bus to a tiny Washington town. What Kelly doesn't know is that she's accidentally taken off with a suitcase full of lots of money and now some unsavory characters are determined to get it back. The townsfolk are unperturbed by the gorgeous outsider -- even if her skirts are too short and her hair is too big. In fact, the local busybodies are already trying to match her up with blue-eyed local hero -- upright attorney Sam Grayson. One look at Kelly, and Sam gets hot around his too-tight collar. This runaway bride is definitely disturbing his peace, and he's got enough problems. But now big trouble is heading to Paradise, right on Kelly's stiletto heels -- and passion may temporarily have to take a back seat to a more pressing pursuit -- running for her life.  (less)

In this remarkable book, Kayoko Ota, Rem Koolhaas's think tank AMO, the design firm 2x4 and Prada staff in Tokyo, Milan and New York explore and honor the skirt, celebrating it as a vehicle of movement and shape. Tulle, pleats and printed patterns are fanned out like flowers against white backdrops, running off the edge of full-bleed pages, their photos glazed and varnished. Thumbnail images of each model are indexed with listings of their details. Waist Down is a fascinating view into Prada's designs, and a stimulating investigation of the skirt as a wondrous zone of invention, as central to the brand as the brand is to contemporary fashion.  (less)

-- to someone else!PDeciding that bad behavior is infinitely more attractive than perfection, Joanna flees her shocked family. Giles is hot on her trail, determined to catch her and bring her safely home. But will he be as determined to make her his bride?The encounter that led directly to Colonel Gregory being disinherited by his father and to Miss Joanna Fulgrave running away from home in disgrace took place at the Duchess of Bridlington's dress ball on the sixth of June.PIt was a very splendid occasion. As her Grace fully intended, it succeeded in both marking the approaching end of the Season and ensuring that any other function held between then and the dispersal of theIton/ifrom town seemed sadly flat in comparison.PJoanna progressed as gracefully to the receiving line outside the ballroom at Bridlington House as the necessity to halt on every step and to guard her skirts from being trodden upon allowed. Beside her Mrs Fulgrave mounted the famous double staircase with equal patience. The Fulgrave ladies had ample opportunity to exchange smiles and bows with friends and acquaintances, caught up as they all were in the slow-moving crush.PAs always, mothers of less satisfactory débutantes observed her progress, and in undertones reminded their daughters to observe Miss Fulgrave's impeccable deportment, her exquisitely correct appearance and her perfectly modulated and charming manner.PIf Joanna had not combined these enviable virtues with a natural warmth and friendliness, the young ladies so addressed would have long since begun to dislike her heartily. As it was, they forgave her for her perfections while their mothers poured balm upon each other's wounds with reminders that this was Miss Fulgrave's second Season now drawi?Р (less)

writer and lives in Chiangmai, Thailand.bVientiane, People’s Democratic Republic of Laos, March 1977/bbrbrThe neon hammer and sickle buzzed and flickered into life over the night club of the Lan Xang Hotel. The sun had plummeted mauvely into Thailand across the Mekhong River, and the hotel waitresses were lighting the little lamps that turned the simple sky-blue room into a mysterious nighttime cavern.brbrIn an hour, a large Vietnamese delegation would be offered diversion there by members of the Lao People’s Revolutionary Party Politburo. They’d be made to watch poor country boys in fur hats do a Lao falling-over version of cossack dancing. They’d be forced to suck semi-fermented rice whiskey from large tubs through long straws until they were dizzy. They’d finally be coerced into embarrassing dances with solid girls in ankle-length skirts and crusty makeup.brbrAnd, assuming they survived these delights, they’d be allowed to return to their rooms to sleep. Next day, with heads heavy as pressed rubber, they’d sign their names to documents laying the foundations for the forthcoming Lao/Vietnam Treaty of Friendship, and they probably wouldn’t remember very much about it.brbrBut that was all to come. The understaffed hotel day shift had been replaced by an understaffed night crew. The sweating receptionist was ironing a shirt in the glass office behind her desk. The chambermaid was running a bowl of rice porridge up to a sick guest on the third floor.brbrOutside, an old guard, in a jacket so large it reached his knees, was locking the back gate that opened onto Sethathirat Road. At night, the gate kept out dogs and the occasional traveler tempted to@4=p£×ÿ¾Û€  (less)

A hawk circling improbably high above southern Ontario sees a land mass bordered on the north by Georgian Bay, the west by Lake Huron and Lake St. Clair, the south by Lake Erie, and the east by Lake Ontario and Lake Simcoe. Facing west, the hawk sees the shape of an animal in the land below, the tail heading up the Bruce Peninsula, the feet treading on Niagara Falls and Haliburton, the forehead etched by the St. Clair River, and the trunk, for this is clearly an elephant, nuzzling the cities of Windsor and Detroit.brbrAs the hawk’s spirals tighten, his path circles south central Ontario, and he skirts the flank of the elephant. His elevation decreases, and he is visible overhead from my farm, first as a speck and then recognizable, his tail fanned out, his belly streaked and his wings tipped dark. He catches good thermals over the Dundalk Plain.brbrWhen he dives for a deer mouse in my hayfield, the hawk lands, briefly, over the womb of the elephant. It is a vast open space, isolated from other farms and cushioned by soft hills and gentle valleys. It is where we came to incubate as a couple and apprentice to be stewards of the land.brbr* * * * *brbrWe arrived here in our early twenties by way of the city. Thomas was right out of medical school and keen to start a country practice in the nearby town of Murphy’s Mill. I would take on the house, the land, the creation of a life in the country. The area had been designated as medically under-serviced, and the province guaranteed an income if we stayed for four years. The land provided rich soil to extend roots, dig in and stay. Murphy’s Mill is treed and spired, a road winding in from the south like a Carrington painting or a Maud L@&B? (õÃÿ¾Û€  (less)

would of anyone, ain't my fault is it, do you know what I'm saying, not making like Mother Teresa, but that's how I am.brbrIt weren't like you realised anyway, not at the time, not that first Monday morning. It weren't like you seen it all then and there when Poppy come stropping in them doors with her six-inch skirt and her twelve-inch heels; it weren't like you seen it all laid out, the whole fucking shit of the next six months, like a trailer, do you know what I'm saying, the whole fucking shit of the rest of our lives, which the way I'm feeling, do you know what I'm saying, most probably come down to the same.brbrPoppy Shakespeare, that was her name. She got long shiny hair like an advert. `Shakespeare?' I said when Tony told me. `Fuckin'ell bet she's smart.'brbrTony smiled at the carpet, like this flicker of a smile, like a lighter running low on fluid.brbr`So what am I s'posed to show her?' I said. `I don't know nothing, do I,' I said.brbr`Just show her around the place,' he said. `Introduce her to people, that sort of thing.'brbr`Nah,' I said and I shaken my head. `Ain't up to it, Tony. Sorry; I'm not. Does my head in, that sort of thing. What you asking me for?' I said.brbrBut Jesus, if you'd of heard him go on! Weren't nobody else would do, he said. Weren't nobody else in the world, he said, not Astrid Arsewipe -- couldn't argue with that -- not Middle-Class Michael, not no one at all, alive or dead or both or neither, known as much about dribbling as I did.brbrbrb2. How Tony Balaclava got a point/bbrbrFact is I been dribbling since before I was even born. My mum was a dribbler and her mum as well, 'cept she never seen her hardly, grown up in a home while they scooped out bit@!úáG®{ÿ¾Û€  (less)

A hawk circling improbably high above southern Ontario sees a land mass bordered on the north by Georgian Bay, the west by Lake Huron and Lake St. Clair, the south by Lake Erie, and the east by Lake Ontario and Lake Simcoe. Facing west, the hawk sees the shape of an animal in the land below, the tail heading up the Bruce Peninsula, the feet treading on Niagara Falls and Haliburton, the forehead etched by the St. Clair River, and the trunk, for this is clearly an elephant, nuzzling the cities of Windsor and Detroit.brbrAs the hawk’s spirals tighten, his path circles south central Ontario, and he skirts the flank of the elephant. His elevation decreases, and he is visible overhead from my farm, first as a speck and then recognizable, his tail fanned out, his belly streaked and his wings tipped dark. He catches good thermals over the Dundalk Plain.brbrWhen he dives for a deer mouse in my hayfield, the hawk lands, briefly, over the womb of the elephant. It is a vast open space, isolated from other farms and cushioned by soft hills and gentle valleys. It is where we came to incubate as a couple and apprentice to be stewards of the land.brbr* * * * *brbrWe arrived here in our early twenties by way of the city. Thomas was right out of medical school and keen to start a country practice in the nearby town of Murphy’s Mill. I would take on the house, the land, the creation of a life in the country. The area had been designated as medically under-serviced, and the province guaranteed an income if we stayed for four years. The land provided rich soil to extend roots, dig in and stay. Murphy’s Mill is treed and spired, a road winding in from the south like a Carrington painting or a Maud L?û=p£×ÿ¾Û€  (less)

mark. We were in sunlight under a turkey oak, partly protected from a strong, gusty wind. I was kneeling on the grass with a corkscrew in my hand, and Clarissa was passing me the bottle-a 1987 Daumas Gassac. This was the moment, this was the pinprick on the time map: I was stretching out my hand, and as the cool neck and the black foil touched my palm, we heard a man's shout. We turned to look across the field and saw the danger. Next thing, I was running toward it. The transformation was absolute: I don't recall dropping the corkscrew, or getting to my feet, or making a decision, or hearing the caution Clarissa called after me. What idiocy, to be racing into this story and its labyrinths, sprinting away from our happiness among the fresh spring grasses by the oak. There was the shout again, and a child's cry, enfeebled by the wind that roared in the tall trees along the hedgerows. I ran faster. And there, suddenly, from different points around the field, four other men were converging on the scene, running like me.brbrI see us from two hundred feet up, through the eyes of the buzzard we had watched earlier, soaring, circling, and dipping in the tumult of currents: five men running silently toward the center of a hundred-acre field. I approached from the southeast, with the wind at my back. About two hundred yards to my left two men ran side by side. They were farm laborers who had been repairing the fence along the field's southern edge where it skirts the road. The same distance beyond them was the motorist, John Logan, whose car was banked on the grass verge with its door, or doors, wide open. Knowing what I know now, it's odd to evoke the figure of Jed Parry directly ahead of ?Р (less)

lakeshore, a woman woke early. There was no sound coming from the street below. Darkness was still pressed against her bedroom windows.brbrHer husband was sleeping and did not stir as she slid from the bed, crossed the room, and walked down the hall to the bathroom where she had laid out her clothes the night before: the dark wool suit and grey silk shirt, the string of small pearls, the black tights, white underwear, and conventional cream-­coloured slip, the sombre costume that she believed would ensure that no one would look at her, or look at her for very long. She took no special precautions as she washed and dressed, running the taps and opening the drawers as she would have on any other morning. Malcolm had been out on a night call and had not returned until 3 a.m. He would be sleeping deeply and would not waken for at least two more hours. By then she would be on the train, part of the journey completed.brbrShe stood for some time in front of the open medicine cabinet in the bathroom, gazing at the plastic containers that held her various pills. Then she closed the door and stared at her own face in the mirror. Her fair hair, some of it grey now, was pulled back, and her face, she was relieved to see, was composed, her grey eyes were clear. She could not say whether it was an attractive face that looked back at her. Someone had once told her she was lovely and not, in some ways, that long ago, but she knew that her features, her expression had altered since.brbrThe previous morning, after Malcolm had left for the clinic, she had filled an old suitcase with stockings, one blue skirt and cardigan, underwear, a few cosmetics, two well-­used green leather notebooks, ?Р (less)