With Friends Like These: A Novel (Random House Reader's Circle)
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Quincy, Talia, Chloe, and Jules met after answering a roommate ad for an apartment. Despite having little in common, the women became fast friends. A decade later, Quincy, a Midwestern introvert, is trying to overcome a set of tragedies by hunting for the perfect home; Talia, a high-energy California wife and mom, is growing resentful of her friends’ greater financial stability; timid Chloe, from New England and also a mother, is trying to deflect pressure from her husband, a hedge fund manager, to play the role of trophy wife; and Jules, a fiercely independent New York City native and entrepreneur, is confronting her forties alone.
As the women wrestle with the challenges of love and motherhood, will their relationships survive? Witty and wise, Sally Koslow’s With Friends Like These hits an emotional bull’s-eye for anyone who has had—or even been—a less than perfect pal. This high-five to sisterhood will leave you certain that close friends can never be replaced.
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let Jake make this request? He and Xander got along well enough, while whenever Xander and I were left alone, I felt unglued, afraid he was going to hit on me as he had a few New Year’s Eves ago. He’d followed me into the kitchen and pressed his body against my back while I reached into my refrigerator. “You’re hot, Quincy,” he’d breathed into my ear. “There’s something between us. Can’t you feel it?” In the most literal sense I could—and hadn’t been able to escape before Chloe had walked in and
“Tell me, what’s the crisis that brings us to this table?” “It’s less a crisis than a quandary.” “Chloe?” Her look said, I’ve got places to go and people to see. “The time has come for a confidence upgrade,” I announced. “I was hoping for a pep talk. At least some sort of rule you could quote.” “Like Never announce you’re on a diet when your friend has polished off the bread?” “Exactly.” Jules leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand, and peered directly into my eyes. “Forgive me for
corner table. A guy whom it took me a second to recognize as Arthur was already seated. There must have been a sale at a trading post. He was wearing a fitted black suit, an embroidered black shirt, a shiny black tie, a belt with an embossed silver buckle featuring a long-nosed animal I couldn’t quite make out, and a black Western hat. Had Willie Nelson died or was Arthur merely fed up with country music hunks getting all the sartorial breaks? He stood and leaned in my direction. We were eye to
years ago. My mother had been only sixty-six, but dementia had been strangling her for almost a decade. “When I see anyone like that …” My voice trailed off. “Mom had been a history teacher—smart and funny, a great dancer, a swimming champ—and at the end, she was …” I searched for words. “Like a chair.” I winced. “That came out wrong. I should be able to do better than that—I’m a writer.” “I’m deeply sorry,” Mrs. Shelbourne said, and took my hand as she had Dr. Walter’s. “It’s the most
the near future. “Take someone else. Don’t you have girlfriends?” Interesting question. We used to hang out together—Talia, Chloe, Jules, me. That had gotten harder after three of us married and all of us scattered, yet there’d been a time when I could persuade Jules, at least, to drop everything and go anywhere. She was unflinchingly faithful, consistently amusing. I missed her laughter and company, not for the first time. Talia also used to be an excellent companion, though I’d stopped