Such a Good Wife | Seraphina Nova Glass | Graydon House Books| Pub: August 10, 2021 | Pages: 336
This book starts off extremely captivating as it describes the
main character discovering a dead body. However, after that short chapter, the
story development is very slow, yet rushed in a sense. For example, I
personally found the development affair portion of the story was rushed or didn’t
contain enough depth for me to really be invested. I just found it was sort of
glazed over. There were quick sex scenes and narrative around the main
character’s feelings, but I was missing something on that relationship.
The story was told in a first-person POV, narrated by Melanie
Hale, the main character. I did enjoy that single POV as it made the story more
mysterious. I did like Melanie’s character, the writing really highlighted the
fact that Melanie had lots to deal with at home and was truly exhausted,
worried, and unfulfilled, so you could definitely sympathize with her character.
The ending was satisfactory but a bit rushed. I was still missing
a conclusion on some minor aspects of the story.
There were a couple of unexpected moments, but I expected
something more sinister to the story. In my opinion, this was less of a
thriller and more general fiction or a light psychological thriller. This
could be a great book club read!
Thank you to Graydon House Books for providing me with an electronic ARC of this book via NetGalley. As usual, my reviews are my honest and unbiased opinions.
Summary
From the author of Someone's Listening comes another thriller that will leave you breathless, about a housewife implicated in a murder investigation, perfect for fans of The Last House Guest and Someone We Know.
Melanie Hale has the perfect life. Her husband, Collin, is a loving and supportive partner and she loves their small-town home just outside of New Orleans. She doesn't mind (too much) that she's given up her career dreams to care for her two beautiful children. It's all worth it.
So why, when she joins a writers' group for fledgling novelists, does she embark on a steamy affair with Luke, a local bestselling author who gives a talk during the group? Why does she go back to Luke again and again, when she knows it's wrong?
And then Luke is found dead, and Mel knows she was the last person to see him alive. Now, she not only has to keep the affair a secret, but somehow avoid being implicated in Luke's death. But who would want to kill him? And if Mel finds the truth, will she be next? What follows is a sinister cat-and-mouse game that will leave readers guessing until the very last page.
SUCH A
GOOD WIFE
Author:
Seraphina Nova Glass
ISBN: 9781525896019
Publication
Date: August 10, 2021
Publisher:
Graydon House Books
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Author
Author Bio:
Seraphina Nova Glass is a professor and playwright-in-residence at the University of Texas, Arlington, where she teaches film studies and playwriting. She holds an MFA in playwriting from Smith College, and she's also a screenwriter and award-winning playwright. Seraphina has traveled the world using theatre and film as a teaching tool, living in South Africa, Guam and Kenya as a volunteer teacher, AIDS relief worker, and documentary filmmaker.
Two
Before
I can pinpoint the day that set everything in motion.
Gillian Baker, one block over, holds a book club at her house once a week.
Reluctantly, and at her insistence, I finally decided to join. I squeezed a
cylinder of cookie dough out of its plastic tube, cut it into disks and put a
tray of the artificial-tasting dough in the oven so I had something to bring
and pass off as my own. Collin thought the book club idea was great and might
inspire me. I told him it’s just a kid-free night for the neighborhood wives so
they can drink wine and make vapid, uninformed comments on great literature,
but he still thought I would be in my element and should give it a try.
I was going
to be a scholar once upon a time, but I dropped out of my master’s program when
we learned about Bennett’s condition. I wasn’t forced to stay home, but we
decided it made sense. It was for the best, and even better than a degree,
because I could write books from home and still pursue that dream. What a gift!
All the time in the world to write the great American novel. Except I haven’t
written any books, have I? What the hell do I really have to say anyway? Life
has gone out of its way to ignore me in many regards. Shelby Fitch two doors
down was in the peace corps in freaking Guatemala for two years before she
married into this neighborhood. She should write the book.
What will my
topics be? “Mom cleans up kid’s barf during carpool.”
“Mom waits
half a day for dishwasher repair guy, and guess what? He never shows.”
“Mom tries a
Peppa Pig cake recipe from Pinterest, but it looks like deranged farm swine
with a phallic nose and makes son cry.” I have nothing to say. The other day I
thought I’d get serious again and try to really sit and brainstorm some ideas.
I ended up watching videos of people getting hurt on backyard trampolines and a
solid hour of baby goats jumping around in onesies. So, I guess maybe at least
getting my mind back into the literary world can’t hurt.
At my
dressing table, I pulled my hair back and slipped on some dangly earrings. It
was my first time out of yoga pants that week, and it felt nice. I applied lip
gloss and pressed my lips together; I could hear the chaos begin in the
background. The oven was beeping nonstop, beckoning Collin to take out the premade
dinner he’d been heating up for the kids, but he was arguing with Ben about a
video game he refused to turn off. He still had to make a plate for Claire and
help the kids with homework after dinner, and Ralph, our elderly basset hound,
was barking excessively at something outside, raising the tension in the room.
I felt guilty leaving, but when I appeared in the front hall in a sundress,
Collin lit up and gave me a kiss, telling me he had it under control. I knew he
ultimately did. It’s not rocket science, it’s just exhausting and emotionally
bloodsucking, and he’d already had a twelve-hour day of anxiety at work.
I kissed the
top of Ben’s head and said goodbye to Rachel, who was paying no attention, and
then I walked out the front door. I carried the plate of cookies and a copy of The
Catcher in the Rye as I walked across the street. They were trying too
hard, trying to be literary. Why not just choose Fifty Shades or a cozy
mystery? When Rachel had to read this book for English, she called it a turd
with covers. I, on the other hand, spent hours making meticulous notes so I
could be sure to make comments that were sharp and poignant. I rehearse them
in my head as I walk.
I was the
last to arrive; there were a few other moms from the block already there. We
all did the obligatory cheek kisses. Gillian’s living room looked like she was
hosting a dinner party rather than a book club. Chardonnay was chilling in ice
on the kitchen island next to a spread of food that could have come from a Vegas
buffet. I wished I could hide my pathetic tube cookies.
“Wow, Gill.
Did you do all this?” I asked, impressed.
“Oh, hell
no. Are you kidding? It’s catered, silly.”
I can’t
believe she’s had her book club catered. Everyone has wine and something fancy
on a toothpick in their hands. She put my sad cookies next to the beautiful
chiffon cake on the island, and I was mortified. There was cling wrap over
them for God’s sake—on a Spider-Man paper plate left over from Ben’s last
birthday. Kill me.
She poured me
a glass, pretending not to think anything of my trashy offering, and I walked
carefully over her white rug as we made our way into the sitting room. Of
course she has a “sitting room.” It’s a bright space in the front of the house
with vaulted ceilings and a blingy chandelier. We all perched on the edges of
pale furniture. I never did quite know how to feel about these women. They’ve
welcomed me so warmly, but they sometimes seem like a foreign species to me.
Yes, I live in this neighborhood too, but it’s because of Collin’s success,
not anything I’ve done. I guess they can probably say the same. I still feel
sort of like an imposter. I don’t lean into it the way they seem to.
I didn’t
intend to stay home, of course, but I still feel like I was destined for a
career, never dependent on anyone else. It’s not that I feel dependent on
Collin. That’s not the right word. What we have is ours. The way I contribute
is something he could never handle, but I guess I don’t take it for granted the
way they seem to. Gillian was constantly remodeling her house and upgrading
things that you’d think it impossible to upgrade. She had a stunning outdoor
kitchen next to a pool that appears damn near Olympic-sized. It was even
highlighted in the local home tour magazine. One day she gutted the whole thing
because she wanted the pool to be teardrop-shaped instead. And here I am using
Groupons for my facials.
Even that
sounds indulgent. Facials. I grew up in a doublewide trailer in Lafayette with
a mother who worked the night shift at the hospital and an alcoholic father who
spent his days quiet and glassy-eyed on the front porch, staring at some
invisible thing, lost in another time. It will never feel right to buy
five-hundred-dollar shoes or drive a luxury car, although I’d never want to
lose the safety of it and I’m grateful my children will never have to struggle
the way I did. This comfort is for them. This safety is for them. That’s the
bottom line, so I brushed away the negative thoughts.
Tammy
commented on Gillian’s bracelet. She held Gillian’s wrist, examining it.
Everyone oohed and aahed as Gillian explained that it was an early birthday
gift from Robert and she had to get it insured. I have never understood charm
bracelets. An ugly soccer ball hangs off of her silver chain, but I made my
face look delighted along with the others. After we settled in, I assumed the
small talk was over and we’d dig into a great piece of literature. Kid-free,
wine-lubricated, I was ready.
“Oh my God,
you guys, did you see Bethany Burena at Leah’s wedding?” Karen asked. There was
mocking laughter. I’d been at that wedding, but I didn’t know what they were
referring to, so I stayed quiet. Liz chimed in.
“God, it
looked like someone stuffed a couple honey-baked hams into the back of her
dress.”
“And the
worst part is she did that on purpose,” Tammy said, placing her glass of wine
on an end table so she could use her hands to talk. “That ain’t too much
buttercream, y’all!” Then she held her hands to her mouth and pretended to
whisper sideways. “Although did you see her shoveling it in at the cake table?”
“She had
those babies implanted,” Karen agreed.
“No!”
Gillian gasped.
“Yep. Ass
implants. Ass-plants.” Everyone roared with laughter. I forced a chuckle so I
didn’t stand out. I hated these people, I realized right in that moment. I
longed to leave. I could fake a headache, or check in at home and say there’s a
problem with Ben, I thought. Why didn’t I? Why do I need their approval? Karen
kept the gossip going.
“That’s not
as bad as Alice. She brought the guy who cleans her pool to the wedding!
“What do you
mean?” Liz asked.
“As a date.”
“No!”
“Scandal
much?” Tammy was delighted she had everyone in hysterics.
“Alice
Berg?” I asked, not understanding the social sin she’d committed. “Isn’t she
single—like, divorced, I thought.”
“Yeah, but
she brought The. Pool. Guy. Sad.”
“So sad,”
Karen echoed.
“Desperate,”
Liz added. She noticed the book in my hands. “What’s that?”
“What do you
mean? It’s the book,” I said with a lighthearted scoff.
“Oh, Mel.
I’m so sorry I didn’t mention it, I guess I thought everyone just sort of got
it—especially since the book was something so random,” Gillian said.
“Got what?”
“We don’t,
like, read it. We just need an excuse to get rid of the kids and hubbies for
one night. I think we deserve at least that?” she said, glancing around for
allies.
“Damn right
we do.” Liz held her wine up and gulped it down, a sort of toast to herself.
“You didn’t read it, did you?” I didn’t answer. I felt like an idiot. I was
joking when I said it was an excuse to drink and have a night away. I was at
least half joking. I thought that I may have found a few kindred spirits,
perhaps—that they were at least making a half-assed attempt at self-betterment.
“I just
skimmed it,” I said.
I was
probably visibly blushing, so I picked a strawberry carved into a rose shape
from the table and picked at it.
“Mel has a
master’s in literature. Did y’all know that?” Gillian said, maybe in an attempt
to redeem herself from indirectly embarrassing me.
“Oh my gosh,
smarty-smart pants. Look at you.” Karen swatted my leg and smiled,
supportively. I wanted the attention off me as soon as possible, so I didn’t
correct her and say that it was creative writing…and that I never finished the
degree.
“You should
give me the name of your caterer,” I said, picking up a skewer of chicken and
taking a bite. “I was gonna do a thing for Collin’s birthday. Maybe a trip, but
if we stay in town we’ll have people to the house.” The subject is officially
changed. Her eyes lit up.
“Oh my gosh,
I have their card. I told them they should pay me for how many referrals I’m
getting for them. Their almond torte is totally to die for. Seriously. If you
don’t do a cake, maybe mini tortes.”
“Oh, cute!”
Liz said.
We talked about
mini tortes, whose phone carrier is the worst, Karen’s daughter’s (nonexistent)
modeling career and Botox for the next two hours until I walked home unsteadily
with my plate of cookies that Gillian gracefully sent home with me. I had to
laugh a little at the idea that they met weekly, like they’d read that much.
Made sense now. I tossed The Catcher in the Rye in Brianna Cunningham’s
garbage can, which she’d failed to pull back into the garage (Tammy actually
made mention of that particular oversight earlier in the evening), and I didn’t
know if the crushing disappointment of the evening was worse than going back
home to Claire’s bedpan and the mounting stress of teen angst and Ben’s moods.
I wished I could just sit in the Cunninghams’ yard, drunk for a little while,
but someone would see, and it would be discussed at some other neighbor’s book
club.
The
temperate dusk air was dense with mosquitoes and the chatter of crickets. I
took my time walking back. When I approached our house, I saw Collin in an orange
rectangle of warm kitchen light. He was washing dishes, sort of, but mostly
looking past the kitchen island at the TV in the living room. I concentrated on
appearing more sober than I was as I entered the kitchen. I sat at the table,
pulling off my shoes, and he offered me a glass of wine.
“No,
thanks.” I got up and filled a plastic Bob the Builder cup under the tap, then
sat on a counter stool. He pulled one up next to me.
“Was it
fun?” he asked, hopefully, wanting me to find an outlet—some joy in my life
while things are so tough. I didn’t know if I should tell him the truth or make
him happy, so I went down the middle.
“It was
okay.”
“Just okay?”
“Eh. Not
exactly the literary minds I was hoping to connect with.”
“I’m sorry.”
He squeezed my hand. “I took Ben to pick out a new chapter book at Classics
tonight.”
“Oh fun.
What did he pick out?” I asked, thinking Collin was changing the subject.
He handed me
a little postcard advert. “There’s a writers’ group starting next week.”
I looked
over the glossy square and it had details welcoming any local writers to join
the weekly Thursday group to workshop their writing. Before I could dismiss the
assertion that I’m a “writer,” he pointed to the bullet point that stated “all
levels welcome.” It was so incredibly sweet that he brought this for me, not
only to encourage me in pursuing something I care about, but was also willing
to hold down the fort every Thursday. I kissed him.
“That’s very
thoughtful of you.”
“But?” he
asked, anticipating a “no,” but I didn’t have a reason to say no. I mean,
except that I had no writing to present to the group. I could write a critical
essay on The Catcher in the Rye. That was about it. It sounded thrilling
though. Maybe some accountability and pressure would be just what I needed. I
glanced past Collin into the living room and saw Bennett asleep in front of WWE
SmackDown! on the TV. I gave Collin a look.
“Well, he’s
asleep, isn’t he?” he defended himself. Ismiled and shook my head, pressing my
thumb into the crumbs on his plate and tasting the remnants of the cookies I
left behind for the kids to eat.
“I guess I can try it,” I said, standing and rinsing the plate. Words I’d give anything to take back.
Excerpted from Such A Good Wife by Seraphina
Nova Glass, Copyright © 2021 by Seraphina Nova Glass.
Published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
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