Saralee Rosenbergauthor
speaker
humorist

Synopsis

Married couples often keep secrets from each other. But what happens when they’re keeping the same secret?

Post-menopausal Paula discovers when you feel like a mathematical equation, less than worthy and more than confused, life doesn’t add up.

What Paula knows for sure is after decades of searching, she remains desperate to find the daughter she secretly gave up for adoption. What she is clueless about (but will soon learn) is her husband, Marty, is also hiding a daughter. But in his case the girl’s whereabouts were never a mystery because she spent her childhood in Paula and Marty’s home and was treated, well, like family. And why wouldn’t she be when her mother was Paula’s best friend? Oy is right.

Yes, most married couples keep secrets from each other just not the same secret. And once the truth about who they really are as family comes out (their photo albums are a lie!), Paula’s carefully constructed life unravels. No longer can she bury her painful past nor, as it turns out, keep looking for Freddie. What if she is judged and rejected? What if her daughter is… a Republican? Then an unexpected tip Paula leads her to Freddie’s door, and she must choose between facing her biggest fears or living with her biggest failings. In this wise, witty and cannily observed novel, a woman who never wanted to bomb at marriage or motherhood must now reckon with both.

WHERE THE F IS FREDDIE (90,600 words) is contemporary women’s fiction with a mystery thread offering an engaging read for fans of SANDWICH and ALAN OPTS OUT. The novel continues my themes of family drama and very bad decision making, following A LITTLE HELP FROM ABOVE, CLARE VOYANT, FATE AND MS. FORTUNE and DEAR NEIGHBOR, DROP DEAD, published by Avon/HarperCollins.

Excerpt

Post-menopausal Paula was thrilled to discover new ways to manage her anxiety. Holistic therapy (Breathe!). Cognitive Behavioral therapy (Journal!). And her favorite, watermelon weed gummies (ZZZZ!). But after being kept on hold and listening to menu options that recently changed, not even her go to’s could regulate her overstimulated vagus nerves.

After pouring her second cup of the morning, or was it her third, she sat at the maple dinette she inherited after her mother retired to Florida. The nerve of Goodwill to reject the generous donation due to a slight wobble yet Paula was not deterred. She squeezed the large table into her kitchen, stuck matchbooks under a leg (okay three) and claimed the chair with the view of her prize-winning vegetable garden. But as she peered out the sliders, she winced at the now wilted mess — a victim of poor hydration and neglect.

Much like herself.

Gone were the days she had time for twenty-mile bike rides and playing in her weekly tennis league. Hello to zipping her favorite jeans and praying the Pillsbury Dough Boy didn’t ooze out. But if she dwelled on the year from hell, her ADHD brain would hyper focus on her crappy luck leaving her in a more depleted state.

It was not helpful to listen to grating on-hold music that could force prisoners of war to confess. A disturbing cacophony of piano and violins which was about to make it harder for a well-meaning representative in India to subdue a wild woman’s rant.

Sadly, her phone wasn’t the only thing on hold.

So too was Paula’s dream kitchen renovation. And though she was willing to scrap her Etsy vision board with the walk-in pantry and wide rollouts, she still hoped to replace the dulled floors and peach-colored countertops which screamed, we loved the nineties but they’re over.

Sure, it was selfish of her to have shallow aspirations while her husband, Marty, was recuperating from a near-fatal cycling crash and could barely manage their stairs. On the bright side, there would eventually be a large settlement with the drunk driver’s insurance company. Until then Paula would fight for every dime of medical reimbursement from her own.

Your call is very important to us.

“Then pick up 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 large wall mounted TV. The singular nod to modernization. “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 Dr. Golden and hoped virtual visits were an option. Then her office address flashed on the screen and Paula thought she was hallucinating. Did it say White Plains? She could leave her home in Scarsdale and arrive in fifteen minutes. Twelve if she ran the yellows.

Paula jotted the doctor’s information on the back of an envelope and did a hallelujah. She was unfamiliar with hypnotherapy, but it would be amazing if it was akin to playing the home game of general anesthesia. A way to naturally relax before being asked to listen to the company’s privacy policy.

And how bashert to randomly catch the interview when her insecurities reached their breaking point. Once upon a time she was fearless in pursuit of her pilot’s license. Now she couldn’t pry open a bottle of liquid soap without jabbing a steak knife through the center. If only she’d known this was the decade when her hormones and inertia vanished like a missing plane.

Paula stood and stretched, her eagle-spanned arms nearly knocking over the pile up 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. Glucosimane 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.

At least her kitchen was no longer obsolete since it doubled as a shipping department. A new order was arriving on Wednesday. Another had to be returned to Whole Foods by Friday. And which of her scoundrel sons stole her packing tape? Without it she couldn’t reseal the carton that needed to be dropped at the post office.

That afternoon, she would vent her latest frustrations over lattés with best friend, Judith Segal… and share a secret. Not the regrettable decision she made at nineteen… no one would learn the truth about the most disappointing chapter of her life. This secret was about trying hypnotherapy to see if it was the demon killer she needed.

#