United States
![Laura Warrell - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_a_laura_warrell.jpg)
Sweet, Soft, Plenty Rhythm: A Novel
Passion and risk, fathers and daughters, wives and single women, jazz and soul: a "gorgeously written debut" (Celeste Ng, best-selling author of Little Fires Everywhere) about the perennial temptations of dangerous love, told by the women who love Circus Palmer-trumpet player and old-school ladies' man-as they ultimately discover the power of their own voices.
"A modern masterpiece." -Jason Reynolds, best-selling author of Look Both Ways
It's 2013, and Circus Palmer, a forty-year-old Boston-based trumpet player and old-school ladies' man, lives for his music and refuses to be tied down. Before a gig in Miami, he learns that the woman who is secretly closest to his heart, the free-spirited drummer Maggie, is pregnant by him. Instead of facing the necessary conversation, Circus flees, setting off a chain of interlocking revelations from the various women in his life. Most notable among them is his teenage daughter, Koko, who idolizes him and is awakening to her own sexuality even as her mentally fragile mother struggles to overcome her long-failed marriage and rejection by Circus. Delivering a lush orchestration of diverse female voices, Warrell spins a provocative, soulful, and gripping story of passion and risk, fathers and daughters, wives and single women, and, finally, hope and reconciliation, in answer to the age-old question: how do we find belonging when love is unrequited?
"A modern masterpiece." -Jason Reynolds, best-selling author of Look Both Ways
It's 2013, and Circus Palmer, a forty-year-old Boston-based trumpet player and old-school ladies' man, lives for his music and refuses to be tied down. Before a gig in Miami, he learns that the woman who is secretly closest to his heart, the free-spirited drummer Maggie, is pregnant by him. Instead of facing the necessary conversation, Circus flees, setting off a chain of interlocking revelations from the various women in his life. Most notable among them is his teenage daughter, Koko, who idolizes him and is awakening to her own sexuality even as her mentally fragile mother struggles to overcome her long-failed marriage and rejection by Circus. Delivering a lush orchestration of diverse female voices, Warrell spins a provocative, soulful, and gripping story of passion and risk, fathers and daughters, wives and single women, and, finally, hope and reconciliation, in answer to the age-old question: how do we find belonging when love is unrequited?
Editorial Reviews
INTRO
*
Circus
The girl may have been the end for him. The end's beginning, like the bend of a road too slight to notice where it leads. She could have happened to him a day later or a day before, but she was there on that day, in that moment, just hours after Circus Palmer turned forty, a predictable time for a certain kind of end to come, and just seconds after Maggie slid her hand from his wrist and with her lips parted just enough to slip his finger through if he'd wanted, whispered, "I have something to tell you."
Outstretched on a chaise longue beside the hotel pool, Circus watched from a distance as the girl-in her mid-twenties, he figured-did cartwheels alone on the beach, her linen skirt falling open to bare the smooth plane of her hips and the slide of her calves sloping up to her toes. She lured his eyes away from Maggie, who was lying in another chaise longue beside him. All afternoon Maggie had been acting strangely, staring at nothing and losing the thread of conversations. This wasn't Maggie. Circus figured whatever it was she had to say wasn't anything he wanted to hear, so he let his attention be taken by the girl doing flips back and forth across the sand. When she landed on her feet, her hair lashed across her back like a whip, her shoulders lifted and hands spread beneath the melon sunset as if she carried it on her fingertips. Hips, calves, toes, shoulders, hands, she circled in the air again.
"I wasn't going to say anything." Maggie hummed, the sound not fully making its way to him, not quite breaking through his focus. "But I thought you should know."
If she were any other woman, he would have told her to come to the point. But this was Maggie, so he waited, a sense of dread needling in his gut. Chewing at the inside of his cheek-always his mouth needed something to do-he concentrated on the melody the girl made inside his head as he tapped a nervous rhythm on his knee.
"Listen to what I'm telling you." The push in Maggie's voice, major-keyed and salty, brought Circus back to the cabana, back to the Wild Turkey warm in his glass and Maggie beside him. Her lips were pursed as she stroked her long neck and watched the night begin to fall, possibly without noticing the girl, possibly trying not to.
Six days earlier, after not seeing each other for weeks, they'd arrived in Miami and hastily made their way to the hotel in order to get into a bed together. They'd paid extra for a room with a round marble bathtub where they could spend mornings sipping champagne before heading out to the city to visit Little Havana markets and smoke cigars. On the nights Circus played in the horn section of his friend's band-the reason they'd made th...
*
Circus
The girl may have been the end for him. The end's beginning, like the bend of a road too slight to notice where it leads. She could have happened to him a day later or a day before, but she was there on that day, in that moment, just hours after Circus Palmer turned forty, a predictable time for a certain kind of end to come, and just seconds after Maggie slid her hand from his wrist and with her lips parted just enough to slip his finger through if he'd wanted, whispered, "I have something to tell you."
Outstretched on a chaise longue beside the hotel pool, Circus watched from a distance as the girl-in her mid-twenties, he figured-did cartwheels alone on the beach, her linen skirt falling open to bare the smooth plane of her hips and the slide of her calves sloping up to her toes. She lured his eyes away from Maggie, who was lying in another chaise longue beside him. All afternoon Maggie had been acting strangely, staring at nothing and losing the thread of conversations. This wasn't Maggie. Circus figured whatever it was she had to say wasn't anything he wanted to hear, so he let his attention be taken by the girl doing flips back and forth across the sand. When she landed on her feet, her hair lashed across her back like a whip, her shoulders lifted and hands spread beneath the melon sunset as if she carried it on her fingertips. Hips, calves, toes, shoulders, hands, she circled in the air again.
"I wasn't going to say anything." Maggie hummed, the sound not fully making its way to him, not quite breaking through his focus. "But I thought you should know."
If she were any other woman, he would have told her to come to the point. But this was Maggie, so he waited, a sense of dread needling in his gut. Chewing at the inside of his cheek-always his mouth needed something to do-he concentrated on the melody the girl made inside his head as he tapped a nervous rhythm on his knee.
"Listen to what I'm telling you." The push in Maggie's voice, major-keyed and salty, brought Circus back to the cabana, back to the Wild Turkey warm in his glass and Maggie beside him. Her lips were pursed as she stroked her long neck and watched the night begin to fall, possibly without noticing the girl, possibly trying not to.
Six days earlier, after not seeing each other for weeks, they'd arrived in Miami and hastily made their way to the hotel in order to get into a bed together. They'd paid extra for a room with a round marble bathtub where they could spend mornings sipping champagne before heading out to the city to visit Little Havana markets and smoke cigars. On the nights Circus played in the horn section of his friend's band-the reason they'd made th...
Readers Top Reviews
kathleen gD. Young
Cyrus- known as Circus- is a jazz musician who brings chaos wherever he goes, especially in his relationships with women. This is all about those relationships and the women have their say about him too. Now, though, he's learned that Maggie is pregnant and that he's got to come to terms with his teen daughter Koko, who is the only one who doesn't seem unduly charmed by him. You, like me. might want to tell the women to walk away and Circus to grow up but the stories weave together in a way that keeps you reading. Thanks to Netgalley for the ARC. Interesting literary fiction.
Michael
One of the most gorgeous, beautifully rendered novels in recent memory. It's hard to believe that this is Warrell's debut, as the prose and flood of emotions are equally matched by its ambitious scope. Tender, funny, heartbreaking, and full of passion and unrequited love -- I couldn't it put down.
Short Excerpt Teaser
INTRO
*
Circus
The girl may have been the end for him. The end's beginning, like the bend of a road too slight to notice where it leads. She could have happened to him a day later or a day before, but she was there on that day, in that moment, just hours after Circus Palmer turned forty, a predictable time for a certain kind of end to come, and just seconds after Maggie slid her hand from his wrist and with her lips parted just enough to slip his finger through if he'd wanted, whispered, "I have something to tell you."
Outstretched on a chaise longue beside the hotel pool, Circus watched from a distance as the girl-in her mid-twenties, he figured-did cartwheels alone on the beach, her linen skirt falling open to bare the smooth plane of her hips and the slide of her calves sloping up to her toes. She lured his eyes away from Maggie, who was lying in another chaise longue beside him. All afternoon Maggie had been acting strangely, staring at nothing and losing the thread of conversations. This wasn't Maggie. Circus figured whatever it was she had to say wasn't anything he wanted to hear, so he let his attention be taken by the girl doing flips back and forth across the sand. When she landed on her feet, her hair lashed across her back like a whip, her shoulders lifted and hands spread beneath the melon sunset as if she carried it on her fingertips. Hips, calves, toes, shoulders, hands, she circled in the air again.
"I wasn't going to say anything." Maggie hummed, the sound not fully making its way to him, not quite breaking through his focus. "But I thought you should know."
If she were any other woman, he would have told her to come to the point. But this was Maggie, so he waited, a sense of dread needling in his gut. Chewing at the inside of his cheek-always his mouth needed something to do-he concentrated on the melody the girl made inside his head as he tapped a nervous rhythm on his knee.
"Listen to what I'm telling you." The push in Maggie's voice, major-keyed and salty, brought Circus back to the cabana, back to the Wild Turkey warm in his glass and Maggie beside him. Her lips were pursed as she stroked her long neck and watched the night begin to fall, possibly without noticing the girl, possibly trying not to.
Six days earlier, after not seeing each other for weeks, they'd arrived in Miami and hastily made their way to the hotel in order to get into a bed together. They'd paid extra for a room with a round marble bathtub where they could spend mornings sipping champagne before heading out to the city to visit Little Havana markets and smoke cigars. On the nights Circus played in the horn section of his friend's band-the reason they'd made the trip-Maggie went into the city on her own, dancing in salsa bars and kicking drummers off their kits so she could play. And when he wasn't gigging, they found hole-in-the-wall clubs where they could jam onstage with the band. Other players would recognize Maggie on occasion, asking what it was like to drum behind jazz greats and rock stars, and she'd tell stories about filled stadiums and rowdy tour buses, letting them craft fantasies around her. Usually Circus liked being the storyteller in a room, but watching Maggie hold court gave him a charge. That morning she'd sung Happy Birthday" to him playing a ukulele while wearing her bikini bottoms and a birthday hat. He'd laughed and lusted and wished they'd never have to leave the room.
But now this.
He'd come to Miami to draw a clean line between his first forty years and his next, and he'd invited Maggie because she was the only female in his life who knew how to be easy. He didn't love traveling with women. A woman in the room meant ending the night back at the hotel where she was waiting.
"Sorry, baby." He stroked her knee. "I'm listening."
The air was slick with heat, the sky in full dusk. A breeze stuck in the palm trees clung stubbornly to coconuts instead of drifting down to cool him. As Maggie sipped a Manhattan, Circus felt crowded in a way he never had with her before.
"The sun's going down." He finished his drink and looked around for the server to bring another. "Why isn't it getting cooler?"
A barman came with a bottle of bourbon from the other side of the deck, and Circus listened to the soft burble of the pour. Beside him, Maggie hiked up her dress to let the breeze reach across her brown thighs. He couldn't stop himself from looking. To him, she'd always seemed designed rather than birthed, her body lean with crisp angles and slight curves. Circus resented her then for knowing how to steal his gaze from whateve...
*
Circus
The girl may have been the end for him. The end's beginning, like the bend of a road too slight to notice where it leads. She could have happened to him a day later or a day before, but she was there on that day, in that moment, just hours after Circus Palmer turned forty, a predictable time for a certain kind of end to come, and just seconds after Maggie slid her hand from his wrist and with her lips parted just enough to slip his finger through if he'd wanted, whispered, "I have something to tell you."
Outstretched on a chaise longue beside the hotel pool, Circus watched from a distance as the girl-in her mid-twenties, he figured-did cartwheels alone on the beach, her linen skirt falling open to bare the smooth plane of her hips and the slide of her calves sloping up to her toes. She lured his eyes away from Maggie, who was lying in another chaise longue beside him. All afternoon Maggie had been acting strangely, staring at nothing and losing the thread of conversations. This wasn't Maggie. Circus figured whatever it was she had to say wasn't anything he wanted to hear, so he let his attention be taken by the girl doing flips back and forth across the sand. When she landed on her feet, her hair lashed across her back like a whip, her shoulders lifted and hands spread beneath the melon sunset as if she carried it on her fingertips. Hips, calves, toes, shoulders, hands, she circled in the air again.
"I wasn't going to say anything." Maggie hummed, the sound not fully making its way to him, not quite breaking through his focus. "But I thought you should know."
If she were any other woman, he would have told her to come to the point. But this was Maggie, so he waited, a sense of dread needling in his gut. Chewing at the inside of his cheek-always his mouth needed something to do-he concentrated on the melody the girl made inside his head as he tapped a nervous rhythm on his knee.
"Listen to what I'm telling you." The push in Maggie's voice, major-keyed and salty, brought Circus back to the cabana, back to the Wild Turkey warm in his glass and Maggie beside him. Her lips were pursed as she stroked her long neck and watched the night begin to fall, possibly without noticing the girl, possibly trying not to.
Six days earlier, after not seeing each other for weeks, they'd arrived in Miami and hastily made their way to the hotel in order to get into a bed together. They'd paid extra for a room with a round marble bathtub where they could spend mornings sipping champagne before heading out to the city to visit Little Havana markets and smoke cigars. On the nights Circus played in the horn section of his friend's band-the reason they'd made the trip-Maggie went into the city on her own, dancing in salsa bars and kicking drummers off their kits so she could play. And when he wasn't gigging, they found hole-in-the-wall clubs where they could jam onstage with the band. Other players would recognize Maggie on occasion, asking what it was like to drum behind jazz greats and rock stars, and she'd tell stories about filled stadiums and rowdy tour buses, letting them craft fantasies around her. Usually Circus liked being the storyteller in a room, but watching Maggie hold court gave him a charge. That morning she'd sung Happy Birthday" to him playing a ukulele while wearing her bikini bottoms and a birthday hat. He'd laughed and lusted and wished they'd never have to leave the room.
But now this.
He'd come to Miami to draw a clean line between his first forty years and his next, and he'd invited Maggie because she was the only female in his life who knew how to be easy. He didn't love traveling with women. A woman in the room meant ending the night back at the hotel where she was waiting.
"Sorry, baby." He stroked her knee. "I'm listening."
The air was slick with heat, the sky in full dusk. A breeze stuck in the palm trees clung stubbornly to coconuts instead of drifting down to cool him. As Maggie sipped a Manhattan, Circus felt crowded in a way he never had with her before.
"The sun's going down." He finished his drink and looked around for the server to bring another. "Why isn't it getting cooler?"
A barman came with a bottle of bourbon from the other side of the deck, and Circus listened to the soft burble of the pour. Beside him, Maggie hiked up her dress to let the breeze reach across her brown thighs. He couldn't stop himself from looking. To him, she'd always seemed designed rather than birthed, her body lean with crisp angles and slight curves. Circus resented her then for knowing how to steal his gaze from whateve...
