Look...I forgot who this is by, and I am not going to take the time to tromp upstairs to find out for you. I thought this would be an interesting read and instead it is one of the most predictable, meandering, makes sense in some parallel universe-type-of-book on the planet. It's her first novel, and was a New York Times bestseller. Proof that we should be writers, ladies, and save the world from this drivel!
Woman on her own, single and with a mulatto daughter, becomes an up & comer through her knitting shop in New York City. Daughter convinces customers to come in on Friday to begin a knitting club and daughter begins to bake for the club each week. Attractive jet setting black father of daughter comes back into her life, and we get little vignettes about everyone in the club's life, too. She and a friend agreed back in college that they wouldn't go anywhere unless they could go together. She turns down a spot at Dartmouth, and lo and behold her friend "got" that spot. Like there was only one person in the world that was wait-listed at Dartmouth that year and it just HAPPENED to be her best friend. Right.
Said best friend comes back into her life and is a NYC socialite who commissions her to make a dress that she will wear to some big party and serve her trust fund husband divorce papers. Poor woman on her own has to pick her up and put her back together, too.
Poor woman on her own displays symptoms that you would equate with pregnancy, and then...here's the big switcheroo...it's ovarian cancer. At this point, everyone in her life gets their shit together, starts taking care of poor woman on her own (PWOHO), and then PWOHO promptly DIES.
Well isn't that tidy?
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