Insensible Loss Debuts Today!

The Secret Garden meets Ripley Underground

There is always pressure on writers to come up with a tagline for their books. For the fourth book in the Endings series, Insensible Loss which comes out today, it took me a really long time. I mean, I came up with stuff (because they made me!) and the books I called out weren’t off-base, but the penultimate one? That didn’t get to me until a few weeks ago.

What came to me — finally — were the two titles that, together, both represent the book and that were, in some ways, the genesis of it.

From my first reading when I was a child, The Secret Garden both enchanted and frightened me. Frightened is possibly the wrong word: it’s a book for kids, after all. But there are chilling elements in Frances Hodgson Burnett’s masterful 1911 novel, and the themes of redemption and renewal are everywhere.

Patricia Highsmith’s Ripley Underground (1970) was the book that somewhat inspired the driving narrative in Insensible Loss, even if I didn’t realize it when I sat down to write. When I read a description of Ripley Underground I had not yet read the book. By the time I read it a few weeks later, I was well into crafting my story, one that is entirely different from Highsmith’s novel.

A Preview From the Garden

In celebration of the book’s publication today, and without permission from my publisher (so I hope they don’t get mad) I offer up a brief and garden-related excerpt from Insensible Loss, which is available everywhere books are sold, beginning today!

Excerpt from Insensible Loss by Linda L. Richards 2024 (Oceanview Publishing)

I move in the direction of the sound, still trying to place it. It is light and bright and lovely. Then I realize: it isn’t a mystery at all, but the faintest tinkle of wind chimes. As unmistakable and unlikely as the sound is in this location, I’m sure I’m not wrong, which means some semblance of civilization is nearby. And from the volume, I judge the chimes to be not far ahead.

I pick myself up and head further down the track, toward the sound. The bright, lightness of the chimes invigorate me. Gold-on-brass. I haven’t gone much further before a homestead appears around a bend. I am looking at an oasis. I see a tidy house, a swimming pool, and some outbuildings, all surrounded by shade-giving trees, so precious in the desert. The small river that runs through the homestead appears to be the lifeblood of all that green. Shallow hills nearby provide a feeling of shelter in the little valley. It all appears as idyllic as anything could. A secret garden in the desert. It is beautiful.

As I near the house I see an old woman sitting in the shade of a breezeway attached to the house. The dog is sitting next to her, his head in her lap. My dog. And he is staring up at her in adoration.

“Hullo!” I call out as I approach. “I’m sorry to intrude.”

She smiles a welcome at my approach, reaches up a hand and beckons me forward. It’s as though she is expecting me. Up close I can see that she is even older than I thought at first. She’s as pale as natural silk and her skin looks so thin it is almost translucent. A blue light seems almost to shine through her. At first glance, she seems a magical figure, perched here in her hidden garden, the dog sitting quietly and adoringly at her feet.

“I suspect I know why you’re here,” she says, stroking the dog’s head. Her voice seems creaky, like it hasn’t been used for a while. Close up, she seems to emit the faintest scent of lavender. Present but not unpleasant. It seems to radiate from her, like heat.

“I’m so sorry to disturb you,” I say. “I can’t imagine what got into him. He’s always such a good boy.”

She starts to laugh and then the laugh turns into a cough. I stand by politely, waiting for the cough to subside. When it does, she grins at me apologetically.

“Sorry,” she says. “For the coughing. I never know when I’m gonna go off. Should be okay for now.”

“That’s all right,” I say.

“So the dog,” she says. “Is this the strangest thing? It was like he knew me. Though, of course, I’ve never met him.”

“Certainly.” I don’t know what to say.

“What are you doing in these parts?”

“Drifting,” I say honestly.

“That’s interesting. I didn’t know people still did that. You have nowhere you need to be?”
I shake my head.
“No one waiting for you?”
“Not anymore.” I say it without emotion and am interested tosee her absorb the words. It’s like she is a sponge for them. And it’s like she has been waiting.

“And you didn’t arrive in order to find me?”

I shake my head. “Sorry,” I say. “No. I don’t even know who you are.”

She nods her head, but she only looks half-convinced.

“No really,” I press. “Now I feel as though I should know who you are, but I don’t. I’m sorry.”

“I’m Imogen O’Brien,” she says, and I can tell she’s watching my face closely to see how I react to the name. I know it, of course. Who doesn’t know Imogen O’Brien? She is a legend. I peek at her from under my lashes; wondering if she is pulling my leg. I can’t believe it is her, and yet I don’t doubt. And I don’t tell her that I didn’t even know for sure that she was still alive. She is such a legend that I had probably assumed she was not still among us, if I’d thought of her at all. Which I hadn’t.

“Really?” Is all I say, but of course I believe her. And now I recognize her, as well. She is a recluse, that much I know. She is famous for it. And she has lived “Somewhere in the Arizona forests” forever. Thirty years. Forty. More. She is one of the most famous living painters in the world, and I have stumbled across her. Or my dog has. Either way. Here she is. Looking more like a beautiful and ancient gnome than an icon.

Learn more about Insensible Loss and where to buy it here.

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Dead West now in Paperback

Today, also, Dead West (2023) becomes available in paperback. So if you’ve been putting off reading until the easier to carry version was available, your time is now.

The hit woman readers loved in Endings is back

“Linda L. Richards delivers yet another riveting entry in her hired killer series. Set mostly in Arizona desert country, Dead West is a dust devil of a story, twisting in wildly unpredictable ways and with a powerful emotional center. But this book isn’t just a marvelously compelling thriller; it also cries out passionately for protection of the endangered wild horses of the West. Kudos to Richards for seamlessly weaving an important message into the fabric of a terrific tale.” — New York Times bestselling author William Kent Krueger

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I’m grateful for your continued support and the caring and energy you continue to ship this way. For the last few years, my bio has indicated that I’ve written “more than a dozen” books, just because the number differs depending on how you count things. There are variables. Do you include anthologies? Non-fiction as well as fiction? And so on. Well, in the way I count things, Insensible Loss brings the actual total to 18. Which somewhat astonishes me. That’s a lot of words. Also some time. Some of those who will read these words have been subscribing to my newsletter — in all its various forms over the years — since the beginning. Knowing that you’re making this journey with me means more than you can know. Thank you.