Coming soon! Angels in the Architecture, Andy Juniper's cleverly crafted third novel, is a touching love story, brimming with heartache and loss and buoyed by humor and hope. Told in affecting flashbacks in a distinctive, confessional style, the novel chronicles the story of Daniel (Storm) Davis and the unforgettable Ali Reynolds, from serendipitous beginning to tragic end. Character driven through shocking twists and turns, Angels is a compelling story, beautifully written and skillfully executed. Revel in Storm and Ali's potent romance; marvel at Harland (Hap) Hazard's powerful presence, despite his conspicuous absences; and take joy in Janeen, Ali's eccentric mother and a veteran of more Little Theater troupes than even she could recall. This unforgettable novel, releasing this summer, promises to captivate your heart and leave a lasting impression.

“Andy Juniper has written a novel that will be talked about for ages. Not only for the concept, but for the language and plot. Angels in the Architecture is a treasure.” – Roy MacGregor, Critically Acclaimed and Bestselling Author

And that was when I first saw her. At the most mundane moment of what was destined to be but another day on life’s treadmill had fate not intervened and placed me alongside a narrow, paved road that winds around the base of a hill in Toronto's High Park. Had I not been seized by an irrepressible urge to glance up. And that was when I first saw her. Atop the hill, awash in autumn sunshine, a sultry, southerly breeze caressing her in a daring and sensual way. 

She was standing beside a black duffel bag, and she was stretching like a cat that is languidly, reluctantly awakening from a delicious nap. Befitting an Indian summer afternoon in the city, she was wearing a pink T-shirt, tan shorts fashionably shortened by folds at the hem, white ankle socks and white running shoes, an outfit that was practical and casual and so seemingly unremarkable -- and yet remarkable enough to become permanently branded on my memory.

In time I would document that precise, decisive moment in my life when I looked up and saw her, a moment that in my mind would become unglued and separated from time. Predictably, upon publication of that first-person account in a Toronto newspaper, I was skewered by hard-boiled critics who would not know love if it sent them long-stemmed red roses and poetry on a whim, and by a particularly skeptical soul named Harland (Hap) Hazard. Amongst assorted other things, the Hazard questioned how I could have possibly discerned (let alone been mesmerized by) her beauty considering what he deemed the “prohibitive distance” that separated us; the Hazard would dissect this scenario -- her on the hill, me down below, what I saw, what I could not possibly have seen -- with the tireless tenacity of a conspiracy theorist questioning the whole dubious JFK/grassy knoll/lone-gunman scenario, to the degree where late one night he drunkenly demanded a reenactment. A request initially sloughed off with laughter and then, once determined that he was actually serious, indignantly rejected.

Furthermore, I was derided by critics for my flowery choice of words and phrases: namely, the "almost otherworldly bronze aura" I suggested surrounded her, and the "slivers of sunlight" I asserted were reflecting off the strands of her silky brown hair. They accused me of flaunting, indeed flogging, poetic license. They insinuated that I could not possibly have felt -- that instantaneously, that powerfully -- the connection between us, Cupid’s arrow piercing my heart. Detractors in mind, I'll stick to the bare facts regarding what happened next...

She knelt beside the black bag. After a moment’s hesitation, she then fully reclined, supine on the grass, and placed her arms across her chest like a mortician customarily arranges the arms and hands of a corpse. Then, with an elbow, she gave herself a push-off and began rolling down the hill. 

Rolling. Her body rotating like the rollers on a steamroller, quickly gathering momentum on the steep descent. Rolling, rolling, rolling... right on into my life.

And in that dizzying, impetuous moment, I was reborn. Would I believe in love at first sight? Yes, like the beat-keeper for the Beatles sings, I'm certain that it happens all the time...