This finely-layered novel is told from the perspective of the bright, 16-year-old Sarah Kunitz. Through her eyes, we are offered an intimate look at her upper middle class family in 1970 suburban Boston. It’s an enviable portrait from the outside, but behind closed doors it is a darkly different story. Sarah’s mother is taking pills and floundering.  Sarah and her brothers must find ways to escape their parents’ bitter disagreements and their father’s difficult personality. Those harsh realities are soon replaced with confusion, grief and anger when their mother dies in a car crash. A certain drifting sadness looms while their father begins an affair with a young woman and Sarah embarks on her own romances.  Consequences abound, but Keener weaves the threads into a taut ending.

The novel carries with it the full implications of its title. What is a night swim?  It’s moving into dark waters with little illumination to guide us, trusting – without certain reason to –that we will be able to navigate the muck, the humming currents, the chilly viscosity, and emerge intact. When we close the book, we know that Sarah is not going to merely survive; she is going to thrive. This is a deep exploration of the Kunitz family, and our own humanity, that will resonate long after you have finished reading.

Keener is a big talent with a particular knack for detail and a finely tuned ear. Through the skilled rendering she offers of this family and the characters who surround them, she gives us a story that makes us cringe and lurch, laugh and, literally, weep. Her writing is never obvious, yet her lyrical prose will wow you. Even when describing the seemingly ordinary, Keener injects poetry. Sentences like these kiss every page of the novel:

“By now it was pitch-black outside and the large globe light above the table reflected off the windows like a bloated fish.”

“Her flower heads had turned brown, her petals wrinkled as old peoples’ faces”

Not every writer has the ability to move readers the way Keener does. Her writing is richly textured and she strikes perfect pitch with Sarah. We are swept into the world of a teenager on every page, including plenty of squirmy and self-conscious moments.  It is a high-wire act to give authentic voice to a teenager of a different era, but Kenner never stumbles. She is particularly adept at handling Sarah’s sex life in a realistic manner, capturing so much of the awkwardness inherent in teen sexuality, including birth control and Planned Parenthood.  Sarah comes alive as a realistic navigator and takes us along on a rich exploration of family life and coming into one’s own.  Sarah’s moment in time echoes the nation’s 1970 zeitgeist – pent up, poised for and on the verge of great change. Keener does a brilliant job lacing bits of music and other cultural signposts of the times – Woodstock, the lyrics to “If I Had A Hammer” — into the narrative, keeping us firmly rooted in the era without bombarding us with it.

There is much feeling in this novel, yet the writing never becomes precious or sentimental. It aches with suffering and shimmers with strength. Sarah’s explorations allow readers to examine their own relationship with truth, sorrow, loss, longing and joy.  Sarah gives us a careful look at something we all tend to do – rush past pain – and teaches us to keep hold of our true selves no matter how we might veer.

Readers will be glad they dove into Night Swim.

Anna March writes our monthly Empowering/Embarrassing column as well as the weekly Aural Fixations column at The Rumpus. She has been nominated for a 2012 Pushcart Prize, and her work has appeared in Salon, Connotation Press and other publications. Her novel, The Diary of Suzanne Frank, is forthcoming. You can keep up with her on Facebook.

The highly sanitized depictions in the film removed the vast majority of Bella’s “violet blotches,” decorating (Meyer’s word choice) her with a few tiny bruises on her arm and shoulder. This diminishment can be seen as positive, given that it results in a depiction that does not romanticize Bella’s bruised and battered body to the same extent as the book. (For more on this line of analysis, see this post.)

However, the horrors of Bella’s pregnancy are not diminished to the same extent. Seeing her skeletal, ghostly figure on the large screen, with sunken eyes and protruding collar bones, makes visible the book’s claim that the fetus is killing her. Yet, the film ultimately depicts the pregnancy and resulting birth as miraculous, a framing that also suggests the fetus is more important than Bella. Bella is portrayed as an heroic martyr, an ultimate mother-to-be, rather than as a delusional lovestruck teen with a seeming death wish. What a message for young audiences who are also privy to the popularity of teen motherhood that shows such as 16 and Pregnant and Teen Mom foster!

Perhaps the most problematic and ick-inducing moment is the poorly-handled scene where Jacob “imprints” on baby Renesmee. As he looks into the baby’s eyes, he envisions her as a young girl, a teen and, then, a woman. He falls to his knees in front of baby Renesmee at the close of the scene, in gooey admiration. With child sexual abuse scandals rocking the nation, it would be hard to pull off any depiction of the imprinting strand of the narrative that doesn’t call to mind sexual abuse and pedophilia – but the director’s choice to have the baby age in Jacob’s mind doesn’t make the ick factor more palatable. If anything, it emphasizes that Jacob sees the baby he falls in love with AS the woman she will become. Ick ick ick.

Does the film have good moments? Sure. I especially liked the self-referential comedy  where the movie poked fun at itself and the franchise. The wedding toast speeches were a comedic highlight, as were all of Jessica’s lines. Bella asking Edward, “What, you’re not  a virgin?” added another comedic touch to the otherwise often pro-abstinence, sex-is-dangerous, pregnancy is a “godsend” message of the film.

The Twilight films have struck a cultural nerve. We need to pay attention to such zeitgeists even if we are not “fans” – such pop culture phenomenon take the pulse of the current moment, acting like cultural barometers. I just wish this pulse didn’t include a dead-looking young mother-to-be who cares nothing for herself, only for her Edward and the “little nudger” growing inside her. I also wish it didn’t include an adult male falling in romantic love with a baby girl. That is one meme that surely deserves to be slayed once and for all.

Natalie Wilson is the author of Seduced by Twilight. She teaches literature and women’s studies at Cal State San Marcos, and you can follow her blog here.

The movie is a poignant slice of life/coming-of-age/immigrant story set in present day Los Angeles. The main characters — Carlos Galindo, an illegal Mexican immigrant working as a gardener in the wealthy suburbs of L.A., brilliantly and subtly played by Demian Bichir, the handsome, corrupt Mexican politician from Weeds, and his teenage son, Luis, played by Jose Julian — seem one dimensional on paper: hard-working immigrant father, struggling to make “a better life” for his son who is embarrassed by his Spanish-speaking laborer father and is being seduced by the local gangs and trappings of the American Dream he feels he has coming to him. Within a few scenes, their dimensionality unfolds.

The series of events, decisions, repercussions and consequences that befall the pair are heartbreaking on many levels. There is a social and/or moral issue raised with almost every interaction in the film. I’m making it sound really heavy, and while it is serious, there is so much humanity, good acting, and even humor. This is a movie that stays with you.

I found that it was the little moments — the understated moments — that affected me the most like the scenes of Carlos sleeping on the couch in his clothes, while his son sleeps in the only bedroom. The scene in which the entire contents of Carlos’ work truck are on the living room floor while he sleeps. The care Carlos takes while washing the few dishes in his sparse yet immaculately clean kitchen. The general decay of Carlos’ neighborhood contrasted with his well-tended garden. The way he looks at his son and, in turn, the evolution of the way his son looks back at him.

Carlos, the individual with the most integrity, also happens to be living and working in this country illegally — a fact he is hyper-aware of and which he never takes for granted. His ethics are constantly tested and, yet, with each interaction with those who have wronged him, with those who have supported him and with others in similar circumstances to his own, he is a mensch, the finest example of a human being. When his desperation finally gets the best of him I found myself rooting for him even though I knew that he was wrong.

Immigration, along with so many of the issues that plague this country, is complex. So are the immigrants — the real human beings that are affected by the laws, bureaucracy and prejudices surrounding this issue. We are an imperfect people living in an imperfect world. But we are all people, and people are at the heart of this issue, this crisis. We need to lead and govern with our hearts. We are all complicit. Those like Carlos who try to remain “invisible” and those who make it easy for people like him to do so when it is convenient or economical. Who gets to decide what makes a better life? Whose life in the end gets to be better? At what cost? And at whose expense?

Over the past couple of weeks, I’ve read a dozen thrillers. I know. I’m trying to figure out what that means, too. Maybe it’s just because they’re good summer reading, or maybe it’s because, unlike real life, they tend to end with everything resolved and tied up in neat little packages, and I need the reassurance of that now.

Whatever the reason, I devoured each of these books in a day or two, and found them riveting. You’ll see there are ten – not twelve – listed here because our philosophy is to only feature things we like. We’re not into bad-mouthing so if we can’t recommend something, we just won’t talk about it.

If you’re looking for mystery and mayhem, these are some top choices. I’d love to hear your suggestions, too.

The book that started it all was Linda Castillo’s Breaking Silence, which I read in one cross-country flight. The subject matter – murder in Amish country – is irresistible, and the story is filled with so many unexpected moments, I often found myself gasping, grateful that the passengers next to me were wearing headphones. I love reading about female investigators because they are strong and smart and brave, yet their tales are often filled with self-doubt and love-gone-wrong (stereotype much?) Police Chief Kate Burkholder is a compelling example of this, and I can’t wait to go back and read Castillo’s previous books about her.

Blind Fury by Lynda La Plante also features an appealing female investigator. Making her sixth thriller appearance, Detective Inspector Anna Travis is contacted by a killer she put in jail years ago, who insists he can help her solve a recent string of murders. The story’s polite British tone belies its depth of emotion and horror, making the shocking ending even more upsetting.

Another fascinating book whose style is beautifully incongruous with its disturbing content is In Malice, Quite Close by Brandi Lynn Ryder. This debut novel, whose title is taken from a Rimbaud poem, is sophisticated and rich – and the unraveling story is like a car wreck from which you can’t seem to turn away. French ex-pat Tristan Mouralt kidnaps young Karen Miller, truly believing he is saving her from a mundane life, and transforms her into Gisele, the belle of an exclusive art community. When she is found dead in a swimming pool, the who-done-it begins. Part Lolita, part art world expose, this book is truly a work of art itself.

The shady side of the art world is also explored in Alafair Burke’s Long Gone, which combines so many timely issues and plot twists, you’ll need to remember to come up for air even though you’ll just want to keep reading. Alice Humphrey dreams of opening a Manhattan gallery, and when she’s given that opportunity by a mysterious man who she later discovers lying on the floor – dead – she ends up in the middle of a police investigation, realizing she’s been set up. This is the kind of cautionary tale that makes you think about what you would do if you were in the same situation – and makes you sweat.

Everything about Mice by Gordon Reece scared me. The title alone gave me the creeps, referring to the mousy, victim-like personalities of teenager Shelley and her divorced mom. The two live alone in a remote area of the country, where Shelley is now home-schooled after being brutalized by a trio of “frenemies.” You know mother and daughter are not going to simply be living happily ever after, and the tension builds to a breaking point as an intruder shatters their sense of security and they decide not to be victims any more. In this age where bullying has become such a huge issue, this is an important and thought-provoking book.

I can always count on Gregg Hurwitz for a fast-paced ride full of twists and turns, and You’re Next is up there with his best. Just when Mike Wingate – raised as a foster child after being abandoned by his father at age four – is settled down with a wife and child and life is good, his past comes back to haunt him. Mike is such a real character and his dreams and fears are so easy to relate to, I was horrified at what was happening to him. I literally couldn’t turn the pages fast enough, and was tempted to start skimming because I couldn’t wait to see what happened next!

Elizabeth Brundage blurs the line between movies and reality in A Stranger Like You, the suspenseful story of an aspiring screenwriter who decides to show the producer who rejected his script that the ending she called “implausible” is actually possible. He locks her in the trunk of her car and leaves it in the parking lot at LAX, setting off a chain of events that brings together a young soldier, an Iraqi exchange student and a runaway girl in a powerful climax that would make a great film.

Hollywood also takes center stage in Marcus Sakey’s The Two Deaths of Daniel Hayes, which is so well-written, it will make your brain hurt trying to guess what’s going to happen (which, by the way, you won’t). A man wakes up, naked and alone, on a desolate beach in Maine and can’t remember anything. He finds a BMW containing clothes that fit him and a California car registration in the name of Daniel Hayes, and all he knows is that he feels a deep connection to an actress he sees on a hotel room TV. He sets off to Malibu to try to find her – and himself. The story deals with ethics and crime and identity and love and loyalty, and the writing is so, so good.

Christine Lucas can’t remember who she is, either. The narrator of S.J. Watson’s Before I Go To Sleep loses her memory every night, waking up each morning in unfamiliar surroundings to a strange man who says he’s her husband. This psychological thriller kept me on edge until the last page, and had me changing my mind regularly about who she should trust and who she shouldn’t. This is a book that will keep you up at night and that you will definitely remember long after you’ve finished it.

Turn of Mind by Alice LaPlante may be the most devastating book of the bunch. It, too, is about a woman who has memory problems – this seems to be a recurring Baby Boomer theme – but hers are due to Alzheimer’s disease. Dr. Jennifer White was a world-renowned orthopedic surgeon until dementia took over. Her best friend has been murdered and Jennifer is the prime suspect, although she has absolutely no recollection of the fact that Amanda is even dead. This is a harrowing story, told from the raw and often-confused point of view of Jennifer herself, which left me hoping that one day soon Alzheimer’s will no longer be a mystery.

Author Dorothy Wickenden, Executive Editor of The New Yorker since 1996, has skillfully woven the true story of two friends taking the path of most resistance to their own piece of history. She places the reader smack in the middle of this profound journey of two female pioneers by expertly drafting details from their personal diaries and correspondence, interweaving their saga with poignant black and white photos, and transporting the reader back in time almost 100 years.

Nothing Daunted epitomizes Robert Frost’s classic poem, “The Road Not Taken,” which was, coincidentally, written in 1915, within a year of Dorothy and Ros’s life-changing experiences in Elkhead. Their true story — “an alternative Western,” as Wickenden describes it — actually plays out far better than the poem. Whether you call it irony or destiny, their wealthy, high society upbringing allowed them to diverge from their expected paths to embark on an adventure to a foreign territory known as the Wild West — land certainly never before seen by socialites.

Wickenden follows the friends from high society to a rudimentary classroom in a clever foreshadowing that is initially touched upon in the beginning chapters of the books. Wisely-placed details like Dorothy and Rus first meeting in 1892 in one of the first kindergarten classrooms in the United States, and tales of formal dinners served in drawing rooms by servants while being surrounded by “embroidered French white curtains” are added not only for effect but to give the reader information that further enhances this historical dichotomy of Dorothy and Rus’s journey from their privileged existence in the wealthy town of Auburn, New York to the truly rustic “unknown.” The details are so vivid, readers will feel as though they personally knew Dorothy and Rus in their younger years and would have expected them to follow the path of other young ladies in their circle: to get married young to a professionally established man and quickly have children.

Wickenden makes it clear upfront that the lives of the two main characters could have been trite and unremarkable if they had stayed on that expected path. Instead, in 1916, they chose to change the course of their destiny and, in turn, their legacy. Wickenden captures that spirit and spins it into a thrilling page-turner that not only recounts Dorothy and Rus’ experiences but also reveals them as heroes of their time.

Wickenden’s expert storytelling places the reader in the clothing, rooms and customs of the period through vivid depictions and perfectly placed quotations skillfully extrapolated from diaries and letters. It is as if time stood still just long enough for the reader to heave upon a saddle and ride along with Dorothy and Ros on their tumultuous journey.

Nothing Daunted is a tale of two friends who traveled from certainty, safety, and security to, literally, unknown territory.

Wickenden – who happens to be the real-life granddaughter of the story’s Dorothy – has pieced together an entertaining tale that is part history, but mostly a tale of heroism. The title itself begins the book’s play on words, its symmetry, and the story’s polar opposite of expectations.

With Nothing Daunted, Wickenden offers an opportunity to ride along on the wild journey of two friends as they diverge onto the road less taken. The journey leaves the reader – just like the two friends — more educated about life, and with the tools to face the unfamiliar and unexpected with passion, dignity and anything but a daunted response.

The story spans a few pivotal years of David’s turbulent coming of age. David’s newly-Hasidic mother disowns him, catapulting him into Times Square’s sex industry as it is on the brink of a new era.

Already kind of wise to the jig, David learns once and for all what his father really does for a living. The “Dad’s in real estate,” line his parents have always fed euphemistically really means he is a property owner in the burlesque business. Running the Times Square theater inherited from his father, Marty Arbus tries desperately to uphold the relatively subtle tradition of burlesque against the new onslaught of peep shows and pornography. Marty’s business partners insist they must keep up with the times to stay in business.

The novel is set to an engaging tempo as it strings together an unusual set of circumstances. Indeed, I was entertained. Reading from the vantage point of someone in the future, I wanted to tell Marty, “You can do it! Just two decades. Hold on for twenty some years and you can reap the rewards of the burlesque revival.” Yes, yes these are fictional characters. I was nonetheless compelled to engage with them this way. Yet, in reviewing Peep Show, there are certain shortcomings I simply cannot evade. This leads to my next sentiment. The characters are flat. This is most notably true of David’s mom, Miriam.

It is easy to dislike, even despise, Miriam. Here is a woman who disowns her own child for rejecting the fringe lifestyle she chooses midlife. Following their mom in toe, David’s younger sister learns Yiddish and integrates with the girls of the Hasidic families they come to know. This only serves as fodder for Miriam to further estrange David from his beloved sister.

It is likely that the ability to outcast one’s child, to vilify him in his home, is something I will simply never understand. But when this is the plot’s catalyst, well, then make me understand. Challenge me to identify, if even just an iota, with the character that seems so questionable.

As Peep Show courts the novelty of Hasidism, it stands to reveal aspects of a community many of us have not seen. It comes close to feeling like a ploy, though. Peep Show is inspired by a true story Joshua Braff heard about an Orthodox man who ran New York City peep houses. This seeming contradiction has promise as an intriguing story. Ironically, this is the exact dynamism absent from Peep Show.

This opinion is my own. Reviews elsewhere rave. So what is the final word? I guess you could pick up a copy and decide.

Emilie Tarrant has a B.A. in art history. When not working at Los Angeles’ archives and museums, she writes about her culinary mishaps at Ceci n’est pas un repas.

Kimball’s approach to the story of creating the meal is fascinating in unexpected ways;  he ruminates on food history, researches technique and food sources, and regales the reader with the planning and execution of his glorious feast.  He is amusing, clever, sarcastic, and thoroughly entertaining.  His writing style flows through a variety of experiences, with a wry sense of humor, often causing me to laugh out loud, especially when he described how some of the old recipes turned out.

Mr. Kimball is a foodie going way back. He is the founder, editor, and publisher of Cook’s Illustrated and Cook’s Country magazines.  He also hosts the television show, America’s Test Kitchen, and has published a variety of recipe books.

The “Fannie” of Fannie’s Last Supper is the one and only Fannie Farmer — cooking teacher and cookbook author from the late 18^th & early 19^th centuries.  This book is as much the story of an amazing feast as it is a biography of this controversial and fascinating woman who brought new techniques and methods of cooking into the homes of America during an age when the world was changing rapidly.  She was a successful businesswoman, with an eye toward the science and health of cooking.

When Kimball and his wife purchased an old “bow-front townhouse” in Boston in the mid-1990’s, they  decided to refurbish the kitchen in the original Victorian style, complete with an authentic coal cookstove.   A fascination with the history of cooking led Kimball to experiment with original preparation methods for foods of the times.  Fannie Farmer’s cookbook from 1896 included a 12-course menu that Kimball used as the basis for his “Last Supper.”

Kimball introduces us to the history of home food cooking trends in Boston in the 18^th and 19^th centuries.  He brings in fascinating trivia about the development of culinary arts, including the history of the Boston waterfront and how the shipping industry impacted the city in the early 18^th century, how changes in availability of domestic help impacted the American kitchen, and the challenges of food preparation before modern conveniences.  These aren’t subjects I thought I was particularly interested in but, in the capable hands of Chris Kimball, the history takes on relevance and lends itself to the appreciation of good food and food preparation.

I’d have a hard time choosing my favorite stories from the book, as it incorporates so many surprising tidbits of information, from a very funny synopsis of how and why it is important to delicately remove the brains from a calf’s head when making turtle soup, to anecdotes of social and culinary clubs of Boston’s past.  Kimball explains cooking techniques, from larding to daubing, barding and rendering.  He even reviews a history of the development of cookbooks.  He discusses famous chefs from America’s past as well as modern day culinary experts.  As expected, the description of some foods made my mouth water – - including Duxelle & Chicken-filled Rissoles,  Potatoes Lyonnaise, Lobster a  l’Americaine, and Fried Baby Artichokes; others made my stomach turn!

There is so much to enjoy in this book; it is a truly pleasurable experience to join Kimball on his journey to create Fannie’s Last Supper. As Kimball says, “Researching history is a terrific way to cure oneself of taking anything for granted.”

The Blind Contessa’s New Machine is the debut novel by the young Midwestern writer, Carey Wallace. It is a fictionalized account of the true story of Pellegrino Turri, a 19th century Italian inventor who developed the first typewriter for his blind friend, Carolina Fantoni. From the actual surviving letters that Fantoni wrote to Turri, Wallace’s novel imagines a love affair that inspired that important invention. The Blind Contessa’s New Machine is set in Italy in the 1800’s. The theme and structure of the book have elements of both the Gothic romance and the Victorian novels of that time. The central plot of the novel is a tangled love story. The author relies heavily on the relationships and struggles of a few people in a single community. Similar to the Victorian novel, there is a strong moral overlay in which virtue is applauded and wrongdoers eventually pay for their sins.

A recent Wall Street Journal piece coined the phrase “bore-geous” to describe a novel full of lovely descriptions of places and people which is so lacking in plot that it “bores even its author.” The premise of the editorial was that good narrative writing must defend itself: that every sentence should have a purpose beyond its beauty. While I might argue with the need to justify the use of each word, I agree that a good novel should have a compelling narrative progression. Although I had not read the Journal piece before I started The Blind Contessa’s New Machine, I initially found myself raising the same question and wondering if there was much to the novel beyond wonderfully evocative prose. Happily, my fears were unfounded.

The story is told from the perspective of Carolina Fantoni, who describes her childhood, the surrounding lake and countryside and her relationships in ethereal, atmospheric detail. Carolina’s father is a traditional Italian patriarch who loves his daughter but is caught up in his own world view. Carolina’s mother is reclusive, spending most of her time in her rooms, where she frequently goes for days without speaking with her daughter. As a result, Carolina spends much of her childhood in a dreamy solitude in a one-room lake house at the edge of their property, “where she spent more nights on the couch in the cottage than in her own bed, buried like a black-eyed field mouse in piles of think velvet, or naked in the warmth of the summer sun left as a remembrance after it sets…”

It is during her visits to the lake house that Carolina comes to know Turri, a slightly older married neighbor. Turri is a “dreamer of the worst sort” who, on their first encounter, was building a machine to trap angels. As the years progress, the two share their intimate secrets and dreams. They become close friends, and eventually, after Carolina’s marriage and blindness, the two become impassioned lovers. At the age of seventeen, however, Carolina caught the eye of Pietro, the village’s most eligible bachelor. It is described that he could have any of the town’s young girls, yet he chooses Carolina, as much for her inscrutable, independent character as for her beauty. Carolina, forgetting Turri for the time, is at first overjoyed at being Pietro’s favorite, returning the “pirates and invisible ink of her youthful dreams to the prop boxes in her mind …” As the façade falls away, she becomes exhausted from serving as the only audience for a man raised by crowds of admirers. The extreme isolation of Carolina’s life is evidenced by the opening paragraph of the book which reveals that on the eve of Carolina’s marriage to Pietro, Carolina is going blind but no one other than Turri will believe her. She has told them all, but neither her busy father nor her withdrawn mother nor her carefree, fop of a husband, actually listens to what she is saying.

The author paints a painstaking picture of what it must be like to slowly lose one’s sight. The reader can almost understand the gradual narrowing of this worldview and the accompanying isolation it must have brought before the invention of modern communication devices. When complete blindness comes, it is even too much for Carolina who is used to a life of solitude. Wallace does an excellent job of describing Carolina’s struggle to exist in her sightless world and the roles that music and fantasy come to play in it. A good deal of the novel is dedicated to the love affair that develops between Turri and Carolina after she has gone blind. Whether out of concern or control, Pietro has locked Carolina in their house. Through the help of the writing machine that Turri invented for her to communicate with him, Carolina eventually breaks out and begins to spend all her nights with Turri at the lake house where she describes in vivid detail what she sees in her dreams.

On one level, the book is a love story built out of tragedy and longing. On another level, it is about blindness, not just of a visual type, but to the needs and emotions of those around you and the different coping mechanisms that result. It fulfills its promise of demonstrating that “love is the mother of invention.” This is a wonderfully lyrical novel with a poignant message. The passages are haunting and somber, but strongly evocative. I recommend this book as much for its story as for the beauty of the writing.

Happy Hour is a welcome addition to this genre, giving us four new friends to care about and learn from. The book takes place in Napa Valley, where Jamie edits a wine magazine; Danielle is a vintner, about to launch a new collection; Kat works as a sommelier in the restaurant she and her husband own; and Alyssa is an artist, painting pictures of vineyards with a mysterious little boy in them. The women’s stories are interspersed so we get to know each one of them intimately. Just as importantly – or maybe even more so – we get to see them interact with each other and provide whatever support, encouragement or meal any one of them needs at any given moment. 

Author Michele Scott has also written the Wine Lover’s Mystery Series so, when it comes to oenology, it’s obvious she knows her stuff. With Happy Hour, she proves she also knows the value of friends – especially when you’re raising children, and dealing with aging parents, divorce, illness and new love. 

Like a good wine, Happy Hour goes down smoothly. It’s light, with a surprisingly rich undertone that lingers long after the last satisfying chapter. Another ode to the power of female friendship? We’ll drink to that.