– ‘The Magic of Wor(l)ds’ blog is a hobby, reviews and other bookish stuff on this site are done for free. –
Today I’m on the ‘The Painter’ blogtour, organised by Love Books Group Tour.
To promote this book I have an excerpt, but b
About the Author :
Belfast born Deirdre Quiery is based in Mallorca where she runs Seven Rocks Consulting. Not just a writer, Deirdre has not only painted with Argentinian artist Carlos Gonzalez in Palma and Natalia Spitale in Soller, she is also a winner of the Alexander Imich Prize in the US for writing about exceptional human experiences, and the Birmingham Trophy Prize in the UK. The Painter is her third novel for Urbane following the Irish thriller Eden Burning and murder mystery The Secret Wound.
In a desire to impress the people who visit his workshop, renowned artist The Painter, employs a gardener to create an inspirational landscape which includes a labyrinth, an orange grove and Moorish-inspired fountains. They develop an intimate relationship and the Painter, whose life and talent had become increasingly dissipated, finds himself slowly recovering his original innocence and talent. However, the relationship is tainted by the Painter’s jealousy when visitors express more interest in the magical garden and mysterious labyrinth than in the Painter’s art. That jealously blossoms into deadly rage when The Painter catches the gardener changing one of his paintings….
Deirdre Quiery’s compelling new thriller explores themes of love, life and deceit, and examines the lengths we will go to pursue and protect our passions.
Tuesday 6th October 2015
I remember Ishmael walking up the driveway to my house. It was before the rain. There was a crunching of his shoes against the gravel. He didn’t wear sandals but polished shoes that shone reflecting the mountains around. His trousers were smooth. That’s what I remember. Smooth – glistening, perfectly ironed. He wore a blue flowery open necked shirt and a rucksack on his back which didn’t match his clothes but then nothing matched with Ishmael. He was one of those folks who made you think that by his very being, he was not joined up. There was something missing in the glue that held him together. There was a mystery about him waiting to be known or put together.
He sweated as he strode up the driveway. His cheeks slightly flushed; sweat dropping onto his shirt and under his armpits pools of moistness spreading down to his waist. He smiled at me as he combed hair away from his face with his fingers. I shook his hand. It was clammy but not unpleasant. I squeezed it and imagined drops of sweat dropping and watering the dry earth. He leaned forward, kissed me on the cheek and slapped me on the back like an old friend.
He had been recommended to me as a Gardener by a friend José del Pardo in La Coruña who exhibited my art in his gallery. He claimed that in one year, Ishmael had transformed his garden, creating an orchard with orange and lemon trees, planting pomegranates and kiwis. Galicia with La Coruña as its capital is called ‘The Ireland of Spain’. Orange and lemon trees were not common. Ishmael could make anything grow, anywhere.
The Magic of Wor(l)ds