For fans of dual-timeline, mother-daughter novels like The Paper Palace and Tom Lake, a compelling contemporary novel about a woman’s struggle to face her reckless history, with its trail of damage and deception, and her quest for the redemption that might still be possible.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Barbara Linn Probst’s Roll The Sun Across The Sky, which is out May 13th 2025.
From the ruins of Egypt to the privileged life of Manhattan’s Upper West Side, the story of a woman’s odyssey through the maze of love, loyalty, recklessness, and remorse, as the consequences of her acts ripple through the generations.
Approaching a milestone birthday, Arden Rice has seen it all: three marriages, hardship and wealth, choices she both regrets and defends, all fueled by the same fierce desire—to give her daughter the best possible life. At least, that’s what Arden tells herself.
But nothing is simple. Arden is haunted by her impetuous history, with its trail of damage and deception. Yet she’s finally made a life where she can be her best self—until the unthinkable happens, and a train engineer’s lapse in attention throws that life into chaos.
Secrets begin to unravel, and Arden finds herself questioning everything she thought she knew—along with her own role in shaping the disturbing person her daughter has become. As the stakes increase, especially for the vulnerable granddaughter who’s now in her care, Arden must face questions she’s spent a lifetime avoiding: Which acts define a person? Can someone be better than her worst acts?
For fans of dual-timeline and mother-daughter novels, a compelling story about a woman’s struggle to face her reckless history, with its trail of damage and deception, and her quest for the redemption that might still be possible.
From: THE SCARAB, 1977
Robert and I go to Deir el-Bahari early the next morning, before the sun has fully risen. Hatshepsut’s temple is a monument three terraces high, rising from the desert floor and set against the surrounding cliffs. According to the Egyptian patriarchy, a woman couldn’t be king, so Hatshepsut is depicted as a male pharaoh, with male attire and a false beard. I imagine her enjoying the power of her male persona as she sat on her throne, overseeing the construction of the great temple at Karnak and directing her lover—the architect Senmut— to create a monument to her glory.
Despite her achievements, Hatshepsut was erased by those who came after. Her name, visage, place in history—eradicated, even on her own monument. The toothless old dragoman who attaches himself to us points out carving after carving of the same scene. On the left is Anubis, jackal-headed god of the underworld, ready to welcome Hatshepsut to the afterlife. On the right is Hatshepsut, her face scratched out by loyal followers of subsequent pharaohs.
“Anubis,” the dragoman declares, as he points dramatically to each carving. “Anubis, okay!
Hatshepsut, kaput!”
After a while, Robert and I start chanting the refrain along with him, shouting Okay! And Kaput! The dragoman merely smiles his toothless smile and beckons us to the next wall. When we are ready to leave, he asks for baksheesh so softly that I don’t mind dropping the coins into his hand.
I picture Hatshepsut with Senmut, her lover, whose task is to carry out her wishes. And I picture Nabil, another architect. His olive skin, his beard. Not a false beard, but a real beard framing a man’s greedy mouth between my legs.
~~~
When we return from sightseeing, Nabil’s friend Samir meets us at The Winter Palace and presents us with passes to the spa, waving away our thanks. “We have a saying in Egypt. When you are a guest in my country, you are a guest in my home.” Robert presses his hands together with a bow that looks more Indian than Egyptian.
We relax in the sauna, steam room, and California-style pool, washing away the morning’s dust, then go back to our hotel. It’s early afternoon, the hottest part of the day, so we close the heavy curtains and sleep until six.
When I get up, I feel gritty and tense, as if I haven’t rested at all. The hours seem endless until we can meet Nabil for dinner. Finally, it’s ten o-clock, and we head back to The Winter Palace, where Nabil and Samir have secured a table on the patio. Samir’s brother is there too, along with his wife. Nabil has brought the scarab he told us about. He holds it in his palm—a blue-green oval, intricately carved—and explains that it stands for the human soul emerging from the mummy and flying to heaven to be resurrected.
“In ancient Egypt,” he tells us, “the scarab beetle represented rebirth. It was associated with Khepri, God of the rising sun. Just as Khepri reappears each morning, from a place of darkness, to roll the sun across the heavens, this little creature also reappears—from excrement, waste—to begin anew.”
Robert winces. “From excrement? Literally?” The wince annoys me. It feels prissy, feminine.
Nabil dips his head. The gesture is polite, with no tinge of irony. “The scarab beetle rolls its eggs in dung and pushes the ball across the ground, just as Khepri rolls the sun across the sky. Then, when it is time, the little ones crawl out and new life begins—transformed, resurrected, from what may appear ugly and worthless.”
He studies the scarab. “When the Egyptians saw the young beetles emerge, they concluded that the father was able to self-create, simply by injecting his sperm into the dung ball.
Inseminating it with his will.”
Nabil is speaking to me, surely, but I have no idea what he is trying to say. Sweat trickles down the back of my neck. The air is thick, heavy with heat.
Then Nabil shrugs. “A myth, obviously, but it indicated the scarab’s power over death. Such was its power, in fact, that a replica like this one would be laid on the place of the deceased’s heart, which was removed during embalming. This enabled the dead one to bypass the test of having his heart weighed at the final judgment. Under the scarab’s protection, the heart could not bear witness against him.”
“Hey,” Robert quips. “What about the beetle’s good and bad deeds?”
“Perhaps the beetle is incapable of both good and bad.” Nabil tosses the scarab my way, and I catch it. “What do you think?” he asks me. “To slip into heaven by replacing the human heart with a strange little bug that perpetuates itself and needs no other for its pleasure?”
I meet his eyes. “I don’t think it’s that easy.”
“No. Probably not.”
There is a long silence, and then I open my hand. Slowly, Nabil takes the scarab from my palm.
Samir signals to a waiter to bring a pitcher of lemonade and another of ice water for Robert. No citrus. The sister-in-law, a regal-looking brunette who reminds me of Frida Kahlo, gives me a veiled look. It means: I see what you’re up to. I look the other way.
Lanterns come on across the patio. I hear the splashing of evening swimmers. There is an orange three-quarter moon, a scattering of stars. Nabil drapes his arm across the back of my chair.
When we return to the hotel, Robert is the aggressive one. He pulls me on top of him, digging his thumbs into my hips as he thrusts into me. I do it again. I pretend he’s Nabil.
