When her longtime marriage abruptly ends in the wake of her husband's infidelity, Madrid college professor Blanca Perea struggles to rebuild her own life by researching that of an enigmatic Spanish writer who died decades earlier. By the best-selling author of The Time in Between . 75,000 first printing.

8220;An ingeniously architectural work structured around fascinating lives.”

Auteur

María Dueñas

Texte du rabat

"Previously published as Mision Olvido in 2012 in Spain by Editorial Planeta"--Title page verso.

Résumé
Declared “a writer to watch” (Publishers Weekly, starred review), New York Times bestselling author María Dueñas pours heart and soul into this story of a woman who discovers the power of second chances.

A talented college professor in Madrid, Blanca Perea seems to have it all. But her world is suddenly shattered when her husband of twenty years leaves her for another woman. Questioning the life she once had and whether she truly knows herself, Blanca resolves to change her surroundings. She accepts what looks like a boring research grant in California involving an exiled Spanish writer who died decades ago. Anxious to leave her own troubled life behind, she is gradually drawn into his haunted world, with its poignant loves and unfulfilled ambitions.

But in delving into the past, Blanca finds herself simultaneously awakened to the present by Daniel Carter, a charismatic professor with crucial knowledge about the dead writer that he has never before revealed. Amid this web of passion, conflict, and hidden feelings, including her own, Blanca advances like an avid detective, refusing to quit, and ultimately discovers startling answers that resonate deeply in her own life.

Evocative, lyrical, and humorous, The Heart Has Its Reasons is a journey of the soul from the pangs of the past to the vibrant present. It is a story about the thrill of creating one’s life anew.

Échantillon de lecture
 Chapter 1
 
Sometimes life comes crashing down, heavy and cold as a deadweight.
This is how I felt on opening the office door. It had all felt so cozy, so intimate, so mine. Before.
And yet to the naked eye there was no reason for apprehension; everything remained just as I had left it. Shelves crammed with books, bulletin board full of schedules and reminders. Folders, filing cabinets, old playbills, envelopes  addressed  to me. The calendar frozen two months back, July 1999. Everything stood intact in that space which for fourteen years had been my haven, where semester after semester I’d welcomed countless students lost in doubt or searching for something. The only thing that had changed were the props that supported me. Shattered.
Several minutes went by, perhaps even ten. Sufficient time, in any event, for me to come to a decision. My first order of business was to dial a telephone number. In reply I only got the icy courtesy of a voice mail. Hesitating whether or not to hang up, I decided to leave a message.
“Rosalia, it’s Blanca Perea. I have to get out of here, I need your help. I don’t know where I could go; it’s all the same to me. Somewhere I don’t know a soul and no one knows me. I realize it’s the worst tim- ing, with the semester about to begin, but call me as soon as you can, please.”

I felt better after leaving the message. I knew I could trust Rosalia Martin, both her understanding and her goodwill. We had known each other since our early days at the university, when I was a young professor with a meager temporary contract and she was responsible for running a recently established department of international relations. Although our friendship had diluted somewhat with the passing of time, I knew Rosalia’s mettle and was sure that my cry for help would be answered.
Only after the phone call could I muster enough energy to face my duties. My e-mail in-box opened like an overflowing dam of messages, and I dove into its current for a good while, answering some and dis- carding others that were outdated or of no import. Until the telephone interrupted me, and I answered with a curt “Yes . . . ?”
“What’s the matter with you, madwoman? Where do you want to go at this point? And what’s with all the rush?”
Rosalia’s impassioned voice brought back the memories of so many shared experiences. Hours on end sitting in front of the black-and-white screen of a prehistoric computer. Shared visits to foreign universities in search of exchange programs  and partnerships, double rooms in nondescript hotels, dawns spent waiting in empty airports. With the passage of time we’d gone our separate ways, but the traces of an old complicity remained alive, and that is why I told her everything. Without reservation, with brutal honesty.
In a couple of minutes  she knew all she needed to know. That Alberto had left me. That the assumed solidity of my marriage had vanished during the first days of summer; that my kids had already flown the nest; that I’d spent the last couple of months awkwardly trying to adjust to my new reality. And that now, facing the new semester, I lacked the stamina to stay afloat in the setting I’d lived comfortably in for years, simply latching onto my responsibilities and routines as if my life hadn’t undergone a swift sure gash like a knife through flesh.
With a dose of pragmatism equal to her body’s considerable size, 
Rosalia immediately absorbed the situation and realized that the last thing I needed was well-meaning  sugarcoated advice. So she did not delve into details or offer me her soft shoulder as solace. She only made a comment that, as I might have expected, bordered on bluntness.

“Well, I’m afraid it won’t be that easy for us, honey.” She spoke in the plural, immediately taking on the matter as something  we were in together. “The deadlines for interesting things passed months ago,” she added, “and the next fellowship application deadlines are still some months away. But the semester is just beginning, and I don’t know if we’ve received anything new in the last couple of weeks. Give me until the end of the day to see if I can come up with something.”
I spent the rest of the morning wandering around the university. I took care of pending paperwork, returned books to the library, and had coffee afterwards. Nothing sufficient to distract me while waiting for Rosalia’s call. I was overanxious and lacked confidence. At a quarter to two I rapped on her office door, which was ajar. Inside, serene as always, and with violet-tinted hair, Rosalia was busy at work.
“I was just about to call you,” she announced, without even giving me time to greet her. Pointing to the computer screen, she proceeded to reel off what she’d found. “Three things came in during the holidays. They’re  not that bad—more than I expected, to tell you the truth. Three universities and three different activities. Lithuania, Portugal, and the United States. California, specifically. None are cushy jobs, mind you, and they all promise to work your ass off without contribut- ing much to your curriculum vitae, but it’s better than nothing, right? Where would you like me to start?”
I shrugged, pursing my lips slightly to stifle a smile: this was my first glimpse of optimism in a long time. In the meantime, Rosalia adjusted her chewing-gum-green glasses and redirected her gaze to the computer, scrutinizing its contents.
“Lithuania, for instance. They’re looking for specialists in linguistic pedagogy for a new teacher training program. Two months. They have a European Union subsidy, …