The Paris Bookshop for the Brokenhearted by Rebecca Raisin (Fiction)
En Route: A Journey Through France in the Company of Great Writers by Peter Fiennes (Travel)
Poilâne: The Secrets of the World-Famous Bread Bakery by Apollonia Poilâne (Cookbook)

En Route: A Journey Through France in the Company of Great Writers by Peter Fiennes (Travel)
Poilâne: The Secrets of the World-Famous Bread Bakery by Apollonia Poilâne (Cookbook)
L'Enfance de Bécassine by Jacqueline Rivière (Children's Cartoon)

Today's Featured Book:
Whistler: A Novel
by Ann Patchett
Genre: Fiction
Published: June 2, 2026
Page Count: 300 pages
Summary:
When Daphne Fuller and her husband Jonathan visit the Metropolitan Museum of Art, they notice an older, white-haired gentleman following them. The man turns out to be Eddie Triplett, her former stepfather, who had been married to her mother for a little more than year when Daphne was nine. Now fifty-three, Daphne hasn’t seen Eddie for many years, not since the fateful event that changed the direction of both their lives. Meeting again, time falls away; while their relationship was brief, it had a profound impact on them both, and now that they are reunited, they have no intention of ever being separated again.
Whistler is a story about two adults looking back over the choices they made, and the choices that were made for them. It’s a story about bravery, memory, the often small yet consequential moments that define our lives, and the endless stream of loss that in time comes for us all. Beautiful in its simplicity, it is ultimately about how love endures, and how the feeling of being known by one other person, even for a short period of time, can change everything.
"Old guy," my husband said in a low voice, his lips touching my ear. "Near the exit sign."
"Stop it." The joke itself was as old as rocks.
Jonathan raised his eyebrows. "I'm serious. He kept looking at you in the ticket line. Then he followed us through Medieval Art, and now he's just standing there. Do you see him? He looks at you whenever you're not looking."
I knew what Leda would say. She would say it was because childhood never leaves us. We seal the room up and cover it in sheetrock. We dry and sand and paint, but the pocket of history remains, and sooner or later someone always winds up tapping on the wall, commenting on the way it sounds strangely hollow in there, and then the whole thing comes tumbling down.
Just so you know---it's not a horse story as the cover might lead you to believe. No, it's a book that takes on love and secrets and childhoods and marriages and remarriages and stepparents and family and a car accident and healing and death, and, yes, there is a horse in the book and he plays an important role in the story but he isn't really even part of the story.
I wasn't expecting to love this story. I love this story. I love Daphne and her husband, Jonathan, and Daphne's sister, psychologist Leda, and Daphne and Leda's stepfather, Eddie, and even the horse. Whistler. Whistler the horse.
The purpose of THE BOOK BLOGGER HOP is to give bloggers a chance to follow other blogs, learn about new books, and befriend other bloggers. THE BOOK BLOGGER HOP is hosted by Ramblings of a Coffee Addicted Writer.
If you had to stick to one genre forever, which would you choose and why? (submitted by Billy @ Coffee-Addicted Writer)
This is tricky. Let's see...
I would pick nonfiction. I know I'm not in the majority here, but I am crazy about good nonfiction...
Or poetry. There's nothing that hits you in the gut like poetry...
I'm wild about picture books, too...
And literary fiction is great...
This is agony. Stop it. Don't make me choose.
My pattern:
I hear about a wonderful book.
I desperately search my library catalogs for the book.
It's not available.
I comb through the used book sites for a bargain.
It's only for sale at full price.
I hunger to read that book. I click the purchase button.
Every day I scan my mail notifications. When will my book arrive?
I wait and wait. It takes a week, sometimes two weeks, to make it to my house.
It's here! I go to the mailbox, and rush inside to open the package.
I set the book at the top of my to-read stack. I do not start it.
I move the book to my under-the-bed stack. I do not start it.
I shift the book to my book closet. I do not start it.
The fire in me is now embers. And then ashes.
The book is pushed to the back, to the bottom of the book closet.
I see it several years later. I think about putting it out in my Little Free Library.
Sigh.

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