"Will one of five friends tear apart their friendship?"
Reviewed by Leanne Davis
Posted October 9, 2013
Women's Fiction Contemporary
Abby, Jane, Rachel, Clare, and Tina have been friends on and
off since a young age. They dubbed themselves "bitches".
For a time they drifted apart but then got back together for
a long weekend once a year.
All but Abby are married. This year, they await Abby's
arrival. Instead a large basket is delivered with a card
that says "I've run off with one of your men". That
starts each woman evaluating their marriages and their
friendships. Which of their husbands could possibly keep up
with Abby.
Meanwhile, no one has heard from Abby. Tina decides they
need to track her down. The workaholic, Abby, who is never
out of touch with work hasn't checked with her assistant for
days. She even missed a couple of very important meetings.
Each woman will discover hidden strengths as they determine
and learn how much they depend on each other even though
they don't see each other often.
Ms. Harris has always been somewhat sarcastic in her humor
in her mysteries so it was not a surprise to see the edge to
the humor in THE BITCHES OF BROOKLYN. This one takes it to
the edge and
slightly over into downright bitchiness. At the same time,
it's very hard not to laugh along with the ladies as they
comment on each other's lives and behaviors.
The mystery of Abby's disappearance is not really much of a
mystery once they find out one piece of information. While
I had high hopes for the mystery element, I was a little
disappointed that it didn't turn into much of a mystery.
However, the story kept my interest with the interaction of
the four women and the insight into Abby's life through the
reminiscing of Jane, Clare, Rachel, and Tina.
SUMMARY
Are they really bitches? That depends who you ask...
Rachel, Clare, Tina and Jane are four friends awaiting
the arrival of a fifth at a secluded Cape Cod bungalow where
they spend an all-girls weekend every year since
reconnecting at a reunion. But the fifth woman doesn't show.
Instead she sends a note that reads -
"I've run off with one of your men."
Has she? Is it a prank? Do they run for the phone or try
to enjoy the weekend without her? Fast, funny and filled
with Harris' trademark snappy dialogue you'll recognize
friends and maybe a little of yourself as the women are
forced to reevaluate their friendships, their marriages and
their memories.
Inspired by a classic Hollywood film, The Bitches of
Brooklyn is for every woman who's ever had a best friend and
wondered...is she really??
ExcerptChapter One As deliveries went, this one was somewhere between a
balloon telegram and a bulletproof vest wrapped around a
dead fish. Most gift baskets arrived with cards bearing
congratulations or condolences. Rarely were they sent with
the simple two-line message Jane Monaghan stared at, then
read, in disbelief, a second time. A skinny delivery boy hovered in the doorway, the screen
door flapping and creaking as he shifted his weight. Jane
fumbled in her handbag for a tip. Why did she never have
singles when she needed them? As she poked through the
tissues, keys and various black electronics cases in her
voluminous bag, the boy peered inside the house, curious
about the women renting the old Beninger place. He
remembered the first year they came. His mother had warned
him to keep his distance and his father had slipped him a
sly wink that he'd been too young to interpret. They weren't bad looking, neither young nor old, that gray
area between youth and invisibility. Still good for a
nooner, he fantasized, using an expression he’d heard his
uncle Billy use, if he could cut one from the herd.
Especially the small, dark-haired one sprawled on the
loveseat near the fireplace. She had a nubby throw tossed
over one leg but the other was exposed – tan, taut and
barely covered by denim cutoffs. Still pretty hot, even if
she looked old enough to have been his babysitter - and
after all, what boy hadn't had that fantasy? The hot one and the boy made eye contact. Having been on
the receiving end of similar looks for close to twenty years
– longer than he’d been alive – it took Tina Ruggiero all of
thirty seconds to read his mind. “Come back in a few years, sonny. You’re not entirely
hopeless but, let’s wait until that acne clears up.” The boy’s naughty daydream evaporated, his face reddened
and he reverted to bumbling, pimply errand boy. His eyes
grew watery. He even seemed shorter, if that was possible.
Jane abandoned her search for singles, shoved a five in his
direction and kicked the storm door shut.
“A day without a verbal castration is like a day without
sunshine?” “Come on,” Tina said. “He deserved it – gawking like that.
Half the people in this town think we're practicing
witchcraft and the other half think we’re gay. Not that I
don't think you're all cute. I just wanted to set the record
straight.” Jane wasn’t sure the exchange wouldn’t have the opposite
effect, convincing him she was a witch, only he’d spell it
with a “b.” Which was fitting since that's what they'd been
dubbed a long time ago when they were teens, The Bitches of
Brooklyn. Were they really? Depended who you asked. “A new wrinkle has been added to our weekend,” Jane said. "Oh no please, not another one. I already have a new
wrinkle, that's why I cut bangs." "I wondered what the new hairstyle was about."
Jane carried the oversized basket to the wooden dining
table where Clare Didrikson and Rachel Weiner, two of her
closest friends, sat with their morning coffees. The table and chairs were like all the furniture in the
rented house - ancient wood or wicker upon which thousands
of summer memories had been made, or brand new, from the
discount store, because who would buy good furniture for a
house through which total strangers traipsed for three
months out of every year? Or suffered from too much sun and
too much damp. Jane pulled out a chair and read the card
aloud to the group. "It's a joke," Tina said. She flung off the blanket and
hopped over on her one good ankle to join them. "Just like
her to bail at the last minute and then pull a stunt like
this. She’s probably laughing her ass off somewhere,
ordering the next fruit basket with the next cryptic
message. Luca Brasi sleeps with the fishes! Go to the
hayfield, there’ll be a volcanic rock that has no earthly
business in a Maine hayfield. She’s always so melodramatic.
Can't she just admit something better came up?" It was not the first time their missing friend had
cancelled at the last minute even though the dates were
fixed well in advance. The four were always understanding
but there was always a trace of resentment, too. As if the
others were expected to understand that the fifth woman’s
time was more valuable than theirs. The four women settled around the table in the
weather-beaten Cape Cod bungalow they'd rented every summer
for the last six years. They met for the same late summer
weekend when husbands and partners were otherwise engaged,
either of their own accord or dispatched so the women
wouldn't feel guilty about leaving four men, one daughter,
one veterinary practice, and two businesses for much girl
talk and more alcohol in an ocean beach setting far removed
from their Brooklyn beginnings. Initially, they had played "remember when" and speculated
on what had happened to still-missing friends from the old
neighborhood. That first year Rachel brought her laptop and
their old high school yearbook, and between drinks and
steamers they Googled and giggled over former boyfriends and
teachers, most of whom had lost their hair, gotten heavy, or
somehow morphed into ordinary mortals instead of the
brooding geniuses and bohemian heartthrobs they’d once
seemed. After that, it was agreed - no laptops at The Weekend. But it wasn't all about the old days. The five women had
forged new friendships. What felt better than familiar but
new - the safety net of people who knew your background and
your history, but, because of the time spent apart, brought
the freshness of anecdotes and stories you hadn't heard a
hundred times before. And they’d helped each other
professionally, with contacts and as trustworthy soundingboards. Clare reached over to read the card for herself, looking
for...what? Some explanation hidden between the lines? Some
tone or nuance conveyed in the elegant script of an
anonymous clerk in a gift shop? She chewed on her lower lip
but said nothing.
Jane tugged on the purple ribbon at the top of the basket,
untying the bow and noisily releasing the twisted
cellophane. She flattened the ribbon and wound it around
four fingers as if saving it for some future use, which
wasn't likely since they'd all be home in a few days. A
hidden staple pierced one slim, unmanicured index finger and
she sucked on it while poking through the basket with her
undamaged hand. "At least she sprang for the good stuff.” Jane held up a
red foil-covered brick. “Real cheese, not cheese product." "And candy," Rachel said. "Just what we need." Tina and Jane plundered the basket, Jane moving through the
items and inspecting ingredients. "Cream crackers, no
partially hydrogenated anything so far." Jane was co-owner
of a small bakery called Sweet Dreams and paid attention to
such things. Tina wasn't so picky. Two grunts and an arched
eyebrow told her the others were less appreciative of their
missing friend's nutritional considerations. "Belgian
chocolates. Scottish cookies," Jane said, still sucking on
her punctured finger. "Please don’t get blood on anything," Tina said. "If there
are shortbread cookies, I’ve got dibs. I don't care if they
have lard in them but I draw the line at bodily fluids.” Despite Rachel's protestations, the chocolate would
disappear first. No chance to melt or develop that
mysterious white stuff around the edges. Then the cheese,
the crackers and the fruit, one step up from artificial and
typically chosen not for taste but for their ability to
retain an unblemished appearance despite being shipped
thousands of miles. All the food would go, even the boring
sucking candies, and all that would remain was a tasteful
brown basket, some purple ribbon and the note - Apologies for the short notice but I won't be making our
little reunion this year. I've run off with one of your men.
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