I Never Knew You at All

by Christine Pride, Jo Piazza

Genres: Women's Fiction; Family Life

Synopsis

Bestselling authors Christine Pride and Jo Piazza return with a gripping new novel where a Black woman’s past collides with her present, unveiling a decades-old mystery that forces her to confront her beliefs about race, love, justice, and her interracial marriage.

When Simone marries into Alex Hartwell’s wealthy white family, she trades her career ambitions for comfort and fully embraces her role as a stay-at-home mom. But when Kwame, Simone’s ex-boyfriend, suddenly arrives in Shorewell with the journalistic career that she always imagined for herself, her contentment begins to crumble.

Worst still, his newest story has brought him right to her doorstep, as he starts digging into a decades-old unsolved murder of a young Black man who attended The Tate School—the same elite prep school that Alex’s family has attended for generations. When he uncovers a startling connection to the Hartwells, Simone is forced to choose between protecting the family legacy she married into or honoring Kwame’s quest for justice.

Thorny, urgent, and nuanced, I Never Knew You at All thoughtfully examines race through the lens of deeply intimate relationships and digs into complex questions: Who deserves forgiveness? Can people really change? And ultimately—what does it take to hold a marriage together…or break it apart?

Release date: October 13, 2026

Publisher: Atria Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

Chapter One: Simone CHAPTER ONE SIMONE
Simone Hartwell has put a lot of stock—and thought and effort—into this evening. In a stretch of a thousand mundane days, there are turning points when everything changes, when life levels up. Tonight is one of them. And she’s ready. She can only hope her husband is too.

She resists checking the time again. Alex will get here when he gets here, with their son and the guest of honor in tow. There’s no point stressing about them being late. She’s arrived early to ensure every detail is in place before the 150 guests begin streaming in.

The vast ballroom is a little too stuffy and ornate for her taste. She prefers sleek, modern elegance over thick velvet curtains and crystal chandeliers, but tonight isn’t about her. And there was no scenario where Poppy’s retirement party would be held anywhere other than the room bearing his name—Lawrence Allen Hartwell—at the alma mater he reveres.

Poppy frequently goes on and on about the “fine” memories he made here, of dances and inspiring lectures designed to mold boys into men. Tate men, specifically. So when he donated $500,000 to the Tate School, he didn’t request a new science wing or athletic center—he wanted his name on the shiny brass sign outside the grand walnut double doors to this room, as if it would grant him permanent stewardship of the memories within.

Simone cannot relate, having considerably less of an attachment to her own alma mater, Central High School in Detroit, which could only compete with Tate in longevity; both opened their doors in 1858.

As Simone surveys the space, she notices subtle signs of deterioration beneath the veneer of opulence: snags on the silk fabric of chairs, nicks in the crown molding, and a dullness along the heavy frames of portraits lining one wall—all those silver-haired white men who could be clones of one another. This ballroom, like her husband’s grandfather, has passed its prime. The bright lights from the chandeliers and sconces only highlight the imperfections. The illumination feels more suited for a police interrogation than an intimate soiree. She can’t find any dimmer switches on the wood-paneled walls and is going to have to find some kind of facilities manager to help her figure it out.

Otherwise satisfied that the white-clothed tables are arranged perfectly around the parquet dance floor and the elaborate floral centerpieces she personally designed with the best florist in town are properly positioned, Simone goes to check on the caterers.

She hovers in the doorway watching about a dozen or so workers rushing around, clearly behind schedule. Having people arrive to find empty platters and champagne bottles still in boxes would be a disaster, but she’s not sure how to speed things up without coming across as bossy or bitchy, or both.

There are no white faces at all, not one, among the laborers sweating over hot steam and unpacking heavy crates of wineglasses. She should be accustomed to this after so long in Sawville, the affluent hamlet outside Milwaukee where Alex grew up. But somehow it is still jarring how often she is the sole brown face present—or if she’s not, it’s because she’s being served by someone who looks like her. However much she wants to push the catering crew to quicken their pace, she won’t command them like some indignant overseer dressed in a sequined gown and Prada pumps.

Instead, she observes the harried workers while silently contemplating, not for the first time, if she’ll ever feel like she truly belongs here. Perhaps tonight, when his grandfather officially hands over Hartwell Inc. to Alex, and her husband becomes CEO of the beloved chain of local grocery stores, Simone will finally feel they’ve arrived. Alex ensconced at the helm of the company his grandfather built from scratch, and Simone by his side as a dutiful wife, mother, and volunteer at every local cause she can fit into her schedule. Maybe now she’ll stop getting the confused, wary side-eye when she’s at Poppy’s country club, or less of it.

Her best friend Taylor’s strategy for dealing with this sort of subtle ostracism thrown their way amounts to “fuck those fogies.” Which is easy for Taylor to say. As a third-generation resident and daughter of one of the most prominent Black cardiac surgeons at St. Mary’s, Taylor navigates these conservative circles with enviable ease, despite being a brown queer woman with a buzz cut who favors graphic T-shirts with curse words among the pastel cashmere-sweater set. She was wearing one that said “Fuck You If You Don’t Vote” the day Simone first met her in a yoga class. Simone found this so brave and so scandalous that she couldn’t help but laugh and say, “Amen.” And Taylor responded with, “I mean, right? You get it. Clearly, we need to know each other…” With that, Simone made her first friend—and, to date, only true friend—in Sawville.

Taylor’s going to be late tonight because Taylor is always late, and not just fashionably late, but arrive-as-the-dessert-is-being-put-away late. Simone long ago moved from annoyance to awe at this habit, how brazen and consistent Taylor’s complete lack of punctuality is. So Simone channels Taylor in her head for the pep talk she needs in this moment that her friend isn’t here to give her: Who gives a flying fuck what all these women with dead animals on their shoulders think about you?

The problem is Simone cares very much what “these women” think. And this circle has strong opinions about proper etiquette, rivaled only by their passion for animal fur.

“Hello? Mrs. Hartwell? Why are you back here?”

Simone looks up to find Thelma, the head caterer, staring at her with annoyance, as if Simone had been silently scrutinizing her work rather than lost in thought. “Everything smells delicious!” Simone claps her hands like an excited child, cheeks straining from smiling broadly. Thelma continues rolling melon pieces in delicate prosciutto strips but grants her a nod. “I was hoping to have the shrimp cocktail and crudités ready when guests arrive.”

Simone pauses and pointedly glances at her watch, a rose gold Cartier that Alex gave her on her last birthday. Then she twists the diamond-encrusted display to her wrist’s underside, self-conscious. The timepiece costs more than this woman likely earns in a year. Simone can only muster, “So I’d appreciate whatever you can do to get the spread out as quickly as possible.”

When Thelma responds with a deferential “Yes, ma’am,” it hits Simone some type of way. She retreats to the bathroom, as much to escape Thelma’s glare as to have a moment to collect herself before the evening gets underway. The lighting in the space is as dim as the ballroom is bright, but she can still assess her meticulously applied makeup. Her eyelids shimmer with metallic shadow and her lashes extend dramatically thanks to tasteful extensions. The scarlet dress is daring, but its flowing fabric balances the boldness. She found lipstick matching the exact shade, creating a striking contrast against her dark skin. Simone rarely wears red, in clothing or makeup, but tonight it makes her feel powerful—and why shouldn’t she feel powerful? She’s about to become the wife of Hartwell Inc.’s next CEO, and she’s pleased she looks the part.

Her husband does too; he’s the physical embodiment of the classic CEO stereotype, straight out of central casting, as if he were born on a boardroom table. Serious, wide brown eyes. Chiseled jaw. Skin perpetually kissed by sunshine even through the long Midwestern winters. Commanding height of six foot three. He smelled like a captain of industry—expensive, which was one of the first things Simone had noticed when he bumped up against her on a crowded el train and spilled coffee (thankfully iced) all over her and her camel-colored winter coat. He’d insisted on taking her to a one-hour dry cleaner to get the stain out, that he knew of a ramen place nearby where he could also treat her to lunch while they waited. Her first reaction was a hard no—Simone wasn’t exactly a spontaneous person, and she didn’t plan to be detoured from her errands by making small talk with a strange man, however handsome he was. But she also had a stain all down the front of her best—and only—nice coat, which wasn’t a good look, and dry cleaning was expensive, at least on her meager salary at the Chicago Tribune. But even beyond those practicalities, it would be a distraction from obsessing about Kwame, her college ex-boyfriend who’d recently talked her into yet another go, only to suddenly announce days ago that he was leaving for a yearlong journalism fellowship in the UAE.

Alex proved more than just a distraction. Simone was charmed by his endearing shyness and silly jokes at lunch, and the dinners and day trips that followed, though she remained steadfastly immune to giving herself over to his overtures until a few months later, when she got a postcard from Kwame that read, Miss me? Those two flippant words enraged her (as did the fact that she did miss him). Simone decided she’d had enough. It was time to move on.

Kwame’s overtaken her thoughts lately, despite her efforts to banish him, ever since he invaded her inbox last week. That’s what it felt like—an invasion—when the email from him popped up inviting her to be on a panel he was putting together for BIPOC students at their alma mater, Medill School of Journalism. Five graduates from the Class of ’15 talking about where their careers had taken them over the last ten years. Simone couldn’t help thinking that Kwame wanted the platform to show off his prestigious awards and hit podcast. And she can’t exactly blame him for that. If she had those accomplishments, she would probably want to hold forth about her career too, in front of an auditorium of inspired students. The problem was that ever since she got pregnant and had Langston, her career had all but withered and died.

Langston was a preemie and needed all of her focus and attention in those first couple of years. And then trying to get pregnant again essentially took over her life, with no baby to show for it. Plus, Alex needed her more and more. Helping him find ways to thrive at Hartwell under the strident command of his grandfather. She had plenty on her plate managing their personal affairs and their household, never mind all the upkeep and grooming it took to keep up appearances. Time passed just like all clichés say it does—slow days, quick years—and jumping back into a career grind felt more and more impossible. So Simone questions why Kwame would want her on this panel. She can’t imagine he suddenly discovered her brand-new column in the Sawville Sentinel. She actually hoped he hadn’t. It wasn’t exactly hard-hitting news. When she’d approached the editor of the paper a few months ago, a friend of Poppy’s from the club, she’d pitched serious pieces—like a profile on Mandela Barnes, a rising Black political star in Wisconsin and the Democratic Party. But Peter was only open to “lighter fare”—amusing local history, new business openings, the annual cardboard boat regatta. It wasn’t exactly what Simone had in mind, but it was something, her name in print. Alex has his new position, Langston has started second grade. Simone has this. Six hundred blessed words a week.

She still hasn’t answered Kwame, though. Partly because every time she sees his name on the screen, her pulse pounds in her throat and she immediately closes the email before responding just to stop it. Also, because it forces her to remember what happened the last time they saw each other, at the funeral, a few months before she married Alex. And that’s the last thing she needs, especially tonight. She forcibly returns her thoughts to her husband. Alex, Alex, Alex. This evening is about him, and it’s already fraught enough. She’d been managing Alex’s nerves and guilt as well as she could these last few weeks since his confrontation with Poppy, which led to Poppy finally agreeing to relinquish the company to his one and only grandson. Though “agreeing” wasn’t exactly the right word, it was more like acquiescing, stubbornly and angrily. But they couldn’t ignore his decline any longer. The old man’s early dementia has been progressing faster than the doctors anticipated—or Poppy himself, who’d insisted on maintaining ten-hour workdays while keeping his condition a strict secret from everyone, including his employees and the board of directors. That became difficult when he got lost en route to last month’s board meeting, not just going to the wrong hotel but to the wrong county. That was the final straw. With persistent encouragement from Simone, Alex finally presented Poppy with an ultimatum: resign or he would tell the board about his diagnosis.

She understood why Alex had dreaded this conversation and needed her constant encouragement. The day he confronted his grandfather, he returned reeking of scotch, wearing the weary expression of someone who’d battled a lion—which he had, metaphorically. But it worked; Poppy would step down. That very evening, Simone threw herself into planning tonight’s celebration—a farewell for Poppy and a coronation for her husband, who’d finally get his chance to prove himself.

Flashing one last “you got this, girl” smile at her reflection, Simone heads to find the person who can adjust the ballroom lighting. She’s never met Sylvester, the facilities manager, but knows he’s worked at the Tate School throughout both Poppy’s and Alex’s attendance, so some sixty years. She vaguely recalls hearing that Poppy had contributed to a fund for one of his grandchildren’s cancer treatments. She assumes he’ll be easy to find downstairs in the janitor’s offices. Sure enough, descending the narrow staircase to the dank basement, she spots a figure with gray hair contrasting jet-black skin, leaning heavily on a broom handle. He examines her as if witnessing a rare creature in the zoo.

“Can I help you?”

“Hi, yeah, I’m Simone. I was wondering if you could fix the lights in the ballroom… I’m having a party there that starts in a few. It’s for my father-in-law, Larry Hartwell.”

“You’re Larry Hartwell’s daughter-in-law?” His question carries the same skepticism as his initial appraisal. He looks her up and down slowly, and it’s not to take in her gown.

“Well, actually, I’m married to his grandson, but Larry raised him, so I think of him as my father-in-law.” As usual, Simone avoids explaining the car crash that orphaned Alex at four years old, sparing everyone the awkwardness of a conversation about death when they aren’t expecting it. People never know how to respond. It’s why she rarely mentions her own father dying when she was ten—protecting others and herself from stilted condolences.

“I heard you’ve worked here forever. I guess you remember Larry, then? My husband, Alex, also went here.”

“Oh, I remember Larry, all right.” Sylvester clutches his broom and stares at her defiantly. The statement feels like a challenge, a confusing one.

“Yeah, well, he’s pretty memorable, I suppose.” That’s an understatement. Lawrence Hartwell wouldn’t enter or leave a room without ensuring that his commanding presence was felt, respected, and remembered, whatever that took.

“Something like that. How long you known that man?”

“Um, let’s see. About a decade or so.” She doesn’t remember details or dialogue from the day Alex brought her home to meet Poppy for the first time. What registers all these years later are the nerves—hers and Alex’s. Her sweaty palms, her high-pitched voice, the gift bottle of scotch she almost dropped and couldn’t afford in the first place. She could tell Poppy liked that she was anxious—he took it and her efforts to ingratiate herself—to be a sign of respect.

“Hmmm.” Sylvester shakes his head slowly, as if disappointed in her or the world, though she can’t fathom why this conversation warrants either reaction. Or why she feels suddenly uncomfortable, like there’s something she’s missing, which is the last thing she needs with guests arriving in mere minutes. “Ummm, can we see about the lights, please?”

“Follow me.” He moves down the hallway and she follows silently. He leads her to a small electrical closet and turns a wide white knob.

“That should suffice.”

“Thank you.”

“No trouble.”

Simone suddenly yearns to win Sylvester’s approval despite likely never encountering him again. “Listen, you’re welcome to join us. I’m sure Poppy… Larry… would love that. There’ll be plenty of food.”

The man grimaces as if she’s sprouted another head, seemingly insulted by the invitation.

“I’ll pass, thank you very much.”

“Well, if you change your mind…”

“I won’t.” He shuffles away faster than she’d thought would be possible.

When she gets back upstairs, Simone finds Alex has arrived, along with a smattering of other guests. Langston is doing cartwheels across the carpet like he’s dressed for PE and not in a little tuxedo. Alex just lets him, even knowing he’ll get all clammy and sour-smelling from the exertion. She swallows her irritation and embraces her husband from behind, careful not to get makeup on his suit.

“Hey, you,” Simone says softly into his back.

“Hey, you.” Alex grasps both her hands wrapped around his taut stomach.

After a squeeze, he turns so she can better appreciate him. Weeks ago, he’d decided to grow a beard, and though she was initially skeptical, now she loves it. The scruff adds maturity. It’s distinguished, as if he’s evolving into his new role.

Langston darts over and wedges between them. “Do you like my tie, Mommy?” Simone straightens the polka-dot bow tie slightly and showers her beautiful boy with kisses until he protests about lipstick covering his face.

“You are the most adorable seven-year-old in existence.”

Simone maintains greater reserve with her father-in-law, offering a kiss on his papery cheek. Doctors warned them there would be good and bad days with Poppy’s condition. Tonight he appears lucid and clear-eyed. He’s always been imposing, with thick jowls and a full mop of dark hair betraying his eighty-three years. In his better days, as recently as last year, he would often offer to drop and do twenty push-ups on command. The days for that party trick are over, but he still appears strong relative to his struggling health, how he was able to fool people for so long.

“Everything looks exquisite, Simone. Thank you for your efforts.”

She appreciates Poppy’s consistent politeness. Whether mere formality or generational conditioning, it softens his harder personality traits.

“You’re welcome. You deserve to be celebrated. Look at my guys! How did I get so lucky?” Simone observes three generations of Hartwell men standing together, her beautiful boys. Poppy wears the “family jacket”—a 150-year-old herringbone blazer with LAH monogrammed in the lining—which only appears for special occasions and otherwise remains carefully stored in a thick garment bag. Family lore claims Landon Albright Hartwell immigrated from England in 1881, possessing only this Harrods jacket and American dreams. He gave his only son identical initials and passed down the garment, establishing a tradition. Alex’s given name is Logan Alexander Hartwell, and one of his earliest rebellions in life was insisting on using his middle name’s abbreviation. During Simone’s pregnancy, naming negotiations grew tense—primarily between Simone and her mother, who declared, “You’re not naming any grandchild of mine some nonsense like Landover.” Donette suggested “Langston” after making her feelings about “that foolish tradition” known. “Must’ve been nice arriving here voluntarily, let alone with a suitcase of bespoke suits and big aspirations.”

Naming their son after a Black icon perfectly balanced honoring both heritages—fitting for the first Hartwell heir with coffee-colored skin and wiry curls who would inherit the suit originally owned by his great-great-great-grandfather with those distinctive LAH initials in careful red embroidery.

“Come on, Pop Pop—I want chocolate-covered strawberries.” Poppy happily follows Langston toward the chocolate fountain Simone ultimately deemed appropriate after much internal debate.

“Do I look all right?” Alex isn’t fishing for compliments but expressing genuine uncertainty, despite appearing ready for an Esquire fashion spread. “I went with a different tie after noticing a small stain, but I’m not sure if it goes with this suit. You’re better at this.”

Alex’s humility has always been endearing to her. It’s what made her agree to go to lunch with him in the first place—the way his voice trembled a little when asking her.

“It’s perfect. Really. I love the yellow. How are you feeling?”

He looks around at the guests trickling in, and pink shadows fill his cheeks. “I don’t know. Ask me tomorrow.”

“You’re going to do great, babe. You got this. You deserve this.”

She doesn’t know if this is completely true. Does anyone deserve a company handed over to them? Does anyone deserve riches and good fortune? But it’s what he needs to hear.

Robert and Nancy Marshall, longtime family friends, approach in a swirl of effusive hellos and air-kisses, quickly drawing Alex into a conversation about their daughter’s upcoming wedding while Simone gracefully excuses herself to greet the other guests. Precisely fifty minutes into the celebration, after everyone has consumed at least two drinks, Simone signals Poppy that it’s time for his speech. He acknowledges her with a salute.

Famous for speaking off the cuff with impromptu and eloquent monologues, it’s a little bit of a heartbreak when Poppy digs in his coat pocket, fumbling around for yellow index cards. The subtle indicators always hit the hardest. Not the mangled vehicle wreckage, but a child’s pink shoe on the roadway. Not the casket, but crumpled tissues clutched tightly. Or in this case, the uncharacteristic tentativeness as Poppy starts speaking. To Simone’s relief, he settles into his speech with more authority, even if he’s reading straight from note cards.

“More decades ago than I’d care to count, I sat in this ballroom at my graduation, wondering how I would impact the world, eager as any young man before me. Three central principles guide Tate Men—striving for excellence in all endeavors, serving others, and following moral courage. I believe I’ve conducted business and my life according to these ideals. Though beginning modestly with my father’s investment, I envisioned my humble produce stand growing substantially. Today, Hartwell Grocers encompasses twenty-six locations and counting, employing seventeen hundred people, while maintaining our friendly neighborhood atmosphere.”

Simone zones out a bit as Poppy, predictably, starts talking about Theodore Roosevelt, his hero; she looks around at the rapt faces. Poppy pulls off a joke about the quick trip from the boardroom to the golf course to the coffin, but then appears somewhat confused why people are laughing. He seems to sense the need to wrap up; Simone mentally wills him to do just that. “Hartwell transcends eggs, cereal, and milk. It represents community and family—yours and mine. That’s why I couldn’t be more proud to entrust this company, and its legacy, to my son, Leland.”

Simone tightens her grip around her glass at this mistake and glances sideways to see if Alex noticed Poppy using his deceased father’s name. Of course he did.

“I can’t believe this,” Alex mutters through clenched teeth.

“It’s fine. Nobody noticed,” Simone replies, her smile firmly fixed in place.

Confused murmurs ripple through the audience before everyone overlooks the error, offering the enthusiastic applause Poppy had been waiting for.

“I’ll conclude, because nobody wants to hear long-winded ramblings from an elderly man. Thank you for attending, and in Woodrow Wilson’s wise words: ‘You are not here merely to make a living. You are here in order to enable the world to live more amply, with greater vision, with a finer spirit of hope and achievement.’ ” As well-wishers surround Poppy, offering congratulations, Alex strides away before Simone can grab his arm.

“Ouch. The man can’t even remember who’s who now, huh?” Taylor has suddenly appeared at Simone’s side, close enough to whisper in her ear. Simone has confided in Taylor how bad Poppy is, but she still looks around to make sure no one else heard. Then she turns to hug her best friend.

“When did you get here?”

“Just now. Right on time.” Taylor grins cheekily. “You’ve truly outdone yourself, Simone. I mean…” Taylor picks up a centerpiece in two hands. “Um, are these vases solid gold? Did you borrow them from King Tut’s tomb?”

“You’re one to talk. Is that dress made entirely of… feathers?”

“Don’t I look like an actual raven?” Taylor shimmies a little and flaps her arms.

“Yes. The resemblance is a little uncanny. Look, I gotta go find Alex, make sure he’s okay, you go mingle.”

Alex is at the bar gripping a crystal-cut glass of bourbon. He excuses himself from the conversation he’s having with a man Simone recognizes from the club, only because he has a propensity to wear actual kilts on the golf course. Alex turns to Simone and pulls her into a corner.

“He wanted it to be my father,” he hisses through gritted teeth. “He’s always wanted my flawless dead dad.”

“That’s not true, Alex. Look at me.” Simone cradles his flushed cheeks between her delicate hands. “His mind isn’t functioning properly. It’s a meaningless slip. I promise. Go to the bathroom, take a breath, then come back and work this room like the confident executive you are. This moment belongs to you too. These people want to celebrate you as well, Mr. CEO. Okay?”

All Simone earns from this pep talk is a resigned nod. She watches him inhale deeply and straighten his posture, reminiscent of Langston approaching the school bus stop for the first time and summoning all the bravery he could muster to step on board.

Simone needs some fresh air herself. She slips through sliding doors opening onto a narrow patio lined with terra-cotta planters holding immaculately groomed evergreens. Goose bumps immediately appear as the frigid air makes contact with her bare skin. September vanished overnight, taking autumn with it. Wisconsin winters arrive with the suddenness and intensity of a slap, just as they did during her Detroit childhood. She should be accustomed after a lifetime living in the Midwest, but her mother always claimed, “You can’t remove Africa from our bones,” as explanation for their shared intolerance of the cold.

“I’ll never tire of this view. This place.”

Simone startles at hearing Poppy. She hadn’t noticed him standing in the shadows along the wooden railing, his dark suit blending in with the night.

“It’s lovely.”

Actually, Simone finds the campus excessively gothic. All the stone turrets, imposing towers, and overgrown paths—it was more creepy than lovely, but she keeps that opinion to herself. Poppy and Alex assume Langston will enroll here for sixth grade just as they did. Simone refuses to send her son away to boarding school at twelve years old, no matter how close it is, but that battle can wait. “You shouldn’t be out here. It’s freezing.” The last complication