Scarletblue
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Scarletblue
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Scarlet in Blue: A Novel Hardcover – March 8, 2022
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4.6 out of 5 stars
55 ratings
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A beautiful and gripping psychological novel about a mother and daughter who, after a lifetime on the run from a dark and dangerous past, land in a small Michigan town that may hold the key to ending their fugitive lifestyle. For Blue Lake’s entire life, she and her mother, Scarlet, have been on the run from HIM—the man who Scarlet, a talented and enigmatic painter, insists is chasing them. But now, at fifteen years old, Blue has begun to resent the nomadic life that once seemed like an adventure, increasingly unsure what to make of the phantom pursuer she’s never seen. She only yearns to settle down in one place, to live a normal life. When Scarlet and Blue arrive in the beachfront town of South Haven, Michigan, it seems that Blue’s wishes might finally come true. She makes a good friend, is falling in love for the first time, and has found a piano teacher who recognizes her budding talent. But even as Blue thrives, she cannot shake her worry about her mother, whose eccentricities and art are only becoming increasingly difficult to understand. Scarlet, meanwhile, has very different intentions for their stay in South Haven. It was no accident that she brought them there and, with the help of the psychoanalyst she’s sought out, Henry, she is determined to find a way to finally escape the shadow of her traumatic past, no matter the cost. Told through the alternating voices of Blue, Scarlet, and Henry, Scarlet in Blue is a page-turning story about the ramifications of past trauma, the way art can hold our lives together, and, most of all, the enduring bond between mother and child.
"Murphy dazzles.... This novel will leave readers questioning what is real and how mental health can affect generations in kaleidoscopic ways.... Luminous writing... while those who enjoy a plot-driven mystery will also find what they are looking for.” —Booklist (starred) “The characters of mother and daughter and the bonds between them are beautifully drawn… The author’s lovely prose flows effortlessly, flavored by her wide knowledge of art and her ability to engage the reader in the techniques of the artist. This is a psychological drama that is unique and captivating, making it both an impressive and engrossing novel.” —Mystery & Suspense “[ Scarlet in Blue ] is ultimately a love story between a mother and a daughter as well as an examination of how trauma shapes our lives and choices.” —Library Journal "Just like a beautiful and complex painting, Scarlet in Blue pulls readers in — and then captivates them with a story that is part mystery, part thriller, and wholly gripping and fascinating. The perfect dark escape." —Jill Santopolo, New York Times bestselling author of The Light We Lost "I don’t think I breathed from start to finish, but Scarlet in Blue was worth every breathless moment. A haunting, heart-tugging page-turner." —Jennifer Niven, New York Times bestselling author of All the Bright Places and Holding Up the Universe “Set in the early 1960s, this is a noir movie lover's book. It's for fans who don't quite want a mystery to read. Just put Scarlet in Blue in your lap and color yourself sunny yellow.” —The Bookworm Sez “ Scarlet In Blue examines family ties that bind so tightly....This story of running from abuse is beautifully suffused with the majesty of music and the chimera of art. Once you begin this tale, you will stay until the final note.” —Randy Susan Meyers, bestselling author of Waisted "From word one the chase is on. And it’s Jennifer Murphy’s rapid-fire delivery that sets the pace, the mysterious ‘Shadow Man’ one step behind. But it is the fluid portrait of the world Scarlet and Blue inhabit that is the real art here, and Murphy’s language is the perfect canvas. Within this mind-labyrinth, Murphy has created a work that rightly takes its place among the best novels to explore the psychology of the mother-daughter relationship while offering a mystery with the riches of a meticulously crafted painting." —Douglas Cole, author of The White Field , a winner of the American Fiction Award
Jennifer Murphy holds an MFA in painting from the University of Denver and an MFA in creative writing from the University of Washington. She is the recipient of the 2013 Loren D. Milliman Scholarship for creative writing and was a contributor at the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference from 2008 through 2012. In 2015, her acclaimed debut novel, I Love You More (Doubleday, 2014), won the prestigious Nancy Pearl Fiction Award. Her love of art led her to start Citi Arts, a public art and urban planning company that has created public art master plans for airports, transit facilities, streetscapes, and cities nationwide. She hails from a small beachfront town in Michigan and has lived in Denver, Charlotte, Seattle, and Charleston. She currently lives in Houston, Texas.
Publisher
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Dutton (March 8, 2022) Language
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English Hardcover
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384 pages ISBN-10
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0593183460 ISBN-13
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978-0593183465 Item Weight
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1.35 pounds Dimensions
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6.3 x 1.2 x 9.3 inches
4.6 out of 5 stars
55 ratings
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I first rated this a 3 star and later changed it to 4. This book was very upsetting to me. However that’s because the author ,Jennifer Murphy, was so knowledgeable about schizophrenia. I felt like she was writing about someone I knew and loved. It hit close to home. It was disturbing to me. But it deserved a good rating.
This is the second book I’ve read by the author, Jennifer Murphy, and it did not disappoint. I love the way she seamlessly incorporates art into the story line. The complexity of the mother and daughter’s situation was intriguing and kept my interest throughout. Do yourself a favor & buy a copy for your summer vacation read!
I didn't hate it, but there were several things that didn't let me enjoy it, either. For someone who, like the author, paints, the constant references to art feel forced at times,or even pretentious. I couldn't connect with any of the POV characters: Henry and Scarlet, though they had distinct voices, felt both very one dimensional, and I could never get a real feel for Blue's personality. Secondary characters are rather nondescript, and woefully, like many other murder mysteries, the romance felt just like an accessory instead of two people really connecting. Talking about the mystery: the twist was telegraphed WAY too early, and the ending dragged on for too long. Too much exposure, too much info dumping. I also never understood the reason why Blue's chapters were told in present tense and formatted differently. The premise sounded great, and the cover was super intriguing, but it didn't do it for me. Perhaps other people will enjoy it.
I really enjoyed this book. Mother and daughter always make a great team, through good and bad.
The way the Author brings you along the journey of the characters - omg couldn’t put it down!
So good, I couldn't put it down!!! Definitely recommend, thoroughly enjoyed it!!!
I was drawn to this book for a lot of reasons. The Michigan settings are familiar to me and I am always eager to read something that explores the mother/daughter dynamic in a new way. Scarlet in Blue gets off to a fast start, mainly because it jumps right into the the plot and provides the backstory later. And it definitely delivers the mother/daughter story arc in a unique way. I enjoyed the way the story's pace is set by the daughter's (Blue's) perception of her mother's mental state. Scarlet (the mother) was the victim of abuse as a young child and while the reasons behind her being in that position are never quite explained, the result is a woman who is both artistically gifted and seriously disturbed. Her moods swing wildly from sad to manic in a way that anyone with a manic depressive/borderline schizophrenic family member will recognize. The way Blue normalizes her life around these swings is tragic but realistic. Scarlet and Blue live on then run--running away from a man who at first seems like a figment of Scarlet's fevered imagination but later is revealed to be real, alive, and definitely chasing her. When they land in a tourist town on the west coast of Michigan, Scarlet is determined that it will their last stop and she is going to face her demon. She does, with the help of a kindly analyst whose tie to the Super Bad Guy is revealed in surprising stages. And by the end of the novel, both Scarlet and Blue are living their artistic dream lives, even though one of them thinks the other one is dead. It's too easy to provide spoilers so I will leave it at that and encourage anyone who enjoys a twisty psychological thriller to dive right into this one. There is a lot of art and music used to describe feelings and situations and the reliance on both made this an even more pleasurable read for me. The only (very small) thing I personally kept tripping over was the name "Blue Lake," because there is a "Blue Lake" in Michigan--it's where my kids went to summer camp for several years--but I loved Blue and was cheering for her to succeed all the way through. My other issue with it, plot-wise was the way the reasons that Scarlet was surrendered to the bad guy were mentioned once but never fully expanded upon. But I give this book a full 4 stars for readability, entertainment value, and creativity (plus "Michigan" as a setting!)
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It was more difficult than I had imagined. Not the gory part-I relished watching the blood ooze from his flesh-but the lifting and dragging. He was heavy.
The book on Impressionism lies open to the portrait by Renoir. I can't remember Madame ever looking so real, so alive. Everything is alive. Me, my surroundings, my canvas. Light drenches the room. Sheer curtains flutter and soar. My senses are crazy sharp. Distant waves roll and splash. A hummingbird's wings tick like a clock. Apron strings brush my bare flesh. The scents: a pungent stew of turpentine, linseed oil, and corpse. My palette a sea of glorious reds. Scarlets and roses, carmine and crimson. I can't help but swirl my fingers through the gooey mixture.
I study my canvas. Compare it to Renoir's Madame. Poor thing. Her reds had faded long ago, but I tell her not to worry. Because now I can fix that.
I see her there sometimes, inside that frozen wave. Floating, white nightgown billowing, blond hair swirling. Sometimes she's holding the knife she used to slit his throat. Sometimes it's she who is dead. When the bad images come, I try to replace them with good. Her smile, her playful spontaneity, the particular choreography of her body when she applied paint to canvas.
But these attempts don't always work.
It's cold and windy today, as it is most winter days in Chicago. Symphony practice just broke for lunch. I listen to Vivaldi through my newfangled earmuffs (a birthday gift to myself for a number I'd rather not discuss) as I cross Michigan Avenue. Who knew that one day they'd put miniature speakers inside fur? Like always, I slow my pace as I near the Art Institute. I never enter it. Yet I choose to walk by it every day. I tell myself I prefer the wide sidewalk that fronts it, admire its Beaux Arts architecture, appreciate the large green lion statues that flank its grand entrance, but I know those aren't the real reasons.
I glance at the colorful exhibition banners. They don't change much, every few months or so, but I see there's a new one. I try to make out the lettering. Squint.
My heart beats fast and loud. I read the banner again to make sure. It is the exact title my mother had used for a lesson she gave me that final year on the little-known art term fugitive pigment.
Then, just like that, I'm propelled forward. I cross the plaza, pass under the arched doorways, file through the ticket line, wander along the maze of halls displaying works by Van Gogh and Matisse and Seurat until I stand before duplicate paintings of Pierre-Auguste Renoir's Madame LŽon Clapisson.
I catch my breath, feel faint. I'm not certain I even know there is a bench behind me when my knees buckle.
For Madame was the painting on my mother's easel that day.
FUGITIVE PIGMENT: Pigment that either fades with prolonged exposure to light, is susceptible to atmospheric pollution, or tends to darken when mixed with other substances.
My eyes still burn from the thick cloud of cigarette smoke. We are walking home from dinner. A dark wood-paneled bar sporting dead animals. There's a menu item called popcorn shrimp I really like. My mother didn't eat. She rarely eats dinner, perhaps an apple or cheese and grapes, but she never skips her pinot or chardonnay. She insists she should have lived in Italy, where people consume more wine than water. It has just begun to snow. Christmas music pipes through the streets. Decorations are still up. Santa and his reindeer fly from building to building. Colorful lights wrap around trees and posts and boat masts. My mother, drunk, is even more animated than her normal not-normal self. Dressed all in white, she leaps and twirls along the sidewalk, her arms cupped above her head like a sugarplum fairy.
She inhales, sighs. "Do you smell that? How about we pick up some fresh scones and clotted cream from the bakery? I can make a mushroom omelet and new potatoes and berry tarts."
My mother's favorite meal is breakfast. We often engage in long, leisurely morning feasts. We can enjoy this luxury because she doesn't have a day job. She is a painter. Nationally recognized. A gallery in New York exhibits her work.
She rushes ahead, motions me to follow. "Come on. Don't be such a stick-in-the-mud. It's a joyous night."
I don't like it when she calls me a stick-in-the-mud. "Circumspect," I say.
She doesn't hear me. She is in front of the bakery by now, peering through the window. I see what happens next in slow motion. I see her reach for the door handle. I see her face distort. I see her recoil, slump to the ground.
I run to her, help her to her feet. "What's wrong?"
HIM is the man who is chasing "us," meaning her and, by association, me. She refuses to utter his name because names, she says, give someone value. I have another name for him, the Shadow Man, because I've never actually seen him, and so, especially when I was a child, I imagined him lurking in shadows-around corners, behind doors, under my bed-waiting to devour me. I have yet to conquer my fear.
"Where?" I ask, my chest tightening, heart pounding. I see the clerk behind the counter. I see people sitting at tables. A family with two children. A blind woman with a German shepherd. No singular person stands out.
She points. "There. In the glass. His car."
"You mean a reflection?" I check the street. Nothing.
"We need to leave," she says. "Now." She grabs my hand and we run.
Once home, a small but clean apartment above the five-and-dime, she pulls the large rucksack out from under the bed, brushes off the dust that has accumulated over the past several months, and says what she does every time we move. "Grab your backpack. Remember, just five of your favorite outfits, a jacket and parka, a pair each of sandals, shoes, winter boots, and no more than three books and five valuables."
"What about my piano?" I ask. "And my sheet music?"
We'd found the piano the week we arrived in Erie. An upright with wheels. My mother pointed out it was next to
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