This story was a great page-turner. The only thing missing (and thus, four stars instead of five) was a good writer to pass it along. The pages are stuffed with overused words like "dreamy," "ruefully," and "wailed." It is as if Miss McCabe didn't know that there are other words out there that describe these same things. Then there are the misplaced modifiers (a particular bugaboo of mine). Didn't this writer have an editor?
One phrase that particularly annoyed me was a criticism of a character's poetry - "it was shallow, derivative, and lacked depth." Now, could it possibly be that "shallow" and "lacking depth" are precisely the same thing? Frustrating.
However, the story lurking in the pedestrian authorship is a clever one. In order to give herself something to do during a grey Dublin winter, Marion Hunt starts a book club. She wants to meet new people and discuss her favorite pastime - reading. Every bibliophile will understand this inclination. The collection of people drawn to these literary soirees is great fun. My favorite character was that of Christy, an older, essentially non-reading gent who joins along with his wife in order to keep her company and make her happy. He is quite entertaining and during the first difficult pages of the book, I stayed with it because I wanted to know what he would do next.
There are intrigues and twists, and people are thrown together in a way that I didn't expect. The ending, though I wasn't sure until the last forty pages or so how it would go, was pat, and the strings tied up a bit too neatly (and implausibly). Having said that, I enjoyed the story itself, and the characters were interesting for me to get to know.