Lost by Gregory Maguire, is billed as a modern A Christmas Carol. I tend to disagree, mostly.
Maguire has written quite a few of these "familiar tale re-tellings", the most famous of which, Wicked, was even turned into a Broadway musical. I've read a few of them, and Wicked and Lost are the only two still in my library.
This book gets the vague, cold feel of the ghost story perfectly right. A woman running away from her own success tries to find her old friend John, who has disappeared. Seems pretty straightforward.
Thing is, it's not straightforward at all.
Weird things happen in John's old flat. Winnie finds herself driving across Europe, chasing her own patchy memories - and she's not happy she when she does find them. It's a terribly sad story, and one that is a huge triumph in terms of mood. It gives me that ache in the chest that only truly good, well-crafted angst can give me. Even though I saw some of those woes before the heroine did - it makes sense, she doesn't want to see them.
I'll probably need to re-read this one - the plot doesn't come to mind well.
I suspect I'll enjoy it.
And now - to the scotch.