The Christmas Sisters

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The claustrophobia of small communities was apparent throughout and yet it is a strangely welcome claustrophobia where everyone is supportive whilst sticking their noses in.


Not too sure about the Craft Cafe though, it did have more than a touch of my bete noir in novels the strangely overly successful small business in an unlikely location. I'm not sure why I struggled to connect with this book so much - maybe it is because I am an Only Child so the family dynamics exposed here are beyond my ken. The writing itself is accomplished and I can understand the attraction for readers in the author's books, it just didn't do "it" for me.

So much so I did wonder if I was reading the same book that others have reviewed so glowingly. About the Author Sarah Morgan lives near London with her husband and two sons. An international bestseller, her books have been translated into more than thirty languages and she has sold over eighteen million books worldwide.

For more about Sarah visit her website www. Free Returns We hope you are delighted with everything you buy from us. However, if you are not, we will refund or replace your order up to 30 days after purchase. Terms and exclusions apply; find out more from our Returns and Refunds Policy. Recently Viewed. The Christmas Sisters.

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She couldn't respond. Couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Her chest was being squeezed. She felt something touch her shoulder, and the movement catapulted her out of her frozen tomb and back to reality.

The Christmas Sisters by Sarah Morgan (Review by Bruna Morais)

She sat up, her hand to her throat, gulping in air. The dream. Stewart flicked on the light. A soft glow spread across the bedroom, illuminating dark corners and pushing aside the last wisps of the nightmare. Look around you. But there was no snow. No avalanche. Just her warm, cozy bedroom in Glensay Lodge, where the remains of a fire danced in the hearth and the darkness of the endless winter night shone black through a gap in the curtains. She'd made the curtains herself from a sumptuous tartan fabric she'd found on her first visit to Scotland. Stewart's mother had claimed it was their clan tartan, but all Suzanne cared about was that those curtains kept the cold out on chilly nights and made the room cozy.

She'd also made the quilt that was draped across the bottom of the bed. On the table near the window was a bottle of single malt whiskey from the local distillery, and next to it sat Stewart's empty glass. There was her favorite chair, the cushions plumped and soft. Her book, a novel that hadn't really caught her attention, lay open next to her knitting.

A new order of wool had arrived the day before and she'd been thrilled by the colors.

The Christmas Sisters

Deep purples and blues lay against softer hues of heather and rich cream, ready to brighten the palette of white and gray that lay beyond her windows. The wool reminded her of the wild Scottish heather that grew in the glen in early and late summer. Thinking of it cheered her.

When the weather warmed, she liked to walk early in the morning and see the heather as the sun burned through the mist. And there was Stewart. Stewart, with his kind eyes and infinite patience. Stewart, who had been by her side for more than three decades. She was in the Scottish Highlands, tens of thousands of miles from the icy flanks of Mount Rainier. Still, the dream hung over her like a chilling fog, infecting her thoughts.

She took the glass of water that Stewart offered.

Her throat was parched and the water soothed and cooled, but her hand was shaking so much she sloshed some of it over the duvet. Stewart took the glass from her and put it on the nightstand. Then he took her in his arms. She leaned her head on his shoulder, comforted by human warmth. Not snow and ice, but flesh and blood. She's coming home for the holidays.

That's the best news. Not something to trigger a nightmare. It's tough on her, and you end up hurt.

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  • Every time Hannah distanced herself from her family, it hurt. I'm her mother. There had been nothing lucky about the girls' early life. At the beginning Suzanne had been terrified that Hannah's life would be ruined by the events of her childhood, but then she'd realized she had a responsibility not to let that happen.

    She'd done everything she could to compensate and influence the future. She wanted nothing but good for her daughters and the burden of it was huge. It weighed her down, and there were days when it almost crushed her. And she'd made him carry the burden, too. Suzanne slid her legs out of bed, relieved to be able to stand up. Watch the sun rise. She rolled her shoulders and discovered they ached.

    She'd turned fifty-eight the summer before and right now she felt every one of those years. Was the pain real or a memory?


    I was back there. Stewart stood up, too. She couldn't stop the nightmares, but she could prevent the darkness from creeping into her waking hours. It was her way of taking back control. And we have to be up in an hour anyway.