Where the F is Freddie
Synopsis
Married couples often keep secrets from each other. But what happens when it’s the same secret?
WHERE THE F IS FREDDIE (91,000 words) is contemporary book club fiction with a mystery thread mashing a dicey SANDWICH with the dark humor of LONG ISLAND COMPROMISE in which a post-menopausal woman is still searching for the daughter she gave up for adoption in college, only to discover her husband also has a secret daughter, conceived during an affair with her best friend. But while she processes the emotional fallout of these betrayals her troubled daughter is found which complicates her life in ways she never imaged.
PAULA fantasizes her daughter, FREDDIE, will unseal her birth records and show up at the door like in a weepy Tik Tok reel. “Hi, Mom.” Yet Paula never told anyone about her so how indignant can she be when evidence mounts her husband also has a secret daughter– one that was conceived from an affair with Paula’s best friend.
Oy is right. So, when an unexpected tip leads Paula to Freddie’s door, Paula must confront her biggest fears. Will the truth about who they really are as a family lead to divorce? Will Freddie reject her for abandonment? Be… a Republican?
In this tender, witty and relatable story about hope and healing a woman who never expected to bomb at marriage or motherhood, must reckon with failing at both. But to do that she must admit who she has really been searching for. Her daughter or herself.
The novel continues my themes of mother daughter dramas and very bad decision making, following A LITTLE HELP FROM ABOVE, CLARE VOYANT, FATE AND MS. FORTUE and DEAR NEIGHBOR, DROP DEAD (published by Avon/HarperCollins).
Excerpt
An Instagram ad stopped post-menopausal Paula from scrolling though she resented the intrusive question. Which childhood traumas still make you feel anxious? Rejection or betrayal? Perhaps humiliation? Try D for all of the above, she thought. Thanks for the reminder.
How weary she was of the social media carnival barkers with fake names that promised miracle cures for whatever ailed her. OUR pill ends those 3AM wake up calls. At least she could rely on respectable methods to help her cope with constant anxiety. Holistic therapy (Breathe!). Cognitive Behavioral therapy (Journal!). And her favorite, weed gummies (ZZZZ!).
In fairness, who would blame her for being anxious after holding for twenty-six minutes. All she wanted was to speak to a human to find out why her husband’s medical claims were denied, not to listen to menu options that recently changed.
Paula poured her second cup of the morning, or was it her third, and returned to the maple dinette in her cozy kitchen. Her chair had the best view of her prize-winning vegetable garden, but when she gazed out, she flinched at the wilted mess — a victim of poor hydration and neglect. Much like herself.
Gone were the days she had the energy for twenty-mile bike rides. Hello to zipping her jeans and hoping the Pillsbury Dough Boy didn’t ooze out. Maybe this was the summer she could get back on track, but it wouldn’t be today when she was forced to listen to repetitious on-hold music. A disturbing cacophony of piano and violins that would make it hard for a representative in India to subdue her ranting.
Your call is very important to us.
“Then answer the damn phone.”
Did you know you can find the status of your claim by visiting our website?
“Did you know you can go fuck yourself?”
We are experiencing higher than normal call volume.
“I am experiencing higher than normal rage. Live agent. Human being. SPEAK TO A REPRESENTATIVE!!!!”
The sound of talking heads on the Today show tempered her wrath as she looked up at the TV. “Dr. Golden, tell us how hypnotherapy helps people suffering from anxiety. And is it true it also examines past lives?” Great news, Paula! We discovered why you have panic attacks.
With the world at her fingertips, she Googled the guest and hoped virtual visits were an option. Then Dr. Golden’s address flashed on the screen and Paula thought she was hallucinating. Did it say her office was in White Plains? She could leave her home in Scarsdale and arrive in fifteen minutes. Twelve if she ran the yellows.
Paula jotted Reyna Golden on the back of an envelope and did a hallelujah. She was unfamiliar with hypnotherapy, but in her wildest fantasy it was akin to playing the home game of general anesthesia. A way to put herself into a trance and never snap out of it.
As she stood to stretch her lanky eagle-spanned arms nearly knocked over the pile of supplements on the table. A probiotic for gut health. Collagen and peptides to stop her hair from falling out. Magnesium Oxide so she pooped every day. Glucosamine and Chondroitin for aching joints. Fish Oil for she couldn’t remember why. And two recent additions, Black Seed oil and Shilajit, which claimed to be the secret longevity weapons of Himalayan monks. But given how badly the day was going maybe living longer wasn’t the best reward.
As the jarring drone of her neighbor’s leaf blower grew louder, Paula nearly missed the text alert from her kindred spirit.
JUDITH: Starbucks at 2? The new one next to BJ’s???
Paula couldn’t reply fast enough. Yes and Yes
JUDITH: Bring back my sweater
PAULA: Didn’t fit right
JUDITH: Thought it looked nice but happy to donate
Oy. Where did she stash the hot pink sweater she wouldn’t wear if she was cast in a Barbie sequel? And sure, it was generous of Judith to give away her designer hand-me-downs, though her petite friend failed to grasp something called sizes.
As Paula hunted for the sweater, she realized her phone went silent. What happened to the annoying music? The reminder to listen to their privacy policy? “No!” She wailed. “Nooo!!!” The call got dropped… the one time she planned to answer their satisfaction survey.
She didn’t mean to slam her phone or genuflect like a Himalayan monk, but she prayed the glass hadn’t cracked. Thankfully the Gods answered her prayer unlike the insurance company which couldn’t even answer a damn call.
Marty limped into the kitchen. After surviving a cycling crash and several surgeries, his gait improved, but this once rugged athlete had a long way to go before fully recovering. “What’s going on?”
“The damn insurance company left me on hold forever and dropped the call.”
Marty opened the pantry. “Try again later… thought I reminded you to buy more Peanut Butter Puffins.”
Paula squeezed her eyes. No matter how hard she tried to navigate their daily challenges, he always found something to criticize. “Cereal got so expensive.”
Marty pointed to the table. “We never run out of coffee or vitamins.”
“Gotta say, Bucko. You are a very trusting man.”
“How so?”
“You pass out at night before me, eat whatever I make and take any pill I give you.”
Paula laughed at the look of alarm on her husband’s face.
“Are you telling me to sleep with one eye open?”
“Of course not. They should both be open.”
Marty laughed too and it eased the tension enough that Paula was reminded of his daily struggles. His difficulty managing the stairs in their home. His cognitive impairment from a brain injury. His dependence on their twenty-year-old twins, Eli and Noah, to run their athletic shoe shop until they returned to school. Yet what was his excuse for lounging in boxers and a stained t-shirt at eleven AM?
“I’m meeting Judith at Starbucks,” she said. “Want to come?” Please say no.
“You saw her yesterday. What’s left to talk about?”
“The high cost of cereal… and the plight of the Sudanese people.”
Marty lowered his readers. “The only way Judith is familiar with Sudan is if it has a Bloomingdales. What do you actually talk about?”
How mean you are to me. “Lady parts and the joy of menopause.”
“Pass,” Marty said.
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