Can love for a secret child heal old wounds?
St. Paul, MN: Introspective and artistic Shannon Malone, and her more popular sister, Eliza, are Irish twins and best friends. In the summer of 1946 as womanhood approaches, both look forward to promising--but different-futures. When tragedy strikes and rocks the Malone family to the core, one sister leaves, possibly forever. The other, physically and emotionally scarred, vows to hold the invisible thread that runs between them. In the course of her journey, she discovers a secret child and the true meaning of family, but is it enough to bring her sister home?
"In skillful, straightforward prose, Welch sets her character-driven narrative against the backdrop of postwar societal changes. An engaging and poignant historical novel." Kirkus Reviews
Can love for a secret child heal old wounds?
St. Paul, MN: Introspective and artistic Shannon Malone, and her more popular sister, Eliza, are Irish twins and best friends. In the summer of 1946 as womanhood approaches, both look forward to promising--but different-futures. When tragedy strikes and rocks the Malone family to the core, one sister leaves, possibly forever. The other, physically and emotionally scarred, vows to hold the invisible thread that runs between them. In the course of her journey, she discovers a secret child and the true meaning of family, but is it enough to bring her sister home?
"In skillful, straightforward prose, Welch sets her character-driven narrative against the backdrop of postwar societal changes. An engaging and poignant historical novel." Kirkus Reviews
 In the middle of a Charleston twist, one of the open-toed pumps Shannon had borrowed from Eliza snapped its heel. She slipped and plunged into the belly of a foot-tapping gentleman who watched from the dance-floor sidelines, the very image of Sir Winston Churchill. Grateful for the soft landing, she hoped that perhaps only a few people noticed. She straightened up, lightheaded, cheeks flushing with embarrassment as laughter erupted around her. Had her sister been nearby, Shannon wouldnât have minded and both would have laughed along. Anyone would find the scene funny, like a slapstick skit from Laurel and Hardyâshe, the skinny, hapless klutz.
    The College of St. Thomasâs gilded ballroom reverberated to the swing beat of Glenn Miller, and the air, like the grand chandeliers above, shimmered with lightness not felt, she supposed, since the Roaring Twenties. Shannon bent down to remove the traitorous shoes, irked that this morningâs clandestine raid on her sisterâs wardrobe now required a confession. The man, probably a professor or dean like her father, smiled while using his fingertips to straighten his bow tie. With a generous wink, he took Shannon by the elbow and escorted her to a chair by the arched windows. Then, still chuckling, he delivered a cup of water from a nearby table and returned to his place as a spectator.
The band kicked up the tempo with Iâve Got a Gal in Kalamazoo. Shannon tucked a wavy strand of hair behind her ear and inhaled deeply. For a moment, the mingled, bitter fragrances of newly stained wood, freshly painted walls and polished floors stayed with her. She shifted impatiently in her chair, watching as dancers paired off and turned rowdy with fancy lifts and swooping drops. With Eliza, Shannon wouldâve gladly stayed. The two would have danced the Lindy Hop barefoot, showing off moves theyâd practiced all summer in the backyardâstep, step, triple-step-twirl; step, step, triple-step-dip! Repeat, repeat, repeat, until they fell to the grass, exhausted, legs wobbling, arms aching, teasing each other, and laughing until their bellies hurt as when they were little girls. Instead, pumps in one hand, broken heel in the other, she left.
Night had fallen and white globes set like small moons atop slender poles illuminated the campus sidewalk. An opened pack of Lucky Strikes on the wide steps of the college chapel caught her attention, and with no one to stop her, she sat down beside it. She pulled out one cigarette, rolled it between her thumb and fingers, and inhaled its earthy scent. She looked about; seeing no one, she smiled and dropped her elbow to her knee while gesturing with her hand and imagining herself as Greta Garbo in the film Mata Hari.
If Shannon had been with her sister, theyâd have walked arm-in-arm straight through St. Tomâs campus across the street and into the house theyâd lived in since birth, chatting like two birds on a wire, and Shannon would never have met the boy with a tilted grin and a mess of curly black hair who showed up in front of her while the unlit cigarette still hung between her fingers.
âNice move in there. I liked your quick recovery.â He sat beside her, his trousers almost touching the tulle skirt of her summer gown; still grinning, he raised his brow in a practiced shortcut to affection.
She smiled back, forcing away shyness to look right at him. âI can teach it to you if you want. It took me years to learn, though.â She held her gaze steady, secretly recalling the game she used to play with her brother, Ed: who could stare longest without blinking.
He reciprocated, inched himself closer, and told Shannon that she had pretty eyes, especially in the light of a full moon. She looked down, unable to manage a poised response, and laughed instead, the same timid giggle sheâd disliked in herself since childhood. She felt heat rise to her cheeks and said his were pretty too. Big and chestnut brown with long, thick lashes, they were the nicest eyes on a boy sheâd ever seen.
He leaned back and took a brass lighter from his pocket. In a swift motion, his thumb flipped open the top and spun the striker wheel down to ignite the wick, which shone a halo of flickering light onto their faces. She brought the cigarette to her lips, wondering if he saw her hand tremble, and reminded herself to exhale as if she were whistling silently up to the sky, just like sheâd seen in the movies.
She inhaled the bitter smoke and a set of sharp coughs followed. She sputtered, her eyes watering enough for a single, embarrassing tear to form. She wiped it away with a laugh. Her throat burned as if sheâd swallowed hot sand, and she wished sheâd not taken the puff at all, and then wished she hadnât laughed. She passed the cigarette to the boy, grateful he didnât laugh too, though she caught his slight smile as he put his arm on her shoulder. He patted her backânot in a firm, functional way as to help her regain a steady breath, but lightly, as if to say, âThere, there, child; youâll be all right.â After taking a single short drag, he dropped the cigarette and smashed the glowing end into the step with his shoe.
He leaned toward Shannon as if suddenly wanting to share a secret. His cheek grazed hers and lingered there, a musky fragrance of chocolate and cinnamon mixing with words as he whispered in her ear, âYouâre a sweet gal. Come visit me sometime. Southeast corner of Marshall and Fairview.â He put the lighter in his back pocket and loped off to join his friends. Halfway across the lawn, he turned to look at herâor at least she thought he didâand she realized she didnât even know his name.
***
The next morning as church bells tolled nine, Shannon stepped away from her bedroom window and the mounted square of rag-paper on which sheâd penciled an outline of the red-brick chapel across the street. She cocked her head to the side and ran a hand through untidy hair, surprised at how her scalp, moist and hot with perspiration from the humid August air, bristled with sensitivity as if needles tipped her fingers. Glancing at the broken heel on her dresser, her cheeks flushed again as she imagined the boy from last night watching her careen into the man on the dance floor. She would never be as comfortable as Eliza around boys. With few exceptions, they made her feel out of sorts, and, aside from last nightâs little encounter, sheâd rather not think about them at all.
Only if she saw this boy again would she tell her sister about her interrupted walk home after the dance-floor incident. She knew better than to tell Eliza about even one try at a cigaretteâit would be just like telling Motherâbut Shannon could imagine describing how the boy had moved close, his cheek brushing hers, how heâd whispered in her ear, and how her nostrils had filled with the spicy-sweetness of his skin. Even as she relived the moment, uncertainty picked at her thoughtsâhad he been flirting with her or did she just want it to be so?
Absent-mindedly exploring a tender bump in the crook of her neck, she leaned against the windowâs dark frame. For three days now streams of young menâmostly G.I.s in olive drabsâhad been milling about campus like so many ants in a colony. Finally home, the soldier boys, as her father called them, poured back into daily life seeking more jobs than existed. Many, like Ed, had accepted the governmentâs offer for free education instead. Distracted from her sketch, she watched from her upstairs perch as they strayed from sidewalks onto summer-browned grass and branched off in pairs toward the military surplus huts positioned in two rows on the field facing the Malone home. From the comfortable distance of her room, she searched their faces as best she could, ignoring the unlikely odds of recognizing a particular boyâespecially one she had met only once and at nightâamidst the campus activities of Orientation Week.
She returned to the watercolor, which, if it turned out, would be a long-promised birthday gift for Eliza. One leg of her easelâa clever French portable device from her grandparents who had traveled to Paris between the First and Second Warsâmet the wall inches under the windowsill. A late-morning ray of sunlight pierced the glass rinsing jar, and captured by a brushâs metal ring, reflected back into the pink water, illuminating it as if it were electrified. Shannon imagined crimson and pink poppiesâa jarful of glorious, translucent petals bursting from spindly, opaque stems.
She crossed the room for a fresh perspective on the glowing water with stem-like brushes, the open window, her white paint-box dotted with vibrant colors, and the easel itself, all part of her composition. Hesitating near the door, she peered into the darkened hallway where the burgundy wool runner cascaded down the steps to the kitchen at the back of the house. She closed her eyes and wished for familial soundsâMother working at the sink; Fa in his office preparing his satchel for work on campus; Ed cleaning eggs from the backyard hens. Eliza, who would normally be quietly moving about earlier than Shannon on a summer morning, remained at the lake house after deciding at the last minute to forgo the dance and help Grandma Edith in her garden.
An image of the boy resurfaced, and Shannon told herself she wouldnât be so timid if she met him again. What harm would there be in strolling through campus together one afternoon? ⌠If she found him. She looked at her diary where sheâd written down the cross-streets heâd whispered in her ear and, despite nagging ambivalence, a new thrill traveled from her wrist to her neck, causing her to blush again.
All was quiet, she and the house, and the unwanted silence overcame her suddenly, like a tiny earthquake. A sharp kernel of air caught in her throat, provoking an unexpected cough that reminded her of the horrible cigarette. She returned to her easel and looked out again to the cream-colored masonry of the new Science Building and to the chapelâs wide, stone steps where sheâd met the boy last night. A couple sat so close that their thighs touched, and they laughed as they tried to calm their child, who danced about while pulling at his infant sister as if she were a doll. The young mother coaxed her little boy to relent, caressing him and whisperingâperhaps promises of treats for good behavior.
Shannon only half-smiled.
A Thread So Fine is a historical fiction novel that has a rich storyline; so rich that there is more than one story told. Centered around sisters Eliza and Shannon, you learn about their upbringing, such as living with their distant parents and their relationship with each other. When I first started reading this story, I did not expect it to go as deep as it did but I am so glad it did. Along the way you discover secrets, lies, betrayals and love that circulates around Eliza, Shannon, and the rest of their family. They deal with a lot of different and unique situations during their time period. Eliza and Shannon are round characters that have distinct personalities; by the novel's end I came to admire and appreciate both of them in completely different ways.
I really like this book. Susan Welch is a very talented writer; the story flows well and her attention to detail is fascinating. It is obvious that there was a lot of historical research that went into this novel. The weakest part of this novel is the dialogue; it was not bad but it did seem to slow the story down as times. The overall pacing is steady and it kept my attention until the story's end. Sometimes when I read a longer novel, I feel that the author could have cut the story short by about 100 pages because so much of the writing does not feel necessary. I do not feel this way about A Thread So Fine. Although this is a longer story, I finished it quickly within a few days because I got so invested in all of the character's lives. I suggest this book to anyone who is looking for a somewhat tragic, compelling and longer historical read. This book teaches you that not every family is perfect, and when things go wrong, you must take care of yourself.