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A Novel

Written by Louise ShafferAuthor Alerts:  Random House will alert you to new works by Louise Shaffer

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List Price: $11.99

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On Sale: March 24, 2009
Pages: | ISBN: 978-0-345-51317-5
Published by : Ballantine Books Ballantine Group
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Synopsis|Excerpt

Synopsis

Louise Shaffer brings to life three generations of Italian American women in this stunning novel of surprises, secrets, and serendipity.

A child of theatrical royalty, Carrie Manning is having a hard time getting her own act together. Thirty-seven, aimless, and having just buried a famous mother she never understood, she is desperate to uncover her family’s mysterious past in the hopes that it will help her understand herself.

Carrie’s search reveals the fascinating life stories of her estranged grandmother Lu, a glamorous Broadway star whose dreams came with a price; her great grandmother Mifalda, who gave up everything to come to America as a sixteen-year-old Italian bride; and her father, Bobby, the charismatic Broadway genius who wrote some of Lu’s greatest musicals and died tragically young. At the heart of Carrie’s discoveries lies the reason for her mother’s complicated life, and a dark secret that has been buried for thirty years.

Excerpt

Chapter One

NewYork City
2008
“I just put hairspray on my armpits,” Carrie said. She told herself the shrill note in her voice was not hys­teria. She was not losing it; she had merely chosen to call her ex-fiancé to tell him a funny story. He was one of her very best friends, and you shared the good stuff with your pals. “I was going for the deodorant. I kept thinking, ‘Wow, this deodorant is sticky.’ Then I looked at the can. The thing is, I don’t know why I had hairspray–I never use it. It makes my hair look like a Brillo pad.”

“Carrie? You okay?” Howie’s voice came at her over the phone. And suddenly she was going to lose it after all. How the hell do you think I am, Howie? My mother died ten days ago.

Carrie drew in a deep breath. “I’m fine,” she said.

“You sure?” Howie sounded worried–and not quite awake. What time was it, anyway? “Why are you up at four-thirty in the morning?” he added, answering the question.

“Oh God, I’m sorry. I didn’t know . . .” Explanations raced through her head. See, Howie, I’ve been waking up a little early . . . No, the truth is, Howie, I can’t sleep. I can’t eat either–nothing except potato chips. I got into them when I was hanging around the hospital . . . She stopped herself. Because she was rambling. True, it was an internal ramble, but anytime she started wandering mentally it was a sure sign that she had lost control. And dwelling on the hos­pital and her mother’s last days there was definitely a bad idea. Carrie had gotten through the funeral Mass a week ago, and the memorial service the day before, by not dwelling. Not dwelling had gotten her out of bed that morning and it had gotten her dressed–except for the hairspray/deodorant mishap–and now she was on her way to clean out her mother’s apartment. Although possibly not right at this moment. Not at four-thirty am. “Go back to sleep, Howie. I’m sorry I bothered you.”

I am fine. I am Carrie Manning. I am thirty-seven years old. And, okay, I’m a little tense this morning because my mother’s ...not alive anymore. But I’m not going to dwell on that. Not now. Now, I’m going to think about how I got through the memorial service yesterday without crying once. I was great at that service. I didn’t even tear up when they sang the Panis Angelicus.

“Carrie?” Howie’s voice on the phone brought her back to re­ality. “Honey, you’re not still freaking out about the flowers, are you?”

Okay, so I didn’t get through the memorial service quite as well as I might have.

“I didn’t freak out. I was upset.”

“However you want to say it, Carrie . . .”

“I put it in the obituary–‘No flowers’–that’s what it said. It was right there in the New York Times. I listed all of Mother’s charities so people could make donations.”

“Yes, I saw that.”

“I did it exactly the way she wanted it. The woman was once voted Humanitarian of the Year by Living Life magazine. That’s what the plaque said: Rose Manning, Humanitarian of the Year, 1986 ...”

I know, Carrie–”

“Her wishes for her own funeral should have been obeyed. And I got it right. I got it goddamned right!”

“Absolutely.”

“Everyone knows how Mother feels about flowers. Especially roses. Why would anyone send her a basket of white roses?”

“I guess there was someone who didn’t know . . .”

“After the article she wrote about Guatemalan children? The one about the five-year-old kids who pick roses and wind up with respiratory diseases and blisters full of insecticides?”

“Sweetheart, calm down.”

“You know what Mother says every time she sees those cheap roses in the delis on the street. She carries her pamphlets in her purse so she can show the owners–”

“She carried them.”

“That’s what I said.”

“No, you said she carries them. Wrong tense, Carrie.”

And suddenly it was real–in a way that it hadn’t been at the memorial service, or at the funeral Mass, or at the mausoleum. Now there was no way not to think about it. Her mother was gone. And Carrie was an orphan. The room went cold. There was a lingering scent of hairspray in the air.

“Carrie? Would you like me to come into the city and stay with you until my first appointment?”

“No. Thank you.”

“I could bring you some coffee–from the diner on the corner, all black and bitter. None of that Starbucks-wannabe stuff.”

“You’re the best ex on the planet–but I really am okay. And you need to get your sleep. You probably have a gazillion root canals today.”

“Only one.”

“Go back to sleep. You’ll need steady hands.”

And I need to get through this without dramatics.

That was what her mother had called it when Carrie was a kid and her mother thought she was getting too worked up about something. “You’re being dramatic, dear,” Rose would say. “Are you sure you’re not trying to draw attention to yourself? That’s ego, Carrie, and you must never indulge in ego. The nuns tried to teach me that when I was your age, and I wish I had listened. Just remember, you and I are just ordinary people.”

That had been a lie. Carrie’s mother hadn’t had an ordinary bone in her body. If you looked up “not ordinary” in the dictionary you’d find a picture of Rose Manning. And she never had to try to draw attention to herself–it came to her automatically. For years it was her looks that did it. When she was young, Rose Manning’s beauty was almost unnerving. Carrie closed her eyes and pictured her mother: the tall, slender body made for fashion–although by the time Carrie knew her, Rose was no longer wearing couture– the huge, green almond-shaped eyes, the high, sculpted cheek­bones, and the creamy skin. Rose’s thick red-gold hair was always piled in a shiny mass at the back of her head, her mouth was delicate but somehow still full, and her nose was aquiline perfection. When you put the whole package together you got a mix of ethe­real and elegant that stopped conversations. And the magic had lasted for decades. When Rose died she was sixty-four, and until her last year when the cancer finally took over, she could still silence a room just by entering it.

But Carrie’s mother had always been more than just a breath­takingly pretty face. She had possessed an internal power her daughter could never define or understand. Wearing one of her interchangeable skirt-and-blouse ensembles–she never spent time on wardrobe–and exhausted from a night spent volunteering at her homeless shelter, Rose could glide into a board meeting packed with Wall Street sharks and dominate. Carrie opened her eyes.

“Is it pretty out there in Katonah?” she asked Howie. She and Howie were both city people, but after Carrie had canceled the wedding, he’d relocated to the suburbs, saying he’d needed to move on. Carrie couldn’t imagine anyone voluntarily not living in Manhattan, but since he was her friend–thank you, God, because she wasn’t quite sure she could handle it if he weren’t–she tried to be supportive. “I bet it’s pretty out there,” she repeated.
“It’s hard to tell; it’s still a little dark outside.”

“Was it pretty last night before you went to bed?”

“I guess,” Howie said. “There’s a big bush on my front yard that was there when I bought the place, and it’s starting to get all these yellow flowers on it. The guy across the street says it’s a forsythia.”

“I’m glad you’re happy, Howie.” And she was. Truly. Even though it ached a little to think that he could be happy without her. But that was only natural–right? The real point, the thing to focus on here, was that he was still her friend, that he had understood that she backed out of marrying him for his own good, because emotionally speaking she was a disaster on two feet and she didn’t want to inflict the train wreck that was her life on him. Howie, bless him forever, had understood the backing-out thing for the act of love that it was. “I mean that–about me being happy you’re happy, Howie,” she added.

“Thanks.” He paused for a second, then chose his words care­fully, “Listen . . . sweetheart, why don’t you hold off on clearing out your mother’s apartment for a few weeks? Give yourself a break.”

Because if I don’t do it right now, I’ll never be able to.

“I’m cool. Really.”

“Of course you are!” he said, way too heartily. “I know that!”

“Thanks. Night, Howie . . . well . . . good morning.” She started to hang up, but his voice stopped her.

“Carrie?” he said. “You did get it right, yesterday. You got the memorial service right.”

“Thank you,” she said as she put down the phone. But Howie was wrong. Carrie’s eyes shifted over to the doorway, where the basket of white roses sat on the floor.

“Would you like these?” the priest had asked her after the service was over. What she should have done was to tell him, vehemently, to toss the basket into the garbage. But the flowers were lovely, a soft off-white with just a touch of pinkish blush at the heart. In the days since Rose had died, there had been many speeches given about her. Her memorial service had been packed with people who had admired and respected her. But, per her instructions, there had not been one personal touch, not one moment in which anyone acknowledged that Rose Manning had been more than an icon, that she’d also been a widow, a daughter, and a mother. No one had thought to say good-bye with something extravagant and beautiful–except the clueless sender of the white roses.

“Yes, I want them,” Carrie had said to the priest, and she had taken the basket out of his hands and brought the roses home.

I failed you, Mother. I’m sorry.

Carrie stumbled through the obstacle course that was her bedroom. When she’d finally left her mother’s apartment in her late twenties, she’d been determined to create a cozy space for herself, and she’d splurged on several large, cushy pieces of furniture. Unfortunately, she had not measured the size of the rooms in her small home. The monster bed ate up almost all of the floor space in her bedroom, so opening the bottom drawer of the bureau was impossible unless she was squatting in the closet. For bedding, Carrie had purchased eight white pillows and a white down-filled comforter. She’d been going for Sensuous Luxury; her best friend, Zoe, said she’d achieved Marshmallow Blob.

In the living room were more puffy oversize chairs, ottomans, and a sofa. Someone had told Carrie that putting a mirror on the wall above the sofa would make the room look bigger, and she had dutifully done so. The bottom of the mirror frame jutted out from the wall, so when guests sat on the couch they had to slouch or risk losing a piece of scalp.

Carrie carefully threaded her way to the bathroom. She looked at herself in the tiny mirror. She was not the beauty her mother had been, but that was not something she obsessed about. As Zoe once said, who the hell was as beautiful as Rose? Even in a time when any woman with enough cash could buy the nose and boobs of her dreams, Rose had been in a class by herself. On the other hand, Zoe had continued kindly, Carrie wasn’t exactly a disaster. At five-four, she was cute rather than regal, but she was endowed with fairly impressive cleavage, and her legs were truly fine. Her nose might have been a little too long, her dark brown eyes were probably too deep set, and her curly hair–also dark brown–was always a mess by three in the afternoon. But her smile was fabulous. When she unleashed it. “Which you don’t do often enough,” Zoe had said, wrapping up her assessment. “You can’t get away with your mom’s ice princess act. And it wouldn’t hurt if you used a little makeup.”

Carrie searched around in her medicine chest and finally un­earthed some seldom used blush and mascara. She found her lip gloss in her purse, managed to stall another minute or two with it, then went into her kitchen and dawdled over her breakfast quotient of sour-cream-and-onion-flavored chips. But it still wasn’t six o’clock yet. For some reason she didn’t want to go to her mother’s apartment before six o’clock. On the other hand, staying in her own apartment was out of the question. There was only one person Carrie knew–except for poor Howie–who’d be awake at this hour. Carrie put on her coat and headed out the door.

Zoe was already up and working when Carrie rang her buzzer. Carrie knew this because when Zoe answered the door she was wearing her work clothes–flannel pajamas with red roses on them and an apron liberally smeared with chocolate–and her blond hair was bundled up under a net. Since Zoe was six feet tall and skinny, the look was distinctive. She stood in her doorway peeling off a pair of surgical gloves and eyeing Carrie with the look of sympathy and concern that everyone had been giving her for the last year.

“Hey, Carrie. Are you–”

“New rule,” Carrie broke in hastily. “Don’t ask me how I am, okay?” Zoe started to speak, then thought better of it. “And we’re not talking about memorial services, or funerals.” Or mothers.

Zoe nodded. “Can I ask why you’re here?”

“Not really.”

“Okay. Come into the kitchen.”

Actually, Zoe’s entire apartment was a kitchen. She’d stashed a cot in one corner of it, and there was a closet where she kept her wardrobe, but the rest of her small studio had been gutted and fitted out with two industrial-size refrigerators, a restaurant stove, a large table at which two people could work comfortably, and several huge storage bins full of sugar and cocoa. Stacked against one wall were shipping supplies, rolls of gold tissue paper, and cases of hand-painted candy boxes. Zoe was a candy maker who sold herb-flavored chocolate truffles to the hippest gourmet groceries and restaurants in Manhattan. Since five that morning she’d been tak­ing baking sheets covered with little frozen balls of the chocolate­and-cream mixture known as ganache out of the fridge and dipping them into melted bittersweet chocolate–the best Belgium had to offer–before dusting them with cocoa. The ganache had been infused with a variety of flavors such as lavender and rosewater, and in the case of one client–a Mexican restaurant–hot chili peppers.

Carrie knew all of this because for two years she too had stum­bled out of bed at the crack of dawn to dip and dust truffles. That was when she had been Zoe’s partner in the business–a business they had started together and worked on happily, until one day Carrie felt the walls start to close in. She’d begged Zoe to please understand that she still loved her but there had to be more meaning to life than candy. Zoe had argued that they were on the verge of landing their first big account with a chain of trendy Manhattan grocery stores, which they had both busted their buns for, and Carrie would be ripping herself off if she sold out. Carrie couldn’t explain why she had to dump the business which had been her idea in the first place. She just knew if she had to wrap one more truf­fle in one more piece of gold tissue she was going to start throw­ing pots of chocolate around Zoe’s apartment. She’d left the business, and six weeks later, Zoe, as sole owner, had landed the coveted account. Now Zoe could afford to hire people to help with the wrapping, although she was still doing the dipping and the dusting herself. And soon she’d be reclaiming her living space because she’d be renting a professional kitchen in Brooklyn.

As Zoe swirled the first of the truffles in the coating, the hot chocolate released a whisper of a scent from the frozen ganache. Carrie sniffed the air. “Basil?” she asked.

Intent on her candy, Zoe didn’t look up. “It’s still the most popular flavor,” she said. “Bean and Brown can’t keep it in stock.” She placed the coated truffles on a piece of parchment paper and pre­pared to start rolling them in the cocoa.

“Hang on,” Carrie said. She opened the cabinet under the sink where the hairnets and gloves were kept, and suited up. “It’ll go faster if we work together.”

Zoe threw her a funny look, but mercifully she didn’t say anything. They worked side by side in silence, falling into the familiar rhythm they’d established over so many mornings, until five cookie sheets covered with finished truffles were back in the fridge. “You still have the feel for it,” Zoe said as they stripped off their rubber gloves. “You know how many people I’ve hired and fired over the last four months because they didn’t have the touch?” She hesitated, then said, “You know . . . if you wanted to, Carrie ...you could buy back in.”

There were a lot of people who would have been pissed about the way Carrie had split right before their big contract came through. But Zoe had known Carrie since they were in grammar school and she understood Carrie’s problem with follow-through. She’d watched Carrie start and abandon a dog walking service, a vintage clothing store–this was with another, less understanding partner–and a brief, horrific career as a personal assistant. Now Zoe eased herself onto one of the stools that flanked the work­table. “I’m serious,” she said. “Would you like to come back?”

For a moment it sounded wonderful. For the last year, most of Carrie’s time, to say nothing of her available brain space, had been spent caring for her mother. Rose’s doctors had admitted early on that there wasn’t anything they could do for her, and faced with that reality, Carrie had set out to make sure her mother’s death was a “good” one–even though she wasn’t sure she believed there was such a thing. Rose had stayed in her own apartment for as long as the medical professionals would allow it, because that was what she had wanted. Only her last two weeks were spent in the hospital. The ordeal had been so absorbing that once it was over, Carrie had found herself with endless hours she couldn’t fill. And she’d never felt so lost in her life. If she went back into partnership with Zoe, she’d have work, and a place to go every day, and ...And after two weeks she knew she’d be begging to get out again.

Something ragged and painful started growing in Carrie’s chest. “The business is big now. It would be too expensive for me to get back in,” she said.

“You’d pay what I did when I bought you out.”

The ragged something moved up into her throat. “You’re being too nice to me,” Carrie mumbled. And she wanted Zoe to please, please stop. Because she couldn’t take nice right now. Nasty she could handle, but nice was going to make her lose it.

“Why the hell would you want to work with me again?” she demanded belligerently. “I’ve messed up everything I’ve ever tried. I washed out of college; I didn’t make it through six months of culinary school.”

“But you came up with a great recipe for basil truffles–”

“I’ve had God knows how many jobs and I’ve quit every one of them. This candy thing is the third business I’ve tried and dumped. I couldn’t even hang in with Howie and he’s got to be the sweetest man in the world. I am a complete and total screwup, and . . .” she stopped herself. “And why aren’t you all over me right now?”

“Why would I do that?”

“I’m whining and wallowing. Why aren’t you busting me for having a pity party? That’s what girlfriends do–we bust each other. Why aren’t you telling me that I made those choices and I need to take responsibility and grow up, like you always do?”

“Old rule,” Zoe said softly. “A girlfriend doesn’t bust a friend whose mother has just died.”

So Carrie finally lost it. She cried loudly for a long time. After she finally finished, Zoe pointed out that was probably the reason why she’d come over. “And you had mommy issues even before Rose died,” she added.

“Not anymore,” Carrie said.

“They’re probably worse now that she’s gone. You never got it all cleared up with her, and you need to do that. You know?”

Carrie did know. But she didn’t want to start sobbing again. “Unfortunately it’s going to be hard to have a nice long talk.”

“You need closure, Carrie.”

“You really should stop Tivo-ing Dr. Phil. And for your information, I’m getting closure. I’m going to the apartment today to clean it out.”

“Alone? Don’t do that.”

“Why does everyone keep saying that? I can handle it.” Zoe looked at her. “I’m okay. Okay?”

After a second, Zoe nodded and pulled another tray of basil truffles out of the freezer. They dipped and dusted until it was nine o’clock and there was no way Carrie could tell herself that it was too early to go to Rose’s apartment.

“Can I ask one question about the memorial service?” Zoe said as she walked Carrie to the elevator.

“Can I stop you?” Carrie braced herself for another Dr. Phil moment.

“Did you invite your grandmother?”

The question was a little worse than Carrie had expected. “I couldn’t,” she said after a moment. “Mother wouldn’t have wanted it.”

“Do you think your grandmother would have come anyway?”

“Why?”

“I thought I saw someone in the back ...she looked a little like some of the pictures I’ve seen ...from the end of your grandmother’s career.”

“The way I understand it, if she had shown up we would have known it. At the very least there would have been an entire brass section.”

“That sounds a little hostile.”

“It’s just a fact. Everyone says no one could milk an entrance like Lu Lawson.”
Louise Shaffer|Author Q&A

About Louise Shaffer

Louise Shaffer - Serendipity

Photo © Bill Morris

Louise Shaffer is the author of Family Acts,, The Ladies of Garrison Gardens and The Three Miss Margarets. A graduate of Yale Drama School, she has written for television, and has appeared on Broadway, in TV movies, and in daytime dramas, earning an Emmy for her work on Ryan’s Hope. Shaffer and her husband live in the Lower Hudson Valley.

Author Q&A

Random House Reader's Circle: Your background is unusual in comparison to most authors'-you were a soap opera actress and then a TV writer. What made you want to start writing novels?

Louise Shaffer: The smart-aleck answer is, I was over forty and I wasn't about to have knee surgery. That's what we call it in show biz when an actress's PR person announces that she's taking off for six weeks to fix an old dance injury, and when she comes back those lines on her face have disappeared. Sometimes her knee works better too. Anyway, I wasn't about to do that, and landing jobs was getting harder and harder-okay, it was impossible-and I still had to make the mortgage.

But that's not the whole story about my switch. I'd always loved writing and telling stories. When I was a kid they worried about my grasp on reality-in fact, some of my nearest and dearest still do, because I love the imaginary worlds and people I get to create when I write. It's probably the closest I'm ever going to get to playing . . . well, not God, but a really powerful person. In many ways, I like writing better than acting because these are my stories and my characters and I get to say what I want to say. And no one in publishing has ever, ever suggested that I should have knee surgery.

RHRC: Which character in Serendipity felt most natural to create? Whom do you identify with most?

LS: Oh, Lord, that's such a good question. And the answer is, all of the characters were natural for me. But then, my characters always are. As an actress, I was trained to find something I could identify with in every character I played, and believe me, it was fun trying to find, say, your inner Lady Macbeth. So when I started writing, I realized that every one of my characters is me-sometimes in ways that I don't even recognize. And then, one of the perks of the whole writing thing is that some of my characters are also the person I'd like to be. Lu, for instance, is a huge musical comedy star, which is what I always dreamed of being when I was a teenager. Other kids of my generation listened to . . . well I don't know who they were listening to, since rock and roll left me cold, but I was swooning over Ezio Pinza singing “Some Enchanted Evening.”

RHRC: Serendipity is a different novel from your others. What made you shift settings? And you so vividly capture a New York City that no longer exists. What is your relationship to the City?

LS: Thank you for saying that about my vision of New York City! I come from the tri-state area, and when I was a kid the only place I wanted to live was Manhattan. When I was growing up I visited it all the time with my folks to see theater and opera. When I was in my teens I studied acting in New York, and when I moved there in the seventies I couldn't believe my luck that I was actually living in what I thought was God's country. I floated around for years just feeling privileged to be in a place with so much diversity and energy. I still feel that way. To me, New York is a magical place where something wonderful can happen to you anytime just because you are there. And if the miracle doesn't come along on a given day, you can still get some fabulous dim sum for dinner. I love New York City. I want to go back there-but not while I have so many dogs and cats.

RHRC: You've now written four novels. What is your writing process like? Do you have a set routine? What inspires you, and what do you do when you get stuck?

LS: I guess I do have a process-it's evolving, so I don't really notice it, but it's there. I always have a story I want to tell, which is usually some sort of spin on my own life. Then I create characters who are believable doing whatever it is that happens in the story. At least, I have to believe they'd do it. Then I play out the consequences of what they did.

As to specific routines for writing, I wish I were that well organized. Basically, I kind of wander around the house talking to myself until I feel like I've got the plot worked out, then I spend a lot of time emailing to ease myself into my writing head, and then eventually I get scared about my deadline and I just start doing it. The first few days are the worst. I tend to fall asleep a lot at the computer. The weird part is, I love to write. So I don't know why I dance around it so much. When I'm stuck, which happens a lot, I stop trying to figure out what I want to do next and go clean the kitty litter. Most of my big breakthroughs come to me that way. I think it's because it's an activity that gets me away from my desk, so I can't keep on beating my brains out, and yet it's not the kind of activity I really want to focus on, so my right brain gets a lot of latitude to play around. When I'm working-especially on revisions-I have happy cats with exquisitely clean litter.

RHRC: Complicated relationships between mothers and daughters have come up in a few of your novels. What interests you about the dynamics between the generations?

LS: That's a great question because I was about to say that I don't write about complicated mother-daughter relationships and then I realized that, yeah, I do. Talk about not recognizing a piece of yourself in what you write. I just think mothers and daughters are so important to each other: Your mom is your role model as well as your parent. You learn how to be a person from both of your parents but you learn how to be a woman from your mother. For so many of us, the dreams and the hopes came from our mothers-the ones she told us about, and the ones we inherited from her without her knowing she was passing them down. In my case, that setup was heightened by the fact that my father died when I was young so my mother was an even stronger influence on me. And I'm fascinated by the question of how much of what we are is in our genes. I guess I find it very romantic to believe that certain traits are handed down in families. It sort of puts us and all our attempts to control things in perspective. And I like that.

RHRC: Do you plan out your story lines before you sit down and write them, or do you see what happens as you go along?

LS: I plan, to an extent. I need to know before I start writing how it's all going to end. And I need to know what I hope the reader will get from the book-beyond a good read. That's a sneaky little trick of mine; I always have a message I want to get across-but since I don't believe it's my job to preach, I try to slip in my opinions in a way that you can ignore if you want. And I usually have a plot twist in the middle that everything hinges on and I need to know what that's going to be and how it's going to work. But I don't always know how I'm going to connect all the dots and get from point A to point B. And I will never write it all down because if I did that, then I'd feel locked in. And I want to pretend that I'm this free spirit. Although actually I'm probably pretty well structured when I work.

RHRC: Which authors have influenced your work, and who are your favorites?

LS: For so many years I read southern authors because I was writing southern books, so that does color this list a little. I love To Kill a Mockingbird, Cold Sassy Tree, and anything by Pat Conroy, Rick Bragg, Maya Angelou, or Russell Baker. Every once in a while, I still take a trip back to Louisa May Alcott. Then I have the authors I love for light reading and escape: Georgette Heyer, Philippa Gregory, Harlan Coben, Janet Evanovich, Sue Grafton, Sara Paretsky, Dave Barry, Carl Hiaasen, and P. G. Wodehouse. I started reading Wodehouse when I was a kid because I saw my father-who was not a very demonstrative man-laugh out loud when he read Wodehouse, and I figured any writer who could get that kind of a response from Dad had to be really funny.

I'm not sure how any of these authors have influenced my writing except that I like to have a mystery at the heart of my books and I love books with some kind of historical context. And humor. I really hope readers get a laugh or two when they read my books.

RHRC: What are you working on now?

LS: The next book is going to be back in Vaudeville again. I love that genre because as far as I can tell it really was the entertainment of the American melting pot. You had all these kids from all these different ethnic backgrounds doing their thing. And I'm going to be writing more about a favorite theme of mine, which is second chances. And strong women. Also, this time I want to explore a love story more fully-romance always pops up in my books but it usually isn't the engine driving the story.

Praise

Praise

“Shaffer . . . unfolds the story of Carrie’s family, from her Italian great grandmother’s sacrifices to her mother’s complicated past, with such ease it is as though one is having an engaging conversation with the characters. All the female characters . . . are refreshingly multidimensional and come wonderfully to life. Highly recommended.”—Library Journal, starred review

"This was an amazing story of mothers and daughters and how each generations relationships can affect the next. A story of a woman finally finding her place in the world, and finding the happiness she so richly deserves. This is a book that you don't want to miss ~ but make sure you keep the tissues close by. You're going to need them."—Lori's Reading Corner

“[Shaffer] delivers every time with delightful, charming stories . . . guaranteed to keep you turning the pages.”—Kingston Observer Online

Discussion Questions

Discussion Guides

1. How has Carrie’s past affected her decisions and ability to choose a life path? Which characteristics does Carrie share with Rose, and how are they different from each other?

2. Shaffer is known for creating well-developed, convincing female characters. Which of these women did you most identify
with? Sympathize with? Disagree with?

3. Carrie’s best friend, Zoe, states that Carrie has “mommy issues.” Why do you think mother-daughter relationships are often so complicated? How do you feel about the way Rose raised her daughter?

4. Why does Rose hold back so much family history from her daughter? How does Carrie’s eventual discovery of what happened affect how she perceives her mother?

5. Rose is a complicated, dualistic character with a love-hate relationship with wealth and fame; she is constantly telling Carrie to be wary of one’s ego. What, in your opinion, made Rose shun her lifestyle after Bobbie’s death? Do you think her choices made her happy?

6. What do you make of Rose’s multiple copies of the same dress? What was her reasoning behind this?

7. How does Mifalda change over the course of the novel? How do you think she came to her decision regarding Lu and her new baby, and could you imagine doing the same thing in her position?

8. How do you feel about Lu’s picking career over family? What other sacrifices do the women in Serendipity make in their lives? What betrayals do they make?

9. What attracts Rose so deeply to Bobbie Manning? How would you characterize their relationship, and in which ways does it change over time? Why does she go to such great lengths for him? On a similar note, what attracts Carrie to Howie?

10. How does Shaffer use ice skating as a symbol, for both Mifalda and Rose?

11. Carrie asks herself “Why do I always feel like I’m settling for an empty basket when I want one that’s full? Why can’t I let myself be happy?” What do you think the answers to these questions are, and how do you envision her future at the end of the book?

12. “Mama, Lu, and Rose,” Carrie’s uncle Paulie states, “standing in a line. Three young girls, handing down all the good and bad from one generation to the next. They couldn’t get away from each other.” What did each woman pass down to her daughter? What role does family legacy play in this novel, and is it portrayed positively or negatively?

13. One of this novel’s themes is that women can’t do it all—career, family, love—successfully. Today, many women seem to be revisiting this idea. Do women have to choose their priorities? What about men?

14. If you were casting the movie Serendipity, whom would you pick for actors?


  • Serendipity by Louise Shaffer
  • March 24, 2009
  • Fiction
  • Ballantine Books
  • $15.00
  • 9780345502094

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