The Taste of Hope
Available soon to agents and editors.
Synopsis
It’s 1969 and Helen Dunne is abruptly assigned to curate a major exhibit, Letters from the Pacific, at the New York Public Library. It will be a retrospective of correspondence to and from the Pacific Theater, during World War II. She has deep, unresolved grief over losing her one true love who served on a destroyer in the Pacific but died before the end of the war in a natural disaster. While anxious about reopening old wounds, she knows that this assignment can be a career making opportunity, so she takes the role, despite her misgivings.
During the course of her work, Helen learns more about the destroyer, the USS Warrington, that went down in a hurricane in the Atlantic and that there might have been survivors. Motivated by her need to find out how her soulmate died, Helen locates one of the survivors and learns the details of the shipwreck. She becomes passionate about honoring that sailors who died in non-combat circumstances during the war, and after several false starts, eventually forms a foundation, privately raises funds for a memorial and has that memorial installed in Congressional Park in Washington, D.C.
Inspired by the true story of the sinking of the USS Warrington on September 13, 1944, this book follows Helen’s journey from living a career-driven solitary life to one in which connections and friendships thrive.
Inspiration for Wendy's Creative Non-Fiction Novel:
Many years ago, my husband and I were browsing an antique store near Nyack, NY, when we found an unopened bottle of 1937 Piper Heidsieck champagne. Almost two decades later, we were musing about why the bottle had never been opened and I suddently “knew” it was because a sailor had not returned from World War II. While searching for non-combat catastrophes, I stumbled onto the story of the USS Warrington, DD-383, which sank during the Great Atlantic Hurricane of September 1944. That led to more research and more musing until The Taste of Hope, as a novel, was born.
Excerpt
Ronnie Sarth — September 16, 1944
I’m thirsty. So damned thirsty. My tongue. It’s rough. Like I gulped a cup of sand. My lips crack. Blood fills my mouth. I need water; cool, fresh water. Not an endless sea.
The storm’s passed. Where am I? The raft. I’m in a raft. Overhead is a blanket of stars. They blur and clear. Why? Nothing makes sense.
How many days since waves tossed our destroyer around like a bathtub toy? Two? Five? I smell the brine of the Atlantic. Voices nearby. Joe. My buddies are close. Some crying, some whispering. White hot sun. Blinding me. I keep my eyes shut. No strength to open them. I’m surrounded by water. But I am still so damned thirsty. A shadow comes over my face and something wets my lips. Please! More! I taste blood again and I hear someone moan. Was that me? I don’t want to die! The shadow returns, and a few more blessed drops touch my lips. Relief. Such relief. Not enough, though. Not enough.