MY LATEST SUMMER book find is a winner: a chilling murder mystery with a secret sisterhood of privileged teens at its center. My own path to finding this gem of a thriller was pretty twisted, too.

It all started with a tantalizing article in the New York Times: the writer wrote of her experience of a dream I happen to share, expatriating herself and her family to Bali. (This was actually more my dream when I was young and single: the idea of moving our brood anywhere again is daunting, though not unimaginable.) I read the article, only salivating slightly, then looked at the accompanying photograph, a smiling family of four, the parents grinning in Balinese sarongs, clutching onto cute kids attempting to escape the camera. It could have been any family, including mine. But I looked closer, and read the caption. I knew this family, sort of: I recognized Bacon’s husband as a high school classmate of mine.

My husband will tell you that I can’t cross a street, anywhere in the world, without running into someone I know. This is not true. However, I do have a knack for remembering those whose paths I’ve crossed, and Charlotte Bacon’s husband is one. (For the record, he was, and I presume is, a lovely man and a very talented artist.)

But I learned Charlotte and I have one more connection, however tenuous. In addition to living my Balinese dream, she’s also quite successfully living out another. She’s written four novels (and, it bears mentioning, won the PEN/Faulkner prize for First Fiction for her first publication, a 1997 book of short stories entitled A Private State. Not shabby.) Given that, unusually for me, I have focused on mysteries this summer (witness my ongoing venture into Joan Schenkar’s superb biography of Patricia Highsmith) I opted first for Bacon’s most recent book, The Twisted Thread.

At Armitage Academy, a New England prep school, senior Claire Harkness is found dead in her dorm room. The newborn son she’s just secretly delivered is missing. A young teacher discovers that girls in Claire’s dorm, bound by loyalty to (and perhaps fear of) Claire, not to mention the traditions of a secret society they call the Reign (think the French Revolution’s reign of terror) know more than they’re telling.

I confess that I’m only a third of the way through, but I had to force myself to stop reading last night in order to go to sleep…and this is the book I’m taking to the hammock with me later this afternoon. It’s been compared, rightly, to Donna Tartt’s The Secret History. Yes, the two books share genre (mystery) and setting, schools for privileged kids, but they also share elegant, subtle prose. Whatever web Bacon ultimately weaves in The Twisted Thread, I know it will be surprising and well-drawn. I’ve already got an earlier novel of hers, The Split Estate, waiting on my always-overloaded nightstand.

Keep me posted: what’s your latest pick for this summer’s must-read?

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A FEW YEARS back, my family made its own venture into the wilderness, moving from the urban sprawl of Los Angeles to the expansive green hills of the Hudson Valley. It’s paradise, yet the climate where we live can be wretched and unforgiving, the land hilly and full of stones. We marvel aloud at the tenacity and sheer strength of this area’s early settlers, the people who cleared all the trees, built the stone walls that still stand. We are awed by what they accomplished, and quite certain we, with our reliance on power tools, the internet, and central heating, would not have a prayer of replicating their achievements.

Novelist and memoirist Gabrielle Burton shares her own amazement at the resilience of our forefathers and mothers in her lucid, provocative novel, Impatient With Desire. The book tells the story of Tamsen Donner, wife of George Donner, leader of the infamous Oregon trail pioneers. To illuminate Tamsen’s circumstances and spirit, Burton gives us her version of Tamsen’s journal. (Burton spent over three decades researching Tamsen’s story, and uses her existing letters, some to her beloved sister, as the basis for some of the narrative and language.)

We learn that Tamsen wanted this adventure as much, perhaps more, than her husband. She was a traveller, and a student, and as much a partner to her husband as her times would allow. And when winter trapped the party in the  Sierra Nevadas and forced the Donners into the cannibalism that made them notorious, Tamsen agonized over how her desire for adventure had led her five children into peril. The novel is wonderful on its own, presenting the darkest circumstances without sensationalizing or moralizing, but even better when read alongside Burton’s memoir of her own family’s retracing of the Donner party’s journey, Searching for Tamsen Donner. Burton helps us understand the deep choices every mother makes between self, partner and children, and in the process, brings to life not just Tamsen, but the others who cleared and clawed their way across the country just 160 years ago.

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IF YOU’VE SPENT much time here, you already know how we TSP sisters feel about the power of memoir, and Mary Gordon’s layered remembrance of her mother is an outstanding example of the genre.

As the title implies, the book is an examination of Gordon’s mother, Anna Gagliano Gordon, from every angle. To her daughter, she was both a glamorous career woman and an object of pity, her body pained and twisted by a childhood bout with polio. We learn about her intense bonds to parish priests, her adoration of high Hollywood movies, her late-life marriage and difficult relationships with her sisters. And, of course, because this is Gordon writing, it is her story, too: how she both differs from and is like her mother; how their closeness becomes torture as her mother ages and declines.

For all of us who struggle with contradiction between the deep attachments and bitter divides that only family seems to produce, this book is provocative and delicious. Enjoy, and be sure to tell your sisters what you think.

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HOW’S THIS FOR A PLOT? Two couples meet, fall in love–each with the other’s partner–dissolve their existing marriages, switch partners, and marry again. Wild enough. But now imagine that within these two fragile families are four young girls, two each, all close in age. Two of them, named Jenny and Jane, even share the same birthday, one year apart. The four girls are all now sisters, of a sort. What sort of sad, strange family is this?

It sounds like an improbable fiction, but it’s all fact according to author Jane Alison’s new memoir, The Sisters Antipodes. Alison’s brief (perhaps not brief enough) book recounts the terrible toll these parents wreaked upon their kids, as fathers switched families and all-but-disappeared, for years at a time, from their daughters’ lives.

Author Jane and Jenny, the two “sisters” closest in age (one year apart, and sharing the same birthday) found themselves locked in a battle for both fathers’ love; you may expect the consequences to be dire, but Alison dissects the pain she felt in excruciating and insightful detail before revealing the full impact of the parents’ choices. Though much of Alison’s insight is beautifully rendered, some of these episodes, teasing apart long-ago feelings, are awkward or over-long; I found myself skimming through feelings to get to  plot, desperate to find out how in the world all four girls might manage to survive the cruel upheaval thrust upon them.

The Sisters Antipodes is a bit of a car-crash: you want to look; you shouldn’t; you look again. But despite its flaws, it’s worth a read not just for the sensational story, but for Alison’s moments of brilliant insight into the fragile structure of a young girl’s heart, and the ease with which it can be sent tumbling down.

Do you love memoir as much as we TSP sisters do? Read Marion’s advice on how to tell your story, check out some of our favorite memoir writing here and here, and here, and as always–tell us what you’ll be reading, and why.

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IN THE WINTER, it’s all about the nightstand: That’s where my teetering, tottering pile of reading material and wishful thinking resides most of the year. (Where I live, winter IS five months long, and that pile is tall.) But now, as the sun finally shines more hours than not, and the end of school approaches, and with that transition, the prospect of lazy afternoons spent–dare I dream?– reading, begins to tantalize.

The classic take on the beach read is that it’s un-put-downable but maybe, just maybe, a little trashy. Nothing wrong with that. But I have friends who insist that beaches are the place to read poetry, or the classics you missed the first time, or are dying to reread. I am a sucker for great non-fiction, so I often find myself toting around a biography or three, or maybe a wonderful collection of letters.

Here at TSP, we’ve already given you loads of suggestions: non-fiction that makes us sit up straight, classics of sisterly-lit you shouldn’t miss, new books that we hope you’ll read and discuss with YOUR sisters. I’ll be adding more picks to those lists over the coming weeks, some old, some new, many definitely borrowed (from the public library, natch.) But in the meantime, tell us: What’s your must-read book of the summer?

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A S THE SISTERLESS SISTER HERE ON TSP, I’m always on the lookout for tales of non-traditional sisterhood: women who may not share biology, but find kinship all the same. Muriel Barbery’s funny and haunting novel The Elegance of the Hedgehog, a phenomenon in its native France, offers just such a relationship–not to mention a terrific, challenging read.

I should have known I’d like this book; my sister-friend Chris sent it to me for my birthday this spring. When I finally got around to reading it, I was completely sucked into this tale of a least-likely friendship between Renée, a 54-year-old concierge of a tony Paris apartment building, and Paloma, the 12-year-old daughter of one of the building’s snooty residents. When a new tenant in the building brings to light Renée’s intentionally-hidden talents, she and Paloma forge a connection that alters them both.

Barbery, once a teacher of philosophy, packs this tale with highbrow references and philosophical concepts that can put a bit of a burden on the reader. But the effort’s well worth your while.

What else is on your nightstand, or your summer must-read list? Share your book picks with your sisters.

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I CAN’T POSSIBLY BE objective about Not Becoming My Mother: And Other Things She Taught Me Along the Way, the latest book by Gourmet editor Ruth Reichl. I am privileged to call the author my friend, and equally privileged to have known her through the process of conceiving and writing this slender but deeply affecting and ultimately provocative book. Now that I’ve ‘fessed up to my bias, I must encourage you to run, not walk, to your nearest independent bookstore to buy this book, and, if you’re so inclined, the audio version as well.

If you’ve ever read any of Ruth’s other memoirs (Tender at the Bone, Comfort Me With Apples, Garlic and Sapphires) you know that she has mined a lot of comedy from her mother’s culinary shortcomings. This book opens by acknowledging her liberal use of the “Mim stories,” the tales of her mother’s near- and complete poisonings of dinner guests, her utterly incomprehensible knack for not only serving food gone bad, but for concocting truly bad food. On that score alone, it’s clear that Reichl, an accomplished cook, critic, writer, editor and food activist, has definitely NOT become her mother.

But this book is about her mother’s efforts to carve a different life for Ruth, rather than the life of polite, forced indolence that was Miriam Reichl’s eventual lot. Miriam was an extremely intelligent, unconventional-looking woman who wanted to be a doctor. Her parents wanted her to be first a musician, and then a wife. Miriam tried to please them, and her attempt to be a “good girl” may well have been her undoing. By the middle of her life, Miriam had been diagnosed as bipolar, and home life for Ruth, her brother and father seems to have been largely defined by Miriam’s rage at never being able to pursue her own dreams or to realize her true potential.

The moral that Ruth draws from this examination of her mother’s life, via a close reading of her mother’s letters, is that satisfying work is the key to personal fulfillment. For Ruth’s mother, and legions of women in her generation (coming of age in the early part of the 20th century) who had no option to pursue a career, Reichl powerfully asserts, the at-home life was devastating. “My mother, like most of her friends, literally had nothing to do,” Ruth says. “I have never known so many unhappy people. They were smart, they were educated, and they were bored. Some of them did charitable work, but it wasn’t fulfilling. Their misery was an ugly thing, and it was hard on their families.”

Ultimately, Ruth’s journey into her mother’s misery produces an extremely loving and kind portrait, as she comes to realize how fiercely Miriam worked to ensure that Ruth would remain independent, would have the opportunity to be intellectually fulfilled. Even so, the book left me feeling discomfited, not only at Miriam’s plight, but at its similarity to the feelings I hear expressed by so many women of my generation, women who had the opportunity to pursue careers, and often did, but then left those careers behind in order to spend more time managing their homes and caring for their kids.

The difference, a good friend said to me as we discussed this issue, and the book, last weekend, is that our generation had a choice. We were encouraged to pursue our careers, and as a result, many of us came to motherhood later than our mothers’ generation. But reading this book, my vicarious experience of Miriam’s despair felt too familiar. I made a choice, as did many of my friends, and we are beyond lucky to have had the option to have a career, and the freedom to leave it behind.

That said, our choices often felt desperate: we found ourselves shouldering most of the burden of home and children, even as we worked full-time, leaving us feeling like no part of our life was actually receiving a fair share of our attention. In that context, “staying home” becomes appealing. Even so–I know very few women raising young children as their primary occupation who do not feel some measure of, “Is this all there is? Is this all I am?” and who wish, desperately, that our culture gave women some third path, one which respected the real needs of families, and acknowledged the out-of-home contributions we are able to make.

Reichl came of age in the 1960s, and the attitude of the book is (and this is not a put-down) pure second-wave feminist; her book doesn’t touch on the issues facing women who are now in their 30s and 40s. But I am curious to see how my generation will respond to Not Becoming My Mother, and the questions it raises not just about poor Miriam, but about us and the society that still doesn’t really give women much leeway in juggling the demands of home and family.

Have you read Not Becoming My Mother? Chime in. And be sure to catch Ruth on her book tour in a city near you, or order the book now.

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DON’T YOU LOVE it when your treasured sister-friend tells you “You have to read this!” and you do, and it’s a can’t-put-it-down experience? My most recent sister-must-read is Isabel Gillies’ Happens Every Day. The book is billed as a divorce memoir, and it is, but it’s also clear-eyed, funny and hopeful. And yes–I couldn’t put it down.

Over a rare lunch with my college roommate, a dear sister-friend, last November, she told me that one of her other sister-friends had written a book. A great book. Any time a dear sister-friend tells you that her treasured sister-friend has written a terrific book, you pay attention. If your friend also happens to be an amazing writer and a highly picky reader, and a person known for being boldly (as opposed to ruthlessly) honest–well, you pay double attention.

My roommate told me that her dear friend, Isabel Gillies (known to many for her role as ‘Kathy Stabler’ on Law and Order), had written a memoir–not of an actor’s life but of the unexpected dissolution of Isabel’s seemingly picture-perfect marriage. The book was to be released this spring, and my friend fervently hoped for its success. I did my part: I went home and immediately pre-ordered it, then promptly forgot all about it.

The book, Happens Every Day, was published last month, and I have now read it, twice. The first time, I stayed up until 2 a.m., devouring the entire work in one sitting. (Have I mentioned that I have two children? I never read anything in one sitting anymore, save Olive, the Other Reindeer.)

Isabel Gillies

Your sisters don’t let you down. The book is beautifully written, with a natural, girlfriend-to-girlfriend voice that accentuates the heartbreak of the story rather than burying it in trying-too-hard prose. Isabel’s experience was raw and devastating, and you live it along with her. I can’t help but think that no matter the state of your partnership status, single, married, happily or un-, there’s wisdom to be gleaned in Isabel’s thoughtful and, it seems, brutally honest, account of a situation that indeed, happens every day. (Apparently, the anonymous folks who run Starbucks book program agree, because the book was chosen as a Starbucks selection.)

Already read it? Reading it? Tell us what you think. (And for a great interview with Isabel Gillies, click over to one of my favorite sites, The Happiness Project.)

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