IN SEARCH OF THE MEANING OF DEATH, SHE’LL FIND THE MEANING OF LIFE.
Seventeen-year-old Scarlett Blake is haunted by death. Her estranged sister has made the ultimate dramatic exit. Running away from school, joining a surfing fraternity, partying hard: that sounds like Sienna. But suicide? It makes no sense.
Following in her sister’s footsteps, Scarlett comes to an isolated English cove with grand plans to uncover the truth. Alone. But she hasn’t reckoned on meeting two boys who are determined to help her. Luke: the blue-eyed surfer who’ll see the real Scarlett, who’ll challenge her, who’ll save her. And Jude: the elusive drifter with a knack for turning up whenever Scarlett’s in need.
As Scarlett’s quest for the truth unravels, so too does her grip on reality as she’s always known it. Because there’s something strange going on in this little cove. A dead magpie circles the skies. A dead deer watches from the undergrowth. Hands glow with light. Warmth. Power.
What transpires is a summer of discovery. Of what it means to conquer fear. To fall in love. To choose life. To choose death. To believe the impossible.
Seventeen-year-old Scarlett Blake is haunted by death. Her estranged sister has made the ultimate dramatic exit. Running away from school, joining a surfing fraternity, partying hard: that sounds like Sienna. But suicide? It makes no sense.
Following in her sister’s footsteps, Scarlett comes to an isolated English cove with grand plans to uncover the truth. Alone. But she hasn’t reckoned on meeting two boys who are determined to help her. Luke: the blue-eyed surfer who’ll see the real Scarlett, who’ll challenge her, who’ll save her. And Jude: the elusive drifter with a knack for turning up whenever Scarlett’s in need.
As Scarlett’s quest for the truth unravels, so too does her grip on reality as she’s always known it. Because there’s something strange going on in this little cove. A dead magpie circles the skies. A dead deer watches from the undergrowth. Hands glow with light. Warmth. Power.
What transpires is a summer of discovery. Of what it means to conquer fear. To fall in love. To choose life. To choose death. To believe the impossible.
A beautiful coming of
age story, DeathWish by Megan Tate, explores what it is like to lose a loved
one, and in the process finding out who really are. It’s hard to grasp the loss
of someone you loved and are close too, the wondering why and how could things
have been done differently. Megan Tate captures this with her character
Scarlett. I felt pulled to this character. I too have a younger sister and I know losing
her would be devastating.
The mystery that flows through the story kept me on my
toes, and by the time the story came to an end, I was crushed. I need to know what
happens. I won’t spoil it, but she has to pick between guys. Both have a lot to
offer that even I don’t know how I would choose. Luckily, I don’t have to. Tate
also did a great job of bring the reader into the story. You could smell the
sea water in the air and feel safe once sitting inside her grandparents’ house.
I’m not a surfer but I do love the sounds of the waves crashing, and reading this
book by the beach I think would have only enhanced it even more.
It’s an
emotionally charged story so keep some tissues with you, because when the
character breaks down you will to. For me this showed that through loss is
rebirth. You won’t be sorry you picked up this book, just maybe sad you don’t
have book two.
EXCERPT
Waves
everywhere, swirling, surging, seething – a raging melange of foam and salt and
inky water biting at me, pulling at me, thrusting upon me a solitary
invitation:
Death.
As I fought to remain on the flimsy polystyrene
surfboard that seemed more bucking bronco than wave rider, I thought: That’s how easy it is – you
just let go. Just release the grip on this world that in recent
months had seemed so much an effort, and sink into the blue, beneath the waves,
where chaos and fury turned to quiet and calm. Like she did.
Was
drowning as they claim? I wondered. The easiest way to die – peaceful? How
would it feel to give up all the dragging myself through the day, all the
struggle to evade the aching void inside? A relief?
Another
wave rose me up and slammed me down with breathtaking power. Its force stirred
me. You could say a lot of things about Scarlett Blake – she’s a loner, she’s a
wallflower, she’s a menace in the kitchen – but no way was ‘she’s a quitter’ on
the list of character flaws.
‘Screw
you!’ I shouted through the spray.
Funny,
sounded like someone shouted back. But who else would be out in this tumultuous
sea at six a.m. on a summer’s morning? Solitude was the entire point of hauling
myself out of bed in the still-dark and picking my way down the cliff path to
the beach just in time to see the horizon light up with the first burnt-orange
glow of the rising sun. No one to see me make a damn fool of myself on my first
surfing attempt.
‘Trying…
yourself killed?’
Definitely
a voice. Male. Angry.
Scanning
the surroundings for the source proved difficult while lying stomach-to-board.
On an upward surge I got a glimpse of the Devonshire cliffs that fringed the
cove, all dark, jutting rocks topped by bushes of gorse, and then a flash of
the beach. On a downward plummet there was nothing but eye-burning,
throat-choking seawater.
‘Forward…
next wave!’
The
voice was closer now. There was an edge to it beyond the anger. Something raw.
My
eyes picked out a black form between the waves. Someone on a surfboard,
paddling it expertly seaward. I took one hand off the board to push sticky
tendrils of hair from my eyes. Rookie mistake. Turned out holding on one-handed
was impossible. The board shot upwards, out of my feeble grip, and then it was
just me and Old Man Sea.
Kicking
frantically, I tried to keep my head above the surface, but the waves were burying
me, one after the other, only a second or two to come up for air before the
next one hit. Far away now were thoughts of letting go – I was fighting
furiously for life. Never in my seventeen years had I been so desperate. But my
legs were tingling with effort, and I knew it was just a matter of time.
When the final wave broke me all I could think was, Sienna. With her
name on my lips I inhaled a lungful of water and I sank…
…
for all of a second before something grabbed the back of my t-shirt and hauled
me upward. Coughing and spluttering, I emerged from the blue and was pulled
roughly onto a board, my leg shoved over so that I straddled it. I had the
fleeting thought that this board was much sleeker and more substantial looking
than the one I’d just lost before my rescuer settled pretty much on top of me
and started paddling toward the shore.
With
him in command, we crested waves and glided down the other side with apparent
ease, though I seemed unable to match the rhythm of our motion and kept taking
in great gulps of brine. Over the sound of the waves and the wind and the
splash of powerful arms cutting into the water to propel us along, I picked out
low, irate grumblings.
‘… idiot tourists… total waste of… all we need…
another bloody drama…’
Finally,
we reached the shallow waters and he slid off the board and pulled me off to
walk to the beach. But my legs didn’t seem willing to respond to basic
instructions like ‘walk’ or even ‘stand’ and breathing between wrenching gasps
had become a challenge, so he threw an arm around me and half-carried,
half-walked me, dragging his board with his spare hand.
Ten
steps up the beach he let me down onto the sand.
‘Head
down,’ he commanded. ‘Between your legs. Cough it out.’
I
did as I was told. Liquid spilled out of me with each retching cough, and the
cool air I gulped in burned my throat. I fought the panic, I fought the pain,
focusing instead on the shells and stones strewn around. Finally, breathing won
out.
‘You
okay?’
I
was reluctant to look up. For starters, I knew I must look a mess – long hair
plastered to my head rat-tail style, face flushed and salt-burned, eyes teary
and bloodshot. And then there was the fact that this guy, whoever he was, had
just saved my life, and was evidently pretty mad about having had to do so.
‘Hey,
you okay?’
I
lifted my head slowly. Took in broad thighs clad in black neoprene; hands
reaching out, palms raised; a wide, muscular chest; a striking face – rugged,
square jaw, full lips, ruddy cheeks, Grecian nose bearing a thin scar across
the bridge, thick black lashes framing eyes… oh, his eyes.
I
opened my mouth, tried to speak, but I was paralysed by his gaze. All at once I
was home in the cottage, tucked up beneath the blue patchwork quilt of my
childhood; I was watching my grandmother remove vanilla-scented fairy cakes
from her powder-blue Aga; I was running through a meadow of sky-blue
forget-me-nots with my sister – free, exhilarated, happy. The memories took my
breath away. I felt the familiar burn in my tear ducts.
His
eyebrows pulled together and he placed a hand on my trembling knee.
‘Are.
You. Okay?’ he said with exaggerated care, as if he were speaking to an elderly
lady having a turn at a bus stop.
I
blinked, cleared my throat and managed a husky, ‘Yes. Th-thank you.’
Concern
melted into exasperation.
‘What’s
the deal,’ he demanded, ‘out there on your own, clearly no idea what you’re
doing, children’s play surfboard… you got a death wish or something?’
I
cringed. I’d known the board was short, but I’d thought it was me-sized – at
five foot three, what use was some enormous board?
‘I’m
sorry.’
‘You
would’ve been sorry if I hadn’t seen you.’
‘I
just wanted to get a feel for it. I didn’t realise it was so rough out there.’
‘Rough?
That’s not rough. Not even optimum surfing weather. Piece of cake for someone
who actually knows how to surf…’
He
paused when he saw a tear escape my eye and roll traitorously down my cheek.
Furrowed his brow, combed his fingers roughly through dark hair that was drying
fast in the breeze.
‘Listen,
I didn’t mean to…’
I brushed the tear away furiously. Enough with the vulnerability.
‘Right,
well, thank you…’
‘Luke.
My name’s Luke.’ The stress lines in his face smoothed out and his lips curved.
Like this, smiling and relaxed, his scrutiny was a touch less unsettling. ‘And
you are…?’
‘Thank
you, Luke, for your, um, help, but I’m sure you’ve better things to do, so I’ll
just be…’
Before
he could protest, I launched myself to my feet. He instinctively rose with me,
and my water-fogged mind registered belatedly that my rescuer was a giant of a
guy – my head was at the level of his chest. As I looked up to take in his
stature I staggered slightly and he reached out to right me, but I stepped
backwards. I didn’t need his kindness.
He
looked awkward, unsure of himself, as he towered over me. ‘Hey, will you be
okay?’
‘Yes,
yes, I’m fine. I’ll just head home.’
‘You
live close?’
I
pointed vaguely west. ‘Yes, not far.’
‘Up there?’ He looked puzzled, and
then interest sparked in his eyes. ‘You mean the Blake place?’
Busted.
Of course being vague was pointless. My grandparents’ ramshackle cottage on the
western cliff was the only building up there.
I made a noncommittal mnnnhnnn noise, but Luke was not to be
deterred.
‘But
that place has been empty since…’
He was looking at me now with such scrutiny that I
took a further step back. I saw the cogs turning in his mind as he took in the
classic green Blake eyes and then compared her – short, spiky red hair, eternally
crimson lips, tall and impossibly slender – with me – petite and curvy, hair
more blond than auburn reaching to the base of my spine and a pallor worthy of
a vampire. His eyes widened.
‘Scarlett?
Scarlett Blake!’
There
was shock in his tone, and then sympathy.
About The Author
Once upon a time a little girl told her
grandmother that when she grew up she wanted to be a writer. Or a lollipop
lady. Or a fairy princess fireman. ‘Write, Megan,’ her grandmother advised. So
that’s what she did.
Thirty-odd years later, Megan is a professional writer and published author by day, and an indie novelist by night. Her fiction – young adult romance with soul – recently earned her the SPR’s Independent Woman Author of the Year award.
Megan grew up in the Royal County, a hop, skip and a (very long) jump from Windsor Castle, but these days she makes her home in a village of Greater Manchester. She lives with her husband, a proud Scot who occasionally kicks back in a kilt; her son, a budding artist with the soul of a palaeontologist; and her baby daughter, a keen pan-and-spoon drummer who sings in her sleep. When she's not writing, you'll find her walking someplace green, reading by the fire, or creating carnage in the kitchen as she pursues her impossible dream: of baking something edible.
Thirty-odd years later, Megan is a professional writer and published author by day, and an indie novelist by night. Her fiction – young adult romance with soul – recently earned her the SPR’s Independent Woman Author of the Year award.
Megan grew up in the Royal County, a hop, skip and a (very long) jump from Windsor Castle, but these days she makes her home in a village of Greater Manchester. She lives with her husband, a proud Scot who occasionally kicks back in a kilt; her son, a budding artist with the soul of a palaeontologist; and her baby daughter, a keen pan-and-spoon drummer who sings in her sleep. When she's not writing, you'll find her walking someplace green, reading by the fire, or creating carnage in the kitchen as she pursues her impossible dream: of baking something edible.
Connect online
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https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/13478850.Megan_Tayte
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Great looking book..
ReplyDeleteI love this cover.
ReplyDelete