It's been five years since the Mason family vacationed at the lakeside cottage in northeastern Vermont, close to where prize-winning novelist Samuel Mason grew up. The summers that Sam, his wife, Mena, and their twins Franny and Finn spent at Lake Gormlaith were noisy, chaotic, and nearly perfect. But since Franny's death, the Masons have been flailing, one step away from falling apart. Lake Gormlaith is Sam's last, best hope of rescuing his son from a destructive path and salvaging what's left of his family. As Sam struggles with grief, writer's block, and a looming deadline, Mena tries to repair the marital bond she once thought was unbreakable. But even in this secluded place, the unexpected--in the form of an over-zealous fan, a surprising friendship, and a second chance--can change everything. From the acclaimed author of Two Rivers comes a compelling and beautifully told story of hope, family, and above all, hunger--for food, sex, love and success--and for a way back to wholeness when a part of oneself has been lost forever. Praise For T. Greenwood's Two Rivers "A dark and lovely elegy, filled with heartbreak that turns itself into hope and forgiveness. I felt so moved by this luminous novel." --Luanne Rice, New York Times bestselling author "T. Greenwood's writing shimmers and sings. . ." --Marisa de los Santos, New York Times bestselling author of Belong to Me and Love Walked In "A memorable, powerful work." --Garth Stein, New York Times bestselling author of The Art of Racing in the Rain "Greenwood is a writer of subtle strength, evoking small-town life beautifully while spreading out the map of Harper's life, finding light in the darkest of stories." -- Publishers Weekly "A sensitive and suspenseful portrayal of family and the ties that bind." --Lee Martin, author of The Bright Forever and River of Heaven "A haunting story. . .Ripe with surprising twists and heartbreakingly real characters. . .remarkable and complex." --Michelle Richmond, New York Times bestselling author of The Year of Fog and No One You Know "A complex tale of guilt, remorse, revenge, and forgiveness. . . Convincing. . . Interesting. . ." -- Library Journal " Two Rivers is the story that people want to read: the one they have never read before." --Howard Frank Mosher, author of Walking to Gatlinburg The Hungry Season By T. GREENWOOD KENSINGTON BOOKS Copyright © 2010 T. Greenwood All right reserved. ISBN: 978-0-7582-2878-9 Chapter One Before. Once. Not that long ago, Sam believed that they would always be happy. That they had found the secret, stumbled upon it by accident perhaps. Or maybe they had done something to earn it. Regardless, they had found what had managed to elude everyone else: all those miserable bickering families, the ones they saw and pitied (the couples who love each other but not their children, the ones who love their children but not each other). Happiness . They had this. He was full of it, smug with it, bloated and busting at the seams with it. He basked in it, in the cool softness of it, thanked his lucky stars for it. But what he didn't understand (or couldn't, not then) is that everything is precarious. That even the sweetest breezes can change directions, that not even the moon is constant. Here they are before: Early summer evening when everything was still possible, Mena was in the kitchen of the rented cottage, washing lettuce from their summer garden. Sam could see her from where he sat in a wooden chair in the yard. The light from the window made a frame around her. She was standing at the sink, running water over the green leaves, her hands working. She caught his eye, smiled. Held his gaze until he blew her a kiss. Through the open screen door, he could smell dinner. Something Greek; there would be olives in a chipped porcelain bowl from the cupboard. Soft cheese. Warm bread. Franny would save the olive pits on a wet paper towel, bury them in the garden with her small fingers, hoping to grow an olive tree by morning. Finn was down at the water's edge, ankle deep in the lake, his naked chest white in the half-light. He had a red plastic bucket for the polliwogs. He was soundless in this task. Single-minded and intent. In the morning, Sam would go into town and get him a fishbowl. Most of them would die, but one or two might grow legs, eyes bulging. Franny was swinging in the tire swing that hung from the giant maple tree near the edge of the woods. She leaned backward, and her long curls spilled onto the ground. She had also abandoned her clothes in this rare June heat. They were six. It was twilight, and everything was possible. Sam was thinking, of course, about the words that might capture this. Words were the way that he tethered the world, kept it close. Mena didn't understand this need to articulate a moment, all moments. To convey moonlight, water, hair kissing the ground . She didn't understa