trying   to get away. He stares back at us with the endlessly patient gaze of   a sheep waiting at the gate to be let out or let in.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"But he ain't mine. He's my mom's,\" she says.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"He doesn't belong to you or your mom.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    I walk around to the driver's side of my car. They follow me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"He's not a dog. He's a person. You can't own another person.   Although another person can own you. You'll learn about that when you   start dating.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"I already date.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Okay, enough.\" I hold up my hands in a sign of defeat. \"This is more   information than I need. If you don't have any money, what else do   you have?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    She opens up her grimy purse, pink with a jeweled kitten on it. I   would have killed for a purse like that when I was her age although I   never would have taken it outside the house for fear E.J. or some of   the other guys would have made fun of me for being a sissy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    She pokes through the meager contents with the tips of her fingers,   which are polished in chipped purple: a cracked pink plastic Barbie   wallet, a lipstick, a comb, a piece of notebook paper folded into a   small square, a lighter shaped like a pig, and a handful of what   looks like ordinary gravel.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    She gestures with her head toward the boy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Kenny collects rocks.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    I take the lighter and flick it on. The flames come out the pig's nose.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"The lighter,\" I state.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"No way. I love that lighter. I just stole . . . I just bought it   with my own money inside.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"No lighter, no ride.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    It's her turn to size me up. She looks me over. I wonder what she   thinks about my outfit, if she's being more generous than I was with   hers. Ancient scuffed Frye harness boots, long bare legs, a   camouflage miniskirt, olive drab tank top, cheap drugstore   sunglasses, and a pink Stetson that Clay gave me two years ago as a   Mother's Day gag gift that I was never supposed to wear: looks like   she was dressed by a Vietnam vet with a penchant for banging   middle-aged cowgirls.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Her gaze leaves me and runs over the car. jolly mount cab is written   on both sides but about a month ago, someone blacked out jolly and   cab on the driver's side door and added the word me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    It now reads mount me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    I don't have any idea who the vandal is. I'm sure it was nothing   personal. I've even taken my time getting it fixed. I tell myself   it's because I don't have the money, but part of the reason is simple   admiration and encouragement for the creative thought process behind   it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    When E.J. and I were in sixth grade and the Union Hall was still   standing and hosting community events, a square dancing club called   The Naughty Pines came to town to put on an exhibition. E.J. and I   switched two letters and the next day the marquee read tonight only:   the naughty penis.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    We thought we were the two most brilliant people alive.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    It was inevitable that we would be caught, since we bragged openly   about what we had done. Eventually word spread throughout the school,   and we were sent to the principal's office. I never did understand   why our teachers were allowed to become involved, since the act   didn't occur on school property or during school hours, but I guess   they believed that, since I didn't have a mom to teach me right from   wrong, they were responsible for disciplining me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Apparently, I've passed the girl's inspection because she hands me   the lighter and opens the back door.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    My cell rings.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Jolly Mount Cab,\" I answer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"I need a cab to drive me from Harrisburg to Jolly Mount,\" a man's   voice greets me. \"There's not a single cab company here that will do   it. One of the drivers I spoke to recommended you.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"What'd he say?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"He said he thought you'd take the job.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"No, that's not what I mean. What'd he say about me?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"He said he thought you'd take the job,\" he repeats.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The girl crawls inside the car and motions for her brother to follow.   Once he's seated beside her she makes him fasten his seat belt but   doesn't put on her own.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"What'd he really say about me?\" I ask him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    A brief silence.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"He said you're attractive, although he didn't use the word   'attractive,' but I think that was the point he was trying to make.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Does that make you more eager to have me drive you?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"I doubt I'd be interested in you in that way.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Why not? Are you gay? Faithful? Celibate? Impotent?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Picky.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Fair enough,\" I say.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    I'm trying to figure him out. His manner of speaking sounds almost   rehearsed. There's not the slightest trace of any kind of a regional   accent in his voice; he enunciates too well, and he uses very little   inflection. He talks rapidly but he's also fond of dramatic pauses.   He's sort of a cross between Captain Kirk and the guy who did the   English voice-overs for all the old Kung Fu movies.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    My guess is he grew up talking one way and puts a lot of effort into   not talking that way anymore.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Where are you exactly?\" I ask him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"I'm here at this ridiculous, godforsaken excuse for an airport.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Harrisburg International?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"International? You can't even fly to New York from here.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"That's true, but there's one flight to Canada.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Another silence.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Can you pick me up or not?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Yeah. Sure. I can pick you up. You realize it's a two-hour drive?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Yes, I do. The other cab drivers enlightened me. Is it also true   that there are no hotels in Jolly Mount?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"The nearest motel would be in Centresburg, about thirty miles from here.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Unbelievable.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"What's your name, sir?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Why do you need to know?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Because I'm about to invest four hours of my life and sixty dollars   worth of gas on the assumption that you're going to be there when I   show up. The least you can do in return is tell me your name.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    He doesn't answer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Fine. I'll just call you Sparky.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Gerald,\" he says sharply. \"Gerald Kozlowski.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    He hangs up.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    I click my phone shut happily. A fare from the airport. Big bucks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Then I notice the two little ones in my back seat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Sorry, kids,\" I tell them while opening the door and motioning for   them to get out. \"There's been a change in plans. I can't take you to   the mall after all.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Kenny does what he's told. The girl glares at me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Why the hell not?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"It was a bad idea to begin with, now that I think about it. If I   take you to the mall then you're going to be stranded at the mall.   How will you get home?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    She gets out and slams the door. She doesn't answer my question.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Where is home anyway?\" I keep after her. \"And what are you doing out   by yourself in the middle of town on a Saturday morning?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"It ain't none of your business where our home is and we can be   wherever we want to be. It's a free country.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"So I've been told.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    She joins Kenny and takes up a stance next to him with her hands   jabbed back on her hips. I notice her gaze flicker toward a red Radio   Flyer wagon parked next to the front door of the convenience store.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Well, I guess you can't live too far away if you pulled Kenny in a   wagon,\" I comment. \"Where are your parents?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    All I get from her in reply is hostile silence and sharp elbows.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Kenny gives me the sheep stare.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Who are your parents?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Nothing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Can I at least know your name?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    She thinks about it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Fanci.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    I know I've heard the name before. It's unusual enough that it sticks   out in my mind, although having an adjective or noun for a name that   conjures up images of pretty things isn't that strange around here. I   went to school with a Taffeta Tate and a Sparkle Wisniewski. Clay   briefly dated a girl named Dainty Frost who had a sister named Lacey.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"What about a last name?\" I ask.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Simms.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Is your dad Choker Simms?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Yeah.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Well, that explains a lot,\" I say under my breath.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Do you know him?\" she asks me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Yes, I do.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"You probably heard bad things about him because he was in jail but   none of it's true. He was set up by a lady cop who had the hots for   him and decided to ruin his life when he spurned her.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    I'm so stunned by this explanation I laugh out loud.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"'Spurned'?\" I practically choke on the word.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"You know. Spurned. When somebody tells you they don't love you.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Your dad . . . ,\" I start to say, then stop as I look down into   their little faces, hers daring me to say anything bad about their   father so she can defend him and his full of genuine curiosity.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    She holds out her hand, palm up.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Gimme my lighter back.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    I give it to her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    She returns it to her purse, grabs Kenny by the forearm, and stalks off.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    it takes all of two minutes for me to drive through downtown Jolly   Mount. Aside from the Snappy's gas station and convenience store,   there's a Subway, three bars, one church, a drive-thru branch of a   bank, a red brick post office, and a two-story abandoned corner   building that used to house a five-and-dime store, and an insurance   agency.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    A corridor of tall, thin row homes, identical except for the amount   of color and care spent on them, forms the outlying border. There's a   house of flaking bubblegum pink, one of pale turquoise, one a fading   canary yellow, and two painted a mint green--all the colors of a   bucket of sidewalk chalk interspersed between the traditional whites   and tans. Some are well tended; others appear to be uninhabited   except for the lawn ornaments, and the limp curtains hanging at   lopsided angles behind windows smoky with age and grime.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    I take the most direct route to the interstate even though I prefer   driving the forsaken, twisting side roads where the worn-down, wooded   mountains lie on all sides of me like the backs of slumbering giants.Bestselling author of Back Roads","brand":"Crown","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304607207653,"sku":"NP9780307351678","price":19.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780307351678.jpg?v=1767736689","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/sister-mine-isbn-9780307351678","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}