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Summary
Summary
A moving story of the power of love and the miracles of life--chock full of Southern wit, sass, and charm
Grace is an intelligent, (struggling-to-be) independent 31-year-old single woman living (in sin!) with the man she'd marry if they both weren't so commitment phobic. Michael is a doctor and a scientist and Grace has a good idea that he's also an atheist. Over the years, this dutiful Catholic girl has become ambivalent about her faith. But her family is as devoutly old-fashioned as it gets.
The stage is set for a major showdown that might just change Grace's outlook on life, family,and the South itself.
Author Notes
Dorothea Benton Frank was born and raised on Sullivan's Island, South Carolina. She is the New York Times bestselling author of the Lowcountry Tales Series which includes the books Sullivan's Island and Plantation. Her title's have often made the Best Seller List such as: Porch Lights, The Last Original Wife, The Hurricane Sisters, All the Single Ladies, All Summer Long, Return to Sullivans Island, and Same Beach, Next Year.
Dorothea Olivia Benton was born on Sept. 12, 1951, on Sullivan¿s Island. Her father, William, died when she was 4; her mother, Dorothea Cecilia Blanchard, was a homemaker who raised her children with the two men she married after Mr. Benton¿s death. After graduating from the Fashion Institute of America in Atlanta, she became a buyer for Kerrison¿s Department Store in Charleston and then an executive for a sportswear line in New York and San Francisco. After marrying Mr. Frank, an investment banker, in 1983, she left the fashion industry, had two children and raised money for various charities. She Shifted to writing novels because it suited her storytelling style. She was soon turning out a book a year. Dorothea Benton Frank passed away on September 2, 2019 at the age of 67.
(Bowker Author Biography)
Reviews (2)
Booklist Review
Meet the Russos: Big Al and Connie, former New Jersey-ites who, in their Hilton Head retirement community, stick out like cannolis on a plateful of biscuits; Nonna, Connie's mother, who took Cinderella's wicked stepmother as her parental role model; and Grace, their dutiful daughter living in nearby Charleston with her lover, Dr. Michael Higgins. Michael, however, has not met the Russos. More than his Irish heritage, Michael's work in stem-cell research and his lapsed Catholicism make him persona non grata at Casa Russo. Constantly at her mother's beck and call, Grace unselfishly travels home whenever there's a family crisis, but when Michael is diagnosed with brain cancer, Grace desperately needs her family's support. Will their devout faith prevent them from giving it, and can Grace resolve her own religious doubts in the face of this challenge? A masterful storyteller, Frank specializes in resilient characters who survive thanks to a saucy combination of grit and humor, and her vibrantly eccentric Russo clan may be her most endearing creation yet. --Carol Haggas Copyright 2006 Booklist
Library Journal Review
Though Grace has managed to shed the name Maria Graziella, she's still a good Catholic girl puzzling over whether she can marry live-in boyfriend Michael, a scientist/doctor who just might be an atheist. The author tour will hit close to 20 cities. (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Excerpts
Excerpts
Full of Grace A Novel Chapter One Firecrackers Everything Michael just told you is true, but you have to understand our lives in its whole context for this story to make any sense. What happened to us was so unexpected that I think it's worth understanding how we came together and why everything could only have happened as it did. So let me take you back to the beginning and, for the moment, offer this singular thought. There are still a few pockets of the earth that transcend the realities of the modern world. To my complete astonishment, the Lowcountry of South Carolina is one of them. No one who knows the area would argue. Not every square inch of it is spiritually uplifting because it's got its commercial sprawl like all cities. But just minutes south of historic Charleston's ageless glories and the plastic outskirts of suburbia, the neon world of consumerism begins to melt away. Soon, moving along on Savannah Highway, there is a small rise in the road. Rantowles Creek. The deep blue water is vast, shimmering like fields of sequins, their tiny edges catching flashes of the afternoon light. Every single time I passed over the tiny bridge I would literally gasp with surprise. It was so vibrant with life and naturally beautiful. For the trillionth or so time, I wondered why I didn't sublet my carriage house in downtown Charleston, move out here and sink roots in this blue and green paradise. But as soon as I asked myself the question, the answer was on the tip of my tongue. The answer was simple. I was still in the game, running with the ball like my hair was on fire. Besides, I was still too urban. I mean, moving to Charleston had been a concession to my family after decades of living in and around New York, working for a luxury travel service that paid very little but took me everywhere I ever wanted to go: Cambodia, Chile, the Galápagos, Patagonia, Istanbul -- dream it up, I can arrange it and you will travel like royalty. It was a niche business, but a very nice niche. Eventually, I moved to the Lowcountry. I had been terrified to leave New York and in other ways just as terrified to stay. My family knew it, too. Truly there wasn't much happening in my personal life except the packing and unpacking of luggage. So as usual, my father decided to take the matter of my future into his own lovable hands. He begged me to just try Charleston for a while, and after the big showdown, I finally caved. Here's how that happened. He called me one morning and said, "You gonna be home tonight?" I said, "Yeah? Who wants to know?" "The FBI. Be home at seven and that's it. Don't ask no more questions." So without any further hullabaloo, Big Al flew to New York and showed up that night with a sack of Chinese takeout. I opened the door to my apartment on lower Fifth Avenue and there he stood. Delighted to see the man who loved me more than anyone ever had, I threw my arms around his neck and hugged him with all my might. I was a mainlining daddy's girl and not apologetic in the least. After a feast of hot-and-sour soup, steamed dumplings, Peking duck, pork lo mein, and a lot of chitchat, he stood up and read his fortune cookie aloud. " 'The Buddha sees Big Al's only daughter in Charleston living happily in a carriage house on Wentworth Street that her wonderful father already bought for an investment and will allow her to live in rent-free but she has to pay the utilities.' Humph! Well, what do you say about that, princess?" What could I say? Even though I was an adult, I still loved the fact that my dad wanted to spoil me rotten. And that he missed me. The next day I called Eric Bomze, who owned the company I worked for, and who by coincidence had relocated to Charleston after opening another office in Atlanta. He said, Come to Charleston immediately. That was the end of the New York chapter of my life. I called a mover and began to pack. To my surprise and delight, it turned out that Charleston had everything I thought I needed and more. Like New York, it had neighborhoods and corner stores. It was old but not decrepit. What it didn't have was snow, ice or, to date, terrorists. It was little things that made me happy--frothy cappuccinos and the New York Times at my fingertips. I loved chamber music and theater. Salsa dancing, tennis and biking. Restaurants and shopping. Charleston had that and lots more, and best of all, I could walk to work. And once Michael became my "other," he could be at the Medical University in five minutes. We didn't pay a fortune to park or live on gridlock alert during the holiday season. So living downtown was the perfect decision for us. We couldn't be bothered with a house and a yard. And I hated to admit it, but a suburban house would have destroyed our relationship in about two days. It wasn't about who was going to cut the grass or clean out the garage. No, it was fastidiously manicured neighborhoods with married couples having block parties, backyard barbecues with coordinated paper products, children, dogs and bicycles strewn helter-skelter like randomly placed garden sculpture. That whole scene had the malodorous quality of long-term commitment. The M word. Like cheap chocolate--it looked good, but ultimately it made your teeth hurt. Marriage was not for me. Or Michael. We didn't want to live among a sliding-scale population of predictable failures. Like stick-figure couples in a PowerPoint presentation, diminishing with each screen until over half of them disappeared by the end. We were together because we wanted to be together, not because we were stuck under the heel of a legal . . . Full of Grace A Novel . Copyright © by Dorothea Frank. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold. Excerpted from Full of Grace by Dorothea Benton Frank All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
