Find more from this author on:
About the author:
Uvi writes across a variety of genres: My Own Voice, The White Piano, and Apart From Love (literary fiction), The Music of Us and Dancing with Air (romance), The David Chronicles, Rise to Power, A Peek at Bathsheba, and The Edge of Revolt ((historical fiction), A Favorite Son (biblical fiction), Home (poetry), Twisted (horror) Now I Am Paper and Jess and Wiggle (children’s book.)
What inspired you to write your book?
I asked myself, how does reality look from the husband’s point of view, in this heartrending story of love? His predicament–watching his wife, Natasha, slipping away from him due to her early-onset Alzheimer’s–is heart-rending to me. It fascinates me to such a degree that I find myself compelled to build an entire series around what happens to this family. It will be titled Still Life with Memories. I am writing a new novel for this series as we speak, which gives both Lenny and Natasha center stage, and takes them first to 1970 and then a full generation back, to 1941, to the beginning of their love story. This new volume of the series is The Music of Us.
Here is a short sample from the book:
The grass around us was swaying in the breeze. It had a lovely sheen and a variety of hues, some of them purplish, which were revealed every now and again, with one gust and another, as if a painter had dipped her brush and on a whim, stroked it here and there.
I hugged Natasha and took in the smell of her hair. It was blowing in the wind, one strand over another. Through the red fuzz of them I spotted the last ray of sun, gleaming upon the French coast. Then it was gone.
The road sloped into a gentle dip in the earth, which took us out of sight of anyone who might happen upon these pastures. But no, there was no one here. Amidst the gloaming, we were alone.
I brought the Harley to a stop, and as soon as she felt me leaning in closer, Natasha said, “Close your eyes.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because,” she said.
“My swimsuit is wet. I want to take it off.”
In place of obeying her, I said, “Let me watch you.”
She slipped off the bike, and with a slow, deliberate motion, she loosened the straps off her shoulders. Then, instead of removing the swimsuit, Natasha lay her fingers on me, tugging playfully at the buttons of my shirt. I stood up, flung it off and then, in a heartbeat, felt her arms around my waist. They closed into an embrace, which stirred something deep inside me.
Rising to the tips of her toes, she tipped her head back and kissed me, a lingering touch of her lips on mine.
I savored the sweet taste of her, which was salty at the same time. The thin, damp material of her swimsuit was barely a barrier between us. I wrapped my fingers, ever so tenderly, around the back of her neck, holding her, keeping her close.