With Friends Like These: A Novel (Random House Reader's Circle)
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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give them a good yank. Every other apartment bid had run along these lines. “We’ll discuss it and I’ll call you in a bit.” I clicked off and explained. “What it comes down to, is, do you really want this place?” Jake asked reasonably. I thought of all my addresses in thirty-some years—the solid, three-story house in the Minneapolis of my childhood; the rambling Manhattan apartment I’d shared with a boyfriend, and then with Jules, Talia, and Chloe; Jake’s cozy hovel, which I moved into when we
What aren’t you saying?” “Full disclosure—the other bidder’s an insider.” “Define insider.” “A resident. In the building.” “Is there a posting or something that tells which apartments are for sale?” I pictured a memo slid into every mailbox. Horton snorted. “If that were the system, how would working stiffs like me make a dime? The information brokers have is privileged.” He spoke the word as if it were his bank account’s PIN number. “In fact, as a result of your offer, Fran had decided not
“You cook?” Quincy asked. “Does the Pope wear a party hat?” “I believe it’s called a miter,” Chloe offered, which, out of politeness, the others ignored. From the foyer, the intercom rang—once, twice, three times. Quincy walked toward it, reaching a finger toward the answer button. Jules followed and topped Quincy’s hand with her own. “Hey, Quincy Peterson, what do you say you tell whoever’s coming up that this place is rented?” Isn’t this my decision? Quincy thought. But Jules de Marco wasn’t
Talia’s end. “Seriously? Shall I be congratulating you?” she asked, quietly, cautiously. Her voice sounded almost fearful. “The jury’s out.” “How far along?” She was whispering. “Far,” I whispered back. “My God, why did you let me blather about my stuff? This is huge.” “You don’t know the half of it.” “Have you told Chloe?” “Oh, yeah,” I said. “I thought my news would be front page, column right, but I guess not.” “Where will you be tomorrow around eleven?” Talia said after what seemed
extended his hand, which was large and warm. “Welcome to the Twin Cities.” He chuckled. “What am I saying? I’m welcoming you back to your own home.” Welcome. The word kissed my soul. This supposed giver of ear-piercing parties chuckled as he motioned me into the vestibule. The red tiled floor gleamed, and on all but one birch bark hook—we’d bought them on a trip to Itasca State Park, to see the headwaters of the Mississippi—were the knit caps and tartan scarves common to an upper Midwest winter.