A woman learns to follow her own road in this heartwarming novel inspired by The Wizard of Oz by New York Times bestselling author Virginia Kantra.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Virginia Kantra’s The Fairytale Life of Dorothy Gale, which is out December 5th!
Dorothy “Dee” Gale is searching for a place to belong. After their globe-trotting mother’s death, Dee and her sister Toni settled with Uncle Henry and Aunt Em in Kansas, where Dee attends graduate school. But when Dee’s relationship with a faculty member, a bestselling novelist, ends in heartbreak and humiliation, she’s caught in a tornado of negative publicity. Unable to face her colleagues—or her former lover—Dee applies to the writing program at Trinity College Dublin.
Dee’s journey to Ireland leads her to new companions: seemingly brainless Sam Clery—who dropped out of college and now runs a newsagent’s shop—is charming and hot, in a dissolute, Irish poet kind of way; allegedly heartless Tim Woodman—who stiffly refused to take back his ex-fiancée—seems stuck in his past; and fiercely loyal Reeti Kaur, who longs for the courage to tell her parents she wants to teach underprivileged girls rather than work in the family business.
In a year of opportunities and changes, love and loss, Dee is mentored by powerful women in the writing program, challenging her to see herself and her work with new eyes. With her friends, Dee finds the confidence to confront her biggest fears—including her intimidating graduate advisor, who may not be so wicked after all.
Faced with a choice with far-reaching consequences, Dee must apply the lessons she’s learned along the way about making a family, finding a home…and recognizing the power that’s been inside her all along.
Somehow drinking alone in my hotel room was even worse than eating alone. I was trying to become a stronger, wiser, and more confident Dee. To take control of my own destiny. Shutting my laptop on Gray, I grabbed my purse and room key.
My new courage took me as far as the hotel bar.
I ordered a whiskey—when in Ireland, right?—while I read the menu. But even the lovely descriptions (braised Wicklow lamb slow-cooked in a rich lamb broth with Chantenay carrots and pearl barley; homemade scones and parsley butter; tarte aux pommes with crème anglaise, yum) couldn’t hold my attention for long.
Two tables over, an older couple sampled six different appetizers, the woman occasionally breaking off their conversation to take a picture of their food or speak into her phone. She was a restaurant critic, I decided, and he was . . . I squinted at his left hand. Her husband. Somebody’s husband, anyway. Every now and then she would put something on his plate, and he’d chew stolidly before commenting.
Under the tall windows, a table of business types leaned forward over their plates, talking in low voices like they were plotting a hostile takeover. Or an assassination.
I took a sip of whiskey and choked. I grabbed my napkin, dabbing at my eyes, looking around at my fellow diners to see if anyone noticed.
A pair of honeymooners sat at the long oak bar. Okay, probably not honeymooners, not unless they’d just come from their wedding. He was in a slim, dark, conservative suit and tie. Nice-looking in a stuffed shirt sort of way, his square jaw clean-shaven, his eyes half-hidden behind steely spectacles. His . . . bride? Fiancée? I peeked. No ring. His girlfriend, then, perched on the green leather barstool beside him, her pose and her dress showing off her long, smooth, bare legs, a fall of sleek, shining hair tucked casually behind her ears. She looked like a sexy Kate Middleton. Pippa, maybe.
As I watched, she slipped off one skyscraper heel, stroking her toes up his ankle. He stiffened. Well. A lot of guys weren’t comfortable showing affection in public. Gray . . . No. Stop thinking about Gray.
Maybe she wasn’t the Suit’s girlfriend yet. Maybe in ten or twenty years, they would tell the story of how they met to their children, adorable twins who had a dog and rabbits in a hutch at the bottom of the garden and maybe a pony. I smiled.
While I was naming their kids, her foot got stuck halfway up his calf, trapped by his pants leg. Abandoning the attempt, she put her hand on his knee. I admired her confidence. Although . . . He shifted his leg. Away. She laughed, undeterred, and said something that made a muscle bunch in his jaw.
None of my business, really. He was a grown man, right? She touched his arm, smiling. Flirting. Not rapey at all.
Now if he’d been the one touching her . . . I frowned.
His shoulders tensed under his suit jacket. If his spine got any more rigid, he’d turn to stone. She gestured, making a point. This time, her fingers landed high on his thigh. Wow. Okay. Or maybe not okay?
The first time I went to Gray’s house, he’d invited the entire graduate student cohort over for cocktails. Eight of us, dazzled by the great man’s reputation, competing self-consciously for his attention. I mean, he was Grayson Kettering. I was flattered when he asked me to stay after to help clean up. But unbidden, a memory surfaced of that first, unexpected touch, his hand on my hip as I stood at the sink. His thumb, exploring under my sweater. The surprise, the thrill, the discomfort of it. I’d frozen with my hands in hot water. Speechless. Stuck.
Her hand drifted higher. A flush washed his neck, red against his starched white collar.
What would New Dee do? And almost before I’d stopped to think, I catapulted out of my seat and across the room as if I’d witnessed some drunken frat boy hitting on my little sister. “Hi, babe.” I went in for a quick one, hug and release. No PDA, in case that was his issue. “Sorry I’m late.”
Their faces turned to me wearing identical expressions of polite, blank surprise. I cringed inside. Oh God. I’d gotten it all wrong. She was his girlfriend. He liked her, or at least he didn’t mind being touched by her. Why would he? She was gorgeous, and he was a guy.
And then he said, stiffly, “That’s all right.” A pause. “Darling.”
I beamed at him in relief.
The woman didn’t budge from her barstool. “Who is this?”
“This. Yes.” He looked at me. “This is . . .”
“Dee.” I stuck out my hand. “Hi.”
“You’re American.”
I smiled harder. “That’s right.”
“Laura Smith. Hello.” She watched me closely, like I was supposed to recognize her name. Maybe she really was a friend of the Middletons. “Here on holiday?”
“Uh, no.”
“Then . . . I’m sorry, how did you two meet?”
“I . . .” I glanced at my silent coconspirator. Useless. Although, to be fair, I had taken him by surprise. “I’m a graduate student at Trinity.”
“How nice,” Laura said politely. “Are you in the business school, then, with Tim?”
“Um. The creative writing program, actually.”
“Oh, a writer. Would I have heard of you?”
“Probably not.” Not unless you’re a Grayson Kettering fan.
“Laura’s visiting from the UK office,” the Suit—Tim—said. “She’s part of our AIFM management task force.”
I nodded as if I had the faintest idea what he was talking about.
Laura touched his arm. “We should probably rejoin the rest of the team.”
The team?
His glasses flashed as he glanced over her shoulder at the assassins’ table. “You go on,” he said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“I’m looking forward to it. Darling.” Her gaze rested lightly, assessingly, on me. “You want to be careful with this one,” she told me. “He has no heart.”
She moved away, all hips and balance, like a racehorse on stiletto heels.
“Well.” I released my breath. “That was awkward.”
“Quite.”
Excerpted from The Fairytale Life of Dorothy Gale by Virginia Kantra Copyright © 2023 by Virginia Kantra. Excerpted by permission of Berkley. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
