“Lake of Dreams”, a novella by Linda Howard in the anthology Everlasting Love, has always been one of my Howard favorites. It’s haunting, romantic, suspenseful, and very erotic. Lake of Dreams is about a young woman on vacation in her family lake house and encounters a man she has never met before, but something about him is naggingly familiar. She dreams about him night after night and the dreams are increasingly erotic, but each one somehow ends with her pleading for her life and him killing her. She is afraid of him, but also obsessively drawn to him and finds herself seeking him out when she should be running in the other direction. It’s not only my favorite “love never dies” story, it’s one of my favorites, period. I just love the idea of a love so strong, so passionate that not even death can tear the couple asunder. Basically, the two lovers come together twelve times and each one has ended in tragedy. On the thirteenth try, they get together and remember everything that had happened in the past because this is their last chance to be together and therefore the last time to get it right. This is the premise of Emma Petersen’s “Make Me Remember,” a novella about a doctor in a small reservation town who falls in love with a Native American sheriff because of the sexy dreams she’s been having about him, apparently stemming from a previous life they may have shared together. Whereas Ms. Howard’s “Lake of Dreams” was emotionally resonant, however, Ms. Petersen’s novella is not as effective because not only is the story too short for the narrative to work, it is also seemingly bogged down by the numerous sex scenes, which oddly enough, prevent the hero and heroine from getting to know each other in a way that rings true to the reader.

Hannah Bryant has always been different. Since she was a child, she’s had vivid dreams of death and loss. Years later, Hannah is a successful doctor who’s gotten past the terrors that used to plague her. In a flash, everything she has worked so hard for is in danger when the dreams return with a vengeance.

But the dreams haunting Hannah’s sleep now are nothing like the ones from her childhood. No longer does she dream of death and destruction—now her dreams are of a man who elicits a reaction from Hannah’s body that’s strangely familiar and startlingly brand new at the same time.

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Have you ever wondered what the Lion King would have been like if it had some sex in it? Have you ever thought to yourself, “Man, you know what the Lion King was missing? Hot sex. And lesbians. And dudes having sex with each other. How about some of that?” It took me a few pages to figure out that the story is set in Africa (honestly, I thought it was set in Canada at first—don’t ask me why) and once I had Africa on the brain, that song Circle of Life started playing in my head. My only frame of reference for Africa is what I’ve seen in movies: like the first part of Roots, that Matt Damon movie where he plays a rugby player and Morgan Freeman was the president of South Africa, the really awesome District 9 by Neill Blomkamp (which does not apply here at all), Leonardo Dicaprio’s awful accent in Blood Diamond, and most influentially, The Lion King, which is my favorite Disney movie of all time. Basically, while I was reading this book, I had the Lion King soundtrack playing in my head and I was imagining the characters walking around talking with an awful South African accent. That really says more about the state of America’s public school system than the author’s writing. Since 90% of what I know about life is derived from movies, I should probably watch Out of Africa with Meryl Streep, I Dreamed of Africa with Kim Basinger, the Ace Ventura movies, and The English Patient (scratch the last part: nothing in the world will ever get me to watch The English Patient. The title alone BORES me). Is there an Ernest movie where he goes to Africa? There is! YES!!!

I picked up this book because I was intrigued by the author’s nom de plume. Unless this is her real name— how awful would that have been? I bet she would have gotten in trouble at school and maybe while applying for a job, her resume would have gotten passed over even though it is awesome because the hiring managers thought her name was porny. And maybe on dates, the guy would have assumed she puts out on the 1st date and it would have been awkward every time she has to tell them she doesn’t have sex till the 10th date and then the guys would get mad and only pay for their half of the bill and yell at her for false advertising. Anyway, “Kama” is the Tagalog word for bed. It is also a Japanese word for sickle. But maybe the author was making a grammar joke “comma splice.” There’s also Kama Sutra, which I’ve heard is some kind of sex book with step-by-step instructions on how to do The Wheelbarrow (I’ve never read it— I’ve only seen excerpts on Glamour and Cosmo whenever they publish things like 25 Sexual Positions That Will Help You Keep a Man Excited and they tell you the positions are from the Kama Sutra). Or maybe Kama Spice is a spice like saffron that you add to paella and it has the same effect as Spanish Fly.

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I’ve never been a particularly religious person. Growing up a Catholic Filipino-American, my exposure to church was my mother dragging me out of bed at the crack of why-am-I-awake on a Sunday, making me put on a skirt, and forcing me to sit on a pew for a whole hour listening to some guy in a dress tell me that it’s not too late, that I don’t have to go to hell, if I just say sorry, my bad, and stop sneaking money out of my mother’s purse. And blaming things on my sister. This routine got old for a while, even for my long-suffering mother, so when I was about seventeen, I woke up to an empty house on a Sunday morning. The car was not in the driveway, my parents and sisters weren’t home, and there was a plate on the kitchen counter with a solitary egg, two pieces of bacon, one dry toast, and a note that said, “Bam” (unrecognizable emoticon. Not happy, not sad. Straight line for a mouth). We never discussed why my mother stopped dragging me to church. Maybe she got tired of shushing me during mass while I made fun of the priest’s Filipino accent to the delight of my equally bored sisters. Maybe I made her feel like a bad person for threatening to kill me if I didn’t shut my mouth for one hour, just one hour, for God’s sake.

So I must not have been in church on the day that they talked about stigmata. I had not heard of it until I saw that awesome-awful movie starring Patricia Arquette. Is there something I’m not understanding about this idea of receiving the wounds of Christ (punctures through the palms and feet, bleeding forehead, a stab through the side, not to mention the wicked-weird visions and God talking to you) and suffering not just pain but people thinking you’re hurting yourself for attention, just because YOU REALLY LOVE the LORD AND THIS IS YOUR REWARD?!? And why would anyone inflict this thing on a 7-year-old Jewish girl whose parents are in the middle of a really bad, really ugly divorce?

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I’m really not sure how to review this book. Lisa Kleypas is an auto-buy for me (though I haven’t yet tried her contemporary stuff) and I normally enjoy her tortured, damaged, will-do-anything-to-have-heroine heroes, but there was something about this particular hero that made me go, “whoa, buddy, say what?” Immediately after finishing this book, my first reaction was that I liked it. Upon further contemplation, however, my opinion began to waver. This is the 3rd book in the Hathaway series (the first one is about the eldest sister marrying Cam Rohan from The Devil in Winter and the second one is about the 2nd sister getting together with another one of Lisa Kleypas’ signature heroes: barely civilized, big as an ox, a little nuts, and all the way nuts about the heroine) and I was really looking forward to reading about Poppy, who was socially inept, could talk the ear off of a deaf man, and adorably self-conscious about her awkwardness. Poppy is everything I like in a heroine: she doesn’t rush head-first stupidly into dangerous situations, speaks her mind but knows when it’s smarter to shut up, and intelligent without being precocious. Harry Rutledge, her romantic counterpart, was at first very yummy. When I read that he likes to tinker and make little mechanical things (and weapons!) and that his enormous hotel boasts a bunch of secret passages, I immediately thought, “Batman!” I was all set and ready to love this hero. He’s tortured, mysterious, reclusive, a genius… hey, he’s even starting to sound like a Jayne Ann Krentz hero, but then he had to go and get a little stalker on me. And while reading the book, I couldn’t shake this niggling feeling that poor, little Poppy was bamboozled and manipulated to marrying her stalker…

Spoilers and stuff below, btw.

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