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Informationen zum Autor Emily Matchar has written for an array of publications, including the New York Times , the Washington Post , Outside , Smithsonian , and the Atlantic . Originally from North Carolina, she lives with her husband and two sons. In the Shadow of the Greenbrier is her first novel. Klappentext "Nestled in the hills of West Virginia lies White Sulphur Springs, home to the Greenbrier Resort. Long a playground for presidents and film stars, the Greenbrier has its own gravitational pull. Over ten decades, four generations of the Zelner family must grapple with their place in its shadow... and within their own family. In 1942, young mother Sylvia is desperate to escape her stifling marriage, especially when it means co-running Zelner's general store with her husband. When the Greenbrier is commandeered for use as a luxury prison, Sylvia finds her fidelity strained and her heart on the line. Seventeen years later, Sylvia's daughter, Doree, struggles to fit in, eagerly awaiting the day she'll leave for college and meet a nice Jewish boy. But when a handsome stranger comes to town and her brother Alan's curiosity puts him and Sylvia at risk, Doree is torn between loyalty and desire. An immersive family saga rich with historical detail, In the Shadow of the Greenbrier explores the inevitable clash between past and future and the extraordinary moments in ordinary lives"-- Leseprobe Chapter 1 Jordan Washington, DC January 1992 When the letter arrived, Jordan Barber was sitting at his desk eyeing the cuffs of his chinos, wondering if he could hem them with a stapler. If he did it from the inside out, maybe the little folded silver legs of the staples would look like fancy stitching. A minute before, Rick Lowell from the National News desk had walked by and made a wisecrack about Jordan wearing his dad's clothes. Jordan wanted to shoot back that he was actually taller than his dad, but even he knew this was not the right way to do newsroom banter. So he just stared down at his feet, noticing how the pants puddled around the tops of his brown wingtips, which had felt so sharp when his mom bought them at Hecht's the month before but now seemed too shiny, as if announcing "I'm brand-new." All the top reporters at the Post-the ones whose names appeared above the fold, who talked about having drinks "at Ben's," who'd flown on Air Force One-dressed like they'd slept at their desks all night: rumpled oxford shirts, loafers worn down to the color and texture of cardboard. Nobody else's shoes were shiny. No one else ironed their chinos. Maybe Scotch Tape would work better than a stapler? Or masking tape? Jordan began rummaging in his desk drawer. Just then, the mail cart clattered through, pushed by Alice the intern, who wore a plaid headband and a thousand-yard stare. She tossed a letter on Jordan's desk without turning her head. "Thanks!" Jordan called, but Alice didn't look back. He looked down at the letter. Jordan Barber Local and Regional News Desk The Washington Post Weird. He'd only been at the desk for four months, and he'd never had a letter personally addressed to him before. He was about to tear it open when he remembered his letter opener, the one his granddad had given him for college graduation. He plucked it from the University of Maryland mug where he kept his pens. It was brass and felt good in his hand, cool and heavy and professional. He slid it under the letter's flap, noting the West Virginia postmark. Unfolding the paper, he began to read. Then his eyes caught a name, and he stopped. The Greenbrier. The words sounded like a gong somewhere deep and primal in his brain, sound waves rippling outward. The Greenbrier. There's something underneath the Greenbrier Resort, the letter read. It's time for people...
