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Morrison directs a cacophony of voices, hazy facts and anachronistic timelines that converge into the ever-changing, multi-faceted meaning of “love��.
At the center of the story, the ghostly figure of Bill Cosey, the iconic owner of a prestigious hotel located in the East Coast in the forties; and orbiting around his powerful absence, the shifting testimonies of different women who played an important role in his life�� and death.

Can a man grieving for the loss of his wife and son find solace in youth without being a child molester?
What kind of love bonds two girls to a lifetime of malicious rivalry, jealousy and yearning that sprouted from misunderstanding and shame?
How many women slaved over in the shadows, adoring the public icon of a man, both evil and saint, while racial discrimination ripped apart families and exploited their children with total impunity?
Morrison’s prose resembles a mournful chant to the fatigue of living, the burdens of loving and the permanent scars caused by loss. Offbeat lyricism from an omniscient narrator who remains anonymous until the last pages of the book brings light into the obscure rhythms of this fragmented puzzle.
The man remains elusive: friend, benefactor, father, lover and abuser. His haunting presence diminishes as the fate of those who loved him resolves itself regardless of the past.
Contrarily, the women of his life become perfectly delineated; their voices reach such perfect clarity that they challenge moral distinction and years of censure and repressed silence to achieve communal vindication.
And love, with all its cruel beauty, triumphs over despair, even when life is nothing but a tenuous reflection of the things that could never be.