Genre Fiction
![Lisa Wingate - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B001HCX5WK.jpg)
The Book of Lost Friends: A Novel
NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • From the bestselling author of Before We Were Yours comes a dramatic historical novel of three young women searching for family amid the destruction of the post–Civil War South, and of a modern-day teacher who learns of their story and its vital connection to her students' lives.
"An absorbing historical . . . enthralling."-Library Journal
Bestselling author Lisa Wingate brings to life startling stories from actual "Lost Friends" advertisements that appeared in Southern newspapers after the Civil War, as newly freed slaves desperately searched for loved ones who had been sold away.
Louisiana, 1875: In the tumultuous era of Reconstruction, three young women set off as unwilling companions on a perilous quest: Hannie, a freed slave; Lavinia, the pampered heir to a now destitute plantation; and Juneau Jane, Lavinia's Creole half sister. Each carries private wounds and powerful secrets as they head for Texas, following roads rife with vigilantes and soldiers still fighting a war lost a decade before. For Lavinia and Juneau Jane, the journey is one of stolen inheritance and financial desperation, but for Hannie, torn from her mother and siblings before slavery's end, the pilgrimage west reignites an agonizing question: Could her long-lost family still be out there? Beyond the swamps lie the limitless frontiers of Texas and, improbably, hope.
Louisiana, 1987: For first-year teacher Benedetta Silva, a subsidized job at a poor rural school seems like the ticket to canceling her hefty student debt-until she lands in a tiny, out-of-step Mississippi River town. Augustine, Louisiana, is suspicious of new ideas and new people, and Benny can scarcely comprehend the lives of her poverty-stricken students. But amid the gnarled live oaks and run-down plantation homes lie the century-old history of three young women, a long-ago journey, and a hidden book that could change everything.
"An absorbing historical . . . enthralling."-Library Journal
Bestselling author Lisa Wingate brings to life startling stories from actual "Lost Friends" advertisements that appeared in Southern newspapers after the Civil War, as newly freed slaves desperately searched for loved ones who had been sold away.
Louisiana, 1875: In the tumultuous era of Reconstruction, three young women set off as unwilling companions on a perilous quest: Hannie, a freed slave; Lavinia, the pampered heir to a now destitute plantation; and Juneau Jane, Lavinia's Creole half sister. Each carries private wounds and powerful secrets as they head for Texas, following roads rife with vigilantes and soldiers still fighting a war lost a decade before. For Lavinia and Juneau Jane, the journey is one of stolen inheritance and financial desperation, but for Hannie, torn from her mother and siblings before slavery's end, the pilgrimage west reignites an agonizing question: Could her long-lost family still be out there? Beyond the swamps lie the limitless frontiers of Texas and, improbably, hope.
Louisiana, 1987: For first-year teacher Benedetta Silva, a subsidized job at a poor rural school seems like the ticket to canceling her hefty student debt-until she lands in a tiny, out-of-step Mississippi River town. Augustine, Louisiana, is suspicious of new ideas and new people, and Benny can scarcely comprehend the lives of her poverty-stricken students. But amid the gnarled live oaks and run-down plantation homes lie the century-old history of three young women, a long-ago journey, and a hidden book that could change everything.
Editorial Reviews
"Wingate makes history come alive. . . . Historical fiction fans will appreciate the authentic articles and the connection between modern times and the past, while adventure lovers will enjoy a voyage reminiscent of Huckleberry Finn."-Booklist
"Wingate brings to life a new and exciting historical drama."-Deep South magazine
"[A] wonderful novel . . . a story that is heartbreaking and full of grief but also joy and optimism. It's a perfect excuse to curl up on the couch and read."-Bookreporter
"This is what I love most about historical fiction, the chance to learn things we unfortunately aren't taught in schools."-All About Romance
"Emphasizing throughout that stories matter and should never go untold, Wingate has written an absorbing historical for many readers. . . . Enthralling and ultimately heartening."-Library Journal
"Wingate brings to life a new and exciting historical drama."-Deep South magazine
"[A] wonderful novel . . . a story that is heartbreaking and full of grief but also joy and optimism. It's a perfect excuse to curl up on the couch and read."-Bookreporter
"This is what I love most about historical fiction, the chance to learn things we unfortunately aren't taught in schools."-All About Romance
"Emphasizing throughout that stories matter and should never go untold, Wingate has written an absorbing historical for many readers. . . . Enthralling and ultimately heartening."-Library Journal
Readers Top Reviews
ClaudiaKindle N. He
This was a little hard for me to get into. Yuen I couldn’t put it down. I could see every person in this book, feel their emotions. Loved this book
bdoc
I loved this book ! The characters were "'alive" and so well developed. I can imagine that after the Civil War freed slaves would look for family. Since names changed at the masters will , it would seem impossible to locate. No Facebook or social media, no TV show to go on , no research engine or DNA kit but they had ads that went into papers and read out at church. With this nugget the author developed a great book that alternated between 1875 and 1987. Loved the book!
Jeanne Ambrosio
This was an excellent read, however I couldn’t give it 5 stars as the parts of the story that was a copy of The Book of Friends was difficult to see, especially if you read E-books. The print was very tiny-needed a magnifying glass to see and parts of the print was so faded you missed part of what was written.
Print MDAileen Gould
April 2020 : 1 Star. Louisiana 1878 three young women set-off on a quest: Hannie a freed slave, Lavinia the pampered heir to a now destitute plantation and Juneau Jane who is Lavinia's Creole half-sister. Louisiana 1987 first-year teacher Benedetta Silva gets a subsidized job at a poor rural school which seems like her ticket to cancelling her hefty student debt. She finds a hidden book that could change everything. The book starts in 1875 Louisiana and the "speak" is challenging to read and understand. Chapter 2 when we were back in 1987 was interesting and made me read-on and try to immense myself in 1875. The Author's first book, Before We Were Yours was a 5-star read for me and I was sooo looking forward to this book. At 40% I felt the book was going no where for me and still a struggle to read. Disappointedly I could not finish this one. I'm sure others will love it, but not me.
Judy Christie
“The Book of Lost Friends” is the dramatic and hopeful story of three young women searching for family amid the destruction of the post–Civil War South, and of a modern-day teacher who learns of their story and its vital connection to her students’ lives. The quest of 1875 Reconstruction-era characters intersecting with a South Louisiana teacher in 1987 hooked me, and I couldn’t put the book down. Knowing these characters were inspired by real-life Lost Friends letters made the novel even more compelling. Wingate has a knack for reflecting the pain of a piece of history and also showing the resilience of people who work through terrible situations.
Short Excerpt Teaser
Prologue
A single ladybug lands featherlight on the teacher's finger, clings there, a living gemstone. A ruby with polka dots and legs. Before a slight breeze beckons the visitor away, an old children's rhyme sifts through the teacher's mind.
Ladybug, ladybug, fly away home,
Your house is on fire, and your children are gone.
The words leave a murky shadow as the teacher touches a student's shoulder, feels the damp warmth beneath the girl's roughly woven calico dress. The hand-stitched neckline hangs askew over smooth amber-brown skin, the garment a little too large for the girl inside it. A single puffy scar protrudes from one loosely buttoned cuff. The teacher wonders briefly about its cause, resists allowing her mind to speculate.
What would be the point? she thinks.
We all have scars.
She glances around the makeshift gathering place under the trees, the rough slabwood benches crowded with girls on the verge of womanhood, boys seeking to step into the world of men. Leaning over crooked tables littered with nib pens, blotters, and inkwells, they read their papers, mouthing the words, intent upon the important task ahead.
All except this one girl.
"Fully prepared?" the teacher inquires, her head angling toward the girl's work. "You've practiced reading it aloud?"
"I can't do it." The girl sags, defeated in her own mind. "Not . . . not with these people looking on." Her young face casts miserably toward the onlookers who have gathered at the fringes of the open-air classroom-moneyed men in well-fitting suits and women in expensive dresses, petulantly waving off the afternoon heat with printed handbills and paper fans left over from the morning's fiery political speeches.
"You never know what you can do until you try," the teacher advises. Oh, how familiar that girlish insecurity is. Not so many years ago, the teacher was this girl. Uncertain of herself, overcome with fear. Paralyzed, really.
"I can't," the girl moans, clutching her stomach.
Bundling cumbersome skirts and petticoats to keep them from the dust, the teacher lowers herself to catch the girl's gaze. "Where will they hear the story if not from you-the story of being stolen away from family? Of writing an advertisement seeking any word of loved ones, and hoping to save up the fifty cents to have it printed in the Southwestern paper, so that it might travel through all the nearby states and territories? How will they understand the desperate need to finally know, Are my people out there, somewhere?"
The girl's thin shoulders lift, then wilt. "These folks ain't here because they care what I've got to say. It won't change anything."
"Perhaps it will. The most important endeavors require a risk." The teacher understands this all too well. Someday, she, too, must strike off on a similar journey, one that involves a risk.
Today, however, is for her students and for the "Lost Friends" column of the Southwestern Christian Advocate newspaper, and for all it represents. "At the very least, we must tell our stories, mustn't we? Speak the names? You know, there is an old proverb that says, ‘We die once when the last breath leaves our bodies. We die a second time when the last person speaks our name.' The first death is beyond our control, but the second one we can strive to prevent."
"If you say so," the girl acquiesces, tenuously drawing a breath. "But I best do it right off, so I don't lose my nerve. Can I go on and give my reading before the rest?"
The teacher nods. "If you start, I'm certain the others will know to follow." Stepping back, she surveys the remainder of her group. All the stories here, she thinks. People separated by impossible distance, by human fallacy, by cruelty. Enduring the terrible torture of not knowing.
And though she'd rather not-she'd give anything if not-she imagines her own scar. One hidden beneath the skin where no one else can see it. She thinks of her own lost love, out there. Somewhere. Who knows where?
A murmur of thinly veiled impatience stirs among the audience as the girl rises and proceeds along the aisle between the benches, her posture stiffening to a strangely regal bearing. The frenzied motion of paper fans ceases and fluttering handbills go silent when she turns to speak her piece, looking neither left nor right.
"I . . ." her voice falters. Rimming the crowd with her gaze, she clenches and unclenches her fingers, clutching thick folds of the blue-and-white calico dress. Time seems to hover then, like the ladybug deciding whether it will land or fly on...
A single ladybug lands featherlight on the teacher's finger, clings there, a living gemstone. A ruby with polka dots and legs. Before a slight breeze beckons the visitor away, an old children's rhyme sifts through the teacher's mind.
Ladybug, ladybug, fly away home,
Your house is on fire, and your children are gone.
The words leave a murky shadow as the teacher touches a student's shoulder, feels the damp warmth beneath the girl's roughly woven calico dress. The hand-stitched neckline hangs askew over smooth amber-brown skin, the garment a little too large for the girl inside it. A single puffy scar protrudes from one loosely buttoned cuff. The teacher wonders briefly about its cause, resists allowing her mind to speculate.
What would be the point? she thinks.
We all have scars.
She glances around the makeshift gathering place under the trees, the rough slabwood benches crowded with girls on the verge of womanhood, boys seeking to step into the world of men. Leaning over crooked tables littered with nib pens, blotters, and inkwells, they read their papers, mouthing the words, intent upon the important task ahead.
All except this one girl.
"Fully prepared?" the teacher inquires, her head angling toward the girl's work. "You've practiced reading it aloud?"
"I can't do it." The girl sags, defeated in her own mind. "Not . . . not with these people looking on." Her young face casts miserably toward the onlookers who have gathered at the fringes of the open-air classroom-moneyed men in well-fitting suits and women in expensive dresses, petulantly waving off the afternoon heat with printed handbills and paper fans left over from the morning's fiery political speeches.
"You never know what you can do until you try," the teacher advises. Oh, how familiar that girlish insecurity is. Not so many years ago, the teacher was this girl. Uncertain of herself, overcome with fear. Paralyzed, really.
"I can't," the girl moans, clutching her stomach.
Bundling cumbersome skirts and petticoats to keep them from the dust, the teacher lowers herself to catch the girl's gaze. "Where will they hear the story if not from you-the story of being stolen away from family? Of writing an advertisement seeking any word of loved ones, and hoping to save up the fifty cents to have it printed in the Southwestern paper, so that it might travel through all the nearby states and territories? How will they understand the desperate need to finally know, Are my people out there, somewhere?"
The girl's thin shoulders lift, then wilt. "These folks ain't here because they care what I've got to say. It won't change anything."
"Perhaps it will. The most important endeavors require a risk." The teacher understands this all too well. Someday, she, too, must strike off on a similar journey, one that involves a risk.
Today, however, is for her students and for the "Lost Friends" column of the Southwestern Christian Advocate newspaper, and for all it represents. "At the very least, we must tell our stories, mustn't we? Speak the names? You know, there is an old proverb that says, ‘We die once when the last breath leaves our bodies. We die a second time when the last person speaks our name.' The first death is beyond our control, but the second one we can strive to prevent."
"If you say so," the girl acquiesces, tenuously drawing a breath. "But I best do it right off, so I don't lose my nerve. Can I go on and give my reading before the rest?"
The teacher nods. "If you start, I'm certain the others will know to follow." Stepping back, she surveys the remainder of her group. All the stories here, she thinks. People separated by impossible distance, by human fallacy, by cruelty. Enduring the terrible torture of not knowing.
And though she'd rather not-she'd give anything if not-she imagines her own scar. One hidden beneath the skin where no one else can see it. She thinks of her own lost love, out there. Somewhere. Who knows where?
A murmur of thinly veiled impatience stirs among the audience as the girl rises and proceeds along the aisle between the benches, her posture stiffening to a strangely regal bearing. The frenzied motion of paper fans ceases and fluttering handbills go silent when she turns to speak her piece, looking neither left nor right.
"I . . ." her voice falters. Rimming the crowd with her gaze, she clenches and unclenches her fingers, clutching thick folds of the blue-and-white calico dress. Time seems to hover then, like the ladybug deciding whether it will land or fly on...
