Meet Charles Killpatrick? knight in worn Chemise Lacoste, mystic, lover, tennis shark, philosopher, gambler, renaissance man for whom an iced Dos XX, a good book, a close match, a fast horse and a scrupulous bookie comprise the good life. Broker in So Cal with a real estate market in full bloom, life for Charles is as smooth as the purr of his BMW, Blackie. A man whose life, like his service, crowds the line, Charles is in the habit of taking what life serves. Deep in debt to a bookie whose husband is a debt collector with a pro lineman physique, Charles is sanguine. Accused of cheating at tennis by his world famous sparring partner, he is placid. Bribed to act as shill in high-stakes racetrack grift, he is serene. But all that was before Henrietta? Now all he can think of is her?the look of her, the feel of her, the sound of her mangled English?and for the first time in a very long time?the future. But his Frenchfry is not all Charles has to worry about. There is her special forces lover, Roadrunner, shadowing their every rendezvous. And now, just as Charles has begun to contemplate tomorrow he must entertain the possibility that, if Roadrunner has his way, he won?t have one. True as only fiction can be, Henrietta is more than picaresque farce, more than diary of failed love, more than tour of pro tennis, more than morality play?it is a window on a man?s soul. And, for his myriad faults, Charles Killpatrick is a man worth knowing. Bounder, romantic, ne?er do well, visionary, man of honor?when Charles joins battle with fate the score is love all, and the results unpredictable as the course of a 100 mph Penn spun off the racket of a pro.
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Reviews - What do customers think about Henrietta?
A LITERARY NOVEL BY MODERN QUIXOTE Nov 20, 2005
Henrietta is a roman a clef about world-class tennis. It is a frankly erotic love story and an intimate look into a flawed but decent man's soul. It is that rare novel, which is both literary quality and an entertaining read. But it is more. The protagonist's iconoclastic vision ebbs and flows beneath the text like surf. If the degree to which a book is unforgettable is a fair yardstick by which to measure its enduring worth, Henrietta measures high. It is so true, so sad and so honest that I set it down smiling through the tears. Is there higher praise?