Goodnight Nobody: A Novel
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New York Times bestselling author Jennifer Weiner’s unforgettable story of adjusting to suburbia—and all the surprises hidden behind its doors.
For Kate Klein, a semi-accidental mother of three, suburbia has been full of unpleasant surprises. Her once-loving husband is hardly ever home. The supermommies on the playground routinely snub her. Her days are spent carpooling and enduring endless games of Candy Land, and at night, most of her orgasms are of the do-it-yourself variety.
When a fellow mother is murdered, Kate finds that the unsolved mystery is the most exciting thing to happen in Upchurch, Connecticut, since her neighbors broke ground for a guesthouse and cracked their septic tank. Even though the local police chief warns her that crime-fighting's a job best left to the professionals, Kate launches an unofficial investigation -- from 8:45 to 11:30 on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, when her kids are in nursery school.
As Kate is drawn deeper into the murdered woman's past, she begins to uncover the secrets and lies behind Upchurch's picket-fence facade -- and considers the choices and compromises all modern women make as they navigate between marriage and independence, small towns and big cities, being a mother and having a life of one's own.
then looked at the house, its grayed, weathered façade broken here and there by oversized square windows. “Yup, that’s it.” I paused. “Cheerful place.” “Brian says the house turns its back on the world,” Ben said, putting the car in park. All three kids had fallen asleep. We sat quietly for a minute, listening to the ticks of the cooling engine and the wind. “It’s beautiful inside,” he said. “I’ll take Brian’s word for it,” I said, getting out of the seat and inspecting the empty garden beds,
the gun at my chest. “He’s very smart, it’s just that nobody ever gave him a chance!” She stared at me, panting. Then she held up the scarf. Hermès, I’d bet. My first designer scarf. Too bad I might not live to appreciate it. “Hands together.” I edged forward toward her island with my hands dangling loose at my sides. “What were the two of you going to do after you’d eliminated the competition? What were you going to do to keep him in handmade shirts and shoes? Sell flaxseed muffins on the
raised by their mothers. In this case, and for a finite number of years, biology really is destiny. Shame on the woman who exchanges her role as the dispenser of good-night hugs, consoling kisses, and lullabies for the transitory pleasures and cocktail-party cred of the corner office and the fancy title. And pity the working-class childcare provider who doesn’t realize that the real villain in her life isn’t a stereotypical sexist pig, but the woman wearing recycled-fiber clothing, eating organic
BabyBjörn and left stiffening on the kitchen floor. “I still think it was feminists,” Sukie Sutherland said. She’d lowered herself onto the bench and was fiddling with her cell phone in between sips from her spirulina smoothie. She wore wool trousers that hung from her hipbones and put her flat, cashmere-sheathed belly on display. Her soft leather boots and shearling coat were a painful contrast to my own sneakers and sweatshirt. “And I don’t care what it says in the Constitution, I say anyone
recognized from the elementary school crosswalk. In my fantasy, the handcuffs and the smug brother-in-law were gone, and Stan was clapping me heartily on the back, saying, Brilliant, Kate, you solved the case! Instead, he merely flipped to a fresh page in his notebook. “Do you know Philip Cavanaugh?” I shook my head and picked my barrette up off the floor. Stan scribbled something. “Let’s back up. When Kitty called she said she wanted to talk to you about something. Do you know what?” I shook