After finishing chapter one, Nora turned to her and waved the book between them. “Have you read any other books like this one?”
Leanne snickered, then bit her lip as if she wasn’t sure she should confess. “Not in front of your dad.”
Figured, but Nora didn’t say that. “Which one?”
“I read Jacqueline Susann’s other book,Valley of the Dolls. Fantastic.”
Nora smirked. “Maybe I should read that too.”
Leanne gave her a side glance. “Maybe you should. When you go to Yale your English minor classes will have you reading all the important stuff. Chaucer, Proust, Eliot, all the dead white men with big ideas and longer sentences. Reading should be fun too.”
Nora laughed, reminded of her high school English class. It was a good thing she’d gotten practice there showing up with books that her teacher didn’t approve of.
“Don’t let ‘literary’ fool you into thinking that’s all that matters. Jacqueline Susann gets a lot of flak, sure, but every housewife in Ossining hasValley of the Dollshidden under the bed next to their Avon catalog.”
Nora raised an eyebrow. “Even Mrs. Murphy?” That woman was buttoned up tighter than a toddler in a snowstorm. Nora couldn’t even count the number of times Mrs. Murphy had wagged her finger from behind her curtained window.
“EspeciallyMrs. Murphy.”
They both burst into another fit of laughter.
The sun danced lower in the sky, casting its golden warmth over the dashboard. And as the wind tousled their hair and Leanne tapped her fingers on the wheel to the rhythm of Dusty Springfield’s song “You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me,” Nora had a thought she hadn’t had before:My mom is kind of cool.
Nora grinned, picturing it now—those suburban matrons in high-waisted skirts and sensible heels, coiffed hair held tight with Aqua Net, ladling Jell-O molds into Tupperware and cutting perfect brownie squares for the church bake sale. Women who kept a roast in the oven, lipstick on their smile, and a smutty novel tucked inside the ironing basket or beneath their side of the mattress.
The secret rebellion of housewives.
She wondered how many of them were one steamy chapter away from setting their aprons on fire.
And then she wondered…when her own mother would revolt.
Before this trip she’d never really looked at her mom as someone who might want more. Leanne had always just beenMom. The keeper of lists, of order. A woman made of sturdy heels and perfect posture. But now…
“Did you always want to go to secretarial school?” Nora kept her tone casual but probing.
Leanne’s features softened, and a sentimental stare swept over her face. For a split second, Nora wished to know her thoughts and what made her reminisce in a way that was so not like her usual perfunctory self. But she didn’t have to wonder, because her mother started to share.
“Every little girl dreams of being something magical, don’t they?” Her laugh was barely audible, more a whisper that carried secrets within memories. “After I realized I couldn’t be a mermaid,” she laughed softly, “I used to think I might be an artist—though I’m better at stick figures than portraits. Or maybe a singer like my mom.But when it came time to choose, magic wasn’t what made sense. I’m not artistic in that way. I had to choose something that was not just practical but respectable too.”
Nora raised an eyebrow, flipping the corner page ofThe Love Machinewith her finger. “Maybe that’s the whole problem.”
Leanne tilted her head. “What do you mean?”
“I mean…maybe the issue isn’t that women read these books or want different lives. Maybe the issue is that we’re all so scared of looking unladylike, ungrateful, or being too much that we stuff all our desires under the bed with the paperbacks.”
Nora wasn’t sure from her mother’s expression if she was surprised or…impressed.
“Maybe if we stopped worrying so much about being respectable, practical,” Nora added, “we’d remember who we actually are. Or at least give ourselves permission to figure it out. Bring some of that magic back.”
A silence passed between them—not heavy, just…thoughtful.
“Maybe. You’re pretty wise for eighteen.” Leanne’s voice was soft, contemplative, as she steered with one hand, gripping the map with the other to check their route.
“I’m wise, maybe,” Nora replied with a mischievous grin. “But I still want some falsies.”
Leanne laughed. “Every girl should try them at least once. Preferably not on her wedding day.”
They were still giggling when they pulled into a peach-and-mint-colored roadside motel along Route 66. Neon lights flickered and Adirondack chairs painted in rainbow order lined the walkway. Leanne parked the Lincoln under the soft buzz of the overhead light, their brown paper sandwich bags crinkling in the back seat like firecrackers.
