Ours is a lineage of widows, generations of us and our uncanny talents fading away because we lost the love of our lives too soon.

Since he died I have used what gifts I have left to create healing rooms for troubled souls. My daughter, Phaedra, crafts fragile ceramic moon jars that salve the wounds of all who own them.

We fade beautifully, Phaedra and I, achingly talented, hamstrung by our grief.

Then my father dies, and my mother doesn't fade. Instead she gets brighter, and our own gifts burgeon once more.

That terrifies me. It means I might not be done. The fade may not be inevitable. We might love again and bloom again.

For Phaedra another love is something she is oblivious to. For my mother it is the expected response to her beauty and glamour. For me it is the font of all guilt.

A Fade of Widows is a fantastical magical realism novel of lost love, the roles that women take on all unknowing, and the twists in our heritage that make us what we are. From the enchanting waves of the Irish sea to the fairy chimneys of Cappadocia in Turkey it will take you on a mystical journey of grief and growth.