Certain Girls: A Novel
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In this witty and tender sequel to Good in Bed, Jennifer Weiner’s bighearted heroine Cannie Shapiro balances middle age and motherhood to a preteen daughter filled with Weiner’s “signature observations and spot-on insights into human nature, with a few twists thrown in for good measure” (Publishers Weekly).
Cannie is happily married to the tall, charming diet doctor Peter Krushelevansky and has settled into a life that she finds wonderfully predictable—knitting in the front row of her daughter Joy’s drama rehearsals, volunteering at the library, and taking over-forty yoga classes with her best friend Samantha.
As preparations for Joy’s bat mitzvah begin, everything seems right in Cannie’s world. Then Joy discovers the sexy and provocative novel Cannie wrote years before and suddenly finds herself faced with what she thinks is the truth about her own conception—the story her mother hid from her all her life. When Peter surprises his wife by saying he wants to have a baby, the family is forced to reconsider its history, its future, and what it means to be truly happy.
Radiantly funny and disarmingly tender, with Weiner's whip-smart dialogue and sharp observations of modern life, Certain Girls is an unforgettable story about love, loss, and the enduring bonds of family.
maiden name.” “I could guess.” My heart was rising in my chest. Nifkin, I thought. The magic word was “Nifkin.” “Then you just dial the number on the back, get the card activated, and according to this . . .” I heard her fingers clattering over her keyboard. “You’ll be connected to your personal concierge.” “Good,” I blurted. “Great. Thank you, Tamsin, seriously, thank you so much!” • • • Todd brought us the telephone, ceremoniously carrying it to the room and laying it on the bed between us
“Cannie?” asked Samantha’s disembodied voice. “Can you hear me? Listen, you won’t believe it! I met a guy. Here! In Pittsburgh! At the wedding! There’s some kind of magicians’ convention at the hotel . . .” Dr. Cronin must have picked up the phone from the floor where I’d dropped it and carried it outside. I don’t know what she told Samantha. I don’t know where Dolores went. I didn’t hear anything, couldn’t see anything, except my husband’s body on the table, my dirty hands, grimy fingernails on
I’d tell her when she came down the stairs, but I could see from the way my father turned his face away, from the way he looked too long at the other doctors’ thinner wives, that he didn’t agree. Another nail in the marriage coffin. “And let’s not forget the curse of the InStyle wedding,” I said. “What,” Peter rumbled, “is the curse of the InStyle wedding?” “Come on. I know I’ve told you about this. Every couple who’s ever appeared in InStyle has gotten divorced, like, ten minutes later.
later.”) “Before you buy even a pair of panties, you need to know what you’re working with,” Elle said. She hopped off the escalator and put her hands on my shoulders, holding me in place. I tugged my hair over my hearing aids, sucked in my stomach, and straightened my shoulders, frozen in place as crowds of well-dressed women walked past us. Elle touched my head briefly, ran her hand down my hair, walked around me in a circle, then smiled, satisfied, and led me onto the next escalator. “I’d
help you?” one of them asked with a friendly smile. She was young, with pale hair in a bob just brushing the shoulders of her lab coat, and streaks of different shades of pink across the back of her hand. I took a deep breath. “Um,” I started. “I was in here a few weeks ago, and I put this”—I pulled out the tub of wrinkle cream—“in my pocket, and I meant to pay for it, but I forgot.” The woman looked at me coolly. “Nineteen ninety-five,” she said. I pulled a twenty-dollar bill out of my pocket.