The story and the characters:

Jessie Sullivan, a stay-at-home mom and faltering artist, lives with her husband, Hugh, a successful psychiatrist, in Atlanta. Their daughter, Dee, is in college. Hugh tends to treat his wife like a child at times but he loves her and theirs is a conventional, unexciting but secure and comfortable life together.

Jessie's mother, Nelle Dubois, still lives in her childhood home on Egret Island, off the coast of South Carolina. Jessie hasn't gone home for years; her father died 33 years ago - a spark from a pipe which Jessie had given him as a present caused a boat fire that killed him. Jessie has carried the guilt of his death all through her life.

A shrilling phone wakes Jessie late one night; she receives horrifying news. Jessie's mother, who has really never recovered from her husband Joe's death, has chopped off her finger with a meat cleaver. Jessie has no choice but to go back - to a mother who isn't quite right; to face the past.

A Benedictine monastery is on the tiny island where Jessie meets Brother Thomas and promptly falls in love with the man she comes to believe is her soul mate. Jessie's mother has been cooking for the monks and it is in their kitchen that she cuts her finger off. She cuts off a second finger. It takes a while to figure out why. The poison rears it dark shadow.

Brother Thomas, real name Whit O'Connor, came to the monastery five years ago to renounce his ties to real life, having lost his pregnant wife in a car accident. ("I have come here not to find answers," he wrote in his notebook the first year, "but to find a way to live in a world without any.") He is very close to the day when he will take his final vows, somewhat different than those he took as an attorney.

When the sexual chemistry between Jessie and Brother Thomas starts to sizzle, she is surprised by the unfamiliar feeling of erotic longing, especially after 20 years of marriage: "I'd forgotten how that kind of craving felt, how it rose suddenly and loudly from the pit of my stomach like a flock of startled birds, then floated back down in the slow, beguiling way of feathers." As an artist, her talents have wilted until now, and she starts painting again, fresh and meaningful pictures.

Hepzibah and Kat are Nelle's best friends and they are secret keepers. They try to help her while honoring her wish to keep private matters locked up. Hepzibah runs a tour of the island, presenting the early history of the black slaves who once populated the village. Kat owns a touristy Mermaid shop and sells all manner of mermaid trinkets.

Brothers Sebastian and Brother Dominic are two of the ranking monks of the monastery. Sebastian isn't convinced that Brother Thomas is there for the right reasons. By snooping through Thomas' journal he discovers Thomas' relationship with Jessie. Father Dominic has fewer judgments about Thomas even after hearing his confession. He is also one of the monks responsible for preserving the lore of the Mermaid Chair, a relic from their mother church in Cornwall, England. He is also one of the secret keepers.

There are numerous minor characters including Max, the island dog, and Benne, Kat's mentally disabled daughter who has psychic abilities but has no ability to keep secrets. Inside the church of the monastery sits the mysterious chair carved with mermaids and dedicated to a saint who, legend claims, was an Irish mermaid before her conversion. St. Senare only became a saint after an abbot hid her fish tail and prohibited her from returning to sea. She lost her wild nature and freedom to swim away, but gained sainthood among the humans she had grown to love. To sit in this chair and pray, it is said, one can expect to have prayers answered.

The Mermaid Chair is the story of all who have loved and then observed the slow erosion of their love as time wore its surface away. There are big issues at stake: lies, personal identity, secrets, theological doubt, the purpose of art, and coping with loss, love and healing, and redemption.

As in her very successful first book, 'The Secret Life of Bees', Kidd has again demonstrated her ability with words. Descriptions, musings and clarification of innermost thoughts are precise and meaningful. This is a light read if you prefer it. If you want to delve into passions and spirit and depth of feeling, you may elect to do so. I think a 21-year-old woman will see the story differently than one perhaps closer to Jessie's age, 42. Some emotions must be nurtured over one's life to mature and to be understood or even acknowledged.

It is a good vacation read, or a story that would be good to study during cold winter months. It is intense, Kidd's descriptions are vivid and colorful, and raw emotions surface frequently. There is an underlying lesson for some, and the ending is quite surprising. The poison is a surprise. The book is controversial; many like it, many don't. Therefore, it is a good read.

This is a special message from Highwayman:

It's July 8th. 2005, I have been working on my family genealogy. One initially gets such a flood of information about ancestors and their relatives. Then there are those mysterious ancestors who resist being located and recorded. Where and when were they born? Who were their parents? Which, if any census contains the correct data? Anyone who has pursued this interest for any time knows what I mean, there are always loose ends to get to and to try to tie in.

I was always aware that I would need to document myself for those who pick up on my work in the future, or even start their own. The difficulty is standing back and impartially documenting your self. Not elaborating on your achievements and abilities. Not concealing those embarrassing moments that will make you so real and human to future generations. So one avoids doing this task, probably the most valuable contribution you can make to your family tree for future generations.

I now live in Florida near Tampa. I moved here last November after 20 years in Connecticut. The poor job environment, my increasing age and my failure to keep my qualifications current and acquire formal documentation to reflect my skills meant that I simply couldn't find work in Connecticut. I couldn't pay the bills and utilities and caring for my children age 16 and 20 became an insurmountable task. So with the help of good friends, I was able to move here and find time to job-hunt here. Finally I am working again and rescuing my finances and credit. Far too busy to think about the past and document it.

And then it was Yesterday; July 7, 2005. I woke as usual around 6:30, switched on CNN to see what was happening in the world from the American perspective and find out the prospects with Hurricane Dennis.

There on my screen were such familiar scenes. The streets and buildings of my youth where I had walked, talked, worked and played. Those familiar accents coming out of faces etched with fear and often covered in blood. Crowds were being escorted out of Kings Cross station. Here a fanatic had blown up a train that I had ridden upon for years on my way to school in Chelsea. Politicians and Media Experts speculating on the causes and trying to swing opinion their way as to the cause of this, but what could really be in the mind of a person who believes that senselessly taking the lives of other innocent people would somehow make the world better for the people or conditions he cares so fanatically about?

While the scenes on CNN were showing the story of a dramatic event to others, I was again a child living within a brief walk of those scenes unfolding before me. I suddenly realized just how much I still care about the places and events of my youth. Again I could see, hear, smell and yes, even taste the London of the 50s and 60s.

I left for work, I recall listening to the reports on National Public Radio. I recall how it so irritated me hearing them refer to Kings Cross as 'East London' and to 'the Liverpool Station'. I think I finally yelled at the radio "it's Liverpool Street! Liverpool Station is more than 200 miles from it and not on the London Underground system!" I normally respect the reporting of NPR but here the glaring inaccuracies were throwing all they report into doubt in my mind. I even fired off a complaining email when I got to work, It's probably already in their circular file.

Amazingly I'm sitting here now feeling more homesick that I have for the 22 years since I moved away from London. I'm feeling that if these Terrorists want to attack the city I and my ancestors lived, worked and played in, then I should be there to share the trauma with my fellow Londoners. While Sept 11, 2001 in New York influenced me, I could see the smoke on my drive home in Connecticut. This event was somehow closer, presumably because I knew each venue so intimately. Maybe even in part because I had discovered that my Ancestors back at least as far as 1820 would also have known these streets before they developed into their current form and grew an underground railway system, and as these events developing them into the streets I know were taking place.

For what little it means or helps, London, I and I'm sure many other displaced Londoners are with you in spirit.

This is a brief message to the Cowards who performed this act. I can only say that since you claim to act in the name of God yes you appropriately did not act in the light of any God. But rather perpetrated your obscenities in the dark of the underground along with the rats and other vermin of your ilk.

I now feel that just maybe, I can explain a little of myself in my records for future generations.

Mick (HighWayMan)

With Deepest Sympathy

Special thoughts and heartfelt prayers
Are with you and your family
During this time of sorrow