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Changing Habits by Debbie Macomber

By Debbie Macomber

Unique book: 2004

They have been sisters once.

In a extra blameless time, 3 ladies input the convent. Angelina, Kathleen and Joanna come from very diverse backgrounds, yet they've got something in common--the wish to subscribe to a non secular order.

Despite the seclusion of the convent apartment in Minneapolis, they're no longer resistant to what's taking place round them, and every sister faces an unforeseen difficulty of religion. eventually Angie, Kathleen and Joanna all depart the sisterhood, forsaking the convent for the interesting and complicated international outdoor. the area of selections to be made, of hazards to be taken. of fellows and romantic love. the realm of normal women....

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She turned to Kolya. “He’s a sweet one. ” “He lived in the Kirov. ” “The Kirov? That’s the one that went down last night? ” She gathered me in her arms. It was like being embraced by a scarecrow. I couldn’t feel any body beneath her clothing, just layer after layer of smoky wool. Still, it felt good to have a woman showing concern. Even if she was just being polite, it felt good. “Come,” she said, taking my hand, leather glove on leather glove. “This is your home now. If you need to sleep here for a night, a week, this is where you sleep.

No one else in the world has heard this story,” she confided to me. “She learned all about these lusty painters, got her juices flowing, couple of shots of vodka, that was it. ” She leaned closer to me, touching the sleeve of my overcoat, and told me with a stage whisper: “He came, anyway. ” I wasn’t used to hearing women speak about sex. The boys I knew never shut up on the subject, though none of them seemed like great authorities, but the girls saved those talks for their own closed covens. I wondered if Grisha had laid Vera yet, before remembering that Grisha and Vera were both dead, buried beneath tombstones of broken concrete.

Yes, the colonel’s daughter is pretty. I like your optimism. ” “You might be wrong about that. ” We walked past a group of young boys with stepladders and pails of whitewash who were busy painting over street signs and building numbers. Kolya stopped and stared at them. ” he shouted at the closest boy, who wore so many layers of wool you would have thought he was fat, unless you saw the drawn skin of his face, his eyes shining and black above shadows as deep as an old man’s. Very few children this young were left in the city; most had been evacuated back in September.

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