Katherine Center meets REALLY GOOD, ACTUALLY in a Think<\/span><\/i>: If Emily Henry wrote about a young widow in the Title:<\/span> How To Grieve Like A Victorian<\/span> BLURB<\/b><\/span> But then she\u2019s offered a trip to London for escape and healing, where she befriends fellow bestselling novelist AD Hemmings. Rakish and handsome, Hemmings pushes her out of her comfort zone. She attends a Victorian-style s\u00e9ance, gets pulled onstage at a burlesque bar, and sight-sees with her young son. <\/p>\n All the while, back in South Carolina, her late husband\u2019s best friend and lawyer, Henry, peels back the layers of a family secret her mother-in-law is desperate to keep hidden. Cross-Atlantic \u2018family business\u2019 updates turn into regular FaceTime hangouts and their friendship evolves into something more. Lizzie fears she\u2019s falling in love with him\u2026 <\/p>\n Struggling with conflicting feelings, Lizzie travels to Bront\u00eb country where in the windswept moors she comes to peace with grief, joy, and all the in-betweens.<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/span><\/span> ABOUT THE AUTHOR\u00a0<\/span><\/b><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n AMY CAROL REEVES<\/span><\/b> has a PhD in AUTHOR LINKS \u00a0<\/span><\/b><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n EXCEPRT\u00a0<\/span><\/b><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n OUT OF OFFICE REPLY\u2014<\/span><\/u><\/span><\/p>\n Thank you for contacting me. However, for Dr. Lizzie Wells<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n Professor of Victorian College<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n Author of The Heathcliff Saga<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n she\/her<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n After typing the message, I drum my No more emails.<\/span><\/i><\/span><\/p>\n The thought of not reading or answering Since Philip\u2019s sudden death last month, What am I going to do?<\/span><\/i><\/span><\/p>\n I look up at the signed Heathcliff When Hollywood optioned film rights for My email dings, and I jump, blinking away Against my better judgment, I check the Ugh.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n Brad McGregor.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n Hey Miss Wells,<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n I\u2019m really struggling with P and P. I Thks<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n B<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n My blood pressure rises a little bit I log out of my email, close my laptop, \u201cLetters only?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n \u201cThis first one is going to Brad \u201cHe\u2019s the worst<\/i>.\u201d Patrick groans I see red as I stare down at my angry Patrick\u2019s quiet. Although my age, He clears his throat awkwardly and gazes \u201cYou doing okay, Lizzie? I mean . . . I \u201cWell, if there\u2019s anything I can do for \u201cThanks,\u201d I mutter, bewildered, as I shift the topic away from me and my He gives me the dismal summary of this \u201cBut it looks like Willoughby will stay He shrugs. \u201cLet\u2019s just say I\u2019m keeping my It\u2019s true. Although The Heathcliff After he leaves, I finish penning my I take a late lunch outside, numb after Alone, in the campus garden, I sit on a Even in the shade, my armpits sweat in Last fall was such a bright star for me My literary agent, Sarah, took me on and Then I thought about my forthcoming Putting the lid on my Tupperware, I I\u2019m suddenly back in that moment, slight My phone dings.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n Mirabel: Hi Elizabeth, you\u2019ve been on my I groan.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n My Steel Magnolia, There\u2019s been a persistency in her texts.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n Something\u2019s off.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n And I just can\u2019t even with her because it was leaving her house when his car ran There was the call from him, just before The spongy casserole feels like a lump in![](\"https:\/\/blogger.googleusercontent.com\/img\/b\/R29vZ2xl\/AVvXsEhtNlcZo5l5uUUtMSbykHka-WqmvAX6LNkdR3daImfEdOf8HHFEpraYr9I6Mxp5eubw9ri_kgYQCpgdevg3KGWLW_RguSwoXSYgpf-gUwhKDiqnAUEZG4DjpRXa7Mm5TlTbYA3JcEse3PRXDGtd4j5Q9TTuZLC0NRWBHeIGA4sVm7-JtAK3rYjCJFZ2_P9K\/s1600\/719%20HTP%20Banner%20-%20Fall%202025.jpg\")
\u00a0<\/a><\/p>\n
\nclever and poignant novel about an English Professor who grieves the sudden
\nloss of her husband the Victorian way, by wearing widow\u2019s weeds and escaping to
\nLondon, where she unexpectedly discovers there\u2019s still love, life, and
\nburlesque to be had.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nvein of Really Good, Actually <\/i>(irreverent, hot-mess heroine) and Lessons
\nin Chemistry<\/i> (female academic thrust into a commercial space; struggling as
\na single mom) with a warm-blanket romantic HEA, and loads of snark.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n<\/a><\/span><\/div>\n
Author: <\/span>Amy Carol Reeves<\/span>
Publisher: <\/span>Canary Street Press<\/span>
Release Date: <\/span>9th December 2025<\/span><\/b><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
Dr. Lizzie Wells, a professor of British Literature and bestselling author, is grieving her husband the Victorian way. She keeps a lock of his hair in a choker around her neck and dons widows weeds\u2013and notifies her colleagues and students that she will accept only paper letters instead of email. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
PURCHASE LINKS
Bookshop.org<\/a>
B&N<\/a>
Amazon<\/a><\/span><\/b><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n<\/a><\/b><\/span><\/div>\n
\nnineteenth-century British literature and finds joy in teaching classes and
\nwriting. She’s published several academic articles as well as a young adult
\nbook trilogy about the Jack the Ripper murders in Victorian London. She lives
\nin a quirky old house in Indianapolis with her three children.\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
Website
https:\/\/www.amycarolreeves.com\/<\/a>
Instagram
https:\/\/www.instagram.com\/amycarolreeves\/<\/a>
Facebook
https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/AmyCarolReeves?ref_type=bookmark<\/a><\/span><\/b><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nan undetermined time period, I will only be corresponding through letters.
\n(Yes, the kind with paper.) Thank you for understanding.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nLiterature\u2014Willoughby<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nfingers on my desk, contemplating the elegant stack of black-and-gold-rimmed
\nstationery pages and envelopes in front of me. They seem appropriate for a
\nrecent widow like me, and I\u2019m grateful for the niche Etsy shop specializing in
\nantique stationery.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\ncampus emails from hateful asshats like Bill Rhodes, chair of philosophy, feels
\nlike a giant fucking albatross has slid from my shoulders, feathers cluttering
\nthe floor of my coffee-stained office carpet.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nI\u2019ve learned I don\u2019t have much headspace other than to parent and grieve. And
\nI\u2019ve barely <\/i>time to parent. Heathcliff ate a Pop-Tart for breakfast this
\nmorning. A chocolate <\/i>Pop-Tart, not even a fruit one. <\/i>I couldn\u2019t
\nsummon the energy to cook his regular oatmeal.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nSaga <\/i>movie poster on the wall behind my desk and stare into the glassy blue
\neyes of teen heartthrob Everett Dane. He sneers rakishly, dark hair tousled
\nover his forehead, rumpled shirtsleeves open to reveal the top of his Greek-god
\nchest. He played the role well.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nmy Twilight<\/i>-y young adult version of Wuthering Heights<\/i>\u2014written
\nduring sleepless nights breastfeeding Heathcliff\u2014Philip had been so proud. He
\ntook me out to a too-expensive restaurant, the kind where the servers wear
\ncrisp, ironed white dress shirts and say ridiculous things like the wine has
\n\u201chints of leather and tobacco.\u201d We split a bottle of cabernet over a large
\nplatter of roasted duck and asparagus. We even splurged on the overpriced
\ncranberry tartlets; the cranberries, of course, were \u201craised in organic,
\nsun-kissed hills near Asheville.\u201d After dinner, we walked through a nearby
\npocket park. The evening sky glowed rose-hued beyond the sprawling Carolina
\noaks; Philip skillfully skipped rocks across a tiny, landscaped pond as we
\ntalked about a future where we could pay off student loans and take our
\nlong-postponed trip to Paris.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\ntears.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nmessage.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nmean I thought this chick lit was like more straightforward. But geez . . . why
\ndo they have to write so many letters? Can I like have extra credit or
\nsomething if I don\u2019t pass the Final?<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nevery time I have to deal with Brad McGregor. The dean\u2019s son needs one more
\nEnglish credit to graduate on time, so he enrolled in my spring Jane Austen
\nseminar because it was the only literature class over before his \u201cepic\u201d Canc\u00fan
\nvacation funded by his dad\u2019s bloated administrative salary. His sense of
\nentitlement has no end. He makes little effort to disguise his distaste for my
\nclass. He addresses me as \u201cMiss\u201d instead of \u201cDr.\u201d And last, but not least, he\u2019s
\nWilloughby College\u2019s most notorious man-slut; last year he cheated on one of my
\nbrightest students, Kayla, with her dorm RA. (Kayla sobbed during my office
\nhours after she found out.)<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\npull out one of my new stationery pages and a black fountain pen, and begin a
\nfurious response to Brad. A soft rap on my door, and my department chair,
\nPatrick, enters, steam wafting from the top of his Edgar Allan Poe mug.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nMcGregor.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nand takes a sip of coffee as he slumps in the worn leather armchair opposite my
\ndesk. \u201cI had him in American lit last semester. He came to class smelling like
\nweed, called Edith Wharton a frigid old spinster, and I\u2019m pretty sure he slept
\nwith my TA.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nletter.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nthirty-nine, he sports a graying beard. He strokes it for a few seconds as he
\nconsiders me worriedly. He\u2019s trying not to look at my new black blouse with
\nruffled wrist sleeves and black pencil skirt. I might <\/i>have gone on a
\nwidow shopping spree for black clothes in the days after Philip\u2019s death.
\nPatrick doesn\u2019t need to know about the small silver bird keepsake urn
\ncontaining Philip\u2019s ashes in my leather satchel. That might make me too
\npeculiar.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\ninto his coffee.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nknow you\u2019re just back from leave, but you can take more time . . .\u201d I wave my
\nhand dismissively. \u201cEverything will be worse if I don\u2019t work. It will be
\nall-day pajamas, and tears, and bingeing Outlander <\/i>episodes.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nyou\u2014watch Heathcliff, send takeout . . . If there\u2019s anything I can do to
\nlighten your load, just let me know. I\u2019ve already taken you off the Curriculum
\nManagement Committee and the Committee Oversight Committee.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nalways, at how my studies of Bront\u00eb and Dickens novels prepared me for such
\ngripping daily tasks.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nongoing sadness. \u201cDid you have your meeting with the provost today?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nmonth\u2019s meeting. Each monthly provost report becomes a little more doomsday
\nthan the one before, and the jumpy junior faculty start sending out r\u00e9sum\u00e9s to
\ncommunity colleges and local high schools. In our department, we just lost a
\nfairly new full-time hire to a neighboring new technical school. (Teaching
\nbusiness writing is<\/i> more lucrative . . . <\/i>she\u2019d said. I had no
\ncounterargument.) Now the tiny English department is just me, Patrick, a small
\narmy of adjuncts, and our MAGA-supporting administrative assistant, Sandra.
\n(Every time I pass her desk, I try not to look at the framed illustration of
\nJesus sitting on a bench by the White House.)<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nopen for at least another year?\u201d I ask.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nr\u00e9sum\u00e9 updated.\u201d He glances up at Everett Dane\u2019s searing blue eyes. \u201cYou<\/i>,
\non the other hand, will have plenty of options should the ship sink.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nSaga <\/i>hadn\u2019t exactly made me rich, as the only faculty member to appear in People
\n<\/i>magazine, I\u2019m a reluctant darling to a struggling institution. And plenty
\nof other schools will take me if we close.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nletter to Brad. I worry it\u2019s a bit too harsh, so I slip it into my bag. I can
\nalways revise later.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nthe latest Fiscal Oversight Committee meeting, where the provost announced
\nproudly that she was siphoning off 90 percent of the humanities department
\nbudgets for an Admissions Advancement Task Force. Her lipstick-rimmed
\nCheshire-cat grin stretched wider, looking directly at me as she said it.
\nEveryone waited breathlessly for me, the committee chair, to retort. Instead,
\nin front of all thirty faculty and ten administrators, I pulled my favorite
\nlavender-scented ChapStick from my sweater pocket next to Philip\u2019s miniature
\nkeepsake bird urn. I applied it thoroughly and carefully amid the silence,
\nsnapped the cap back on, and said nothing just to show how few fucks I give
\nanymore.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nmossy stone bench in the shade of an oak. Bees hum loudly through the blue flag
\nirises and bulblike pink blossoms of the small magnolia near me. I open my
\nTupperware dish of macaroni casserole. As a Midwest transplant, I\u2019m always
\namazed at Southerners\u2019 culinary zest for the grieving. I have about twelve
\nmacaroni casseroles and five lasagnas in my freezer. Heathcliff can\u2019t digest
\ndairy, so I\u2019ll be eating these myself in the forthcoming weeks.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nthis Carolina May heat. Still, I\u2019d choose this over my windowless office any
\nday. Through the garden gate, I see Bill Rhodes storming into the
\nadministration building\u2014no doubt to unload on the president about me and
\nPatrick. I can\u2019t care. No one will ever option film rights for his latest book\u2014Metaphysical<\/i>
\nIntellectualism in Neoclassical<\/i> England<\/i>.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nwhen The Heathcliff Saga <\/i>film premiered and my book spent several weeks
\non the New York Times <\/i>bestseller list. Writing that book six years ago,
\n<\/i>postpartum, kept me sane. I gave everyone A\u2019s that semester. <\/i>With
\nthe hormone shifts, lack of sleep each night and an <\/i>insatiable
\nHeathcliff hanging off my breast, I\u2019d escape into my <\/i>alternative Wuthering
\nHeights <\/i>world. In my book, Emily Bront\u00eb\u2019s <\/i>love-triangled <\/i>teenagers
\nlearn that Heathcliff inherited warlock <\/i>powers from a distant Yorkshire
\nancestor. My Linwood is less <\/i>milquetoast than the original character. He
\nbastardizes ancient <\/i>Fae supernatural powers from the moorlands and
\nstarts a spell <\/i>war with Heathcliff. Cathy, caught in the middle, asks
\nNelly <\/i>Dean to train her in the supernatural arts. She teams up with <\/i>Heathcliff,
\nhelping him purge Linwood\u2019s magical darkness for <\/i>good. There\u2019s lots of
\nteen angst, desperate kissing, and disengaged <\/i>parents. The adults churn
\nbutter and argue with no idea <\/i>their teens could destroy Great Britain
\nwith their dark fairy <\/i>arts war.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nsold the book in two days. I loved my editor, my only complaint being that he
\nwanted to change the title from The Cathy Saga <\/i>to The Heathcliff<\/i> Saga<\/i>.
\nI groused. After all, I wanted my heroine to be the book\u2019s star. But he said
\n\u201cCathy\u201d wasn\u2019t distinct enough\u2014it sounded like the comic-strip character\u2014and he
\nwanted my Heathcliff to be the new Edward Cullen.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nadvance check and gave in. The timing couldn\u2019t have been better. Over the next
\nfew years, film rights sold, then foreign rights in Spain, Germany, and Japan.
\nBy the time the movie came out last year and I had my red-carpet moment,
\nWilloughby\u2019s president offered me immediate tenure and a promotion.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nscroll fondly through my Instagram page. Thanks to the movie, I have about
\n100,000 followers, and I pick up a few hundred more every time one of the stars
\ntags me. My last Instagram post was a repost of Everett Dane\u2019s pic of him
\nhugging me at the premier after-party: \u201cLove<\/i> this woman! <\/i>Brainiest
\nperson I\u2019ve ever known.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nchampagne buzz, surrounded by the glamorous and Botoxed. I wore a rented teal
\nVera Wang and teetered on strappy gold Jimmy Choos; I was in this young British
\nheartthrob\u2019s arms, and yet I locked eyes with Philip, standing just beyond the
\nphoto\u2019s edge. With his soft, sandy blond hair and glasses, my shy lawyer
\nhusband never seemed more mine than in that moment. He wasn\u2019t a crier\u2014ever.
\nIt\u2019s a weird Southern guy thing. But his eyes shined happy tears. There was no
\nprofessional or personal jealousy there; it was pure celebration of me, of us<\/i>\u2014of
\nhow profoundly lucky we were to have each other and that moment.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nmind so much. Lunch tomorrow? My treat\u263a<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\npassive-aggressivemother-in-law has been trying to get me out to lunch since
\nthe funeral. Lunch. I stare down at my Tupperware of mostly uneaten macaroni.
\nApparently, the grieving have to eat.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nwill make me think of that night\u2014Philip<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\noff the road.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nthe accident. The voicemail he left: My god, Lizzie, we have to talk.<\/i><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
\nmy stomach. I\u2019d rather face ten meetings with Bill Rhodes than think about that
\nnight and all the factors involved: rain, lightning, deer, emotional shock, the
\nmillion random sparks that might have made Philip\u2019s 2017 black Camry slide off
\nthe road between Summerville and our home in Columbia, South Carolina. But
\npainful as it might be, I need to know what happened at her home to upset
\nPhilip. Mirabel\u2019s been acting cagey, and I\u2019ll have to tread carefully.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n