By Anita Shreve
Margaret and Patrick were married quite a few months once they trigger on what they wish should be a good adventure-a 12 months residing in Kenya. Margaret quick realizes there's a good deal she doesn't find out about the advanced mores of her new domestic, and approximately her personal husband.
A British couple invitations the newlyweds to hitch on a hiking day trip to <st1:place w:st="on">Mount Kenya</st1:place>, they usually eagerly agree. yet in the course of their harrowing ascent, a awful twist of fate happens. within the aftermath of the tragedy, Margaret struggles to appreciate what occurred at the mountain and the way those occasions have reworked her and her marriage, maybe forever.
A switch in Altitude illuminates the interior panorama of a pair, the irrevocable impression of tragedy, and the elusive nature of forgiveness. With attractive language and amazing emotional depth, Anita Shreve transports us to the unique panoramas of <st1:place w:st="on">Africa</st1:place> and into the center of our so much intimate relationships.
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Extra info for A Change in Altitude: A Novel
The bullriding. ” “Don’t think so,” said the crotchscratcher. ” “He won’t,” said Leecil, and to Diamond, ‘You bet it ain’t no picnic. ” It turned out that it was a picnic and he did get tore up. His mother, Kaylee Felts, managed a tourist store, one of a chain headquartered in Denver: HIGH WEST—Vintage Cowboy Gear, Western Antiques, Spurs, Collectibles. Diamond had helped open boxes, dust showcases, wire-brush crusty spurs since he was twelve and she told him there was probably a place in the business for him after college, one of the other stores if he wanted to see the world.
Look at your hands,” she said. “They’re a mess. ” She was dolled up, her hair long and streaked blond, crimped like Chinese noodles, her eyelids iridescent blue. Diamond extended his fingers, turned his carefully scrubbed hands palm up, palm down, muscular hands with cut knuckles and small scars, two nails purple-black and lifting off at the base. “They’re clean. And I’m not broke. ” “Oh, eat some salad,” she said. They ate in silence, forks clicking among the pieces of cucumber and tomato. He disliked cucumber.
He grasped the car door handle. It was locked. Inside, by the dashboard glow, he could see the gleam of the keys in the ignition where he’d left them to keep the car running. It was almost funny. He picked up a big two-handed rock and smashed it on the driver’s-side window, slipped his arm in through the hole, into the delicious warmth of the car, a contortionist’s reach, twisting behind the steering wheel and down, and had he not kept limber with exercise and nut cutlets and green leafy vegetables he never could have reached the keys.