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The morning after my mother passed away, the sky was every color—cranberry, orange zest, azalea pink, lemon peel. I told my dearest friends that this was proof of my mother's lingering presence, a peace offering after a terrible time. Several weeks later, a package arrived in the mail—a perfect knitted purse of sunrise colors. It was small, an ornament, to be hung not used, to be filled with nothing more than the essence it already contained, which was the love of my friend, Jennie Nash. Her time. Her thoughtfulness. It is a work of art that hangs here, in my office. I note its brilliance every day.

This morning I rose early to read Jennie's second novel, The Only True Genius in the Family. I was for many reasons feeling blue and not at all convinced that I could be lifted from the closed shell of myself. On a day I needed elevation (transformation), Jennie was once more there. I love this novel of hers—so quintessentially Jennie, which is to say honest, deeply felt, smartly paced, and highly relevant. Genius is the story of a woman named Claire (another Claire, I smiled to discover) whose daughter is an exceptionally gifted painter and whose father was a renowned photographer. Claire stands in the middle—a bridge, yes, a facilitator, maybe, and perhaps an artist, too, though she doubts herself, questions the career she's forged in food photography.

Jennie's book is due out in February. I quote a passage here that reminds me of my own last Thursday, when I got out to the beach too late to catch the pink that I'd been chasing. Claire, like me, is a photographer, stalking the perfect picture of a sun-touched sea.

The sky gets light by small degrees. It is night, and then there is a moment when it is something else. I wanted to catch the sun itself, emerging over the houses, so I waited while the light rose. But when the sun peeked over the roofs, I questioned the moment. I waited one beat, then two. And then the sun was there, glaring bright in the sky. "Take it, take it," I told myself, but the sun kept creeping higher and I kept stalling and then it was too late.