Our site works best with the latest versions of these web browsers. Some BOTM features may not work on older or outdated browsers.
To update, click your preferred browser below and follow the instructions.
Lepucki anchors this wild ride with keen observations and sympathy for her unmoored creations'”it’s the kind of book you’ll find yourself underlining.
Some books pull you in from the very first sentence; this one had me at the dedication. It reads: 'œTo my mother, who always says, 'If you’re bored, read a book.’' My mother said that too! (She also said, 'œI’ve never been bored in my life,' which was less helpful. So blamey! Like her head was a wonderland and mine must be empty inside!)
Sorry. Where was I?
Mother issues. We all have them. This ...
A sinister, sexy noir about art, motherhood, and the intensity of female friendships, set in the posh hills above Los Angeles, from the bestselling author of _California_.
High in the Hollywood Hills, writer Lady Daniels has decided to take a break from her husband. Left alone with her children, she's going to need a hand taking care of her young son if she's ever going to finish her memoir. I...
It was summer. The heat had arrived harsh and bright, bleaching the sidewalks and choking the flowers before they had a chance to wilt. The freeways shimmered, any hotter and they might crack, might explode, and the poor cars would confetti into the air. People were complaining, they were moving slowly. They were swarming the beaches like tiny bugs upon the backs of dead animals. I preferred to stay at home: ice cubes in the dog bowl, Riesling in the freezer. The air conditioner was broken. I had taken to sitting in the living room with the curtains drawn, my body edged with sweat like frosting on a cake, daring to see how hot it could get. I ate salad for dinner every night and had almost checked myself and the boys into a hotel. I'd refrained because of the babysitter search. What would applicants think if I requested they meet me poolside at the Roosevelt?
Instead I waited. It didn't take long for the job hunters to come calling.
The doorbell rang eight minutes ahead of schedule and I jumped. This was the first interview. I'd been fluffing and re-fluffing the couch pillows, adjusting my ponytail.
When I opened the front door, a gust of gritty air came rushing at me and I felt its particulates dirtying my lungs. A young woman stood on the welcome mat, smiling so wide I could see where her gums webbed into her mouth.
I'd expected her to be pretty, almost all young women in L.A. are, especially those raised here, the beauty's in the tap water, but she was plain-looking, her wide, hazel eyes too far apart, her dark blond hair thin and flat.