By John Grisham
Until eventually that September of 1952, Luke Chandler had by no means saved a mystery or informed a unmarried lie. yet within the lengthy, scorching summer time of his 7th yr, teams of migrant staff — and very harmful males — got here during the Arkansas Delta to paintings the Chandler cotton farm. And all of sudden mysteries are flooding Luke’s world.
A brutal homicide leaves the city seething in gossip and suspicion. a gorgeous younger girl ignites forbidden passions. A fatherless child is born ... and an individual has began furtively portray the naked clapboards of the Chandler farmhouse, slowly, painstakingly, bathing the run-down constitution in glowing white. And as younger Luke watches the realm round him, he unravels secrets and techniques which could shatter lives — and alter his kin and his city forever....
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Extra resources for A Painted House
7 Carol Roberg arrived at the hospital at five in the afternoon, an hour before the beginning of her shift. The mere thought of being late to work terrified her, and, by coming so early, she could get a bargain-priced meal in the employee's cafeteria before going on duty. That was very important to Carol—a good meal at a low price. Even when she wasn't hungry, which was seldom, even in America where no one seemed ever to be hungry, she was always subtly worried about when she would eat again.
Mintz did not like the twenties. It took a certain indefinable something which he did not have. And he never worked it without a partner, someone to distract the chump while the play was being made. As for working with a partner, he didn't like that either. It cut the score right down the middle. It put an apple on your head, and handed the other guy a shotgun. Because grifters, it seemed, suffered an irresistible urge to beat their colleagues. There was little glory in whipping a fool—hell, fools were made to be whipped.
Very pleased with herself. Roy arose wearily, his legs wobbling as he made the round trip to the bathroom. He dropped back down on the bed in a heap, a little worried about himself for the first time. What could be the cause of this, anyway, this strange overpowering fatigue? Not Moira, surely; he was used to her. Not the fact that he had eaten very little during the past three days. He often had spells when he didn't feel hungry, and this had been one of them. Whatever he ate bounced back, in a brownishcolored liquid.