Introduction

The second novel from the acclaimed author of Eight Hundred Grapes

" Sizzle Factor: SPF 50. A secret marriage, lies about affairs . . . even sex on the day of the divorce party" (USA Today)-the hottest beach read of the summer

Laura Dave is widely recognized as an up-and-coming talent in women's fiction. Now, with her characteristic wit and warmth, she captures a much-discussed cultural phenomenon that has never been profiled in fiction before-divorce celebrations. Set in Hamptons high society, The Divorce Party features two women-one newly engaged and one at the end of her marriage-trying to answer the same question: when should you fight to save a relationship, and when should you let go?

An insightful and funny multi-generational story, this deeply moving novel is sure to touch anyone whose heart has weathered an unexpected storm.

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Excerpt

Some years, I gaze around the Thanksgiving table and I feel almost painfully grateful for my own bounty, for the abundance that is my life, for everything that brought me to this moment, with these people, inside this light.

And some years, I just eat turkey.

This Thanksgiving had been off to a promising start. Jacob was at his most adorable, regaling us all with what, at five years old, was a new tale of Pilgrims and Indians and friendship. My husband, Jonathon, was the consummate host, topping off my friend Tamara and her boy friend Clayton’s wineglasses from the decanter, expertly cuing Jacob whenever he was about to struggle for a word or detail. Jonathon’s mother was getting along with mine, meaning Sylvia wasn’t openly disapproving of my mother. (Nothing feeds gratitude like lowered expectations.) And I thought, looking down at my swollen belly, about the party crasher inside — boy or girl, we didn’t know yet. Jonathon and I wanted the surprise.

My happiness was magnified by this being our first Thanksgiving in our own home. I’d never had a dining room before, let alone a house, having grown up in small apartments in Southern California with my mother and brother, and then living in San Francisco, land of low square footage. Who knew I could get this much pleasure out of a dining room? Who knew I could be so happy living in the suburbs?

When Jonathon and I first had Jacob, we pledged to be urban to the end; we were going to raise street-smart kids who’d osmotically pick up four languages by the time they were ten. We resisted suburbia for as long as we could, mourned the friends who had fallen, and sworn we’d never go to the dark side (meaning, shopping centers perennially anchored by Starbucks and Bed Bath & Beyond). We told each other that we loved the authenticity of our city block — i.e., the smells of sulfurous cooking and urine, the reek of real life — as we seemed to be in the only San Francisco neighborhood undergoing a degentrification. But my bubble of self-delusion burst the day I’d circled twenty minutes to find a parking space, and as we walked along, Jacob asked a homeless man where his mommy was and the guy let out a string of invectives that followed us half a block. Since Jon and I couldn’t afford a house in any decent city neighborhood, the burbs it was.

The phone rang, and Jonathon said he’d get it, he was already up. From the dining room, I could see into the kitchen, and I didn’t expect Jon to reach out and shut the swinging door between the rooms. But it wasn’t until he’d been gone awhile, maybe as long as fifteen minutes, that it truly registered as anything out of the ordinary. It wasn’t like Jon to disappear when there were people to attend to. What was going on? Could there have been an accident? Or — and fear gripped me most as this thought hit — what if something was wrong with Jon? A doctor calling with test results? A doctor wouldn’t call on a holiday unless it was really bad — impending- coronary bad. That was how Jon’s father had died, just keeled over at the age of fifty- two. Of course, he’d been married to Sylvia, and that could weaken any man’s heart.

When I was pregnant, I was prone to panicked worstcase scenarios. In the later part of my pregnancy with Jacob, and for much of the first year of his life, I turned into one of those people who couldn’t watch the news. Jonathon and I developed a little ritual around it where I’d ask him for highlight reels. He’d tell me a bunch of true things and one that was made up and I’d have to guess the falsehood. He started really getting into it, reading different Web sites that specialized in true and wacky news items from around the world. It was surprisingly hard to guess the faux item. For example, there really were two blond twin girls who called themselves Prussian Blue singing perky songs about white supremacy, the Olsen twins of the White Nationalist Movement. Jon and I both loved the ritual, which served to divert me from some truly awful things that were occurring in the world, things utterly beyond my control, and reminded me of the fun and silliness and connection that we shared. It made me feel safe.

But right then, I was picturing Jon collapsed on the ceramic kitchen tiles, gasping for air. (Did people gasp when they were having coronaries?) I excused myself and pushed open the swinging door, relieved to see he wasn’t lying prone, but surprised that he wasn’t in the kitchen at all. Maybe it’s just hindsight, maybe it’s too much TV — the “Did I put the dog in the washing machine, or was that on The Brady Bunch?” syndrome — but the rest of the house seemed eerily still in that moment and my stomach was pretzeled as I walked down the hall toward our bedroom. I don’t think this next part is hindsight, I think it’s memory: Though nothing in our marriage to that point indicated that I should, I was moving deliberately, stealthily, like I imagined a hunter would stalk big game. I could hear Jon’s muffled voice behind the closed bedroom door. I don’t know what made me put my ear up to it, but when I did, I heard Jonathon speaking to someone with great tenderness, saying things like, “Shhh, you’re going to be okay. This day will be over soon. And you’ll be just fine.”

My heartbeat accelerated; I had to remind myself to breathe. There were two options, as I saw it: continue eavesdropping, or open the door. Walking away was an impossibility. If I listened longer, he could say something like, “I love my wife more than anything in the world, and I have to get back to her.” Or perhaps, “Henry . . .” Any man’s name would be acceptable. Of course, there were those androgynous names like “Sam.” Unless . . . ?

I pushed the door open, and Jonathon looked up, his eyes widening. We held the gaze a few seconds, and then he said into the phone, “Hold on.” To me, “I’m sorry this is taking so long. I’ll be out in a minute.”

Like it was an ordinary call. Could it be an ordinary call? I wanted to think that it was. But somehow, I didn’t. That alone seemed damning, but of whom? Of him? Of me? “Who is that?” I asked.

“It’s just a friend,” he said. Nothing strange in his tone, but that wording. Does anyone say “just a friend” if someone really is just a friend? Wouldn’t you say the friend’s name?

But this was Jonathon. He only had just friends. “Which friend?” I tried to make my tone match his, but failed.

He put his hand up to indicate it would be one more minute, and addressed the receiver again. “I need to go now, okay?”

Whoever was on the other end actually kept talking. I could make out a female voice, though I couldn’t hear what she was saying. She prattled on at breakneck speed as I stood there waiting. I wasn’t just waiting for her to stop talking; I was waiting for him to interrupt her. Who was this woman with the audacity to call my husband away in the middle of Thanksgiving, who hears my voice in the room, who hears him say he needs to go, and keeps talking?

But, I countered, maybe that was what made her harmless. Maybe she had the audacity because she didn’t need to fear discovery, she didn’t need to fear the wife. She was just a friend who was too upset on Thanksgiving to observe social graces.

I couldn’t take it anymore. If he wouldn’t interrupt, I would. “We have guests.”

Jonathon mouthed the words “I’m sorry” in an exaggerated way, like we were sharing the joke of how some people can’t take a hint. “I’ve really got to go now,” he told her. “Take care of yourself, okay?” He clicked the disconnect button on the cordless phone. Then he turned to me and smiled. “Let’s get back in there.”

I couldn’t stop hearing: “Shhh, you’re going to be okay”. It was the intimacy of that “shhh”; not how you shhh the loud guy behind you at the movie theater, but the way you quiet a distraught lover.

“Which friend did you say that was?” I asked. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

1. Nate suggests that people with some money act differently than people with a lot of money. What does he mean? If you were to come into a large sum of money, in what ways would you expect it to change you? How would you want your life to stay the same?
2. Gwyn seems to place most of the blame for her marital problems squarely on her husband. How much responsibility does Eve bear? Do you think Gwyn should have been harder on her? How much responsibility lies with Gwyn?
3. Put yourself in Maggie’s shoes. Would your trust in Nate be shattered? Do you think you’d be able to overcome your uncertainty about him? Is it ever best not to know the truth?
4. Do you think a divorce party is a good idea? Would you hold a celebration for a divorce or a break-up? Would you attend one?
5. How do you see Gwyn faring? What about her husband’s relationship with Eve? How do you expect it to evolve?
6. Should Gwyn have confronted Thomas earlier? How do you think their story would have been different?
7. In what ways has Maggie been affected by her mother’s leaving? What about Nate and Georgia? How have they been affected by their relationships with their parents?
8. Do you know women like Murphy? Why do you think she would make up a crazy story and make a stranger uncomfortable? Maggie could have avoided worrying about Murphy if she’d only confronted Nate about what Murphy said. If she’d come right out and asked him, do you think Maggie would have believed Nate’s denial?
9. Music is woven throughout The Divorce Party and is ultimately critical to the book’s resolution. Why is music such an important part of love stories?

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