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“Every page is studded with precise and succulent detail. . . . A cozy, kick-off-your-shoes-and-curl-up novel.” — The New York Times Book Review “Deliciously mischievous. . . . This deceptively light book has a lot to say about the complexity of friendship, the use and abuse of secrets, and the restorative power of love.” — O, The Oprah magazine “A book about the intensity and beauty of life after 50. . . . Funny from the get-go, and a dear, timeless tale by its end.” — More magazine “Sparkling. . . . It's the kind of book you read aloud from until friends beg you to stop so they can get their own copy. . . . An irresistible confection.” — Newsday "Clever, funny, light. . . . A novel about privacy and secrecy, the differences between them, and why we need both." — The New York Observer Informationen zum Autor Patricia Volk is the author of the memoir Stuffed ; the novels To My Dearest Friends and White Light ; and two collections of short stories, All it Takes and The Yellow Banana . She has published stories, book reviews, and essays in dozens of newspapers and magazines, including The New York Times , The Atlantic Monthly , The New York Times Magazine , The New York Times Book Review , New York , The New Yorker and Playboy . She was a weekly columnist for New York Newsday , and she lives in New York. Alice and Nanny have never met before, but they have one thing in common: their late friend Roberta. Alice is the prim proprietor of a chic Madison Avenue shop, while Nanny is a sharp-eyed Manhattan real-estate broker. This New York odd couple is thrown together when Roberta trusts them with her last request—that together they open her safe-deposit box. What they find inside compels these women to address a surprising truth about their beloved Roberta. A profound yet hilarious novel, To My Dearest Friends is the story of two women and a journey of friendship neither chose to take. Leseprobe Chapter One: Alice Wakes Naked Charles pads from his shower to his semainier. He would not dream of turning on our light. Charles assumes I am asleep. After so many years, he senses his way in the dark.He slides a drawer, raising both pulls so it whispers. He extracts jockey shorts I fold so no seams show, each pair a white tuffet, his small daily gift. When we were newlyweds, Charles stood on one foot, then the other, a flamingo. Now he pulls his shorts up leaning against the wall. Someday he will collapse on our slipper chair, use his cane to spread the leg holes, then inch them up his calves. It is a privilege to watch your partner over time. If soul may look and body touch,Which is the more blest? Yeats knew.Charles steers his right foot in. I glimpse the silhouette of his bobbling apparatus. How perverse to cage it in clothes. All that flagrant manhood neatly squared away. He stretches on his undershirt. Watery light sculpts the muscle range of his back. No matter how soft Charles gets around the middle, his bent back stays bandy.All these years and there’s pleasure yet watching him.In the kitchen, Charles has put up coffee. I take a cup back to bed. November sun stipples trees along the Hudson. Leaves wink like sequins. Today will be perfect. There are, in a good year, perhaps ten such days in New York. They have nothing to do with temperature. They can come any season. No one can predict them. On these days the air is supercharged. There is more of something vital in it. People breathe deeper, walk taller. They pause to fill their lungs and smile without premeditation. Dogs high-step, their tails thrum. On these days the bus driver keeps the doors open when he spots you running.Along Riverside Driv...
