This book was a book club pick. I had high hopes--I love New Orleans and books about strong women. One of the questions in the book club was "Would this book be different if it had been written by a woman?" Definitely. It was so obvious the writer was lusting after his creation, a child, it actually made me uncomfortable. And most infuriating of all--he dared tell us that a woman could learn to enjoy rape. It made me want to punch him in the junk over and over while telling him to relax and enjoy it. How dare he?! I really didn't like anything about the story, but what made it worse was the writer's complete lack of talent. It was so badly written, it was painful to read. I am familiar with third-person omniscient perspective in writing--but this book featured the writer's 20/20 hindsight instead. The only thing I'm glad of is that I could return it to the library and I didn't spend good money on this dreck.