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A Novel

Written by Lorna LandvikAuthor Alerts:  Random House will alert you to new works by Lorna Landvik



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On Sale: September 04, 2007
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Synopsis|Excerpt

Synopsis

THE VIEW FROM MOUNT JOY, Lorna Landvik’s delightfully quirky and intensely moving new novel, is about the unexpected pleasures found in living a good life.

When hunky teenage hockey player Joe Andreson moves to Minneapolis, Joe falls under the seductive spell of Kristi Casey, Ole Bull High’s libidinous head cheerleader. Joe balances Kristi’s lustful manipulation with the down-to-earth companionship of his smart, platonic girlfriend, Darva. But it is Kristi who will prove to be a temptation throughout Joe’s life.

Years later, having once dreamed of a career in pro hockey or as a globetrotting journalist, Joe can’t believe that life has deposited him in the aisles of Haugland Foods. But he soon learns that being a grocer is like being the mayor of a small town. For Joe, everyday life is its own roller-coaster ride, and all he wants to do is hold on tight.

The path Kristi has charged down, on the other hand, is as wild as Joe’s is tame–or at least that’s how it appears. But who has really risked more? Who has lived more? And who is truly happy? As Joe discovers, sometimes people are lucky enough to be standing in the one place where the view of the world is breathtaking, if only they’ll open their eyes to all there is to see.

Excerpt

Chapter One

Standing at the urinal, I read the first graffiti to mar the freshly scrubbed wall of the school bathroom: Viet Nam sucks and Kristi Casey is a stone fox. In the fall of 1971, I was a senior new to Ole Bull High, and while I had formed judgments as to the former (I agreed, the war did suck), I had no idea who Kristi Casey was and whether or not she was a fox, stone or not. When I met her it only took a nanosecond to realize: Man, is she ever.

From my perch on the top row of the football bleachers, I used to watch her and the other cheerleaders, their short pleated skirts fanning out as they sprang into the air, screaming at the Bulls to “go, fight, win!” as if the continuation of human civilization depended on their victory. The late sixties still bled its influence into the early seventies, and many of us considered ourselves too hip in a mellow make-love-not-war way to look at those bouncing, pom-pom- punching, red-faced girls without thinking, Man, are they pathetic. Except, of course, for Kristi. Every time she tossed her dark blond hair, cut in a shag like Jane Fonda’s in Klute, every time she bent down to pull up a flagging crew sock, every time she offered up a sly dimpled smile, it was as if she’d handed us our own personal box of Cracker Jack, with a special surprise inside. She was the kind of girl who could do uncool things like act as secretary for the Future Farmers of America after-school club or solicit funds for Unicef during lunch hour (she told me having a wide range of interests looked good on college applications) and the consensus would still be: Wow.

Darva Pratt was not part of the consensus and, in fact, loathed Kristi Casey and all that she stood for.

“Look at her,” said Darva, as if I needed prodding. It was during halftime, and as the marching band played the theme song to Hawaii Five-O, Kristi kept time on a bass drum she had strapped over her shoulders. “God forbid the band steal some of her spotlight.”

After they played the bridge, the band quieted, playing two notes over and over as Kristi began a rhythmic duel with the band’s official bass drummer. She pounded out an uncomplicated beat, which the bass drummer answered. The crowd cheered, and then it was the drummer’s turn. His was a more complicated rhythm, which Kristi echoed, no problem. The crowd cheered again. This went on, the fans growing wilder as each drummer’s challenge increased in speed and difficulty. Finally Kristi beat out a tempo so intricate, so tricky, that after a few beats her challenger threw down his mallets and bowed deeply, his long furry hat practically sweeping the ground. Flashing her bright, white smile, Kristi held up her arms in victory as the crowd exploded, the drum major signaled, and the band played the last measures of the song at full volume.

“Wow,” I said after we had all sat down. “That girl can drum.”

“Of course she can,” said Darva. “She’s our golden girl.”

I laughed. “Jealous?”

Now it was Darva’s turn to laugh. “Yes. It’s my lifelong desire to be the wet dream of hundreds of high school boys.”

“Language, Darva,” I said, putting a little gasp of shock in my voice. “Language.”

The third quarter began, and we sat in the bleachers, warmed by the mild autumn sun, watching the game. Under a great bowlful of blue sky, the trees themselves cheered us on, waving their maroon and gold leaves in the breeze and dislodging a squad of crows who cawed their cheers; it was as if all of nature was throwing a pep rally for a bunch of high school kids. I shut my eyes and raised my face to that solar warmth, but my respite lasted only a moment before Darva’s sharp elbow found purchase in my lower ribs.

“Look at what your girlfriend’s doing now.”

Some schools are named after presidents or astronauts. Ours honored a nineteenth-century Norwegian violinist and our mascot was a furry bull. I opened my eyes to see Kristi, chasing it along the sidelines.

Darva made a tsking sound. “When it comes to high school girls, I thought the bar was set pretty low, but man, she knocks it over.”

“You’re a high school girl.”

“A status that will be changed tomorrow, when I hop a train to Sandusky, Ohio.”

“What’s in Sandusky?”

Darva’s eyes squinted behind her lavender-tinted glasses. “Oh, sand. Some dusk.”

Every day Darva made plans to escape to “anywhere but here,” sometimes to great and faraway cities and other times to Podunk and its many counterparts. She claimed every hour spent in high school caused the death of a million innocent brain cells and that she could no longer be a participant in their slaughter.

“Write me when you get there, okay?” I said, nudging her shoulder with my own, and we watched as the Washburn Millers trounced the Bulls 37–6.

A transfer student, I was grateful that Darva had befriended me the first day of school.

“What have you got?” she asked, sliding her lunch tray onto the table as she sat across from me. “An infectious disease?”

Looking around the empty table, I scratched my head. “Yeah, malaria. I picked it up on leave in Da Nang.”

The girl laughed. “I personally like boys who’ve seen war before they’ve graduated high school. Gives them a certain maturity.”

She pressed the edges of her milk carton apart and then forward, opening up a little spout.

“By the way, malaria’s not contagious.”

“What are you, Albert Schweitzer?”

“Darva Pratt,” she said, holding up her milk carton.

“Joe Andreson,” I said, and clinked her carton with my own, toasting my first friend at Ole Bull High.

It was a friendship that would have consequences.

“What’re you hanging around with that freak for?” asked Todd Randolph, whose locker was next to mine.

I spun the dial of my combination lock. “What freak?”

“That freak,” said Todd, gesturing at Darva, who, with her dangly earrings and ropes of love beads and bracelets, fairly jingled as she continued walking down the hallway to her own locker. “That hippie chick. She doesn’t even wear a bra, man.”

I didn’t say anything but looked pointedly at the chubby-girl breasts revealed underneath his snagged Ban Lon shirt.

Todd Randolph flushed. “Fuck you.”

“Todd, buddy,” I said, clapping him on the back, “I’m flattered, but really—no thanks.”

Like any other high school, Ole Bull High had a tightly controlled clique system, but I just couldn’t be bothered with it. This is not to say I was above all that crap; not only had I had a fair amount of prestige at my old school, I’d enjoyed it. I was not the king, like Steve Alquist, whose letter jacket sleeves barely had room for all his award insignias, but I was at least in the court, and I took pleasure in all its privileges. I was a part of everything that mattered—but everything that mattered was now two hundred miles away.

“No,” I said when my mother told me we were moving. “No, I’m not going. No way. Forget about it.”

“Joe,” said my mother, her eyes tearing up, which never failed to make me cave in just to stop them. “Joe, I know all your friends are here, and your team . . . but I need you. I can’t make it here anymore, and I can’t make it in Minneapolis without you.”

She wouldn’t have had to “make it” anywhere had my father not gone off and gotten himself killed in the stupid Cessna of stupid Miles Milnar, who was Granite Creek’s big-shot developer (“We’re going to turn this hick town into a resort haven!”) and my dad’s best friend. Their last view of anything was probably the soybean field they were about to crash into; Miles Milnar never got to see Granite Creek become “the next Aspen” (the jerk—didn’t he consider our lack of mountains a slight disadvantage?), and my dad never got to see me graduate from the eighth grade. I suppose it’s lousy to lose your dad at any age, but to lose him at fourteen seemed especially cruel; here I was on the cusp of manhood (my voice cracking like spring ice, the rogue hair sprouting on my chin) with no man to pull me up, clap me on the back, and welcome me into the club. For a while there, I really thought I was going to die from the pain of it. Or the anger.

Things never got back to the way they had been, but eventually my mom stopped crying all the time, I stopped thinking I was going to explode, and a new normalcy crept into the house I’d grown up in. And now she was willing to throw away that normalcy we’d worked so hard to cobble together.

“Just tell her you’re not going!” said Steve Alquist at the kegger that was my going-away party.

“Yeah, you could stay at my house,” said Gary Conroy, who’d played D with me since we were pee wees. “She can’t break up the team like that!”

“You could come to my house for supper,” said Jamie Jensen, my might- be girlfriend. (“Might-be” because she’d just broken up with Dan Powers and we’d been hovering around each other, waiting for someone to make a move.) “I’ve got to cook two dinners a week for my 4-H project . . . and my lasagna’s pretty good.”

“I’ll bet it is,” I said, and because I was a little drunk, I reacted to the internal voice that hollered, It’s now or never, stupid! by leaning over and kissing her. That she kissed me back almost made me feel worse than I already did.

But as bummed out as I was about leaving Granite Creek, I couldn’t not go. It was a close call, but I figured in the scheme of things, my mother needed me to go with her more than I needed to stay.

“You owe me big-time,” I said as we loaded up the rental truck a week after school got out.

“I know I do, Joe. And I’ll figure out a way to make it up to you; I promise I will.”

“You don’t have to make anything up to me,” I said, the gruffness in my voice a fence holding back my emotions.

She sniffed. “I love you, Joey.”

It seems there’s been a shift in the family hierarchy; nowadays parents do everything for their kids. If junior’s an athlete, his parents enroll him in expensive clinics and traveling teams and easily transfer him to a different school to give him a better playing opportunity. Hell, when we played, lots of parents didn’t even come to regular games, saving their appearances for tournaments or playoffs. Not that we minded—our parents weren’t on us the way parents are on kids now. But conversely, it was understood that in the family’s decision making, the adults were the captains and the kids were second string, if they were even allowed on the team.

But all I knew as we drove through our shady neighborhood was: My life as I know it is ending!

My mother must have picked up my telepathically transmitted howl, because when she spoke again, her voice was bright and cheery. It was that sort of bright and cheery that reeks of fakeness, but when it came to my mom, I’d take fakeness over tears any day.

“You’ll see, Joey—it’s going to be great living in a city! It’ll be one adventure after another!”

“Sure it will, Ma,” I said, and just as we turned off Main Street toward the freeway, I looked at the marquis of the Paramount movie theater. Play Misty for Me was showing, and I could imagine the crowd— my crowd—that would see it that night; could imagine the insults they’d yell at the screen if the dialogue was lame; could imagine the perturbed “shh!” they’d get from other patrons as they passed Hot Tamales and jujubes down the row, rattling the boxes like maracas; could imagine how I might kiss Jamie Jensen and how she would taste like buttered popcorn.

It wasn’t until we were on the freeway, heading south, that I realized how much my jaw hurt, how I was clenching my teeth so hard that I thought they might crumble in their sockets. How could “one adventure after another” even compare to Play Misty for Me showing at the Paramount?

My aunt Beth lived in a house by Lake Nokomis, and my bedroom had a window the morning sun blared into, slapping me in the face and shouting, Wake up!

“Well, honey, just pull the shade,” advised my mother when I told her how I couldn’t sleep past dawn in that room.

“As long as you’re getting up so early, why don’t you go down to Haugland’s?” said my aunt Beth, refilling my coffee cup. (She had assumed without asking that I liked coffee, and to my surprise, I found I did.) “I know they’re hiring down there.”

“Maybe I will,” I said, heaping a spoonful of jam on my toast. My aunt had a pantry full of fancy stuff she ordered from specialty catalogs—cylinders of German cookies, imported tins of fish, French pâtés, Swedish candies, and jars of fancy English curds and jams that emptied a lot faster now that we were living with her. But that was the cool thing—well, one of the cool things—about my aunt Beth: she never made me or my mother feel like we were slumming. To her we were guests she couldn’t believe it was her good fortune to host. I knew she wanted me to work so I’d get out of the house—but in a good way.

“It’s the best way to meet people,” she said. “Haugland’s is right by the lake, and it’s swarming with kids in the summer.”


From the Hardcover edition.
Lorna Landvik|Author Q&A

About Lorna Landvik

Lorna Landvik - The View From Mount Joy

Photo © Brian Velenchenko

Lorna Landvik is the author of the bestselling novels Patty Jane's House of Curl, Your Oasis on Flame Lake, and The Tall Pine Polka. She is also an actor, playwright, and proud hockey mom.

Author Q&A

A Conversation with Lorna Landvik

Random House Reader’s Circle: Why did you decide to write this book entirely from a man’s perspective?

Lorna Landvik: It wasn’t much my decision; when Joe Andreson came into my head, he asserted himself as the narrator. I just followed him around, pen in hand, or computer on lap.

RHRC: This novel spans Joe Andreson’s life from his teenage years until his fifties. Did you always plan on taking your readers through so much of Joe’s life?

LL: Honestly, there’s not a lot of planning when I start a book. We meet Joe at the beginning of the book in his senior year of high school and while I knew we weren’t going to stay in high school, I didn’t know how far I’d take him through life.

RHRC: The message that this book evokes is that life takes people on unexpected roads leading to happiness. Did you develop the story with this in mind or did the book just evolve to what it is?

LL: When you write about people’s lives, the unexpected always pops up, just as it does in real life. I’m not an outliner; it’s the appearance of the main characters in my head that first propels me to write and the story is revealed bit by bit, as I write.

RHRC: Sweet, thoughtful, and sensitive Joe Andreson is almost too good to be true. Did you base his character on someone in your life?

LL: I always say I don’t base any characters on real people and as much as that seems true, I’m sure the people who’ve influenced me in my life color my fiction. My dad, for instance, was a tenderhearted man, unafraid of showing his feelings. He was also very playful and always had time for his kids. I was the youngest–and the only girl–and he was a big believer in me and the idea that I could do anything my brothers could do. And he loved to laugh–and loved when I made him laugh (I sorta liked that too). My husband is the same kind of man–kind, compassionate, funny, and a big fan of our own daughters. So I guess when I knew I was going to spend a whole book with this guy Joe, I was going to have to like him a lot.

RHRC: Some people may think–incorrectly, of course–that The View from Mount Joy is sexually explicit. What’s your response to that?

LL: Whew–I’m blushing! Granted, some scenes with Kristy are kind of “frisky” but they were written–I hope–comically. I wanted to reverse the power quotient of the sex; Kristi was the one in charge–it was all about power for her–and I made Joe her happy, willing foil. One of my friends asked her mother if she was offended at these scenes and her reaction was to laugh and assure her daughter that she could handle it. My own mom–my biggest fan–died several years ago and I did wonder what she would have thought about some of these scenes, but then I tended to want to protect my mother from everything when she really didn’t need my protection.

RHRC: The View from Mount Joy has such a wonderful and appealing cast of characters–yes, even the diabolical Kristi brings something to the table. Who would you say is your favorite character?

LL: I’m very diplomatic when it comes to my characters and would never choose a favorite. I like all of them for different reasons; Kristi was indeed diabolical in many aspects but I also appreciated those qualities that Joe liked and made him stay loyal to her–her sense of fun, her wildness, that spark–“Here I am!”–that a lot of people, out of shyness or self-consciousness, snuff out. I also liked her family; her brother, Kirk, who becomes Joe’s best friend, had a different kind of self-confidence, one that wasn’t tainted by meanness. And their mother’s evolution was fun to write about also. Joe’s mom and Aunt Beth, Darva, Jenny, Flora, the boys, Ed Haugland, the customers . . . they all become part of the little flawed family you’ve created in your head.

RHRC: I love the idea and symbolism of a “Mount Joy.” How did you come up with that?

LL: Several years ago we took a road trip, looking at colleges for my older daughter. We were driving through Kentucky and I saw a road sign that announced “Mount Joy,” and I thought, “Wow! Imagine living in a place called Mount Joy!” I filed the name away and it turns out it wanted to come out for this book. I considered entitling it “Mount Joy” but then I thought it sounded too much like a candy bar or a book that would be shelved in the erotica section.

RHRC: Do you have a “Mount Joy” in your life? How’s the view from there?

LL: If a Mount Joy is a place where you see possibility, or goodness, or love, I have a lot of them. Sometimes it’s the view I get on the living room couch–my daughters on the phone, the dog snoozing at my feet, my husband reading the paper can offer these kind of views. Sometimes it’s the way I feel seeing something majestic, like a deep night sky or a sunset. The northern lights that inspire Kristi and Joe are actually ones that we saw up in Grand Marais, Minnesota. We were staying at a cabin with one of our daughters and another couple and had just had a bonfire by the lake when the sky started pulsing with all sorts of lights. It was almost unbelievable, it was so eerie and beautiful and magnificent.

RHRC: What gave you the idea to make Kristi a televangelist? Do you ever listen to Christian radio?

LL: That wily Kristi ...I had no idea her life was going to go in that direction–but then when it did, it made perfect sense. Attention is her drug of choice and when she couldn’t get it in Hollywood, she transferred her focus to the Christian stage. I say “stage” because there’s a lot of show biz in evangelical preaching. Kristi claims her motives are pure but that’s up to the reader to decide. No, I really don’t listen to Christian radio or watch Christian TV; it’s too flashy and fakey and seems more driven by the collection plate than deep spirituality.

RHRC: Darva and Kristi exist on opposite ends of the spectrum, but both are connected through their special relationships with Joe. Which of Joe’s leading ladies was more fun to write about?

LL: I enjoyed writing both of them. They both had dramatic stories, and while Kristi’s was a more public, flamboyant one, it was equally fun to delve into Darva’s domestic-centered life (which was probably more dramatic). They both were strong women but Kristi felt her weaknesses had to be hidden away or denied, and Darva was more confident in being her full self, warts and all.

RHRC: Although Darva’s sit-in was botched by Joe, there were some references to ’70s activism through the beginning of the book. Did you ever experience or participate in any protests or marches?

LL: Oh, yes. My first “action” was in junior high, when I participated in a march to raise money for a worldwide food collective. Through the years I’ve participated in marches and protests for various causes. The most committed one was a nine-month march my husband and our then-baby daughter went on called “The Great Peace March for Global Nuclear Disarmament.” We walked from California to Washington, DC, with five hundred other people. We had a day care bus, school bus, mail truck, food trucks, etc.–it was a movable city (we even had a mayor!). It was a wonderful, wearying experience; to see this country on foot was spectacular (except when I got chiggers in Nebraska) but the charms of living in a tent sometimes waned. Recently, I’ve marched against the Iraq war.

RHRC: Was your high school experience anything like Joe’s?

LL: Yes, Joe went to high school the same time I did, so I got to relive the wonderful, wild culture of the early ’70s. Growing up in Minnesota, hockey was certainly part of our life–although Title Nine didn’t come to pass until my senior year so I couldn’t be on the ice the way my daughters have been; I was up in the stands checking out all the cute guys on the hockey team.

RHRC: Kristi’s story was left somewhat up in the air. Will Kristi ever find happiness? Will she and Tuck remain married?

LL: I don’t like to sew up all hems–that’s up to the reader to decide!

RHRC: Where did you get the idea for the innovative and original Haugland Foods?

LL: I don’t know where I got the idea for Haugland Foods, but I sure know I’d like to shop there! I guess it just grew out of Joe’s basic goodness; he starts the first contest–a supermarket sweep–to amuse himself, but then sees how he can help customers in need. Soon prizes are being donated by local businesses (Patty Jane’s House of Curl, being in the neighborhood, had to offer up free hair care!) and people shopping might be called upon to recite a Walt Whitman poem or name the provinces of Canada, all for a worthy prize.

RHRC: Did you always plan to have Darva die? Did you introduce Jenny into Joe and Flora’s life to compensate for Darva’s death?

LL: Again, I don’t plan a lot of the story; it unfolds as I write it. Flora had already been introduced and was entrenched in Joe’s life. When Darva died (an event that saddened and surprised me), I obviously had to give more attention to Joe and Flora’s relationship. Jenny had been introduced earlier as a flute player in a school band concert–sometimes these people assert themselves and you think they’re only going to be minor, one-scene characters and then boom, they come back in big, major ways. That was Jenny. She came into the story not to compensate for Darva’s death, but for the pure and simple reason that she and Joe were supposed to be together.

Praise

Praise

Praise for Lorna Landvik

Oh My Stars

“Landvik is a national treasure whose writing packs a folksy, storytelling punch. . . . The personalities that populate the pages of Depression-era Oh My Stars feel . . . like fast friends. . . . And oh my stars but how [these] pages do fly by!”
–Minneapolis Star Tribune

“Utterly charming.”
–Cleveland Plain Dealer

Angry Housewives Eating Bon Bons

“Highly entertaining . . . almost as hard to put down [as] Mary McCarthy’s The Group.”
–The Seattle Times

“It is impossible not to get caught up in the lives of the book group members. . . . Landvik’s gift lies in bringing these familiar women to life with insight and humor.”
–The Denver Post

Welcome to the Great Mysterious

“Funny, heartwarming . . . admirably captures the ups and downs of a small town from the humorous perspective of a big-city star.”
–Publishers Weekly

“Geneva is a lovable star who grows in surprising ways.”
–The Orlando Sentinel


From the Hardcover edition.
Discussion Questions

Discussion Guides

1. Do you think Joe and Darva secretly yearned for a relationship with each other? Can a strictly platonic relationship such as theirs occur in real life?

2. How much of Joe’s life and personality was shaped by the loss of his father at such a young age?

3. Who has lived a more fulfilling life–Joe, with his simple, quiet life, or Kristi, with her adventurous life in the spotlight?

4. Did Joe give up on his hockey dreams too easily? Was he being cowardly and taking the easy road?

5. Do you applaud Kristi’s ambitious nature and her refusal to let her dreams get away from her?

6. Joe and Kristi seem to be fated to cross paths time and time again. What is their fascination with each other?

7. It’s obvious that the women in Joe’s life greatly influenced him, but how did his relationships with the men in his life shape him?

8. Was it fair for Lorna Landvik to feed into the typical cheerleader stereotypes?

9. Does Kristi mistake power and fame for happiness? Is she capable of being truly happy?

10. If Darva had not died, do you think Joe would have found happiness? Would he have stayed unmarried, living with his best friend and her daughter?

11. All of the characters experience happiness, tragedy, failures, and successes. Do you think The View from Mount Joy realistically portrays the progression of a life?

12. Did Kristi really love Tuck or did she love the fame that life with him would bring?

13. Jenny, the love of Joe’s life, plays a minor role in the book, compared to Darva and Kristi. Why do you think Lorna Landvik does this?

14. Is Joe a believable narrator? Would you have rather had both Kristi and Joe narrate the story?

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At Home with Lorna Landvik - bookclub trailer

  • The View From Mount Joy by Lorna Landvik
  • September 30, 2008
  • Fiction - Contemporary Women; Fiction
  • Ballantine Books
  • $14.00
  • 9780345468383

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