Miller's Valley: A Novel

Miller's Valley: A Novel

Anna Quindlen

Language: English

Pages: 272

ISBN: 0812996089

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • In a small town on the verge of big change, a young woman unearths deep secrets about her family and unexpected truths about herself. Filled with insights that are the hallmark of Anna Quindlen’s bestsellers, Miller’s Valley is an emotionally powerful story about a family you will never forget.
 
For generations the Millers have lived in Miller’s Valley. Mimi Miller tells about her life with intimacy and honesty. As Mimi eavesdrops on her parents and quietly observes the people around her, she discovers more and more about the toxicity of family secrets, the dangers of gossip, the flaws of marriage, the inequalities of friendship and the risks of passion, loyalty, and love. Home, as Mimi begins to realize, can be “a place where it’s just as easy to feel lost as it is to feel content.”
 
Miller’s Valley is a masterly study of family, memory, loss, and, ultimately, discovery, of finding true identity and a new vision of home. As Mimi says, “No one ever leaves the town where they grew up, even if they go.” Miller’s Valley reminds us that the place where you grew up can disappear, and the people in it too, but all will live on in your heart forever.
 
Praise for the bestselling fiction of Anna Quindlen
 
“Anna Quindlen knows that all the things we will ever be can be found in some forgotten fragment of family.”The Washington Post, about Object Lessons

“There comes a moment in every novelist’s career when she . . . ventures into new territory, breaking free into a marriage of tone and style, of plot and characterization, that’s utterly her own. Anna Quindlen’s marvelous romantic comedy of manners is just such a book. . . . Quindlen has delivered a novel that will have staying power all its own.”The New York Times Book Review, about Still Life with Bread Crumbs
 
“Anna Quindlen writes about family with all the humanity, wit, and pain of going home.”—Wendy Wasserstein, about One True Thing
 
“Anna Quindlen is America’s resident Sane Person. She has what Joyce called the common touch, the ability to speak to many people about what’s on their minds before they have the vaguest idea what’s on their minds.”The New York Times, about Blessings
 
“Quindlen knows words, and she knows women.”More, about Rise and Shine
 
“Quindlen’s writing . . . wraps the reader in the warmth and familiarity of domestic life.”The Seattle Times, about Every Last One

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

going to dinner at the diner and maybe the steak house on my birthday and looking around and thinking, No, no, no, this is not my life, this is not my life. I didn’t know what my life was, or would be. I just knew it couldn’t be that. I never told anyone beforehand, especially not Steven, because he would have started making plans, a two-bedroom house with a tiny bedroom for a baby, a small ceremony with LaRhonda and Fred standing next to us. You were supposed to be so smart, Mimi, I could hear

her hands over her stomach with a sigh, shaking her head until her hoop earrings rattled. What that meant was that she wasn’t buying my bad clam story before and she wasn’t buying it now. “And how are you doing?” she finally said in that snotty voice after going on for ten minutes about her bad back. But I wasn’t going to talk to her about that, either. She didn’t really want to hear what I had to say: that my father had been up a couple of times the night before, wandering outside and burning

about Ruth is that she had a tendency to talk about every little thing. “Silence is a virtue,” my mother said sometimes. I suppose Ruth talked because she was lonely, but my mother would have made one of her mouth noises if I’d said that. Lonely. Ha. When we talked that day in the kitchen it made an echoing sound because there wasn’t much furniture in the downstairs. The big one had been big enough to soak through the couch and the easy chairs, the rugs and the throw pillows. There was no saving

looking over the chart, figuring out what kind of home care we would need, when the cardiologist told Donald that it was a shame he lived so far away. “The high school is looking for a basketball coach,” he said. “Your granddad told me you’re the man for the job.” I saw a look on Donald’s face, and I realized that there was something in him that I’d never seen and that I, of all people, should have recognized. Except for his grandfather, there was no one left but me who’d really known the boy

still miss my father. It’s the little things that get you. I go into the toolbox to hang a new spice rack and can’t find the right screwdriver, and I hear a tongue clicking in my ear and know it’s Buddy Miller, saying to himself, How did I raise a girl who doesn’t keep her tools handy? I miss Callie, too, who comes up for holidays and a weekend visit a couple of times a year. Clifton bought her a little house in California when he started getting steady work out there as an actor, and it was

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