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A Novel

Written by Elizabeth ArnoldAuthor Alerts:  Random House will alert you to new works by Elizabeth Arnold


List Price: $11.99


On Sale: July 02, 2013
Pages: 464 | ISBN: 978-0-345-53866-6
Published by : Bantam Bantam Dell
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At once a captivating mystery, a love letter to classic literature, and a sharp-eyed examination of marriage, The Book of Secrets is a gripping novel of family, friendship, and the undeniable pull of the past.
After more than twenty years of marriage, Chloe Sinclair comes home one night to find that her husband, Nate, is gone. All he has left behind is a cryptic note explaining that he’s returned to their childhood town, a place Chloe never wants to see again.
While trying to reach Nate, Chloe stumbles upon a notebook tucked inside his antique copy of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. Written in code, the pages contain long-buried secrets from their past, and clues to why he went home after all these years. As Chloe struggles to decipher the notebook’s hidden messages, she revisits the seminal moments of their youth: the day she met the enigmatic Sinclair children ane the increasingly dangerous games they played to escape their troubled childhoods; the first time Nate kissed her, camped out on the beach like Robinson Crusoe; and the elaborate plan she and Nate devised, inspired by Romeo and Juliet, to break away from his oppressive father. As the reason for Nate’s absence comes to light, the truth will forever shatter everything Chloe knows—about her husband, his family, and herself.

Praise for The Book of Secrets
“An exquisite novel . . . The Book of Secrets is one of those reasons some of us live to read.”The Star-Ledger
“Tender and transcendent, The Book of Secrets is about the truths we hide, the consequences we face, and the particular comfort we can only find in a good book. Elizabeth Joy Arnold has written a beautiful and haunting ode to the power of words, and how they shape our lives.”—Sarah Addison Allen, New York Times bestselling author of The Peach Keeper
The Book of Secrets plunges the reader into the strange and intense world of the Sinclairs, a family bound and pulled apart by the forces of imagination and religious belief. Through the eyes of Chloe Tyler, trapped in this world since childhood, Arnold paints a fascinating picture of obsession and loss. The Book of Secrets offers a complex meditation on the elusive nature of truth and on the power of secrets.”—Henriette Lazaridis Power, author of The Clover House
“This is the beautiful and heart-wrenching story about the secrets that can both hold a marriage together, and drive two people apart. Reading The Book of Secrets is like walking through a dark labyrinth: just when all hope is lost, you step out into sunshine.”—Carla Buckley, author of Invisible
Look for special features inside. Join the Random House Reader’s Circle for author chats and more.



Sitting in our bookstore at night, I can hear the stories. Or not hear them so much as feel them: the neat, round softness of Austen with its improbable, inevitable love affairs; the sprawl of Dickens with its meandering threads tying into coincidental knots. All the books have colors and shapes not just from the stories written but from the stories of the authors who’ve done the writing; from Steinbeck’s realism to Murakami’s cubism, a regular art museum of voices.

It’s different from the stores that sell new books, I think, with their splashes and shouts for attention. Because here when I sit at night in the worn armchair by the fireplace, I can also hear the stories of people who’ve held these books. Some of the first editions must have been read by generations; I imagine women in their petticoats and men in breeches looking for escape from sadness or dreariness. The books have seen plagues and wars--back when wars were still romantic--have been read by candlelight and oil-lamp light; it’s all written there in smudges and stains if you just know how to look.

And hidden behind it all? Is our story. Our once upon a time.

So. Once upon a time there was a girl named Chloe who lived virtually alone, in a cottage by the woods. Until her eighth birthday when she woke to find her mother already gone to work, without a good morning, a kiss, a birthday wish. Chloe had been forgotten. So, being a headstrong girl, she gave herself her own birthday present, skipped school for the first time of many, ate Lucky Charms (minus the marshmallows), and then biked out into the neighborhood to explore.

And there at the end of Bayard Lane, playing in the yard of the biggest house in the state, perhaps even the world, were two girls in pastel dresses and a boy in a pressed white shirt. They were the perfect family, too beautiful to be real, and of course the truth was that what Chloe had seen wasn’t actually real at all. But by the time she figured this out she’d already been in love with them for years and it hardly mattered. Because it was here with these magical children in this world so different from her own that Chloe’s real life began. On her eighth birthday, she was born.

Every day she came to play with her new friends as the weeks passed, and then the years. In time she’d marry the boy, give birth to and lose a son, open a store, and begin building an empire. Until the empire began to crumble and the boy grew haunted and disappeared. No fairy tale, no happily ever after; Chloe was alone again.

And in the new silence, the echo of untold stories was deafening.

Secrets. It was one of the ways we were a good match, because Nate loved secrets and I loved his surprises. We both believed one needed to be shocked out of one’s expectations in order to fully feel life.

The bookstore was both a surprise and a shock. He’d bought the house over twenty years before with the money his mother had left him and his advance for the book he’d just published. But I’d had no idea he was even thinking of moving from our apartment until the day he walked me blindfolded to the front door and pulled away the scarf. “Welcome to your new life!” he said.

And there we were in front of a Victorian mansion, all crumbling scalloped shingles and tall windows, two of which were boarded with plywood. It was an aged beauty queen, now with no hair, bunions, and missing teeth, and at first I had no idea what he was implying by bringing me there. We’d talked about opening a store, but only in vague “someday” terms, and one does not surprise one’s wife with houses in the way one might surprise her with roses. Unless one is Nate.

He opened the door and led me through what felt like a thousand walk-in closets, with scarred wooden floors and faded, peeling wallpaper, and an overpowering smell of stale black tea. “We’ll set up the store downstairs,” he said, voice rushed like a kid trying to explain the wonders of a video game or Harry Potter movie to someone he knows is much too old for it. “We’ll line the walls with wooden shelves floor to ceiling, attach sliding wooden ladders. And I realize right now these little nooks look like toilet stalls, but we’ll shelve them too, so finding the books there feels like a discovery, ancient treasures.”

He led me down the front hallway to show where we’d put the cash register, and a “reading room” for customers to page through the rarer books, searching for signs of foxing or bookworm holes. He’d already imagined it in minute detail: the cushy chairs with tufted ottomans, round end tables with green glass lamps, paintings of authors most wouldn’t recognize but that would give the most bookish patrons some self-satisfaction. “Look at that fireplace!” he said. “I think there’s marble under there if we just strip off that paint. We can light fires in the winter and set greenery here in the summer, put velvet armchairs here and here so people feel like they’re actually sitting in someone’s old library.” And then he led me upstairs to show me how we’d build a separate entrance in back, break down walls to turn a bathroom and two of the spare bedrooms into an open kitchen and living area. He made me see it all.

But Nate was a gifted storyteller. “Leave out the parts that people skip,” that’s a quote from Elmore Leonard when asked how he made his novels engaging. And Nate skillfully left out the debt that would take us years to tunnel up from, the months of hand-chapping, back-straining labor, the stink of the chemicals used to strip the floor and walls. The tedium of sanding fifty yards of dentil molding, bleaching out a century’s worth of grout stains and spackling a century’s worth of plaster cracks; Nate didn’t mention any of this, just made me see the magic of his story. And yes the magic was there, under it all. He didn’t lie, just left out some unromantic narrative detail. And in time our house, our bookshop, they did become our fairy tale. His story came mostly true, until the ending.

The note was on the kitchen table. I’d returned after a round of errands and the gym to find the shop unexpectedly closed; it was just six, and on weekdays we stayed open till eight. But I was only vaguely worried. It had been a hard year for both of us, and Nate had been fragile over the past few months, perpetually seeming on the verge of . . . I don’t know what. Breaking down, I guess, although those words sound way too simplistic and cliché. What do you call being perpetually on a knife’s edge? Feeling like your body has crystallized, so that something as innocuous as a “Do I know you from somewhere?” from a stranger who’s seen your story on the news can shatter you into sharp, serrated splinters? I’m a woman who loves words, but there are times there are no words.

Maybe Nate had just needed to get away, lie down and immerse himself in a book or the National Geographic channel, someone else’s world. And seeing the store closed, I thought I might have just the remedy.

We’d gotten a FedEx that morning, the first American edition of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland: octavo, red cloth and gilt edges, original dark green endpapers, meant for a Mr. Ernie Howell, who’d requested it for his ten-year-old granddaughter. Its pages were yellowed and stained, its spine sunned and frayed. And his granddaughter would probably think it was gross, thanking him politely before stowing the book in a back corner, having no concept of its true value. Ninety-five hundred dollars plus tax, to be exact. The cost of history, but to me putting a price on history felt crass.

We’d read the story together as children: me, Grace, Cecilia, and Nate on the Sinclairs’ brocade sofa, hanging off Mrs. Sinclair’s shoulders so we could see sketches of the hookah-smoking caterpillar and Cheshire cat teeth. And now for the few days the book was ours, Nate and I would sit together, turning pages and remembering.

On my walk home I’d been listening to my iPod, the Beatles, and thinking of how we’d spend the night, I was tempted to dance to the music. I would’ve danced if there’d been nobody around to see, but instead I just walked to the rhythm, adding extra steps where warranted, tiny hops on my toes. Almost happy. Tonight we’d congratulate each other over wine for our find, and maybe then we’d make love; it had been a long time. A very, very, very long time.

But Nate was gone. And in his place, seventy-four words.

Someone, I don’t remember who, said that life is like a beautiful melody with messed up lyrics. I never really understood that until just now. Something’s happened very suddenly, something truly “messed up,” and I need to go back to Redbridge tonight. I tried to call your cell but it must’ve been off. I’m not sure when I’ll be back. It may be awhile, but I’ll call as soon as I know more.


And that was it. At the time, I didn’t even wonder about how strangely it was written, the clipped sentences, the quote he’d chosen to explain his leaving or the vagueness of the word “awhile.” The only thing that had scared me was his return to Redbridge.

It was the town where I’d spent the first twenty years of my life, and so you’d think I should have twenty years’ worth of memories, as many good as bad. But instead all I could see was the nightmare of those last few weeks, a movie on an infinite loop perpetually goring and twisting. I tried not to let myself drift back further to life with Gabriel, the memories like slashes: watching him learn to walk by staggering between library shelves; at the park throwing a ball two-handed that inevitably ended up behind him, wearing a look of bewilderment followed by self-congratulatory applause. Even the places Gabriel had never been part of, like the front steps of the grammar school, or twisting trails through the Redwoods, were places I’d imagined taking him someday. And I couldn’t stomach the thought of seeing them again, knowing I never would.

We hadn’t been back since my mother’s funeral, and even then we hadn’t gone to the Sinclairs’ home, where his sister Cecilia, and now Nate’s father, lived. We talked to Cecilia every month or so, got updates on the meandering threads of her gratingly uneventful life. But Nate hadn’t seen his father for almost twenty-five years. Was one of them sick? Well that must be it, what else could it be? But then why hadn’t Nate just written that in his note?

It wasn’t till after I’d taken a shower that I thought to check my messages to see if he’d given more details and listen to the tone of his voice, make sure he sounded like he’d be okay. But although he’d said my phone had been off, I found it was actually still on, no messages. And when I checked missed calls to get a sense of when he’d left, it turned out there hadn’t been any. He hadn’t tried to call me.

And why not? Despite everything, we were still each other’s stabilizing force. Something happened to set one of us off balance, and we needed the other to get back on steady ground. Had things between us really changed so much?

No, he must’ve dialed a wrong number without realizing, left a message on someone else’s phone. And as soon as the thought solidified in my brain I grabbed onto it, became sure that it was true.

Because I was still living inside the fairy-tale shell he’d constructed to safeguard his secrets. Yes, Nate was a gifted storyteller.

Once upon a time there was a young man who’d loved a girl so deeply, so truly, that he left his family to be with her. Defying the wrath of his father and the imprudence of commitment at such a young age, they held hands and made a vow of forever. And they lived happily, or at least as happily as possible considering the circumstances. Until, they did not.

It started last Christmas. We had a number of odd traditions, me and Nate, the way I’m sure most couples do after years together. The bizarre Buddha bobble-head doll a customer had left in the shop, which we periodically, randomly, hid in places we knew the other would find him. The way, when eating potato chips, Nate would silently hand me each folded chip he found like it contained a secret love note. And then there was our Christmas Eve marshmallow fight. It had started fifteen years ago when I teased him about the string of toasted marshmallow hanging from his chin, the way he couldn’t eat anything gooey, pizza cheese or caramel sauce, without leaving a strand of it dangling from his face like a strange, lone whisker. He responded by pelting a marshmallow at me, so of course I’d pelted one back, and soon the living room was littered with them. Since then, every Christmas we bought marshmallows to roast in our fireplace and to throw, laughing like adolescents, often ending the night by making love amidst the sticky ruins.

But last year Nate had been preoccupied, in one of the moods that hit him sometimes where he seemed scraped raw, everything on the surface. Usually these moods only last a day or two, but this time he’d been edgy for almost two weeks. So to lighten the mood, after studying the burn marks on the marshmallow at the end of my tongs, I’d held it up for him to see. “It’s Jesus’s face!” I said.

He’d forced a smile, then squashed the marshmallow between his thumb and forefinger and studied it. “Now it’s a sheep.”

“We could’ve made a fortune off that, you jerk, eBayed it or kept it in a bell jar and charged admission.”

To which he’d responded, “Joel’s getting out of jail this week.”

I’d stared at him silently, a fist knuckling against my ribs.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know how to tell you. I mean I realize this wasn’t the right way, but I thought you should know.”

“How?” My voice was pitched too high. “I don’t get it. How could they let him out?”

“He had twenty-five years to life, Chloe, and it’s been twenty-five years. He’s going back home.”

“But . . . Cecilia’s in your home. You mean he’s staying with Cecilia?”
Elizabeth Arnold

About Elizabeth Arnold

Elizabeth Arnold - The Book of Secrets

Photo © Emil Arnold

Elizabeth Arnold was raised in New York, and has degrees from Vassar College and Princeton University. She lives with her husband in Hopewell, New Jersey, where she is at work on her next novel.


“An exquisite novel . . . The Book of Secrets is one of those reasons some of us live to read.”The Star-Ledger
“Tender and transcendent, The Book of Secrets is about the truths we hide, the consequences we face, and the particular comfort we can only find in a good book. Elizabeth Joy Arnold has written a beautiful and haunting ode to the power of words, and how they shape our lives.”—Sarah Addison Allen, New York Times bestselling author of The Peach Keeper
The Book of Secrets plunges the reader into the strange and intense world of the Sinclairs, a family bound and pulled apart by the forces of imagination and religious belief. Through the eyes of Chloe Tyler, trapped in this world since childhood, Arnold paints a fascinating picture of obsession and loss. The Book of Secrets offers a complex meditation on the elusive nature of truth and on the power of secrets.”—Henriette Lazaridis Power, author of The Clover House
“This is the beautiful and heart-wrenching story about the secrets that can both hold a marriage together, and drive two people apart. Reading The Book of Secrets is like walking through a dark labyrinth: just when all hope is lost, you step out into sunshine.”—Carla Buckley, author of Invisible
Reader's Guide|Discussion Questions

About the Book

Elizabeth Arnold on Reading

“What do you mean, you’re busy?” Kylie asked me. She’d come next door to play as she did every day, the two of us passing lazy, amiable afternoons filling pages of my Disney coloring book, and playing endless games of Crazy Eights or dress up.

I gave her an apologetic smile and tried to explain. “It’s just . . . ​there’s this book I’m reading.”

I felt awful when I saw her face. “All you ever want to do is read books,” she said, and then she spun away, toward home. She never came back. But what could I do? A giant caterpillar had just bitten through the stem of a giant peach, sending it rolling down a hill. Aunts Spiker and Sponge were squashed, the peach was still on the move with James inside, and most of me was still rolling through town with them when I answered the door. Kylie was no competition. And so it was that Roald Dahl cost me a friendship.

What is it that makes some children readers while others would rather do anything else? It was one of the many questions I was trying to explore in The Book of Secrets, and for Chloe at least it seems to have been a mix of life circumstances, personality, and something as simple as having found the right books, all of which were factors in making stories an essential part of my own life as well.

When people describe their childhoods as magical, I’d guess they’re usually referring to backyard ball games, a lack of responsibilities, or a belief in Santa. But when I think back on the magic of my own childhood, the first thing I think of are books. I don’t think I was a particularly happy child; I was lonely in spite of my friends, sure that I was different from them somehow, and I thought I should be more than I actually was, stronger, prettier, more heroic. But when I entered books, I became the person I wished I could be. I’m guessing it’s what all children wish for at times, and it’s a theme so many popular children’s books seem to have in common, from Huckleberry Finn to Harry Potter, the discovery of something fascinating that can transform you.

I think The Book of Secrets is the book I’ve always wanted to write. Partly because I got to revisit my childhood favorites while writing about them, and partly because it has the fairytale structure of those favorites: a lonely girl with a difficult childhood who discovers a new, enchanting, and disquieting world. But I also feel close to this book because as a child I was Chloe in a way, full of a kind of chaotic energy and longing for somewhere epic to direct it. So writing this novel, becoming Chloe and entering the world of the Sinclair children, I was reliving those days when I still believed finding that transforming new world was possible.

I was one of those kids who took books everywhere, along to dentist appointments to read while being fluoridated (I still do this), on car rides where I’d read for as long as the accompanying nausea let me, on walks down our street where I somehow managed to avoid bumping into trees.

We lived in a smallish town with a smallish library. The children’s section was in the basement, with blue fluorescent lights and only one high, rectangular window, and I recognized the crazy incongruity of it, that there was so much life hidden in such a completely lifeless room. My mother took my sister and me every Saturday, and I don’t remember ever seeing other children. Thinking back on it, I’m guessing Miss Sue, the librarian (yes, I remember her name), must have loved having me there, the kind of kid she was probably envisioning when she decided to take her job. She’d sometimes set books aside for me that she thought I’d like, and I can still see the expectant look on her face when she described them. (Do librarians ever do that sort of thing nowadays? It was such an amazing gift she gave me, especially since this was before the days of the Internet and “Customers who bought this item also bought” links. I actually could use someone like that now, somebody who understands my tastes and has the ability to magically spin through the now infinite rows of shelves to find what I don’t even realize I’m looking for.)

We were allowed to check out seven books at a time, one for each day till the next week’s trip, and I’d start reading on the drive home, as excited as if I was carrying armfuls of new toys. I remember standing in that small basement room worrying that I might finish every book  in existence, and then what would I do? Until I was taken to a huge bookstore in Manhattan, seemingly endless shelves stacked so full they were straining, and the predicament became even more urgent. How was I possibly going to read them all?

I knew they couldn’t all be great books; of the hundreds of novels I read in those years, there were far fewer that resonated, and only about twenty books that changed me. But how could you possibly find the Joan Aiken or J. R. R. Tolkien needles in that impossibly huge haystack? I started getting stressed over what I might be missing, in the way I get stressed now when I don’t get a chance to see the news for a week, that sense that there might be something momentous out there that I need to know but have no idea about. It’s another thing that makes books so powerful for kids; they realize there’s so much for them still to learn, and getting to meet people very different from themselves, in circumstances very different from their own, gives them a sense of how huge the world is and how much they still don’t understand.

Of course children don’t just use books to learn about the world outside their own small circle. When they’re old enough to read carefully, they also learn about themselves. And that was one of the main themes in The Book of Secrets, the power of books to change not only the events in Chloe’s and the Sinclairs’ lives, but also the people they became.

I brought many of the books that changed me into this novel, most notably The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, the book that really turned me, at eight, into a “reader,” just like it was the book that also first lured eight-year-old Chloe into reading. My aunt sent me a boxed set of Narnia books, and I remember looking at the covers, their muted foggy romance-novelish colors, and being unimpressed. But of course that all changed when I started reading.

I’d read quite a bit before that; I was an early reader, starting when a broken leg kept me from being able to do much else, and throughout childhood my parents made sure there were always books available. We moved to the UK when I was six, a country that at the time had only three TV channels, and we brought hardly any toys with us, so I spent the vast majority of my free time curled up in the living room with a book. I’d discovered the Little House series, L. Frank Baum, and Francis Hodgson Burnett, and I lost myself in a gorgeously illustrated volume of Heidi, and The Annotated Alice. But as much as I loved those books, there was something completely different about Narnia, and re-reading it as an adult last year, I felt exactly the same awe.

I think it’s more than just the story, it’s the way Lewis writes; he’s like a kind grandfather in the way he explains without being condescending. He talks directly to you and develops a relationship. I think he makes children feel respected. And somehow that gentle, everyday language and the very human characters and struggles make everything he writes feel more authentic, like he’s talking about this magical world with real, firsthand knowledge. You believe him.

I knew immediately that I’d use Narnia in my story to lure Chloe into reading, and pretty much everything she wrote about the experience was autobiographical. I devoured those books, a drug addiction; there was no sleep, barely time to eat or shower, and for the next three or four years (until adolescence changed my priorities), I stayed gripped by the addiction, looking for the next high.

I wasn’t all that hopeful when I asked Miss Sue whether she could find anything even remotely similar, but she introduced me to Edith Nesbit’s The Enchanted Castle, and then The House with a Clock in Its Walls, The Wolves of Willoughby Chase, and The Phantom Tollbooth. Even thinking about those books now makes me feel a jolt of electricity. I had a love affair with each of them—that heady, hungry, won’t-sleep-till-I-see–you-again kind of romance. It took me over, reading, in a way I haven’t experienced since, and I’d feel devastated and desperate when each book ended. I wrote scripts for some of my favorites, the way Chloe and the Sinclairs do for Narnia, acting them out with friends, with my sister, or even alone, all in an attempt to keep the story going and get even closer to it by experiencing it firsthand.
And then came A Wrinkle in Time, which still obsesses me so much that it appears in two of my novels. So many books seemed to enter my life at exactly the right time. I think it happens to all of us, but especially in childhood, and the book becomes part of us in a way. It might be the reason I can remember so much about the plots and characters from books I read before the age of ten, when I can hardly remember even the names of the books I’ve read over the past year.

I was nine years old when I first discovered L’Engle. The image that sticks with me most is of the town on Camazotz with every house the same size, shape, and color, each with children bouncing balls and jumping rope to the same rhythm, not allowed independent thought. It’s one of the main lessons from the book, the importance of uniqueness and creativity, and I’d been struggling with exactly that worry, of how different I felt from my friends. Maybe everybody goes through it at that age; it’s the age fitting in starts to become more important, but it really used to worry me. I had a sense that if people really knew who I was they’d completely alienate me. I was a daydreamer, shy and overly sensitive to other people’s issues and emotions (in retrospect, all qualities that fit with becoming a writer!) I’d been trying all year to pretend I was cooler, somebody I wasn’t, and it was when I got to know Meg, even quirkier than me, and realized I really, really liked her, that I stopped worrying so much that the way I saw the world was often different from the people around me.

And isn’t that one of the best things about books, that we can get inside people’s minds in a way we rarely do in life, and see that we aren’t alone? That everything we’ve stressed over or been embarrassed about, every unusual thought we have, isn’t quite as unusual as we’d worried it might be? It stretches the boundaries of what we judge as acceptable inside us. (As an aside, A Wrinkle in Time also made me realize how extremely awesome science could be, and made me certain that I wanted to grow up to be either a scientist or an author. I ended up doing both!)

Of all the books Chloe and the Sinclairs read, it’s their conflicting interpretations of the Bible that affect them most throughout the story. In my own life, since we weren’t an especially religious family, when my mother read the Bible to us it was much as she would’ve read any collection of bedtime stories, not trying to make us believe it was real, but still explaining the lessons in morality that the stories were trying to teach. The Bible fascinated me as much as any book I read throughout my childhood. Despite my upbringing, I wanted to believe it was real life magic written by a higher power, its creation over the centuries like a story behind a story. It was full of heroes and hardships, as many plot twists and as much magic as any epic. Like I was saying earlier about all the best books, the Bible’s stories tell us about the world and about ourselves, with all the same archetypes and plot motifs that are in the novels we’re reading now.

I liked Bible stories because I’ve always been driven to find order in the world. Life and the people around you don’t usually turn out the way you think they should, even though you know deep down that bad should be punished and good should be rewarded. The Bible is full of absolutes, and children like absolutes—for people and events to be internally consistent.

Maybe that’s why I’m driven to write, because I want that kind of control. I know it’s stretching metaphors too far, but when I’m first creating a story I feel like I imagine God might, inventing a new Earth and adding characters, giving them more or less free will, only reining them in when I absolutely have to, and they usually get what they deserve and come out stronger from the struggles. Maybe in the end that’s the real reason people are drawn to stories, because they make sense in a way life never does, and even when bad things happen to good people, by the end we usually understand that it’s led to something necessary.

Now I’m seeing proof of how innate the love of story is in my daughter’s pretend play, as imaginative as science fiction, where a lost baby puzzle piece finds his mommy puzzle piece and the two rejoice, animals fly kites to the moon, and a plastic teacup helps a rubber duck who’s gotten stuck inside an underwater Lego village. I’m doing whatever I can to make sure her love of story continues. In reference books on furthering your child’s development they mainly talk about the value of stories in enhancing vocabulary, but in my mind there are so many other subtler but more important benefits to a child’s future. I have no idea who I’d be now without hundreds of books behind me, but I’m pretty sure I’d be more two-dimensional, less empathetic, and much less informed about the world. So I sit with my daughter to read The Big Blue Truck, a picture book centered around friendship, and imagine introducing her to The Outsiders in ten years. I think about the books waiting to be written that she’ll introduce to me. And I imagine her face lighting up when she talks about her favorites, the way I think mine still does. I just can’t wait.

Discussion Guides

1. Our childhoods can impact us in far-reaching ways, as seen in Nate’s and Chloe’s lives. Can you think of any childhood experiences or relationships that have greatly impacted you?

2. Nate uses books to communicate with Chloe and their son, Gabriel. What children’s books do you still refer to in times of sadness or trouble? Why? What do you get out of them? If you had to create a treasure hunt/secret code using books, which ones would you choose?

3. Nate and Chloe play together first as small children acting out Narnia books and then as teenagers daring each other to do things for badges. In both scenarios, they use their imaginations heavily. Do you think using one’s imagination can ever be dangerous, as Mr. Sinclair seemed to believe? What was different from their play acting as children and their pretending as adults?

4. Loyalty plays a big role in this story, whether in the romantic relationship between Nate and Chloe or the parental one between Mr. Sinclair and Grace. What are the consequences of betrayal? In this novel? In your own life?

5. Though they grew up in the same home, Grace, Cecilia, and Nate lead very different lives in part because of their very different personalities. How did the same experiences shape them? Compare their reactions to grief and crisis.

6. Religious fervor drives many of the disastrous things in this novel, but so does love. What do you think the author is trying to say about both things? What similarities do they bear to one another?

7. Forgiveness features heavily in each character’s life. Do you think these characters are better or weaker for forgiving their loved one’s failings? How do you think you would act in Nate’s shoes? Chloe’s? Cecilia’s? Grace’s?

8. How important a role does class play in this novel? If Chloe had been wealthier, how do you think the story would have changed? What about if Nate, Grace, and Cecilia had been from the wrong side of the tracks like Chloe?

9. The author touches on the effects of loneliness in several places in the novel. How does Chloe’s loneliness affect her throughout her life? How does she finally come to peace with it? Do you agree with the Thomas Wolfe quote Chloe cites that loneliness is an inevitable fact of human existence?

10. Do you think the secrets Nate kept from Chloe were justified? Why do you think he hid so much of his childhood from her, even after they were adults? How did those secrets impact their relationship? Are there secrets in your own past that you wouldn’t share with those closest to you?

11. Chloe muses that one might be able to judge a potential partner’s compatibility based on favorite books. Do you think the types of books you’re drawn to say something about your personality?

12. What impact do you think Mrs. Sinclair’s death had on the lives of the other characters? Do you think things would have turned out differently if she had lived?

13. Grace chooses her own happiness over Nate and Chloe’s. How do you think she justifies this? And is she able to hold on to her faith while doing this? What would you have done in the same situation?

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