Mark Gray, the protagonist of "Blue Hill," is the son of a now-retired Episcopal priest and '60s social activist. Their relationship has been difficult since Gray's childhood, but there is always the possibility of reconciliation. Maybe it will occur when Gray, now one of America's Most Wanted criminals, visits his elderly father, who lives in Blue Hill, Gray's hometown, and proposes an outrageous climb of a favorite mountain... in a raging Nor'easter. Read the excerpt here.
To learn more about the book, which published on October 6 - and to order in audio, Kindle or paper formats - visit http://www.gwaynemiller.com/books.htm
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| The real Mount Blue, near Blue Hill, Maine. |
My eye traveled to Mom’s piano: an ancient Kimball upright that had been handed down from her grandmother. Mom always dreamed of owning a baby grand, but she never complained that circumstances did not allow her one. What she did was put a pickle jar on the mantel and squirrel away spare change, pennies and nickels, mostly, for her “Steinway Fund,” as she called it. She died before it was full. Dad used what was there to buy her tombstone.
We sat in silence then, for I don’t know how long. I
finished my brandy and Dad his and he poured us another. We’d never shared a
drink before, never mind two.
“Go on,” he urged, “it’ll fortify you.”
“For what?”
“For climbing Blue Hill.”
I thought he was kidding, or drunk.
But to my knowledge, Dad had never been drunk, and he wasn’t
acting it now. He didn’t sound demented. He sounded resolute, as if he’d
pondered this a long time.
And there was no mistaking his eyes. They were as steely as
the day IRS agents led him out of Saint Luke’s in handcuffs while a photographer
for the Bangor Daily News snapped away.
“You’re kidding,” I said.
“No, I’m not,” he said.’
“It’s a blizzard out there.”
“City living’s spoiling you,” Dad said, smiling. “What this is
is a good old Downeaster, no more, no less. Now, I intend to climb Blue Hill.
If you won’t accompany me—well, I guess I’ll have no choice but to go it
alone.”
We parked at the base of the mountain. Dad struggled
leaving the car and I doubted he’d have been able to get out if I hadn’t helped
him.
“This is worse than when we left the house,” I said as Dad
got his balance.
“Maybe to a city slicker.”
“This is crazy.”
“You’ve more than made your point,” Dad said. “Now let’s
go—the day’s getting away from us. Don’t lock your doors, I’m afraid the locks
will freeze.”
We made respectable progress the first few hundred yards, a
stretch that is gently sloped. Dad walked unassisted and the pines surrounding
us broke the wind and the snow hadn’t drifted much, was only a smooth three or
four inches deep. We nipped from a flask Dad had filled with his brandy and we
were determined in our silence.
It was one-thirty on the kind of wintry afternoon when night
is impatient to fall.
A bit further, we hit a deadfall.
Dad tried getting over it by himself, but it was too much—even
he conceded that after a clumsy try that left him sputtering. I straddled the
trunk and as Dad swung his body over, I bore his weight. He was thinner than I
remembered and I thought, although it was probably only my imagination, that I
could feel the brittleness of his bones.
“Damn arthritis,” he said, then added: “Don’t take that to
mean I want to turn back. This is actually easier than I expected.”
A bit further still, we were on an open stretch of mountain.
The wind had blown the snow deeper than two feet in places and knocked down
pines. A ranger would have had trouble getting through.
“I don’t know, Dad,” I said.
“It gets easier past here,” he declared.
“How do you know?”
“The Big Guy told me,” Dad said.
I grinned, but he didn’t; he really meant it.
“Let’s take a five-minute breather,” he went on, “then give
it all we’ve got. We’ll make the top by three.”
We took shelter behind a boulder. Dad drank from his flask.
I wanted to tell him that alcohol and sub-freezing
temperatures were a deadly mix, but he’d had his fill of my observations so I
didn’t. His face was flush, whether from effort or wind or both I could not
tell, but I didn’t mention that, either. I didn’t tell him how worried I was
that his gloves, and mine, were soaked. I listened to the wind and it sounded
like the wildcats I always imagined awaited us on our family climbs more than
three decades ago.
The snow was so heavy that I did not notice, until Dad was
set to push off again, that just beyond this boulder was the path leading to Mom’s
grandfather’s blueberry field.
I lost my grip bringing Dad over the last deadfall and he
surely would have broken his hip if the drift hadn’t cushioned his fall. I said
nothing and neither did Dad, but his face showed pain. He put his arm around my
waist, and we hobbled on, under a canopy of pines that was strangely still and
unblanketed with snow.
Ten minutes more, we reached the summit.
“After all I’ve given Him,” Dad said, “the Big Guy owed me.”
More "Blue Hill: posts:
-- Reviews for “Blue Hill” are coming in and they are favorable!The reviews for my latest book, "Blue Hill," a novel that is a profound departure from my other (mostly horror, mystery and sci-fi) fiction are looking good! I will post more as they arrived.
READ REVIEWS:
https://gwaynemiller.blogspot.com/2020/10/reviews-for-blue-hill-are-coming-in-and.html
-- On a return to a hometown, a reunion with a first love.
On the run from the law and deep into his journey into the past, Mark Gray, the protagonist of "Blue Hill," returns to his home town, where he meets Sally Martin, his high-school girlfriend and first love. A long-buried secret will soon be revealed.
READ THE EXCERPT:
http://gwaynemiller.blogspot.com/2020/10/we-both-cracked-up-at-that-and-laughter.html
-- Fenway Park on August 18, 1967: Tony Conigliaro struck by pitch.
Mark Gray, the protagonist of "Blue Hill," is a young Red Sox fan when slugger Tony Conigliaro is beaned by a pitch during the Sox "Dream Team" of 1967. The pitch changed the real-life Tony C. -- and had a profound impact on the fictional protagonist of my new novel.
READ THIS EXCERPT:
https://gwaynemiller.blogspot.com/2020/10/fenway-park-on-august-18-1967-tony.html
-- The possibility of reconciliation, and an outrageous climb in a Maine Nor'easter.
Mark Gray, the protagonist of "Blue Hill," is the son of a now-retired Episcopal priest and '60s social activist. Their relationship has been difficult since Gray's childhood, but there is always the possibility of reconciliation. Maybe it will occur when Gray, now one of America's Most Wanted criminals, visits his elderly father, who lives in Blue Hill, Gray's hometown, and proposes an outrageous climb of a favorite mountain... in a raging Nor'easter. Read the excerpt here.
READ THIS EXCERPT:
https://gwaynemiller.blogspot.com/2020/10/mark-gray-protagonist-of-blue-hill-is.html
-- Quite a cast of characters.
Along with several fictional characters, starting with the narrator, "Blue Hill" features some real-life people -- Jack Nicholson, for example, albeit in fictionalized form.
READ THIS EXCERPT:
https://gwaynemiller.blogspot.com/2020/10/quite-cast-of-characters-another.html
-- Fenway Park.
Baseball is a central theme of my new novel, "Blue Hill," a departure from my other fiction, which has been solidly in the mystery, horror and sci-fi genres.
READ THE EXCERPT:
https://gwaynemiller.blogspot.com/2020/10/blue-hill-excerpt-from-chapter-four.html
-- Listen to the books!
Listen to a clip from the audio version of “Blue Hill” Blue Hill and also some of my other books, including “Thunder Rise,” King of Hearts,” and “The Work of Human Hands.”
LISTEN:
https://gwaynemiller.blogspot.com/2020/09/listen-to-books.html
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