“There’s everyone else in the world. And then there is you.”
World-class heart surgeon Dr. Peter Sutter runs his life with the instinctive precision of a master of the universe. But when he leaves the operating room, the only living thing waiting for him is a golden retriever. Then a chance encounter with an enigmatic woman changes everything.
Exploring the depths of Rosalind’s intoxicating body and captivating spirit, Peter quickly falls under her spell. Miraculously, the feeling is mutual.
But fate is waiting just around the corner. And it might be carrying a lead pipe.
ROSALIND is a sensual, witty, moving story about the joy of real love, the surprise and delight of unexpected passion, and the transcendent power of human connection.
Targeted Age Group:: 18+
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
I believe in soulmates, though they can be hard to find. I wanted to tell the story of two such lovers who have the great good fortune to meet. I was inspired to tell the story from the perspective of the man, not the woman, because I believe men love as deeply and uncompromisingly as women and wanted to convey that lesser-told perspective. My goal was to write a funny, moving, sincere celebration of true love and passion that is joyous, bittersweet, and sometimes even heart-rending — like life, in other words.
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
I decided to write about a cardiac surgeon falling head over heels in love because I was fascinated by the interior life of such an exalted person. I wanted to give life to the kind of man who is often perceived by outsiders to be largely above the emotional fray, but who is every bit as passionate and lonely and eager to give and receive love as the rest of us. In Rosalind, the main female character, I tried to write the kind of woman I love to know in real life — independent, slightly profane, sure of her desires, physically voracious, and emotionally open and available.
I’d forgotten what it’s like to do things just for the hell of it. We went to the Met late one afternoon, ticketless, on the off chance that we could get in, and scored a pair of nosebleed seats to Götterdämerung, at which we lasted forty minutes before fleeing back to our nest on Fifty-Seventh Street. We took the seven to Citi Field and watched five innings’ worth of the Mets being humiliated by the Cardinals. We poked around antique shops in the East Village, picking up a 1950s-era mailbox and a thick, soft blanket made of fake gray chinchilla. We bought a little vintage Wedgwood dish because the white silhouetted profile on the lid reminded me of Rosalind. We ran into Keith and Estes on the southeast corner of the Park and went with them to the St. Regis, where the three of us sat Rosalind down in the King Cole Bar and plied her with ridiculously expensive single malt.
But mostly we stayed in. At about noon on the Friday, for example, when I had thought we were going to try to get into the Minetta Tavern for lunch, I came out of the bathroom where I’d showered, shaved and dressed to find Rosalind still sprawled on top of the crumpled bedspread with the Times crossword. On her top half, she was wearing the two gray tank tops she had slept in; on the bottom, she had on a pair of light blue cotton underpants cut like short male boxers – a far cry from the silky filmy thing she’d worn that first time we were together, but they got me nonetheless. She was wearing reading glasses on the end of her nose, shiny black cat-eye things she’d picked up at Duane Reade. They made her eyes look huge.
“I thought you hated the Times,” I said. “And why aren’t you dressed? I want my porterhouse.”
She waved a hand to shush me. “Hold on,” she said.
“Mulched.” She filled in the word and tossed the paper, the pencil, and the Edith Prickley glasses on the night table.
“Yeah, of course I hate the Times,” she said. “But I’m not going to hold that against Will Shortz.”
“We’re going to be late,” I said.
Rosalind smiled. She didn’t move. “You look handsome,” she said. “Another half hour gonna kill you, you think?”
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