If Edith Pearlman rings no bells, you have a terrific treat in store. The short-story writer from the suburbs of Boston emerges in this generous collection of her work as the equal of Updike or Munro.
For all her blade-sharp observation of middle-class desires and dreams, there's nothing parochial in her eye. A weight of history, and a span of feeling, expand the reach of every tale. Europe's genocidal trauma haunts her often, and in “If Love Were All” she fashions a classic story of the London Blitz. This book will make your summer shine.