Isabel's Daughter: A Novel by Judith R. Hendricks

From the Publisher

The first time I saw my mother was the night she died. The second time was at a party in Santa Fe.

After a childhood spent in an institution and a series of foster homes, Avery James has trained herself not to wonder about the mother who gave her up. But her safe, predictable life changes one night when she stumbles upon the portrait of a woman who is the mirror image of herself.

Slowly but inevitably, Avery is compelled to discover all she can about her mother, Isabel. Avery is drawn into complex relationships with the people who knew her mother. As she weaves together the threads of her mother's artistic heritage and her grandmother's skills as a healer, Avery learns that while discovering Isabel provides a certain resolution in her life, it's discovering herself that brings lasting happiness.

USA Today

Hendricks' novel is an engaging read, which adds a little extra to an ordinary story. — April Umminger

Publishers Weekly

A foundling's search for her mother is the subject of this heartfelt if predictable second novel by Hendricks (Bread Alone). Revealed in flashbacks, Avery James's odyssey takes place in the Southwest, where she grew up in the county orphan's home. She is shunned by her more privileged peers through most of her school years, until popular Will Cameron breaks through her determinedly antisocial armor, and she has her first bittersweet experience of love. Avery leaves the home for the rural haven provided by an eccentric old woman called Cassie, a curandera, or healer, who teaches Avery how to concoct remedies from wild plants. As she grows older, Avery's curiosity about the mother who abandoned her becomes increasingly obsessive. Eventually, she finds her way to Santa Fe and its famed art colonies, and goes to work for a trendy caterer (she had providentially learned to cook in the orphans' home). At the house of a client, she sees a portrait of a woman to whom she bears a striking resemblance. Avery's eyes, one brown, one amber, have always been her distinguishing feature, and they're exactly like those of the woman in the portrait, painted by renowned, brilliant artist Tom Hemmings. The client and owner of the painting, millionaire gallery owner Paul DeGraf, takes a liking to Avery and becomes pivotal to her search for her roots. The climax involves a heady dose of feel-good melodrama, but Avery's no-nonsense toughness keeps the saccharine at bay. 6-city author tour. (June) Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.

School Library Journal

Adult/High School-Avery James, left at an orphanage as a newborn, cannot forget that her mother abandoned her. Angry at the world, she runs away at 13 and attends high school in a nearby New Mexico town with the help of Cassie, an old woman who is herbalist, healer, and friend. The teen falls in love with Will Cameron, a wealthy classmate who proposes marriage. But Cassie dies suddenly, and Avery fears discovery of her past. After graduation, she flees again, to Albuquerque. Working as a waitress, she makes friends with Rita, and they move to Santa Fe, where a small catering firm hires her. While working at the home of Paul DeGraf, an art dealer, she sees a portrait of a woman who could be her double: it is her mother. A well-known fiber artist engaged to DeGraf, she drowned mysteriously in the pool at his home. When Rita leaves, Avery, now jobless, moves into DeGraf's guest house. She meets Will again, and their future together is presaged, but Isabel's death remains a mystery. Teens will identify with Avery, who has all the emotion and sass of a girl becoming a woman, plus an indomitable will. While the story is somewhat fantastic, the characters, especially the protagonist, are well drawn and the dialogue is true to life.-Molly Connally, Chantilly Regional Library, VA Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.

Product Details

• ISBN: 0060503475
  
• ISBN-13: 9780060503475
• Format: Paperback, 400pp
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
• Pub. Date: June 2004
• Edition Description: Reprint
• Sales Rank: 159,965
• Series: Harper Perennial

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Chapter One

The first time I saw my mother was the night she died. The second time was at a party in Santa Fe.

Once in history class I made a time line. It was a thick, straight black line, intersected by crosshatches representing dates and events. The teacher claimed that you could tell by studying it how events were related to each other, the causes and effects.

The problem is, time isn't a straight line. I think of it more as a huge arc, curving gently into space, keeping not only the future just out of sight, but the past as well. You never really know what might have caused something to happen, and the effects ripple outward in ever widening circles.

Like losing my contact lens, for instance. I was supposed to be off this whole weekend, my last free weekend before the season gets crazy. And then Juana calls on Thursday to tell me Patrice stepped off a curb and broke her ankle and they need me to work a party Friday night.

"Pinnacle Gallery on Canyon Road," she says. "Lots of people. Big tips."

Friday morning she calls me again. "Hey, chica. Party is changed to DeGraf's house -- "

"The what house?"

"DeGraf. Mister DeGraf. You know San Tomás?"

As it happens, I do. It's one of those narrow, unpaved roads that winds south off Canyon Road. I've wandered past it lots of Sunday mornings, clutching my coffee from Downtown Subscription and peering in the gallery windows. One time I turned at the corner and walked a little ways, hoping for a glimpse of one of the huge homes behind adobe walls. I got chased by a Doberman for my curiosity, while the ownerhollered, "Stand still, miss! He won't bite you."

I didn't trust him or his dog, so I ran like a jackrabbit back out to Canyon, fully expecting to feel the hot breath, the sharp teeth sinking into my leg at any minute. But when I looked around the dog was gone.

It's late April in Santa Fe, but at 7,000 feet, spring is slow to take hold. In the daytime, fierce winds blow out of the west, and the inside of your nose feels like it's lined with Cap'n Crunch. At night the air is sharp and cold, still laced with piñon smoke from hundreds of kiva fireplaces.

Tonight I'm racing the clock, and my breath makes little puffs of steam as I half walk, half jog down the narrow sidewalk. My white shirt's already damp under the arms, I know my tie is crooked, and my hair is about to come loose from its knot.

Worst of all, I'm late. Again. While we were getting ready, Rita knocked a bottle of perfume off the shelf and she tried to catch it before it hit the tile counter, but she just ended up knocking my contact lens off my finger into oblivion, and the bottle smashed all over anyway and then we started yelling at each other and here I am. It's not my fault, but I don't imagine Dale will give two hoots about that.

Then as I round a curve I see lights. Farolitos, those little brown paper bags with candles inside that people in this town love so much, line the top of a wall. Except these are probably the new version, electrolitos. Plus lots of little twinkle lights twined in the tree branches. This is it.

The address -- 505 San Tomás -- is spelled out in Mexican tiles over a massive blue door, set into a wall the color of chocolate ice cream. A couple of guys with clipboards and walkie-talkies lounge against the wall smoking and looking bored. I give them my name. Apparently Kirk has neglected to change Patrice's name to mine on his list, so they have to ring up Dale on his cell phone to be sure I'm not an international jewel thief, before they let me in.

"Kitchen door's around to the left past the pool," the older one says. "And stay on the path. Mr. DeGraf don't like people cutting through the garden." He flicks his cigarette away.

"Mr. DeGraf probably don't like cigarette butts all over his yard either." I smile at him as I step through the gate.

The house is a pueblo-style adobe, fashioned with the rounded corners and soft silhouettes of the Pueblo Indian dwellings, not the more boxy, territorial adobes like the Anglos built later on. It's a lighter shade of chocolate than the wall, with the traditional blue doors and windows that are supposed to keep out brujas, or witches. I follow the stone walkway past a huge old lilac bush, its branches drooping under the weight of fragrant purple clusters about to explode into bloom, and cut across the patio. A swimming pool sparkles aquamarine in its underwater lights.

The kitchen is in the usual preparty state of controlled chaos. It's small but elegant, with granite countertops and the kind of appliances favored by people who can afford to hire kitchen designers. When the screen door bangs behind me, Dale makes a big show of looking at his Rolex.

"Avery. So glad you could join us." His dark eyes give me a once-over. "Polished and pulled together as usual, I see." The guy standing beside him rustles a wrinkled yellow invoice. "Thanks, Tom. Put the wine over there. Under that table."

I try to secure my hair. "They didn't have my name on the -- "

"Jesus Christ, you reek. What did you do, take a bath in Opium?"

"Eternity. I'm sorry. Rita broke the bottle and it went everywhere, and I didn't have time to -- "

He gives me The Look. "Never mind. Fix your tie and run out to the -- shit! Where's your eyes?"

"My eyes are in my head, Dale. I lost my contact."

I notice the muscle in his jaw twitching. "Well, try not to look at anybody...