The Snow Garden: A Novel [Hardcover]

The Snow Garden is the second novel from Christopher Rice, author of A Density of Souls. Rice's debut marked him out as a writer of irresistible narrative skills--this was a gothic mystery rich in atmospheric detail and some highly individual characterisation. Similar elements appear in The Snow Garden, but in some ways this second book is even more assured than its predecessor, with the emotional lives of its youthful protagonists (freshmen at Atherton University) delineated with real intelligence. Jesse, Randall and Kathryn find themselves connected by more than just their mutual studies.

In an ice-bound river, a professor's wife has drowned, and the unruffled surface of campus life at Atherton University is becoming agitated. Randall has had an affair with the professor, and revelations are pending in the local press. Rumours grow, and people in the town make connections with a similar death many years earlier, and the deception that binds the three friends together threatens to destroy them utterly.

It would be foolish to deny that the plot does not have strong echoes of Donna Tartt's much-acclaimed The Secret History, but Christopher Rice is very much his own man and such allusions are only momentarily distracting. Perhaps the gothic elements (so skilfully handled here) should not be too much of a surprise, as the author's mother is no less than Anne Rice, doyenne of the epic vampire novel. And as this contemporary horror story moves ineluctably to its chilling conclusion, Anne Rice may not be pleased by the fact that her son's book is considerably more impressive than anything she herself has done in some time. And the pulse-racing set-pieces here will no doubt soon be inspiring a bidding war in Hollywood. --Barry Forshaw --This text refers to the Paperback edition.

Life imitates art imitates late-night cable TV in Rice's second college gothic novel (after A Density of Souls). Set in the histrionic, pansexual pharmacopoeia that is freshman year at fictional Atherton University, it follows the secret dramas of Kathryn, a San Francisco waif on the run from dark sexual secrets back home; her black, militant lesbian roommate, April; her best friend, Randall, a mysterious, gay, Gucci-clad prince; his roommate, Jesse, an enigmatic and apparently irresistible (straight? bi? predatory?) sex god; Tim, gay muckraker for the campus paper; and Dr. Eric Eberman, an art history professor with a theory about Hieronymus Bosch which, the author seems to suggest, has something to do with the plot. Eberman is sleeping with Randall, and the news of his wife's sudden demise makes for a panicky recall of events of nearly 20 years ago. Randall, having just broken up with Tim, is finding it harder and harder to resist Jesse's mysterious magnetism, but in order to find out whether Eric is a murderer, starts sleeping with Tim again to probe Eric's past. Kathryn finds herself drawn to one of Eric's misfit grad students, and April, who seems to exist merely to counterbalance the XY pH of the overall bitches' brew of the book, makes an observation about Kathryn that might well be applied to the author himself: "... you like drama. Epic, who-shot-JR drama." Said tendency muddles what might otherwise have been a decent gay-themed mystery, but readers may not want to relive freshman year for 400 pages in order to learn whodunit. Agent, Lynn Nesbit. (Feb. 13)Forecast: The son of Anne and Stan has enough of a following to guarantee respectable sales, bolstered by a 15-city author tour, national advertising and a teaser chapter in the paperback of A Density of Souls.

Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information, Inc.

Son of the bewitching Anne Rice, the author follows his first novel, A Density of Souls, with a second that is just as rife with murder, fear, madness, and homoeroticism. Unfortunately, it is also a histrionic hodgepodge, all set on a snowbound college campus in the Northeast. Respected Atherton University professor Eric Eberman seems devastated when his wife, Lisa, drives her Volvo into the icy Atherton River and drowns. Was it a drunken accident or suicide? This question and many more erupt into scandal when the small university town discovers that Professor Eberman has been sleeping with one of his male students, Randall Stone. Randall comes to suspect that Lisa's death was not accidental, and subsequently he and his tightly knit group of college friends go through tremendous amounts of angst, haunted by sexual desires and obscure fears and just generally all worked up. Rice tries to imbue this pretty much plotless novel with an aura of foreboding, but it just ends up being tiresome. Stick with mom. Rebecca House Stankowski, Purdue Univ. Calumet Lib., Hammond, IN
Copyright 2001 Reed Business Information, Inc.

Although they have only been at Atherton College for a few months, freshmen Randall Stone and Kathryn Parker are already the best of friends. Despite their closeness, both guard their pasts fiercely, even from each other. Randall is having an affair with Eric Eberman, his married art-history professor. When Eric's neglected wife, Lisa, crashes her car into a bridge and is killed, Eric is consumed by guilt. Although Lisa's death is ruled an accident because she was drunk and on medication at the time, Randall is suspicious and uses an ex-boyfriend, Tim, a reporter for the student newspaper, to help him with his investigation. Kathryn, ignorant of Randall's affair, is dealing with problems of her own when she meets Mitchell, a handsome but cold teaching assistant for Eric's art-history class. Mitchell seems interested in Kathryn and tries to draw out the story of her past. Meanwhile, the more Randall searches for the truth about Lisa's death, the more he becomes convinced that Eric might very well have killed her. In his second novel, the author, who is the son of novelist Anne Rice and poet Stan Rice, expertly builds suspense. An enthralling narrative that is certain to be as popular as his first book, A Density of Souls (2000). Kristine Huntley
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved

"The Snow Garden offers finely nuanced character studies as its pages whiz by to its chilling conclusion." -- The Advocate

"A dark, moody thriller . . . is revealed in layers, moves at full speed, and starts twisting from page 1." -- Out Magazine

Christopher Rice became a publishing sensation overnight with his rst novel, A Density of Souls. The stunningly wide-ranging coverage included appearances on The Rosie ODonnell Show, MTVs Real World, and The Early Show, print features in everything from USA Today to The Advocate, and a website deluged with e-mails from fans. One of the most original writers of a new generation was launched. His new novel, The Snow Garden, is a story of murder and sexual menace on a snowbound university campus. When a respected professors wife drives to her death in an icy river, an illicit relationship between a student and his teacher threatens to come to light, and within days Atherton University is the scene of escalating speculation and intrigue. Another death emerges from the shadows, and the connections between the two accidents begin to look uncomfortably close. As in A Density of Souls, Christopher Rice explores the dynamic within a tightly knit group of young people haunted by sexual memories and fears and driven by obscure desires. The Snow Garden casts this web of friendship and passion against the backdrop of a threat that grows darker as the novel proceeds. The result is a stunning new novel from an arresting talent.

Christopher Rice is the son of Anne Rice, the novelist, and Stan Rice, the poet. He lives in Los Angeles. The Snow Garden is his second novel.

Prologue: Inverness Creek, March 1983

Groping at the icy tree trunks and pushing branches from his face, he followed the sound of water flowing against the ice until it brought him to the edge of Inverness Creek. The haggard elms stood in regiments along the sloping banks of ice-slick mud. Veils of snow danced on contrary gusts of wind before vanishing into ice punctuated by sudden black pools of creek water. The music of Fraternity Green was an eerie, distant suggestion far behind him. Bursts of drunken laughter and the delighted squeals of young women, underscored by the bass thud of a stereo, barely filtered through the thicket of trees to where he stood, steadying himself on a branch, staring down at Pamela Milford.

She was lying facedown on a sheet of ice that bobbed in the struggling current, her blonde hair fanned forward from her head. A few strands draped the side of her face where her cheek puffed against the upward press of the ice, the corner of her mouth open slightly as if she was trying to draw breath. One arm was pinned beneath her chest; the other was frozen in mid-reach for the far bank. Her right leg shot outward at an awkward angle from her body. A miniature geyser erupted around the toe of the boot on her left foot, water spilling over the top of the ice, a puncture that revealed the frailty of the sheet she lay on.

From this distance, the red trail extending out from her neck could easily have been mistaken for blood. He knew better.

With a gloved hand he caressed the branch he held for balance, then yanked it hard. The branch broke free.

As he descended the bank, she was trying in vain to lift her head. It was no use. Each attempt brought her cheek smacking back to the ice, and she let out a groan.

He didn't have time to linger on the details of this image, no matter how much the sight of this broken woman chased the sting of betrayal from his veins. With both feet planted on the bank, he focused his attention on the clawlike branch as he gripped it with both hands, extending it over the ice. Pamela gazed drowsily into the ice and erupted into muffled sobs, coughing weakly with each ice-laced breath.

The twig tickled the back of her neck. She went to bat it away and missed.

When it caught the back of her scarf, his heart thumped and he tightened his grip on the branch, pulling and tugging until the scarf came free. The tails of red cashmere tossed in the wind as he lifted the branch high and out of her reach, retracting it slowly so as not to disturb the scarf's delicate balance on the spidery twig.

When it was close enough, he grabbed it and shoved it into his jacket pocket. He was about to toss the branch aside when Pamela heaved a groan of protest. Startled, he lowered the branch to his side and watched as she found some reserve of strength, rolling herself over onto her back and twisting her broken leg. Her mouth opened in a silent scream. The back of her head slammed back on the ice. She reached for her kneecap and failed.

He waited until she lifted her head once more and peered through the swirling snow with narrowed eyes. Her lips curled into her best attempt at a grimace, and the same arm that hadn't made it to her leg lifted itself from her body and extended a finger toward him. Breaths whistling in her nostrils, she stabbed the air with her finger as if trying to convince him that he was really there.

She couldn't hear what he was hearing: voices entered the woods, male. Their words were unintelligible, but their tone lit by obvious urgency. He tossed the branch aside and looked back over his shoulder. The muddy slope rose five feet, almost over his head, concealing their approach.

There was only one way to go. He turned back to the creek.

Keeping his steps light as the ice protested beneath him, he edged his way past Pamela and swiftly hoisted himself up over the opposite bank. His gloved hands grappled with mud for a second before he got a leg up. As he climbed, he heard a sound like a hand gathering tin foil, but he didn't look back.

At the top of the bank, he turned.

Where Pamela had been, shattered ice bobbed on the black current. He scanned the smoky glass of the rest of the creek, searching for a sign of her passage underneath.

Beyond the shattered ice, flashlight beams stabbed the woods.

He drove the crumpled scarf deeper into his pocket, turned from the creek, and accepted the invitation of the darkness on the other side.

Copyright © 2001 by Christopher Rice

From Chapter 1: Cancer June 23rd-July 23rd

Protective, stubborn, moody, soft beneath a hard shell.

The day started badly but that didn't surprise her. Nessa's horoscope for the whole week had been the sort she hated, full of warnings about people being uncooperative, minor mishaps and things not going to plan. It was one of those horoscopes that made her check the signs either side of Cancer just to see if things would have been better if she'd been born a month earlier or later.

Gemini's were in for an exciting week, it seemed. Leos would see some new events taking hold -- good for Adam, at least. But the predictions for Cancerians were dull and vague. Not like last month when she'd read about an unexpected windfall and had won five hundred euros on the Lottery the very next day. She'd scoured the pages of The Year Ahead for Cancerians for other potential money wins after that but hadn't come up with anything even vaguely promising. The next few weeks looked incredibly boring as far as she could see, filled with advice to focus on her resources and take time before making important decisions. She'd checked a few magazine horoscopes too on the off chance that they'd throw a better light on things but they'd been equally vague. The only thing for it, Nessa decided, was to try and make the week more interesting herself.

Because things hadn't started promisingly first thing (the alarm hadn't gone off and there'd been a big rush to get both her uncooperative husband and her equally uncooperative daughter out of bed) she hoped that they'd improve by tonight. She really didn't want minor mishaps to upset the assorted family gathering she'd planned for this evening. I don't know why I let myself in for things like this, she muttered, as she watched eight-year-old Jill eat breakfast by stuffing an entire warm croissant into her mouth. It's more trouble than it's worth.

But it always gave her a warm glow to have the people she cared about around her and to bask in their appreciation of an enjoyable evening. Typically Cancerian, her mother Miriam would say fondly, and Nessa knew that she was right. But she couldn't help herself. She liked filling her home with the people closest to her, and her parents' visit to Dublin from their home in Galway was a good excuse to have everyone around for the first time in ages. Miriam and Louis had moved back to their home county when Louis had retired the previous year. Nessa still hadn't got used to the fact that her mother was no longer a five-minute drive away. It wasn't as if she needed to call on Miriam that often, but it had been nice to know that she was there in a crisis. Not that there were too many real crises in Nessa's life. How could there be when Adam and Jill were part of it (even if they made it difficult in the mornings by refusing to get out of bed)?

And then she heard the crunch. She stood in the kitchen, coffee cup midway to her lips, while she processed the sound. She didn't really need to process the sound, she knew exactly what it was, she'd heard it often enough before.

"Oh, Mum!" Jill's blue eyes were wide with the knowledge too. "Dad's pranged the car again, hasn't he?"

"Sounds like it." Nessa put her cup on the breakfast counter. "Let's go and see."

They walked together into the front room and looked out of the bay window. Adam was getting out of the car, his face red and his eyes blazing with fury. Nessa could see clearly what had happened. In reversing the car out of the driveway, Adam had managed to clip the front wing of another car which was parked at the curb.

Shit, she thought, as she watched her husband stand and seethe. It was probably because he was eating the croissant as he drove. I should never have given it to him just to save time because he was late for a meeting. He can't drive and do something else at the same time. I should know that by now. I don't need a horoscope to tell me a mishap would result.

Of course, if he hadn't been a terrible driver, if he hadn't had trouble with, as he called it, spatial awareness, she might never have got to know him at all. They'd have passed each other by ten years ago instead of exchanging phone numbers in the less than romantic setting of the underground car park at Blackrock Shopping Centre. Parking was tight in the carpark at the best of times but, two days before Christmas, it was manic. Finding a space was difficult enough, parking in it wasn't easy what with all the other impatient drivers around, and getting out of it was even more difficult because spaces that had been a tight fit on the way in suddenly seemed to shrink on the way out.

But parking in difficult spaces held no fears for Nessa. Louis, a tanker driver, had taught his three daughters to drive and had taught them well. Unlike most relatives as teachers, Louis was good at instructing, good at staying calm and good at instilling confidence. Nessa, Cate and Bree Driscoll had all passed their test at the first attempt.

But, easy as it was for Nessa, Adam Riley was having terrible trouble. He'd just spent the past two hours in the shopping center, at least half of which had been spent trying to find somewhere to park in the first place; he was tired and bad-tempered and had spent much, much more than he'd meant to because he'd bought the first thing he saw for everyone and then, as he'd walked around a little more, had seen much more appropriate gifts and bought them too. He didn't mind spending money -- in fact he enjoyed it immensely -- but both his c... --This text refers to the Mass Market Paperback edition.

Taking place during freshman year at fictional Atherton University, Rice's psychological thriller involves militant and closet gays, sexually repressed young adults, and drug and alcohol abuse. Relationships are secret and convoluted, and the plot is dark and muddled. Reader Jeff Daniels is given a wide scope for his talents, however, portraying a variety of finely nuanced characters, as well as a multitude of strident emotions: love, fear, lust, jealousy, and suspicion. His female voices are particularly good, not sounding strained or falsetto. Daniels's low-key, clear voice electrifies the angst of the youngsters and increases the mood of foreboding and menace created by Rice. S.C.A. © AudioFile 2002, Portland, Maine-- Copyright © AudioFile, Portland, Maine --This text refers to the Audio Cassette edition.