The Mother-Daughter Book Club

by Susan Patterson, James Patterson

Genres: Family Life; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

The Mother-Daughter Book Club is Susan Patterson's new novel, the follow-up to Things I Wish I Told My Mother—the New York Times bestselling, book-club favorite praised as "This book will win your heart" (Elin Hilderbrand). 

Between their busy lives and their far-flung residences, the Mother-Daughter Book Club—four longtime friends and their five daughters—more often discuss the books on their nightstands via 2 a.m. texts than in-person meetings. And maybe it’s just as well, after what happened at their last get-together...
           So it’s an emotional reunion when they finally gather again, this time on the spectacular shores of Italy’s Lake Como. Sightseeing excursions, “Como-politan”-fueled reminiscing, and a hint of vacation romance all build toward the book club’s trademark “Night of Secrets.”
           These friends, and sometime rivals, are close readers—of novels, memoirs, and of each other. But as the years and the distance cast shadows and doubt, confidences and sympathies turn into surprising revelations.  

Release date: April 20, 2026

Publisher: Little, Brown and Company

Print pages: 400

Sample

I don’t want to jinx anything, but I don’t know how I got this lucky.

That’s the thought running through my mind as I sit here in the gracious lake house I rented for the weekend, pleasantly full from dinner and just a bit sleepy from two and a half glasses of wine. It’s been a long and lovely day. A soft summer rain patters against the windows. With me in the large but cozy living room are my three best friends in the world. And in the kitchen, giggling like little girls, are our beautiful daughters.

To whatever higher power assigned Mariella Marciano, Grace Townsend, and me to the same University of Wisconsin-Madison freshman dorm corridor way back when (a fourth-floor walk-up in Adams Hall): Thank you, I owe you. Big-time. We three have been like sisters ever since, and we tease Jamie Price about being our new young friend—because we’ve known her for only twenty years, and she’s only in her forties. I hired Jamie to be Brigid’s nanny (and my Girl Friday) back when Brigid was in elementary school. We bonded immediately, and within a year, Jamie was the fourth member of our gang.

We all call and text each other regularly. We always send cards on birthdays. Some years we take trips together—to Florida beaches or New York City museums. We’ve bonded over our careers and Christmas on Nantucket, Madeline Miller and menopause.

This year, the sparkling waters of Lake Geneva have been the perfect backdrop for a wonderful three days spent talking about our lives, our hopes, and—of course—our favorite books.

We’re constantly emailing each other book recommendations, and we keep an Excel doc of hundreds of novels, with columns showing which of us has read what and how much we liked it. (Grace recently gave Middlemarch an A; Mariella said it was way too long and gave it a C-minus.) Like most book clubs, we spend about 5 percent of our time talking about actual books; the other 95 percent is taken up by talk of jobs, family, and gossip. The stuff of life. But books are our inspiration. So if I text Jamie, for example, at two o’clock in the morning because I just finished reading the most recent Tana French novel, she certainly won’t think I’m weird.

We’ve had a few bumps in the road, of course. Some years, Mariella is too busy touring the world to stay in regular touch, and everyone gets a little offended. Grace was mad at me for two months when I canceled a planned meet-up at the Emily Dickinson Museum. And last year we got in an actual fight about whether Station Eleven was better as a book or a TV series. But 99.9 percent of the time, everything is great. These are the women that I rely on most in the world. I don’t know how I’d survive without them.

Our girls are all wonderful friends with each other, too, and they’ve joined us for this particular trip. (I still call them girls; I can’t help it.) And we are now, Mariella has declared, an official organization, because she has given us a name.

The Mother-Daughter Book Club. A.k.a. the MDBC.

Grace says we should have t-shirts made—MDBC 4-Ever! Her daughter, Merry, told her that this idea is “totally cringe.”

Merry’s probably right. But I’d wear one anyway. I’m too old to care about what anyone else thinks about my fashion choices.

We are so, so lucky, I think again. And then I knock on wood, just to be safe.

Mariella lifts a perfectly arched eyebrow at me. “Elin, why are you banging on the coffee table?”

I shrug and tuck my hand back into my pocket. “No reason.”

I take a sip of peppermint tea and sigh. I don’t want tonight to be our last night. For one thing, this weekend’s been way too much fun, and I’m not ready to go back to real life yet. And for another, Mariella has just stood up and planted herself in the center of the living room. Judging from the look on her face, she’s getting ready to make an announcement.

If I know Mariella—and I do—she’s going to demand we all go skinny-dipping or play high-stakes Truth or Dare or something equally dramatic. She can’t resist a grand finale.

“Ahem!” she says, and I watch as Grace and Jamie stop their chatter and snap to attention. As a corporate attorney, I’m used to being in charge at my job, but Mariella is definitely the one in charge when we’re all together. Brassy, big-hearted, and bossy: that’s Mariella Marciano.

“My loves, it is our final night,” she says, “and for that reason we must do something very special.”

See, I knew it.

She smiles slyly. “Which is why I have decided that tonight is the Night of Secrets.”

“Not sure I like the sound of that,” Jamie says. She pushes her coppery red bangs away from her forehead and takes a big sip of wine.

“If you are wondering what that entails exactly,” Mariella goes on, “I will tell you: Each of us needs to confess something big. Something juicy.”

Grace tucks her long hair behind her ears. She’s the only one of us who doesn’t color her hair, but those silver waves look incredible on her. With her wide blue eyes, high cheekbones, and tall, girlish frame, she could practically be a Ralph Lauren runway model. “Don’t we tell each other everything already?” she asks reasonably.

“Nobody tells people everything,” Mariella says.

You’re right. We all have our little secrets, I think.

And our not-so-little ones.

Jamie looks fidgety. “This could be dangerous,” she says.

Yes, it could. I sink deeper into the couch, hoping I can make myself less visible. But Mariella points a perfectly manicured finger at me anyway.

“Elin,” she commands, “you go first.”

I hold up my hands like I can ward her off. “I plead the Fifth,” I say.

“None of your lawyer-speak!” Mariella declares. “’Fess up.”

I glance into the kitchen, where I can see my daughter, Brigid, making popcorn, laughing with Merry and Zoey, two girls she’s known nearly her entire life.

“I think Grace should go,” I suggest.

“Grace is a woman of God, Elin,” Mariella says patiently, as if I’ve forgotten that our friend’s a minister. “How juicy can her secret be?”

When Grace laughs, her blue eyes sparkle. “I don’t know, you might be surprised,” she says.

“Wonderful! I look forward to it. Elin, you’re still going first.”

I could revolt. Say “I don’t think the Night of Secrets is such a good idea.” But I’ve learned from decades of experience that it’s easier for everyone if Mariella gets her way.

Luckily, I’ve been mulling something over in my mind for months. It’s not a juicy secret, but it’ll have to do.

“I think I might leave my job,” I say. I’ve been a civil litigator at a giant law firm for almost my entire career. Think seventy-hour weeks, lots of travel (we have clients from all over the US), and a high level of stress. I’ve been burned out for years, but I’ve never said the q-word. Admitting out loud that I want to quit actually makes me feel a little bit ill.

Hopefully that’s just from the extra helpings of Grace’s gooey brownies I had after dinner.

The room erupts in cheers. My daughter, Brigid, the oldest of the girls, pokes her head out of the kitchen. “What’s going on out here?”

Zoey, Mariella’s daughter, says blithely, “Oh, the Badgers probably scored a touchdown or something.”

The rest of us look at each other in disbelief. “Zoey!” I chide, “it’s summertime! Football season doesn’t start until the end of August!”

Zoey shrugs. “I don’t pay attention to sports.”

Mariella throws up her hands. “I have told her all about how we looked forward to our epic nights in Camp Randall Stadium—the tailgate parties, the touchdowns, the Jump Around, the singing of ‘Varsity,’ the 5th Quarter. But her brain is filled up with skin care routines. There is no room for anything else.”

Zoey does have beautiful skin—smooth and olive, not a wrinkle in sight. But she’s still in her mid-twenties. “It’s okay,” I assure her mother. “Not everyone has to be a Badgers fan.” Then I say to Zoey, “The cheering was because my friends are really excited about the idea that I might finally leave my job.”

Brigid raises one eyebrow at me. “Are you serious?” she says.

“Serious as a heart attack,” I say.

“Mom,” Brigid says gently. “A heart attack is a medical emergency. Not a figure of speech.”

“Dr. Mackenzie bustin’ her mom,” Zoey murmurs.

“I don’t mean to be uptight,” Brigid explains. “I just saw so many of them in ER rotations that—”

“That you know they shouldn’t be taken lightly,” I say. “And you’re right.”

“As usual,” Zoey adds.

Brigid grins. “Well, I’ll believe that Mom’s leaving her job when she cc’s me on the resignation letter.”

“Ha! I’ll make sure to do that.”

“Anyway,” Mariella continues, “the four of us are telling secrets. Come join us!”

“My secret is that I didn’t finish The Covenant of Water,” Zoey says.

“Please, that’s no secret,” says Merry, Grace’s daughter, who has appeared next to Zoey in the doorway. “But shouldn’t we wait until Meg and Kathleen get back?”

Jamie looks startled. “What, the twins are still gone? I thought they were in the kitchen with you!”

I look at my watch. Jamie’s girls had roared off in Meg’s new Jeep to get ice cream at Kilwins almost two hours ago, even though we’d all gone there earlier to sample their legendary hand-paddled fudge (I’m partial to the sea-salt chocolate caramel). The town of Lake Geneva, a community of stately mansions known as the Newport of the Midwest or the Hamptons of Chicago, is less than seven square miles, so it’s not as if the twins could’ve gotten lost. This isn’t even unfamiliar territory to them. They grew up in the town next door. I can’t imagine what on earth is taking them so long.

“Unless they’re hiding in the pantry, they’re not here,” Zoey says. “But don’t worry—we’ll make them spill all the tea when they get back. We won’t take it easy on them!”

Jamie looks out the window. The rain’s coming down harder now, pounding on the skylight, slashing against the windows. “They’d better hurry up,” she says.

“In the meantime, I’ll go,” Grace offers. As soon as she says it, she immediately starts to blush. Grace never wears makeup, but suddenly it looks like she’s put an entire pot of rouge on her cheeks. She must have a real secret! But when she speaks, it’s so quiet that no one can hear her.

“What?” Mariella cries. “Speak up!”

I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but Grace gets even redder.

“I’m a virgin,” she says a little louder.

My jaw nearly hits the floor. Of course I know that Grace had conceived her children—daughter, Meredith, and younger son, Luke—through IVF. And of course I know that she’s never had a serious romantic relationship. But still, this secret is an absolute shocker.

“You lie,” Mariella insists, though everyone knows Grace is the most honest woman in the MDBC.

Grace shakes her head. “Cross my heart.”

I shoot a glance over to Merry. She’s looking down at her lap, an embarrassed half smile on her face, but it’s clear that her mother’s secret isn’t news to her.

“How did we not know this?” I practically screech.

“You know what this means, right?” Zoey says. “It means that Merry lost her virginity before her mom did!”

“Zoey!” Now Merry looks as if she’d like to hide under the couch.

“Well, you had that college boyfriend forever—I’m not saying you were a teen slut.”

“Can you please just shut up?” Merry begs.

“You had a virgin birth,” Jamie says to Grace, awed. “Like Mary. Are they going to make you a saint or something?”

Grace laughs. “I don’t think the United Church of Christ is particularly interested in saint-making at the moment. And as for why I didn’t tell you, I guess I was embarrassed. I mean, I tried to date for a while. But about three years ago, I just gave it up.”

“Pretty sure you haven’t missed much,” Brigid says drily.

“Didn’t you ever go on the apps?” Zoey wants to know. “Every single person I know is on them. Plus a few people who aren’t single.”

“Yes, I tried. But they weren’t for me.”

“Online dating is the worst. A cesspool of humanity,” Brigid grumbles.

“My neighbor met her husband on Bumble,” says Merry. “They’re literally the perfect couple. And my friend Sally’s been seeing a guy she met on Tinder for like a year.”

“I’ve been seeing a girl I met online,” Zoey says. “I don’t know if TikTok counts as a dating app, though.”

“Can we change the subject now?” Grace asks. “Please?”

“Fine,” Mariella says. “My secret is equally astonishing.” She pats her hips. “I have gained twenty-six pounds.”

For a moment, everyone’s quiet. Then Zoey snorts, which turns into a guffaw. And Merry starts giggling, and then Grace does too, and Jamie slaps her thigh and cackles. My dark secret vanishes from my mind as I laugh and laugh.

“What?” Mariella says. “What’s so funny?”

Zoey, who’s gasping for breath by now, says, “Mommy, I’m sorry, but it’s not a secret if everyone can already tell!”

You can imagine some people being insulted at a moment like this. Especially people who live in the public eye the way Mariella does. She sings all around the world, and her image matters. But Mariella loves to laugh at everything and everyone, including herself. So she starts hooting like the rest of us.

“I do not know why I spent all that money on extra-firm Spanx, then!” she says. “From now on I will let it all hang out! Zoey, bring me my sweatpants! And Jamie—it’s your turn to tell a secret!”

I don’t want to go next.

When the others started sharing their secrets, I felt a knot tightening in my stomach. Because my secret is upsetting. Much more so than gaining a few pounds, or even being a virgin. I’d managed to push it out of my mind this weekend—well, mostly. What’s that saying? Be here now? I really tried to: I swam, sunbathed, gossiped, read, drank palomas on the deck, all of it. I even flirted a tiny bit with the mail boat jumper, a cute Wisconsin grad a few years older than my twins, who spends his summers delivering mail around the lake by leaping from the US Mail boat to all the various private docks. I needed proof that I was still kinda cute.

Now, though, my secret’s right in front of me again, and my heart aches at the thought of it. I get up quickly from the couch. “I think we need more wine, don’t you?”

Maybe I can hide in the kitchen long enough that Mariella will forget I’m supposed to take a turn. Doesn’t Zoey have a secret? Or Merry?

“I hope there’s prosecco left,” Mariella says. “I am in the mood for bubbles!”

I go into the kitchen, which is quiet and empty now that the daughters have joined their moms in the living room. The rain’s falling even harder now. Big fat droplets hit the skylight with a sound like thunder. A few years ago, after a day of rain like this, some of Lake Geneva’s streets turned into lakes of their own.

I pour myself a glass of water and gulp it down. I’m buying time.

Steeling myself to tell the truth. Because these are my best friends, and I should tell them what’s going on.

What’s taking my kids so long? That’s what I’d like to know. They’ve probably run into local friends. But my phone’s dead, so I can’t text them. I left my charger at home, on the other side of the lake. My husband, Logan, and I bought a cute little 1950s Cape Cod in Williams Bay right before the girls started elementary school. It was supposed to be our starter home, but we’ve never had enough money to get a better one. We’ve never had enough money for a lot of things, honestly. Like, the next big purchase we’d talked about making was a new set of tires for Logan’s truck.

Sometimes things just don’t work out the way you think they will, you know?

Honestly, if my life had a motto, that’d be it.

Like how I was a junior at DePaul University when I found out that I was pregnant.

Or how Logan had to come back early from his study-abroad semester in Scotland because I was so scared and alone. (And sick. I must have thrown up three hundred times during that pregnancy.)

Or how, when we went to our first doctor appointment, we were told that we weren’t just having one baby—we were having two.

Obviously, I wouldn’t give up my daughters for anything. They’re the best thing that ever happened to me. But sometimes I can’t help wondering what life would’ve been like if things had gone differently when I was twenty-one.

“Jamie, did you get lost?” Grace calls from the other room.

I come back to the present with a start. “Sorry!” I open the refrigerator and grab the last bottle of prosecco. Back in the living room I pop the cork, refill everyone’s glasses with the sparkling gold liquid, and sink down into the couch.

Zoey is in the middle of telling everyone her secret, which is that she went to Burning Man. She’d given herself the nickname Daffy Rat and ran around in a metal bikini that she’d made in some feminist metalworking class on the playa.

When I was Zoey’s age, I had four-year-old twins.

“It was totally amazing,” Zoey’s saying, “and I totally never want to do it again.”

“I should hope not,” her mother says. “It sounds very unsanitary.” Then Mariella turns to me and says, “Did you think I would forget you, my dear? It is time for your secret.”

I nod. Everyone else has done it. I can do it too.

But I’m crying before I even say the first words. “Logan asked for a separation,” I tell them. “Out of the blue. Or that’s what it felt like anyway.” I’d been in the backyard weeding when he came out to tell me. I was so shocked I couldn’t even speak. “That says something, right? Maybe something about me?”

Not about whether I’m still attractive. More like, whether I’m still worth being married to. I can feel my friends’ shock and sympathy even before I hear Elin say, “Oh, Jamie, honey,” or Mariella proclaiming that this d. . .