By Gwendolyn Bounds
Compelled from her downtown big apple residence via the terrorist assault of September eleven, journalist Wendy Bounds was once brought to Guinan's doorstep -- a mythical Irish consuming gap and nation shop nestled alongside the banks of the Hudson River within the small city of Garrison, ny -- by means of a chum. Captivated by means of the bar's charismatic yet ill proprietor and his fascinating, motley consumers, Bounds uprooted herself completely and moved to tiny Garrison, the picturesque river city all of them name domestic. There she grew to become one of many infrequent lady regulars on the outdated pub and used to be fast swept up into its rhythm, heartbeat, and grand heritage -- as comparable by way of Jim Guinan himself, the obdurate excessive priest of this little chapel. Surrounded by way of a workforce of endearing, delightfully colourful characters who have been now her buddies and associates, she slowly unearths her personal means domestic. fantastically written, deeply own, and brilliantly insightful, Little Chapel at the River is a love tale a couple of position -- and the folks who deliver it to lifestyles.
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Extra info for Little Chapel on the River: A Pub, a Town and the Search for What Matters Most
But I don’t feel bad. If someone wants to knock me on my ass, have at it. ” Which is mostly true, except for the “feeling bad” part. Because sometimes he wakes up the next day and thinks he might have drunk too much the night before, and yeah, well, maybe he did go a little overboard with that one fellow. And then he starts feeling kind of melancholy. But that lasts only until he sees the guy again and they get to talking over 48 | little chapel on the river a beer—though not talking about what happened, mind you, not like girls do about their feelings.
We’d like you to come live in our apartment while we’re gone,” she said matter-of-factly. “Keep Sam for us. ” And so it was that October ticked by in these kind strangers’ home. In the meantime, we looked for a new place to rent. Having been a couple for two years, wherever we were going, we were going together. We started in New York City, but eventually expanded our search to Pound Ridge, Princeton, Tarrytown, Hastings, Nyack, Montclair . . until the foreign-sounding towns blurred together as did the procession of upbeat real estate agents—Pat, Whitney, Herb, John.
The nose is sharp, thin, and his ears stick up straight, as if they were at attention. The entire demeanor suggests that of a man accustomed to commanding a room. He watches me for a moment until I feel myself begin to shift uncomfortably on the green stool. ” he calls ﬁnally to Margaret, his voice clipped with a northern accent. He hasn’t stopped staring at me. Or at least I think he hasn’t. He’s still wearing the sunglasses. “That’s Wendy,” she says, squeezing past him into the bar. “Wendy, meet Fitz.