The Shade Under the Mango Tree by Evy Journey

Gold Medal, Contemporary Fiction, Global Book Awards (formerly New York City Book Awards)
Finalist, Multicultural Fiction, International Book Awards

After two heartbreaking losses, Luna wants adventure. Something and somewhere very different from the affluent, sheltered home where she grew up. An adventure in which she can make some difference.
After meeting Lucien, a worldly, well-traveled young architect, she goes to a rice-growing village in a country steeped in an ancient culture and a deadly history. What she finds there defies anything she could have imagined. Will she leave this world unscathed?
An epistolary tale of courage, resilience, and the bonds that bring diverse people together.

Targeted Age Group:: Adult audiences only
Heat/Violence Level: Heat Level 3 – PG-13

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
Inspiration: A journal that was lost and which I found that contained a young adult's musings about life.
This is the first epistolary novel I've written and was aware that I could go deeper into a character's personality by writing about things that come from the heart.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
I write women's fiction so, of course, the main character is a woman. And, given the inspiration for writing this novel, she had to be young and something of a loner, but attached to the grandmother with whom she spent her first thirteen years of life.
Sheltered, she needed to meet someone more worldly. So I came up with the young architect who's gone to a third-world country to help build houses.

Book Sample
He’s staring at me, and I stare back. Into deep-set blue eyes behind the glasses. A neatly-trimmed mustache I didn’t notice before makes me look at his face again. And he’s quite likely akamai (brainy), judging from the books he’s buying. The Pulitzer-prize winning Behind the Beautiful Forevers about some slums in India and the formidably-titled Kant After Duchamp, an art book. Books I doubt I’ll ever read.
“Yes.” He pulls a credit card out of his wallet.
I take the card, glancing at the black journal again before I insert the card into the cash register. “I have a journal just like yours.”
“Oh, this?” He’s surprised. “It’s not mine. I found it at a coffee shop. I have to return it to the owner.” His voice is deep, warm, and resonant.
I jerk my head up to stare at him again, though all I could say is, “Would you like a bag for your books?”
“No, thank you.”
I stare at the journal as I hand him his books.
“Thank you.” He waits and doesn’t leave.
“Is there anything else I can help you with?”
I stare at the journal as I hand him his books.
“Thank you.” He waits and doesn’t leave.
“Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“My card, please.” He seems annoyed, his left eyebrow arching for a moment.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” I snatch his card off the register keyboard. “Here you are, sir.”
“Thank you. Your first time working here? I don’t believe I’ve seen you before.”
“I’ve been here a few months. I work part-time.”
He places his books on the counter and the journal on top of the books. As he takes his time to put his card back in his wallet, he regards me in a lazy kind of way. A corner of his mouth is slightly upturned, his gaze unwavering but casual. I suspect he’s taking my full measure and I’m flustered, and yet I can’t help wondering if he likes what he sees. I look away, at the books on the display shelf.
“Glad to see a new face. Asha is nice, but she and I don’t have much we can talk about,” he says.
I face him again. He breaks into a spontaneous, disconcerting smile. He’s rather attractive when he’s not looking serious, particularly with the dimple on his left cheek.
Cheeky, as well, this brainy ectomorph. I smile back, a little wider than I meant to, disarmed by his charming smile. “Thank you for shopping at Minerva Books and please come again.”
“For sure.” He picks up his books and journal, and with a last amused glance at me, he walks away.
I watch him, holding my breath as he approaches the door. Before he disappears from my sight, I can’t help myself. I run after him. “Excuse me, sir.”
He stops and turns around. He’s nearly a head taller than me, and I have to look up at him. Without the counter between us, he seems intimidating. He’s not smiling now, but scowling.
“Yes?”
“I lost my journal.”
“Oh,” he mumbles, no longer scowling.
He stares down at me. If a gaze could penetrate, his would pass through his glasses and burn the skin on my face. I stare back, trying not to flinch.
“Can I look at your journal, to see if it’s mine?”
“You may.” But he doesn’t hand it to me. “But how can I be sure it’s yours?”
“Mine is a Moleskine, too. I can tell you what’s written on it, but I can’t leave the bookstore unattended. Do you mind coming back in? Should only take a minute.”
“I’m sorry. I have to go back to work. I’m late for a meeting already. I can meet you at the coffee shop where I found the journal, and if it’s yours, I’ll give it back to you there.”
I’m disappointed. But right now, it’s me asking a favor. I lost my journal months ago and had begun to resign myself to its being lost forever. What’s a few more days? Besides, his journal might not be mine.
“I guess that sounds reasonable. When?”
“Tomorrow at two?”
“I work tomorrow. Friday?”
He nods and I turn to go back into the store. “Aren’t you going to ask me which coffee shop?”
I stop, pivot on my heels to face him. “Well, I assumed I’d go to the coffee shop where I left my journal and if that’s where you found yours, I’ll see you there.”
He lets loose another wide, dimpled, smile. “Of course. See you then.”

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