Product Description

"Tucker, I want to tell you a secret,"

Miss Ella curled my hand into a fist and showed it to me.

"Life is a battle, but you can't fight it with your fists. You got to fight it with your heart."

An internationallly famous photographer, he has traveled the world and seen both the serious and the strange. But when his brother escapes from a mental hospital and an old girlfriend appears with her son and a black eye, Tucker is forced to return home and face the agony of his own tragic past.

Back in rural Alabama, Tucker comes to terms with the ghosts he left behind. Miss Ella Rain once loved Tuck and his brother like they were her very own. Hiring her to take care of Waverly Hall and to keep them out of sight was the only good thing their father ever did. And though Miss Ella has been gone for many years, Tuck can still hear her voice.

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Product Details

• Amazon Sales Rank: #12388 in Books
• Published on: 2006-04-11
• Original language: English
• Number of items: 1
• Binding: Mass Market Paperback
• 368 pages

Features

• ISBN13: 9781595541864
• Condition: NEW
• Notes: Brand New from Publisher. No Remainder Mark.
• Click here to view our Condition Guide and Shipping Prices

From Publishers Weekly
In his second novel, Martin (The Dead Don't Dance) introduces Tucker Mason, the motherless son of a wealthy, abusive alcoholic in a small Alabama town. While Dad spends most of his time in an Atlanta high-rise, Tucker grows up in an enormous manse--complete with a "chandelier made from elk horns"--tutored by an African-American widow in common courtesy, love and the gospel. After a few years, an illegitimate son turns up at the Mason compound, Tucker's half-brother, Mutt. Although Tucker eventually overcomes his gothic childhood and becomes an acclaimed international photographer, he can't escape the home place. The story picks up with Tucker's adulthood, when he makes peace with several individuals from his past, including the schizophrenic Mutt and an ex-girlfriend who's on the run from a nasty husband. This group of Southern grotesques manages to make Christmas together and, readers sense, forge a kind of family. Martin spins an engaging story about healing and the triumph of love. The novel is filled with delightful local color--at Clark's Fish Camp, you can order shrimp or catfish, and you can have them fried or fried. While the evil characters are too caricaturish and one-dimensional, and the prose is clean but hardly luminous, this is a welcome cut above run-of-the-mill inspirational fiction.
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Chapter One

Maybe it's the July showers that appear at 3:00 p.m., regular as sunshine, maybe it's the September hurricanes that cut a swath across the Atlantic and then dump their guts at landfall, or maybe it's just God crying on Florida, but whatever it is, and however it works, the St. Johns River is and always has been the soul of Florida.

It collects in the mist, south of Osceola, and then unlike most every other river in the world, except the Nile, it winds northward, swelling as it flows. Overflowing at Lake George, underground rivers crack crystal springs in the earth's crust and send it sailing farther northward where it gives rise to commerce, trade, million-dollar homes, and Jacksonville--once commonly referred to as Cowford--because that's where the cows forded the river.

South of Jacksonville, the river's waist bulges to three miles wide, sparking little spurs or creeks peopled by barnacled marinas and long-established fish camps where the people are good and most of their stories are as winding as the river. A few miles south and east of the naval air station--headquarters to several squadrons of the huge, droning, four-propeller P-3 Orion--Julington Creek is a small bulge in the waistband that turns east out of the river, dips under State Road 13, winds beneath a canopy of majestic oaks, and disappears into the muck of a virgin Florida landscape.

On the south bank of Julington Creek, surrounded by rows of orange and grapefruit trees, Spiraling Oaks Mental Health Facility occupies a little more than ten acres of black, rich, organic, worm-crawling dirt. If decay has a smell, this is it. It's shaded by sprawling live oak trees whose limbs twist upward like arms and outward like tentacles, the tips of which are heavily laden with ten million acorns horded by fat, noisy, scurrying squirrels wary of hawks, owls, and ospreys.

Spiraling Oaks is where people go, or are sent, when their families don't know what else to do with them. If there's a precipice to insanity, this is it. It's the last stop before the nuthouse, although in truth, it is just that.

By 10:00 a.m., the morning shift had changed, but not before administering the required doses of Zoloft, Zyprexa, Lithium, Prozac, Respidol, Haldol, Prolixen, Thorazine, Selaxa, Paxil, or Depakote to all forty-seven patients. Lithium was the staple, the base ingredient in all their diets, as all but two patients had blood levels in the therapeutic range. The other two were new admissions and soon to follow. This practice gave rise to its nickname--Lithiumville--which was funny to everyone but the patients. More than half the patients were taking a morning cocktail of lithium plus one. About a quarter of the patients, the more serious cases, were swallowing lithium plus two. Only a handful were ingesting lithium plus three. These were the lifers. The go-figures. The no-hopers. The why-were-they-borns.

The campus buildings were all one story. That way, none of the patients could step out of a second-story window. The main patient building, Wagemaker Hall, formed a semicircle with several nurses' stations spaced strategically six rooms apart. Tiled floors, scenically painted rooms, soft music, and cheerful employees. The whole place smelled like a deep-muscle rub--soothing and aromatic.

The patient in room 1 was a two-year occupant and at fifty-two, a veteran of three such facilities. Known as "the computer man," he was once a rather gifted programmer, responsible for high-security government mainframes. But all that programming had gone to his head, because he now believed he had a computer inside of him that told him what to do and where to go. He was excitable, hyper, and often needed staff assistance to navigate the halls, eat, or find the bathroom--which he seldom did in time or in the appropriate place. That fact alone explained the smell. He fluctuated between climbing the walls and being catatonic. There was no in-between and had not been in some time. He was either up or down. On or off. Yes or no. He had not spoken in at least a year, his face often frozen in a grimace and his body held in odd postures--evidence of the internal conversation occurring inside the shell of a man who once had an IQ of 186 or greater. Chances were quite good that he'd leave Spiraling Oaks strapped to a stretcher and carrying a one-way ticket to a downtown facility where all the doors led in and all the rooms were decorated with blue, four-inch padding.

The patient in room two was female, twenty-seven, relatively new, and currently asleep under a rather potent dose of 1,200 milligrams of Thorazine. She would pose no problem today, tomorrow, or, for that matter, through the weekend. Neither would the psychotic tendencies that slept under the same sedation. Three days ago her husband had knocked on the front door and asked to admit her. This occurred shortly after her mania, and nineteenth grandiose scheme, had emptied their bank account and given $67,000 in cash to a man who claimed to have created a gizmo that doubled the gas mileage in every car on earth. The stranger gave no receipt and, like the money, was never seen again.

The patient in room 3 had turned forty-eight several times in his three years here and now stood at the nurses' counter and asked, "What time does the Zest begin?" When the nurse didn't respond, he pounded the desk and said, "The ship has come and I'm going nowhere. If you tell God, I'll die." When she just smiled, he started pacing back and forth, mumbling to himself. His speech was pressured, his mind was racing through a thousand brilliant ideas a second, and his stomach was growling because, convinced his stomach was in hell, he hadn't eaten in three days. He was euphoric, hallucinating with detail, and about five seconds from his next glass of cranberry juice--the nurses' syringe of choice.

By 10:15 a.m., the thirty-three-year-old patient in room 6 had not eaten his applesauce. Instead, he peered from around the bathroom door and eyed it with suspicion. He had been here seven years and was the last of the lithium-plus-three patients. He knew about the lithium, Tegretol, and Depakote, but he couldn't quite figure out where they were putting the 100 milligrams of Thorazine twice a day. He knew they were putting it somewhere, but in the last few months he had simply been too continually groggy to know where. After seven years in room 6, the staff here could pretty well predict that he would cycle seven to eight times a year. During those times, the patient had responded best to stepped-down doses of Thorazine over a two-week period. This had been explained to the patient several times, and he understood this, but that didn't mean he liked it. He fit in well, although at thirty-three, he was much younger than the median age of forty-seven. His dark hair was thinning and receding, and a few gray hairs now surfaced around his ears. To hide the gray, but not the balding and the recession, he kept it cropped pretty close. This trait was unlike his brother, Tucker, whom the patient had not seen since he dropped him off at the front door seven years ago.

Matthew Mason got his nickname in second grade when, on the first day of class, he wrote his name in cursive. Miss Ella had been working with him at the kitchen table, and he was only too proud to show his teacher that he knew his cursive letters. His only problem was that on this particular day, he didn't close the loop on the top of the a. So instead of an a, the teacher read u and the name stuck. So did the laughter, finger-pointing, and snickering. Ever since, he'd been Mutt Mason.

His olive skin made him think his mother was either Spanish or Mexican. But it was anybody's guess. His father was a squatty, fat man with fair skin and a tendency for skin moles. Mutt had those too. He looked from the tray to the bathroom mirror and noticed how his once well-fitting clothes looked baggy and hung one size too big. He studied his shoulders and asked himself if he had shrunk in his time here, the seventh time he had asked that question today. Although he had put on three pounds in the last year, he was down from his preadmission weight of 175 pounds. His Popeye forearms, once bulging with strength and hammer-wielding power, were now taut and sinewy. Currently, he was 162 pounds--his exact weight on the day they buried Miss Ella. His dark eyes and eyebrows matched his skin--reminding him that he once tanned easily. Now, fluorescent lights were the extent of his UV exposure.

His hands had weakened and the calluses long since gone soft. The sweaty young boy who once arm-climbed the rope to the top of the water tower or rode one-handed down the zip line no longer looked back at him in the mirror. He liked the water, liked the view from the tower, liked the thrill of the fall as the zip handle caught and flung him forward, liked the sound of the windmill as it sucked water up the two-inch pipe from the quarry and filled the pool-like bowl standing some twenty feet off the ground. He thought of Tucker and his water-green eyes. He listened for Tucker's quiet voice and tender confidence, but of all the voices in his head, Tucker's was not among them.

He thought of the barn, of hitting chert rocks with a splintery wooden bat, and of how, as Tucker got older, the back wall of the barn looked like Swiss cheese. He thought of swimming in the quarry, eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on the back porch with Miss Ella, running through the shoulder-height hay at daylight, and climbing onto the roof of Waverly Hall under a cloudless, moonlit night just to peek at the world around him. The thought of that place brought a smile to his face--which was odd given its history.

He thought of the massive stone-and-brick walls, the weeping mortar that held them together and spilled out the cracks between the two; the black slate tiles stacked like fish scales one atop the other on the roof; the gargoyles on the turrets that spouted water when it rained...

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Customer Reviews

A must read!
Wrapped in Rain is one of the most beautifully written books I have ever read. It is a compelling, authentic story of humanity's good and evil. The southern setting is an almost cinematic backdrop, the characters so strong and authentic, that I will carry this story--and these people--with me for a long time to come.

Tucker Mason never received affection from his wealthy, abusive father. He does have a few happy memories of his childhood. Time spent with his half-brother Mutt and his childhood girlfriend Katie. And, of course, Miss Ella, the housekeeper who was like a mother to him and the only secure source of love Tucker ever knew.

Now Tucker is a world famous photographer and has done his best to leave his difficult, painful childhood behind him. But when Katie comes back into Tucker's life with her little boy, Jase, and Mutt escapes from the mental hospital where he has lived because of his schizophrenia, Tucker comes to realize that maybe there are some memories that can't, and shouldn't be, left behind. Through the ever-present voice of Miss Ella, Tucker realizes he has a choice. He can continue to let his hatred--the sins of his father--control his life and the decisions he makes; or he can lay it down and choose the harder path of love and forgiveness instead.

I listened to the unabridged audio version of this book narrated by Tom Stechschulte and it was riveting. Very highly recommended.

A powerful story that will linger in the mind for a while
Is it possible to forgive those who are unable to ask for forgiveness? Can the hurts of our childhood be redeemed? Can we ever sacrifice too much?

Charles Martin tackles deep questions like these in his sophomore stand-alone novel, WRAPPED IN RAIN. As he did in his debut novel, THE DEAD DON'T DANCE, Martin masterfully blends lovely prose, interesting characters, well-integrated faith themes, and a moving plot to create a powerful story that will long linger in the mind of the reader after the last page is turned.

In rural Alabama, two abused boys find their only comfort and hope in the 45-year-old childless widow Miss Ella Rain, the only daughter of the son of an Alabama slave. She stands as a solid force between them and their evil, alcoholic, and wealthy father Rex. Beaten bloody by her boss and paid only minimum wage, she sacrifices her own aspirations and dreams to ensure that both Tucker and his half-brother, Matthew ("Mutt"), know they are loved --- by her and by God.

Despite her best efforts, the boys' relationship with their father leaves terrible scars. Long after Miss Ella has died and Tucker has found fame as an international photographer, his bitterness toward his father makes it nearly impossible for him to lay the ghosts of the past to rest.

Thirty-three-year-old Mutt is now a schizophrenic, obsessive-compulsive paralyzed with fear at the thought of contact with germs, and committed by Tucker into a mental health facility, Spiraling Oaks. Mutt tries to scrub out his past failings by scouring everything around him clean with bleach and Windex --- cars, water towers, houses, his room at Spiraling Oaks. Kudos goes to Martin for his handling of the damaged character of Mutt, who evokes disgust, fear, sympathy, and finally deep compassion.

Tucker and Mutt's lives are about to intersect with their childhood friend Katie, now an abused wife fleeing her husband, and mother of the endearing little boy Jase. The relationship between Tucker and Katie unfolds sweetly and slowly, in one of the better romantic portrayals in Christian fiction. Wisely, Martin resists the need to tie up all the loose ends of their relationship, which has grown more complicated by the book's end. He leaves it in a strong moment --- with a love on Tucker's part that eerily echoes the sacrificial love of Miss Ella. And indeed, the ghostly voice of Miss Ella, speaking in italics to Tucker, is never too far away. "Forgive men and your heavenly Father will forgive you. But if you don't, you're the one who will suffer."

Martin has a lovely way with words, thought sometimes a bit long-winded: "South of Jacksonville, the river's waist bulges to three miles wide, sparking little spurs or creeks peopled by barnacled marinas and long-established fish camps where the people are good and most of their stories are as winding as the river." In his hands, even a description of the residents of Spiraling Oaks and their medications reads like poetry: "Only a handful were ingesting lithium plus three. These were the lifers. The go-figures. The no-hopers. The why-were-they-borns."

Readers will have a few quibbles. Martin's greatest strength --- his characters --- is also his greatest weakness. He takes delight in drawing them for us, right down to the smallest detail, and the results are often rich, vivid, and compelling. We come to know them intimately --- what motivates them, what their dreams are --- and we care about the outcome of their stories. However, the descriptions of minor characters, such as Missy and Bessie, often get more than their rightful share of page space, right down to the toe rings, which slows the story. In his attempt to portray the evil Rex, Martin overdraws him in a way that strains credibility. Readers also will find an occasional contradiction (the "wait time" at Clark's seafood restaurant "never dipped under an hour," yet later, characters are seated in 20 minutes).

But these are small problems. Martin's tremendous talent is evident throughout, as he shows the power of forgiveness and of sacrifice. The choices to do both are presented as painfully difficult, counter-intuitive --- choices that can only be made with the power of God behind them. And that is the beauty of WRAPPED IN RAIN --- that we can make these choices, with the help of God, if we dare let go of our bitterness, our anger, and our grief over the hurts of the past. This fine novel exemplifies many of the best elements of evangelical Christian fiction.

--- Reviewed by Cindy Crosby

A beautiful and tender story!
Wrapped in Rain is one of the best books I've ever had the pleasure of reading. Parts of the book made me laugh out loud and others made me cry. The characters were well developed and real. Mr. Martin used a variety of techniques such as flashbacks that allowed me to better understand and relate to Mutt, Katie, Miss Ella, and Tucker. Mr. Martin has a way with words; his descriptions of the characters, various situations, and setting allowed the reader to get more involved in the book. The book was crafted in such a way that I quickly got lost in the story and was deeply moved by all the emotion the book possessed. The book's messages of love, forgiveness, and healing were touching.