Women's Fiction
![Evelyn Skye - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B014KE6PPA.jpg)
The Hundred Loves of Juliet: A Novel
A woman discovers that she is part of a legendary love story that spans lives, years, and continents in this modern-day reimagining of Romeo and Juliet.
"Cleverly imagines the epilogue Romeo and Juliet didn't get to have, and how curses can be blessings in disguise."-JODI PICOULT
I may go by Sebastien now, but my name was originally Romeo. And hers was Juliet.
It's a frosty fairytale of an evening in small-town Alaska when Helene and Sebastien meet for the first time. Except it isn't the first time. You already know that story, though it didn't happen quite as Shakespeare told it.
To Helene, Sebastien is the flesh-and-blood hero of the love stories she's spent her life writing. But Sebastien knows better-Helene is his Juliet, and their story has always been the same. He is doomed to find brief happiness with her over and over, before she dies, and he is left to mourn.
Albrecht and Brigitta. Matteo and Amélie. Jack and Rachel. Marius and Cosmina. By any name, no matter where and when in time, the two of them are drawn together, and it always ends in tragedy.
This time, Helene is determined that things will be different. But can these star-cross'd lovers forge a new ending to the greatest love story of all time?
"Cleverly imagines the epilogue Romeo and Juliet didn't get to have, and how curses can be blessings in disguise."-JODI PICOULT
I may go by Sebastien now, but my name was originally Romeo. And hers was Juliet.
It's a frosty fairytale of an evening in small-town Alaska when Helene and Sebastien meet for the first time. Except it isn't the first time. You already know that story, though it didn't happen quite as Shakespeare told it.
To Helene, Sebastien is the flesh-and-blood hero of the love stories she's spent her life writing. But Sebastien knows better-Helene is his Juliet, and their story has always been the same. He is doomed to find brief happiness with her over and over, before she dies, and he is left to mourn.
Albrecht and Brigitta. Matteo and Amélie. Jack and Rachel. Marius and Cosmina. By any name, no matter where and when in time, the two of them are drawn together, and it always ends in tragedy.
This time, Helene is determined that things will be different. But can these star-cross'd lovers forge a new ending to the greatest love story of all time?
Editorial Reviews
"The Hundred Loves of Juliet is romantic, realistic, and fanciful-a love-for-all-times story. I couldn't put this book down. I really wanted Helene and Sebastien to have a happy ending, and I'll just say I was very surprised!"-Nancy Thayer, New York Times bestselling author of All the Days of Summer
"Fresh, magical, and hopelessly romantic, Evelyn Skye's The Hundred Loves of Juliet is a book for lovers. I was swept away. It's an atmospheric, tug-at-your-heartstrings winner, showing us that true love never dies."-Sarah Addison Allen, New York Times bestselling author of Other Birds
"A rare and charming retelling that asks the question: What if Romeo and Juliet had another chance? What if they had a hundred? The Hundred Loves of Juliet is a celebration of life as it comes and love as we find it."-Ashley Poston, New York Times bestselling author of The Dead Romantics
"Beautifully spun and achingly romantic, this gorgeous reimagining is every bit as hopeful as it is haunting. I have never loved Romeo and Juliet more."-M. A. Kuzniar, Sunday Times bestselling author of Midnight in Everwood
"Evelyn Skye expertly crafts the story of Romeo and Juliet into a moving romance that explores what it means to love boldly in the face of tragedy and loss. Hopeful and triumphant, The Hundred Loves of Juliet is like a bright, warm sunbeam in the form of a book you'll want to revisit again and again."-Alyssa Wees, author of Nocturne
"Fresh, magical, and hopelessly romantic, Evelyn Skye's The Hundred Loves of Juliet is a book for lovers. I was swept away. It's an atmospheric, tug-at-your-heartstrings winner, showing us that true love never dies."-Sarah Addison Allen, New York Times bestselling author of Other Birds
"A rare and charming retelling that asks the question: What if Romeo and Juliet had another chance? What if they had a hundred? The Hundred Loves of Juliet is a celebration of life as it comes and love as we find it."-Ashley Poston, New York Times bestselling author of The Dead Romantics
"Beautifully spun and achingly romantic, this gorgeous reimagining is every bit as hopeful as it is haunting. I have never loved Romeo and Juliet more."-M. A. Kuzniar, Sunday Times bestselling author of Midnight in Everwood
"Evelyn Skye expertly crafts the story of Romeo and Juliet into a moving romance that explores what it means to love boldly in the face of tragedy and loss. Hopeful and triumphant, The Hundred Loves of Juliet is like a bright, warm sunbeam in the form of a book you'll want to revisit again and again."-Alyssa Wees, author of Nocturne
Readers Top Reviews
Adrianna Louise Fo
Although The Hundred Loves of Juliet failed to impress me, but Evelyn Skye's writing is so beautiful, and I'm a sucker for gorgeous writing. I found the characters to be compelling in their own ways. I also enjoyed how the plot developed. The novel does an excellent job of capturing sadness and the act of simply being. The book highlighted the importance of seeing people for more than superficial qualities and more so about what's inside. I appreciated how the author gave the two major characters more dimension by including minor tidbits about them and their lives. The book, in my opinion, dragged on for a little while, but it was nonetheless good.
Short Excerpt Teaser
Ħelene
Alaska in January is a fairy tale, with frost-rimed branches glittering in the pale moonlight, like lace woven by a snow maiden. Icicles on rooftops twinkle like Christmas frozen in time, and I swear the spiraling snowflakes beckon to me as they fall. Fairy tale indeed. Or at least it's a great first impression for my first evening here.
At thirty years old and after too many uninspiring years as an assignment reporter in the Los Angeles bureau of The Wall Street Journal, I'm finally chasing my dream of writing a novel. An actual book of my own! Not just telling other people's stories. I've been jotting down short stories ever since I was a teenager-bits and pieces of a novel-and now I finally have time to figure out how it all comes together.
Truth be told, I need this. My recent past-hell, the last ten years-are best swept into a fire pit and doused with gasoline. The death of my two golden retrievers, one right after the other. My Pied Piper of a soon-to-be-ex-husband, who attracted interns and affairs like rats at cheese orgies. And my so-called best friend, who stole the promotion that was supposed to be mine.
However, she unwittingly did me a favor. If I'd been promoted to columnist, I wouldn't have left. If she'd been a true friend, I'd still be stuck in a nowhere life, married to a no-good husband.
Instead, she betrayed me, and by doing so, she handed me the match I needed. I lit it and burned the past down, metaphorically speaking.
Goodbye, old Helene Janssen.
Hello, new and better me.
My mom always says that everything happens for a reason, and I obstinately hold fast to that belief. So when I saw super cheap plane tickets to Alaska (tourists don't usually visit here in early January) plus an "artist's cottage" for rent in a quaint fishing town, I saw it as a sign that this was where I was supposed to go to begin work on my novel, and my future. And I think I was right. Being here in this winter wonderland is already helping me feel better about my odds going forward.
I hum to myself as I lock the door on the cottage and head down the street in search of dinner. It's only half past six, but it's been dark for hours now, which will take some getting used to. So will walking through the snow in these clunky boots, although it's better than driving. I've got a car stashed in the garage, but the trip this afternoon from the airport to the cottage was harrowing enough for one day. I'm used to driving down sunny, palm-tree-lined boulevards, and I don't want to use up the rest of my daily allotment of luck on the icy streets of Ryba Harbor.
Luckily, my rental is only a few blocks from the picturesque downtown. On the corner, a cute, nautical-themed bookstore cozies up to a little souvenir shop for the few tourists who venture away (in summer) from Anchorage and Ketchikan. Wood smoke billows out of a barbecue place, scenting the air with brisket and ribs. There's also a record store (I didn't know they still existed, and the fact that they have one here delights me), several bakeries, and a coffee shop.
When I see a bar called The Frosty Otter, though, I know that is where I want to be on my first night in Ryba Harbor. It reminds me of a saloon from the Wild West, but with an Alaskan flair, the blue paint weathered by snow and salt from the roads. A wooden statue of a bearded fur trapper stands outside the door, rifle in one arm and beer stein in another, and ragtime piano music jangles from speakers inside.
Three flannel-clad lumberjack types charge amiably through the front door ahead of me, laughing at jokes in that deep-throated, belly-shaking way of people who've known one another for years. I slip in through the door behind them.
Inside, The Frosty Otter is everything I hoped it would be. Two-thirds of the tables are full, and the patrons are as eclectic as the decor. The lumberjacks go straight for the far corner to sit beneath a large mural of a grumpy-looking otter. Along the back wall, a cluster of older women who look like kindly grandmothers knit beneath faded twentieth-century advertisements boasting Wild Alaskan Salmon! The Klondike! and a cartoon of a giant king crab wearing a gilded crown (I think that might be my favorite). Most of the others here are men-probably those who work at the nearby seafood processing plant-but there are also a few families, the kids eating chicken fingers while Mom and Dad have a beer.
"Welcome to The Frosty Otter," a spunky, white-haired waitress says. "You new around here?"
I laugh. "Is it that obvious?"
"Well, it's a small town and I know everybody. Plus your hair is that pretty deep gold that happens when brown meets the sun. ...
Alaska in January is a fairy tale, with frost-rimed branches glittering in the pale moonlight, like lace woven by a snow maiden. Icicles on rooftops twinkle like Christmas frozen in time, and I swear the spiraling snowflakes beckon to me as they fall. Fairy tale indeed. Or at least it's a great first impression for my first evening here.
At thirty years old and after too many uninspiring years as an assignment reporter in the Los Angeles bureau of The Wall Street Journal, I'm finally chasing my dream of writing a novel. An actual book of my own! Not just telling other people's stories. I've been jotting down short stories ever since I was a teenager-bits and pieces of a novel-and now I finally have time to figure out how it all comes together.
Truth be told, I need this. My recent past-hell, the last ten years-are best swept into a fire pit and doused with gasoline. The death of my two golden retrievers, one right after the other. My Pied Piper of a soon-to-be-ex-husband, who attracted interns and affairs like rats at cheese orgies. And my so-called best friend, who stole the promotion that was supposed to be mine.
However, she unwittingly did me a favor. If I'd been promoted to columnist, I wouldn't have left. If she'd been a true friend, I'd still be stuck in a nowhere life, married to a no-good husband.
Instead, she betrayed me, and by doing so, she handed me the match I needed. I lit it and burned the past down, metaphorically speaking.
Goodbye, old Helene Janssen.
Hello, new and better me.
My mom always says that everything happens for a reason, and I obstinately hold fast to that belief. So when I saw super cheap plane tickets to Alaska (tourists don't usually visit here in early January) plus an "artist's cottage" for rent in a quaint fishing town, I saw it as a sign that this was where I was supposed to go to begin work on my novel, and my future. And I think I was right. Being here in this winter wonderland is already helping me feel better about my odds going forward.
I hum to myself as I lock the door on the cottage and head down the street in search of dinner. It's only half past six, but it's been dark for hours now, which will take some getting used to. So will walking through the snow in these clunky boots, although it's better than driving. I've got a car stashed in the garage, but the trip this afternoon from the airport to the cottage was harrowing enough for one day. I'm used to driving down sunny, palm-tree-lined boulevards, and I don't want to use up the rest of my daily allotment of luck on the icy streets of Ryba Harbor.
Luckily, my rental is only a few blocks from the picturesque downtown. On the corner, a cute, nautical-themed bookstore cozies up to a little souvenir shop for the few tourists who venture away (in summer) from Anchorage and Ketchikan. Wood smoke billows out of a barbecue place, scenting the air with brisket and ribs. There's also a record store (I didn't know they still existed, and the fact that they have one here delights me), several bakeries, and a coffee shop.
When I see a bar called The Frosty Otter, though, I know that is where I want to be on my first night in Ryba Harbor. It reminds me of a saloon from the Wild West, but with an Alaskan flair, the blue paint weathered by snow and salt from the roads. A wooden statue of a bearded fur trapper stands outside the door, rifle in one arm and beer stein in another, and ragtime piano music jangles from speakers inside.
Three flannel-clad lumberjack types charge amiably through the front door ahead of me, laughing at jokes in that deep-throated, belly-shaking way of people who've known one another for years. I slip in through the door behind them.
Inside, The Frosty Otter is everything I hoped it would be. Two-thirds of the tables are full, and the patrons are as eclectic as the decor. The lumberjacks go straight for the far corner to sit beneath a large mural of a grumpy-looking otter. Along the back wall, a cluster of older women who look like kindly grandmothers knit beneath faded twentieth-century advertisements boasting Wild Alaskan Salmon! The Klondike! and a cartoon of a giant king crab wearing a gilded crown (I think that might be my favorite). Most of the others here are men-probably those who work at the nearby seafood processing plant-but there are also a few families, the kids eating chicken fingers while Mom and Dad have a beer.
"Welcome to The Frosty Otter," a spunky, white-haired waitress says. "You new around here?"
I laugh. "Is it that obvious?"
"Well, it's a small town and I know everybody. Plus your hair is that pretty deep gold that happens when brown meets the sun. ...
