Genre Fiction
![Pamela Terry - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_a_pamela_terry.jpg)
When the Moon Turns Blue: A Novel
One woman fights to hold on to her friends, her family, and all that she holds dear as a brewing conflict divides her small-town Georgia community in this powerful novel from the author of The Sweet Taste of Muscadines.
"This book is a treasure. Pamela Terry writes with a poet's ear and a wicked sense of comic timing."-Nationally bestselling author Barbara O'Neal
On the morning after Harry Cline's funeral, a rare ice storm hits the town of Wesleyan, Georgia. The community wakes up to find its controversial statue of Confederate general Henry Benning destroyed-and not by the weather. Half the town had wanted to remove the statue; the other half had wanted to preserve it. Now that the matter has been taken out of their hands, the town's long-simmering tensions are laid bare.
Without Harry beside her, Marietta is left to question many of her preconceived ideas about her friends and family. Her childhood friend, Butter, has come to her aid in ways Marietta never expected or asked for. Her sister-in-law, Glinda, is behaving completely out of character, and her brother, Macon, the top defense attorney in the Southeast, is determined to find those responsible for the damage to the statue and protect the legacy of Old Man Griffin, the owner of the park where it once stood. Marietta longs to salvage these connections, but the world is changing and the divides can no longer be ignored.
With a cast of compassionate, relatable characters, When the Moon Turns Blue is a poignant and timely novel about family, friendship, and what can happen when we discover that we don't particularly like the people we love.
"This book is a treasure. Pamela Terry writes with a poet's ear and a wicked sense of comic timing."-Nationally bestselling author Barbara O'Neal
On the morning after Harry Cline's funeral, a rare ice storm hits the town of Wesleyan, Georgia. The community wakes up to find its controversial statue of Confederate general Henry Benning destroyed-and not by the weather. Half the town had wanted to remove the statue; the other half had wanted to preserve it. Now that the matter has been taken out of their hands, the town's long-simmering tensions are laid bare.
Without Harry beside her, Marietta is left to question many of her preconceived ideas about her friends and family. Her childhood friend, Butter, has come to her aid in ways Marietta never expected or asked for. Her sister-in-law, Glinda, is behaving completely out of character, and her brother, Macon, the top defense attorney in the Southeast, is determined to find those responsible for the damage to the statue and protect the legacy of Old Man Griffin, the owner of the park where it once stood. Marietta longs to salvage these connections, but the world is changing and the divides can no longer be ignored.
With a cast of compassionate, relatable characters, When the Moon Turns Blue is a poignant and timely novel about family, friendship, and what can happen when we discover that we don't particularly like the people we love.
Editorial Reviews
"A deeply moving work of Southern fiction that will appeal to fans of Where the Crawdads Sing . . . a story to remember long after the last page is turned."-Susan Wiggs, #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Lost and Found Bookshop
"I inhaled this book. Rarely has a story or an author impressed me more. Pamela Terry is destined to be a rising star in the literary world."-Debbie Macomber, #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Best Is Yet to Come
"About grief and the power of friendship through every season of life, When the Moon Turns Blue is wise, exquisitely written, and full of heart. This smart, quirky novel proves Pamela Terry is a Southern powerhouse. She should definitely be on your radar."-Sara Addison Allen, New York Times bestselling author of Other Birds
"With stirring prose and strong characters, Terry captures the complexities of memory and the difficulties of going home."-Publishers Weekly
"Pamela Terry offers a powerful wallop of drama, humor, and grief, all gorgeously wrapped in evocative language. . . . A story of family and of courage that begs to be read more than once."-Karen White, New York Times bestselling author of Dreams of Falling
"Lovely, lyrical, and often profound, The Sweet Taste of Muscadines is women's fiction at its finest and then something more. . . . An emotionally evocative story with a strong sense of place."-New York Journal of Books
"This moving novel reminds us of the necessity of love, the value of family connection, and the redeeming light of forgiveness. Pamela Terry seems to have a second sight-one that allows her to really see the secret workings of the heart. She writes with humor, elegance, and grace about subjects as universal and diverse as humanity itself."-Patti Callahan Henry,
"I inhaled this book. Rarely has a story or an author impressed me more. Pamela Terry is destined to be a rising star in the literary world."-Debbie Macomber, #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Best Is Yet to Come
"About grief and the power of friendship through every season of life, When the Moon Turns Blue is wise, exquisitely written, and full of heart. This smart, quirky novel proves Pamela Terry is a Southern powerhouse. She should definitely be on your radar."-Sara Addison Allen, New York Times bestselling author of Other Birds
"With stirring prose and strong characters, Terry captures the complexities of memory and the difficulties of going home."-Publishers Weekly
"Pamela Terry offers a powerful wallop of drama, humor, and grief, all gorgeously wrapped in evocative language. . . . A story of family and of courage that begs to be read more than once."-Karen White, New York Times bestselling author of Dreams of Falling
"Lovely, lyrical, and often profound, The Sweet Taste of Muscadines is women's fiction at its finest and then something more. . . . An emotionally evocative story with a strong sense of place."-New York Journal of Books
"This moving novel reminds us of the necessity of love, the value of family connection, and the redeeming light of forgiveness. Pamela Terry seems to have a second sight-one that allows her to really see the secret workings of the heart. She writes with humor, elegance, and grace about subjects as universal and diverse as humanity itself."-Patti Callahan Henry,
Short Excerpt Teaser
Saturday
1
Butter and Marietta
Butter Swann sat listening to the eulogy from a pew five rows back from the front. She could see the side of Marietta's face clearly. She saw her reach a black-gloved hand up to her neck and rub it hard in a little circular motion that left a bright red blotch on the whiteness of her skin. Marietta still had perfect skin, even after all these years. Butter couldn't help but notice. Hardly any gray in her hair, either. Still as auburn as it had been when they'd first met in kindergarten. Butter could tell when it was natural and when it wasn't. She watched as Marietta shifted in her seat on the front row of the church, bending her head sideways, stretching her neck. Butter knew what this meant, she'd seen it happen to Marietta many times before, though not, she realized now, in a long, long time. Age had its small concessions; migraines usually went for younger prey.
Yes, she was sick, Butter thought, as she watched Marietta open her purse and pull out a flowered handkerchief-an old one from her mother, probably, still smelling of that lilac perfume Caroline had always worn-and hold it to her mouth. Even from here you could see how pale she'd suddenly gone. Butter felt a needle prick of panic for her once close friend. They'd not had a conversation of any consequence in years, not since Marietta had called Butter-Butter would never forget the word-"crass." Crass! All because Butter had complained about those emergency room doctors seeing that Mexican boy before her grandson, Peter, when he broke his leg skiing on their family vacation in Park City. No insurance, you could tell they weren't even American, for God's sake, and Peter having to wait on a gurney in the hallway of that little hospital for two whole hours while they went before him. If she thought about it now, the anger could still come before the guilt. Well, she'd been upset. Couldn't Marietta have understood that?
"Harry Cline was one of the last of the great gentle men . . ." Reese Pearson was speaking now, his eyes glued to the typed-out speech in his slightly shaking hands. Butter's eyes traveled back down to the front row. There was Marietta's brother, Macon, sitting beside her, his wife, Glinda, in a forest green suit and hat. Who wears a hat anymore, Butter asked herself. She crossed her legs, smoothing down her dress. Even though she'd told herself she wouldn't do it, she couldn't help but remember her own husband's funeral. It had taken place right here, nine years earlier come May; and she'd been sitting right there where Marietta was now. Lord, the stress. Everybody staring, watching her, just like she was watching Marietta.
Of course, that funeral hadn't been the same for Butter as this one was for Marietta, what with her and Joe practically divorced when he fell off the roof and died. Butter shook her head a little at the memory. He'd never pay the money to hire that towheaded neighbor boy to clean his gutters like the rest of the men on the street. She'd told him. Well, at least it was quick. His head hit the corner of the window box on the way down and that was that. There'd been a wren's nest in that window box. Not one of the tiny blue eggs had broken.
Her son, Christo, had wanted her to have Joe's funeral at his church; they'd had a row about it. Christo and Jen went to Sanctorium, one of those modern churches that eschewed denominational labels, preferring, Butter supposed, to make things up as they went along. She and Joe had visited with them there one Easter. She'd bought a new suit for the occasion, just as she'd done every Easter of her life, and walked into the dark, windowless place only to be met with people in jeans and T-shirts. The music sounded like the stuff she heard on the radio, and the ministers, all wearing robes-the one part of religious tradition they seemed to approve of-bobbed and bounced around the stage like car salesmen. She'd left that day, squinting in the noontime sun, feeling like she'd just sat through some sort of spiritual action movie. There was no way on earth she'd have launched Joe on his final journey from that place, no matter how much Christo wanted her to.
Joe's fifteen-year-old cat, Marvel-Ann, had dropped dead two weeks before her master. Of old age, the vet said. Privately, Butter had always thought the thing simply wanted a head start. That cat hated her. Marvel-Ann would've had no intention of living with Butter in her new condo in Windward Oaks, which was where she moved after Joe died. Thank goodness they hadn't signed the divorce papers before he went. Not having to split everything down the middle meant she could afford t...
1
Butter and Marietta
Butter Swann sat listening to the eulogy from a pew five rows back from the front. She could see the side of Marietta's face clearly. She saw her reach a black-gloved hand up to her neck and rub it hard in a little circular motion that left a bright red blotch on the whiteness of her skin. Marietta still had perfect skin, even after all these years. Butter couldn't help but notice. Hardly any gray in her hair, either. Still as auburn as it had been when they'd first met in kindergarten. Butter could tell when it was natural and when it wasn't. She watched as Marietta shifted in her seat on the front row of the church, bending her head sideways, stretching her neck. Butter knew what this meant, she'd seen it happen to Marietta many times before, though not, she realized now, in a long, long time. Age had its small concessions; migraines usually went for younger prey.
Yes, she was sick, Butter thought, as she watched Marietta open her purse and pull out a flowered handkerchief-an old one from her mother, probably, still smelling of that lilac perfume Caroline had always worn-and hold it to her mouth. Even from here you could see how pale she'd suddenly gone. Butter felt a needle prick of panic for her once close friend. They'd not had a conversation of any consequence in years, not since Marietta had called Butter-Butter would never forget the word-"crass." Crass! All because Butter had complained about those emergency room doctors seeing that Mexican boy before her grandson, Peter, when he broke his leg skiing on their family vacation in Park City. No insurance, you could tell they weren't even American, for God's sake, and Peter having to wait on a gurney in the hallway of that little hospital for two whole hours while they went before him. If she thought about it now, the anger could still come before the guilt. Well, she'd been upset. Couldn't Marietta have understood that?
"Harry Cline was one of the last of the great gentle men . . ." Reese Pearson was speaking now, his eyes glued to the typed-out speech in his slightly shaking hands. Butter's eyes traveled back down to the front row. There was Marietta's brother, Macon, sitting beside her, his wife, Glinda, in a forest green suit and hat. Who wears a hat anymore, Butter asked herself. She crossed her legs, smoothing down her dress. Even though she'd told herself she wouldn't do it, she couldn't help but remember her own husband's funeral. It had taken place right here, nine years earlier come May; and she'd been sitting right there where Marietta was now. Lord, the stress. Everybody staring, watching her, just like she was watching Marietta.
Of course, that funeral hadn't been the same for Butter as this one was for Marietta, what with her and Joe practically divorced when he fell off the roof and died. Butter shook her head a little at the memory. He'd never pay the money to hire that towheaded neighbor boy to clean his gutters like the rest of the men on the street. She'd told him. Well, at least it was quick. His head hit the corner of the window box on the way down and that was that. There'd been a wren's nest in that window box. Not one of the tiny blue eggs had broken.
Her son, Christo, had wanted her to have Joe's funeral at his church; they'd had a row about it. Christo and Jen went to Sanctorium, one of those modern churches that eschewed denominational labels, preferring, Butter supposed, to make things up as they went along. She and Joe had visited with them there one Easter. She'd bought a new suit for the occasion, just as she'd done every Easter of her life, and walked into the dark, windowless place only to be met with people in jeans and T-shirts. The music sounded like the stuff she heard on the radio, and the ministers, all wearing robes-the one part of religious tradition they seemed to approve of-bobbed and bounced around the stage like car salesmen. She'd left that day, squinting in the noontime sun, feeling like she'd just sat through some sort of spiritual action movie. There was no way on earth she'd have launched Joe on his final journey from that place, no matter how much Christo wanted her to.
Joe's fifteen-year-old cat, Marvel-Ann, had dropped dead two weeks before her master. Of old age, the vet said. Privately, Butter had always thought the thing simply wanted a head start. That cat hated her. Marvel-Ann would've had no intention of living with Butter in her new condo in Windward Oaks, which was where she moved after Joe died. Thank goodness they hadn't signed the divorce papers before he went. Not having to split everything down the middle meant she could afford t...
