Read Jane's Melody by Ryan Winfield Free Online


Ebook Jane's Melody by Ryan Winfield read! Book Title: Jane's Melody
The author of the book: Ryan Winfield
Language: English
ISBN: 0988348268
ISBN 13: 9780988348264
Format files: PDF
The size of the: 5.74 MB
Edition: Birch Paper Press
Date of issue: June 16th 2013

Read full description of the books Jane's Melody:

--New York Times, USA Today, and Wall Street Journal Bestseller--

What boundaries would you cross for true love?

That's the question a grieving mother must answer when she takes in a young street musician she believes can shed light on her daughter's death—only to find herself falling for him. A sexy but touching love story that will leave you both tantalized and in tears, Jane's Melody follows a forty-year-old woman on a romantic journey of rediscovery after years of struggling alone.

Sometimes our greatest gifts come from our greatest pain. And now Jane must decide if it's too late for her to start over, or if true love really knows no limits.

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Read information about the author

Ebook Jane's Melody read Online! Ryan Winfield is a New York Times bestselling American author whose novels have been translated into more than eight languages. He lives in Seattle.

If your book club or organization would like to arrange an appearance from Ryan, either in person or via Skype, please send him a private message at Facebook with your request.

From the author:

I hope you enjoy my books and I'd love to hear from you here or on Facebook

I've been asked why I write. I write because I remember.

I remember waking up to snow. Great buckets of it poured from the gray skies and blanketing everything in quiet white. I remember racing to dress, struggling with my boots. "Here, don't forget your mittens." I remember the soft thump of that first footstep in the cold and virgin powder, the tracks looking back, foghorns blowing on the mist-covered bay. I feel the canvas paper bag cutting into my shoulders, the weight of Sunday's headlines heavy on my mind. I see the trees bowed with armloads of white, as if to curtsey my passing. I remember rubber bands and ink stained hands. A car spun sideways in a ditch. Always a car. Then barking dogs, a distant chainsaw. Freckles throwing fastballs that hurt for the cold of them on my neck. I remember snowmen, and igloos, and icy trails through the white and wondrous woods. And I remember sweet Mrs. Johnson waiting at her door. The smell of Avon powder, her thin smile, an envelope pressed into my palm--ten dollars and a peppermint candy cane thank you. Evening now. I remember running downtown--Salvation Army bells, white lights strung in sidewalk trees, bundled shoppers bent against the wind. I remember the heavy door, the warmth, the wood. The bookstore! Smells of paper and leather and ink. Walls of worlds bound and waiting for me to read.

Nothing has affected me as much as reading has. Dickens, Tolkien, and Lewis raised me. And while I've walked through my own hell, made my own mistakes, and found my own redemption, always there have been books. Books to help me escape, books to teach me when to stay and fight, books to help me see where I've been wrong and where I've been right.

I write because I remember. And I write because I still dream.


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