By Rebecca Wells
“A enormous, blowzy romp during the rainbow eccentricities of 3 generations of loopy bayou debutantes.”
“A very enjoyable and, finally, deeply relocating novel in regards to the advanced bonds among mom and daughter.”
“Mary McCarthy, Anne Rivers Siddons, and a number of others have portrayed the ability and cost of woman friendships, yet nobody has performed it with extra grace, attraction, expertise, and tool than Rebecca Wells.”
The incomparable no 1 New York Times bestseller—a booklet that reigned on the best of the checklist for an awesome sixty-eight weeks—Rebecca Wells’s Divine secrets and techniques of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood is a vintage of Southern women’s fiction to be learn and reread time and again. A poignant, humorous, outrageous, and clever novel a couple of lifetime friendship among 4 Southern girls, Divine secrets and techniques of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood brilliantly explores the bonds of lady friendship, the often-rocky dating among moms and daughters, and the therapeutic energy of humor and love, in a narrative as clean and uplifting as while it was once first released a decade and a part in the past. should you haven’t but met the Ya-Yas, what are you ready for?
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Extra info for Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood
Anyway, that’s the news. Love, Sidda Shit, Vivi thought. Shit, shit, shit. Back inside her kitchen, Vivi pulled a stool and climbed up to reach the out-of-the-way cabinet where she’d hidden a pack of cigarettes. Stopping herself, she carefully climbed down. Reaching up to her cookbook shelf, she pulled out her roux-splattered copy of River Roads Recipes and opened it to page 103. There, next to Mrs. Hansen Scobee’s recipe for crawfish étouffée, was the photograph of Sidda and Connor that Sidda had sent when she announced her engagement.
She said yes. She had decided years ago never to marry. Anyone. Ever. She had sworn she would never sign on for what she had witnessed in her parents’ marriage. But she said yes to Connor. He lowered his hand to her belly, laying it on the small rounded place, so that when she inhaled, her belly pushed up against his palm. Her instinct was to suck in her stomach so it would seem flatter, but she didn’t have the energy. Love had worn her out. Later, they had pulled on sweaters and heavy socks, and stepped out onto the small balcony of her twenty-second-floor apartment, with Sidda’s old Rolleicord camera in hand.
My career is taking off. I am successful. I have friends who celebrate my success. Everything is fine, really it is. In the middle of the night of August 8, 1993, while the moon outside her window shone down onto the glassy surface of Lake Washington, Siddalee Walker gasped and woke in a sweat. Eyes wet, mouth dry as sand, skin itching, she knew for certain that her Connor, her beloved, had died in his sleep as he lay in the bed beside her. I know it, she thought. He has left me. He is gone. Forever.