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Summary
Summary
GOOD MORNING AMERICA BOOK CLUB PICK
NATIONAL BESTSELLER
NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER
A soul-stirring novel about what we choose to keep from our past, and what we choose to leave behind, from the New York Times bestselling author of Wish You Were Here and the bestselling author of She's Not There.
Olivia McAfee knows what it feels like to start over. Her picture-perfect life--living in Boston, married to a brilliant cardiothoracic surgeon, raising a beautiful son, Asher--was upended when her husband revealed a darker side. She never imagined she would end up back in her sleepy New Hampshire hometown, living in the house she grew up in, and taking over her father's beekeeping business.
Lily Campanello is familiar with do-overs, too. When she and her mom relocate to Adams, New Hampshire, for her final year of high school, they both hope it will be a fresh start.
And for just a short while, these new beginnings are exactly what Olivia and Lily need. Their paths cross when Asher falls for the new girl in school, and Lily can't help but fall for him, too. With Ash, she feels happy for the first time. Yet at times, she wonders if she can she trust him completely . . .
Then one day, Olivia receives a phone call: Lily is dead, and Asher is being questioned by the police. Olivia is adamant that her son is innocent. But she would be lying if she didn't acknowledge the flashes of his father's temper in him, and as the case against him unfolds, she realizes he's hidden more than he's shared with her.
Mad Honey is a riveting novel of suspense, an unforgettable love story, and a moving and powerful exploration of the secrets we keep and the risks we take in order to become ourselves.
Author Notes
Jodi Picoult was born in Nesconset, New York on May 19, 1966. She received a degree in creative writing from Princeton University in 1987 and a master's degree in education from Harvard University. She published two short stories in Seventeen magazine while still in college. Immediately after graduation, she landed a variety of jobs, ranging from editing textbooks to teaching eighth-grade English.
Her first book, Songs of the Humpback Whale, was published in 1992. Her other works include Picture Perfect, Mercy, The Pact, Salem Falls, The Tenth Circle, Nineteen Minutes, Change of Heart, Handle with Care, House Rules, Sing You Home, Lone Wolf, Leaving Time, and Small Great Things. My Sister's Keeper was made into a movie starring Cameron Diaz. She received the New England Bookseller Award for fiction in 2003. She also wrote five issues of the Wonder Woman comic book series for DC Comics. She writes young adult novels with her daughter Samantha van Leer including Between the Lines and Off the Page.
(Bowker Author Biography)
Reviews (1)
Publisher's Weekly Review
Picoult (Wish You Were Here) joins forces with novelist and transgender activist Boylan (Long Black Veil) for a spellbinding yarn involving a teen's trial for murder. Beekeeper Olivia McAfee fled her abusive husband in Boston for New Hampshire with her six-year-old son, Asher. Twelve years later, Asher is charged with murdering his high school girlfriend, Lily, a newcomer to town. The story unfolds from Olivia and Lily's viewpoints (Lily's before the murder), and centers on the budding relationship between Asher and Lily and the subsequent court case against Asher, who is represented by Olivia's older brother, Jordan, a high-profile defense attorney who has appeared in previous Picoult novels. Both teens have troubled relationships with their fathers, and the authors painstakingly explore the impact of physically and emotionally abusive men on their families. After a big reveal in the second half, the canvas stretches to include a primer on transgender issues, and the shift is mostly seamless though sometimes didactic. More successful is the atmospheric texture provided with depictions of Olivia harvesting honey and the art of beekeeping, and the riveting trial drama. Overall, it's a fruitful collaboration. (Oct.)
Excerpts
Excerpts
Chapter 1 Olivia 1 December 7, 2018 The day of From the moment I knew I was having a baby, I wanted it to be a girl. I wandered the aisles of department stores, touching doll-size dresses and tiny sequined shoes. I pictured us with matching nail polish--me, who'd never had a manicure in my life. I imagined the day her fairy hair was long enough to capture in pigtails, her nose pressed to the glass of a school bus window; I saw her first crush, prom dress, heartbreak. Each vision was a bead on a rosary of future memories; I prayed daily. As it turned out, I was not a zealot . . . only a martyr. When I gave birth, and the doctor announced the baby's sex, I did not believe it at first. I had done such a stellar job of convincing myself of what I wanted that I completely forgot what I needed. But when I held Asher, slippery as a minnow, I was relieved. Better to have a boy, who would never be someone's victim. Most people in Adams, New Hampshire, know me by name, and those who don't, know to steer clear of my home. It's often that way for beekeepers--like firefighters, we willingly put ourselves into situations that are the stuff of others' nightmares. Honeybees are far less vindictive than their yellow jacket cousins, but people can't often tell the difference, so anything that stings and buzzes comes to be seen as a potential hazard. A few hundred yards past the antique Cape, my colonies form a semicircular rainbow of hives, and most of the spring and summer the bees zip between them and the acres of blossoms they pollinate, humming a warning. I grew up on a small farm that had been in my father's family for generations: an apple orchard that, in the fall, sold cider and donuts made by my mother and, in the summer, had pick-your-own strawberry fields. We were land-rich and cash-poor. My father was an apiarist by hobby, as was his father before him, and so on, all the way back to the first McAfee who was an original settler of Adams. It is just far enough away from the White Mountain National Forest to have affordable real estate. The town has one traffic light, one bar, one diner, a post office, a town green that used to be a communal sheep grazing area, and Slade Brook--a creek whose name was misprinted in a 1789 geological survey map, but which stuck. Slate Brook, as it should have been written, was named for the eponymous rock mined from its banks, which was shipped far and wide to become tombstones. Slade was the surname of the local undertaker and village drunk, who had a tendency to wander off when he was on a bender, and who ironically killed himself by drowning in six inches of water in the creek. When I first brought Braden to meet my parents, I told him that story. He had been driving at the time; his grin flashed like lightning. But who, he'd asked, buried the undertaker? Back then, we had been living outside of DC, where Braden was a resident in cardiac surgery at Johns Hopkins and I worked at the National Zoo, trying to cobble together enough money for a graduate program in zoology. We'd only been together three months, but I had already moved in with him. We were visiting my parents that weekend because I knew, viscerally, that Braden Fields was the one. On that first trip back home, I had been so sure of what my future would hold. I was wrong on all counts. I never expected to be an apiarist like my father; I never thought I'd wind up sleeping in my childhood bedroom once again as an adult; I never imagined I'd settle down on a farm my older brother, Jordan, and I once could not wait to leave. I married Braden; he got a fellowship at Mass General; we moved to Boston; I was a doctor's wife. Then, almost a year to the day of my wedding anniversary, my father didn't come home one evening after checking his hives. My mother found him, dead of a heart attack in the tall grass, bees haloing his head. My mother sold the piece of land that held our apple orchard to a couple from Brooklyn. She kept the strawberry fields but was thoroughly at a loss when it came to my father's hives. Since my brother was busy with a high-powered legal career and my mother was allergic to bees, the apiary fell to me. For five years, I drove from Boston to Adams every week to take care of the colonies. After Asher was born, I'd bring him with me, leaving him in the company of my mother while I checked the hives. I fell in love with beekeeping, the slow-motion flow of pulling a frame out of a hive, the Where's Waldo? search for the queen. I expanded from five colonies to fifteen. I experimented with bee genetics with colonies from Russia, from Slovenia, from Italy. I signed pollination contracts with the Brooklynites and three other local fruit orchards, setting up new hives on their premises. I harvested, processed, and sold honey and beeswax products at farmers' markets from the Canadian border to the suburbs of Massachusetts. I became, almost by accident, the first commercially successful beekeeper in the history of apiarist McAfees. By the time Asher and I moved permanently to Adams, I knew I might never get rich doing this, but I could make a living. My father taught me that beekeeping is both a burden and a privilege. You don't bother the bees unless they need your help, and you help them when they need it. It's a feudal relationship: protection in return for a percentage of the fruits of their labors. He taught me that if a body is easily crushed, it develops a weapon to prevent that from happening. He taught me that sudden movements get you stung. I took these lessons a bit too much to heart. On the day of my father's funeral, and years later, on the day of my mother's, I told the bees. It's an old tradition to inform them of a death in the family; if a beekeeper dies, and the bees aren't asked to stay on with their new master, they'll leave. In New Hampshire, the custom is to sing, and the news has to rhyme. So I draped each colony with black crepe, knocked softly, crooned the truth. My beekeeping net became a funeral veil. The hive might well have been a coffin. By the time I come downstairs that morning, Asher is in the kitchen. We have a deal, whoever gets up first makes the coffee. My mug still has a wisp of steam rising. He is shoveling cereal into his mouth, absorbed in his phone. "Morning," I say, and he grunts in response. For a moment, I let myself stare at him. It's hard to believe that the soft-centered little boy who would cry when his hands got sticky with propolis from the hives can now lift a super full of forty pounds of honey as if it weighs no more than his hockey stick. Asher is over six feet tall, but even as he was growing, he was never ungainly. He moves with the kind of grace you find in wildcats, the ones that can steal away a kitten or a chick before you even realize they've gone. Asher has my blond hair and the same ghost-green eyes, for which I have always been grateful. He carries his father's last name, but if I also had to see Braden every time I looked at my son, it would be that much harder. I catalog the breadth of his shoulders, the damp curls at the nape of his neck; the way the tendons in his forearms shift and play as he scrolls through his texts. It's shocking, sometimes, to be confronted with this when a second ago he sat on my shoulders, trying to pull down a star and unravel a thread of the night. "No practice this morning?" I ask, taking a sip of my coffee. Asher has been playing hockey as long as we've lived here; he skates as effortlessly as he walks. He was made captain as a junior and reelected this year, as a senior. I never can remember whether they have rink time before school or after, as it changes daily. His lips tug with a slight smile, and he types a response into his phone, but doesn't answer. "Hello?" I say. I slip a piece of bread into the ancient toaster, which is jerry-rigged with duct tape that occasionally catches on fire. Breakfast for me is always toast and honey, never in short supply. "I guess you have practice later," I try, and then provide the answer that Asher doesn't. "Why yes, Mom, thanks for taking such an active interest in my life." I fold my arms across my boxy cable-knit sweater. "Am I too old to wear this tube top?" I ask lightly. Silence. "I'm sorry I won't be here for dinner, but I'm running away with a cult." I narrow my eyes. "I posted that naked photo of you as a toddler on Instagram for Throwback Thursday." Asher grunts noncommittally. My toast pops up; I spread it with honey and slide into the chair directly across from Asher. "I'd really prefer that you not use my Mastercard to pay for your Pornhub subscription." His eyes snap to mine so fast I think I can hear his neck crack. "What?" "Oh, hey," I say smoothly. "Nice to have your attention." Asher shakes his head, but he puts down his phone. "I didn't use your Mastercard," he says. "I know." "I used your Amex." I burst out laughing. Excerpted from Mad Honey: A Novel by Jodi Picoult, Jennifer Finney Boylan 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.