Kimberly Cifone
Wuthering Heights meets Mame
When celebrated novelist and famed eccentric Elizabeth Blake dies suddenly on a Philadelphia street, every skeleton leaps from her closet. Soon after, one man is dead, another goes mad, and a third meets a fate no one expected.
Widow''s Weeds is a series of intersecting stories about Elizabeth''s life and the people she''s left behind. It recounts the things that made her a favorite target in the press...and one of the best-loved writers of the last century. Ultimately, though, it''s a love story—one featuring a minister, a lawyer, a funeral director, and a house called Kellermorrow.
Kimberly Cifone''s visual style and approachable tone were developed during her days as a speechwriter*, radio journalist, and advertising copywriter. Her poetry has appeared in literary magazines, and her first novel, Parallel Lines, was published in 1990. She has a degree in English Literature from West Chester University.
*Forensics at West Chester University
I was walking along, thinking about this astonishing turn of events, when I suddenly became aware of sounds coming up behind me. I thought it was just my footsteps echoing on the pavement, but it wasn’t a clean sound. I walked faster. The sounds came back to me faster. I didn’t want to turn around—people in the city are so sensitive, and if they aren’t following you, they think you think they are, and that could get you into trouble—so I moved to the inside in case they wanted to get by. The store windows I passed weren’t angled enough for me to see my followers’ reflections, and now, for some reason, I was starting to get scared. Crazy, isn’t it? I tried to be calm and slow down, but the panic was too great, and I began instead to walk very, very fast. Clip-clip-clip-clip-clip-clip-clip. Terrible idea. I realized then that the people behind me were actually pursuing me. It sounded like horses—lots of feet. Four, maybe five, people. Or maybe just three. I didn’t know. It was more than one or two.
I was just about to pass Lindy’s Meats when I felt someone shove the center of my back—like this—and I went flying. My face hit the inside corner of a doorway, between the store window and the doorframe, right at the worn, brass hardware. As I was falling, I finally saw the hunters’ reflections in the glass. Three boys. Children. One was standing ahead of the others, and he was angry. I don’t know why. I reached for the doorknob to pull myself up, but something went BANG! I slumped to the ground, and they ran away, laughing. There were sirens after that, but then no more.
