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Where the River Ends: A Novel [Paperback]

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  • Category: Books (Fiction)
  • Author:  Martin, Charles
  • Author:  Martin, Charles
  • ISBN-10:  0767926994
  • ISBN-10:  0767926994
  • ISBN-13:  9780767926997
  • ISBN-13:  9780767926997
  • Publisher:  Crown
  • Publisher:  Crown
  • Pages:  384
  • Pages:  384
  • Binding:  Paperback
  • Binding:  Paperback
  • Pub Date:  01-Dec-2009
  • Pub Date:  01-Dec-2009
  • SKU:  0767926994-11-SPLV
  • SKU:  0767926994-11-SPLV
  • Item ID: 100602361
  • List Price: $16.00
  • Seller: ShopSpell
  • Ships in: 2 business days
  • Transit time: Up to 5 business days
  • Delivery by: Nov 27 to Nov 29
  • Notes: Brand New Book. Order Now.

A powerfully emotional and beautifully written story of heartbreaking loss and undying love

He was a fishing guide and struggling artist from a south George trailer park. She was the beautiful only child of South Carolina’s most powerful senator. Yet once Doss Michaels and Abigail Grace Coleman met by accident, they each felt they’d found their true soul mate.

Ten years into their marriage, when Abbie faces a life-threatening illness, Doss battles it with her every step of the way. And when she makes a list of ten things she hopes to accomplish before she loses the fight for good, Doss is there, too, supporting her and making everything possible. Together they steal away in the middle of the night to embark upon a 130-mile trip down the St. Mary’s River—a voyage Doss promised Abbie in the early days of their courtship.

Where the River Ends
chronicles their love-filled, tragedy-tinged journey and a bond that transcends all.“Lovers of love stories, get ready to cry you a ‘River.’”„ŸUSA TODAY

“This tale is a pleasure to read because it eloquently pictures unquestioning, steadfast love.” „ŸFayetteville ObserverCHARLES MARTIN is the author of six novels. He and his family live in Jacksonville, Florida.1
MAY 30

I climbed the final step into my studio, sniffed the dank fireplace and wondered how long it would take an errant flame to consume everything in here. Minutes I should think. Arms folded, I leaned against the wall and stared at all the eyes staring back at me. Abbie had tried so hard to make me believe. Even taken me halfway around the world. Introduced me to Rembrandt, poked me in the shoulder and said, "You can do that." So I had painted. Faces mostly. My mother had planted the seed that, years later, Abbie watered, nurtured and pruned. In truth, given a good flame and a tardy fire departmel³.

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