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Summary
Summary
The bestselling author of Tell Me No Secrets once again unfurls her extraordinary talent to keep readers turning the pages--with the lights on and the doors bolted--in a domestic thriller in which terror and devotion spar for a place in a mother's heart. Fielding handles her material with finesse.-- Publishers Weekly.
Author Notes
Author and actress Joy Fielding was born in Canada in 1945. She received a BA in English literature from the University of Toronto in 1966. While a student, she focused on acting and was one of four stars in a student movie, Winter Kept Us Warm. After graduation, she moved to Los Angeles and appeared on Gunsmoke.
Her first book, The Best of Friends, was published without an agent. She has written numerous novels since then including Don't Cry Now, The Deep End, The Other Woman, Missing Pieces and Now You See Her. The Periodical Distributors of Canada named her book, Kiss Mommy Goodbye, Book of the Year for 1982. She has contributed book reviews to the Toronto Globe and Mail, CBC's The Radio Show, and CBC-TV's The Journal's Friday Night. Her books, See Jane Run and Tell Me No Secrets, have been adapted into films.
(Bowker Author Biography)
Reviews (4)
Publisher's Weekly Review
A suburban wife and mother receives a warning that her life is in danger, then finds that the woman who warned her has herself been murdered in this novel of psychological suspense. (Mar.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Booklist Review
The only fly in the perfumed ointment of Bonnie Wheeler's picture-perfect life is her husband's ex-wife, Joan, and someone close to her has just swatted the fly with a .38 revolver. Because Bonnie found the body and had a peculiar relationship to the deceased, the police start their search for a murderer with her. Terrified, she tells the police that Joan called her to warn her that her life was in danger and to set up a meeting. Now Joan's death sets in motion events that lead Bonnie to question everyone and everything around her. Why couldn't her husband be found when he was supposed to be at work? Why is her estranged brother's name in Joan's address book? Why was a scrapbook detailing Bonnie's life found in Joan's bedroom? Why don't Joan's children react normally to their mother's death? As Bonnie searches for answers, mysterious accidents occur that threaten her and her daughter's lives as a sociopathic murderer moves in for the kill. Fielding provides an intricately plotted thriller, with the possible killer changing from page to page as Bonnie ties the myriad clues together to form a complex whole. A definite must for Fielding fans and a new find for fans of Mary Higgins Clark. (Reviewed Apr. 15, 1995)0688126731Melanie Duncan
Kirkus Review
Another suburban supermom in peril, from a master of the supermom-in-peril genre (Tell Me No Secrets, 1993, etc.). ``You're in danger. You and Amanda,'' Rod Wheeler's first wife, Joan, tells his second, Bonnie, hours before Joan herself is shot and killed. But where could the danger be coming from, since everybody around Bonnie is so sinister? Joan's orphaned kids, Sam and Lauren, snap out of their apathy only long enough to announce that they want nothing to do with Bonnie; Sam's doped-out buddy Haze Gleason is full of adolescent innuendo and threats; Josh Freeman, a lonely fellow-teacher at Bonnie's school, turns up with suspiciously convenient timing just when she feels most threatened--as does her brother Nick, just out of prison for conspiracy to kill. Even Rod is unnervingly and adventurously amorous at the strangest times--maybe, Bonnie can't help worrying, because he's really having an affair with his boss, bubbleheaded talk-show host Marla Brenzelle. Bonnie discovers Joan's body in an empty house, gets tabbed as the prime suspect by the local law, has to contend with Sam's pet boa constrictor, frets about three-year-old Amanda, and finds herself so sick--grindingly, debilitatingly sick--that she wonders whether she could be pregnant or HIV-positive. Unlike Mary Higgins Clark, with whom she's so often compared, Fielding doesn't give her threatened heroines much in the way of perks, designer outfits, or social support; as Bonnie stumbles through day after numbing day, everything and everybody in her world turns luridly threatening. The result is more tension, greater emotional range and depth, and a sense of danger more acute and epidemic than anything Clark's damsels-in-cozy-distress will ever have to endure--capped, finally, by more wrenching revelations at the climax. Domestic menace at its most menacing. (Author tour)
Library Journal Review
The author of such best sellers as See Jane Run (LJ 3/15/91) has had a field day writing her heroines into dangerous situations and then pulling them to safety, bloodied but unbowed. In her latest, violence shatters the formerly comfortable world of a woman and her daughter.(c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Excerpts
Excerpts
Don't Cry Now By Joy Fielding syndetics rebuild fake co name ISBN: 9780688126735 Bonnie pulled her white Caprice into the driveway of 430 Lombard Street at exactly twelve thirty-eight -- there'd been an accident on the Mass turnpike and it had taken her over half an hour to get there -- parking directly be hind Joan's red Mercedes. Joan was obviously doing very well for herself, Bonnie decided. Despite the fluctuations in the real estate market, she seemed to have survived the latest prolonged slump quite nicely. But then, Joan was a survivor. It was only those around her who perished. This house shouldn't be too difficult to sell, Bonnie thought, squinting into the cool sun as she walked past the large sign on the front lawn that announced the open house and mounted the outside steps to the front porch. The house was two stories high and wood-framed, like most of the homes in this upscale suburb of Boston, and it had recently received a coat of white paint. The front door was black and slightly ajar. Bonnie knocked timidly, then pushed the door open farther. Immediately, she heard voices coming from one of the back rooms. A man and a woman. Maybe Joan. Maybe not. Possibly in the middle of an argument. It was hard to tell. At any rate, she wouldn't eavesdrop. She'd wait a few minutes, cough discreetly a few times, let them deduce someone else was in the house. Bonnie looked around, helping herself to one of the many fact sheets that loan had left stacked on a small bench in the front foyer next to an open guest register. According to the information on the sheet, the house was three thousand square feet over two floors, with four bed rooms and a finished basement. A wide center staircase divided the house into two equal halves, the living room to oneside, the dining room to the other. The kitchen and family room were at the back. A powder room was some where in between. Bonnie cleared her throat softly, then again, more loudly. The voices continued. Bonnie checked her watch, wandered into the beige and cream-colored living room. She'd have to leave soon. As it was, she'd be late getting back, miss the first part of the lecture on how today's schools had to adapt to today's teens. She checked her watch again, tapped her foot on the hardwood floor. This was ridiculous. While she hated to interrupt Joan while she was trying to make a sale, the fact was that the woman had insisted she be here before one o'clock, and it was almost that now. "Joan,'' she called out, returning to the hall, walking down the corridor toward the kitchen. The voices continued as if she hadn't spoken. She heard snatches -- "Well, if this health plan is implemented . . ." "That's a pretty lamebrained assessment." -- and wondered what was going on. Why would people -- Joan, of all people -- be involved in such a discussion at such a time? ''I'm going to have to cut you off, caller," the man's voice suddenly announced. "You don't know what you're talking about and I feel like listening to some music. How about the always classic sound of Nirvana?'' It was the radio. "Jesus Christ," Bonnie muttered. She'd been wasting her time discreetly coughing so that a rude radio host could finish hurling invectives at some hapless caller! Who's the crazy lady here? she wondered, losing her patience, raising her voice over the sudden onslaught of sound that was Nirvana. "Joan,'' she called, stepping into the yellow and white kitchen, seeing Joan at the long pine kitchen table, her large sable eyes clouded over with booze, her mouth slightly open, about to speak. Except that she didn't speak. And she didn't move. Not even as Bonnie approached, waving her hand in front of the woman's face, not even as she reached out to shake her shoulder. "Joan, for God's sake. . ." She wasn't sure at what precise moment she realized that Joan was dead. It might have been when she saw the bright patch of crimson that was splattered across the front of Joan's white silk blouse like an abstract work of art. Or perhaps it was when she saw the gaping dark hole between her breasts, and felt blood on her hands, warm and sticky, like syrup. Maybe it was the awful combination of smells, real or imagined, that was suddenly pushing its way toward her nose that convinced her. Or maybe it was the screams shooting from her mouth like stray bullets, the ungodly sound creating a strangely appropriate harmony with Nirvana. Or maybe it was the woman in the doorway screaming with her, the woman with her arms full of groceries who stood paralyzed against the far wall, the bags of groceries glued to her sides, as if they were all that were keeping her upright. Bonnie walked over to her, the woman recoiling in horror as Bonnie pried the groceries from her arms. "Don't hurt me," the woman pleaded. ''Please don't hurt me." "Nobody's going to hurt you," Bonnie assured her calmly, laying the bags on the counter and wrapping one arm around the shaking woman. The other arm reached toward the wall phone and quickly pressed in 911. In a clear voice she gave the operator the address and told her that a woman appeared to have been shot. Then she led the still-trembling owner of the house into the living room where she sat down beside her on the textured tan sofa. Then she put her head between her knees to keep from fainting and waited for the police to arrive. From the Paperback edition. Excerpted from Don't Cry Now by Joy Fielding All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher. Excerpted from Don't Cry Now by Joy Fielding All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
Table of Contents
Bonnie pulled her white Caprice into the driveway of 430 Lombard Street at exactly twelve thirty-eight -- there'd been an accident on the Mass turnpike and it had taken her over half an hour to get there -- parking directly be hind Joan's red Mercedes. Joan was obviously doing very well for herself, Bonnie decided. Despite the fluctuations in the real estate market, she seemed to have survived the latest prolonged slump quite nicely. But then, Joan was a survivor. It was only those around her who perished. |
This house shouldn't be too difficult to sell, Bonnie thought, squinting into the cool sun as she walked past the large sign on the front lawn that announced the open house and mounted the outside steps to the front porch. The house was two stories high and wood-framed, like most of the homes in this upscale suburb of Boston, and it had recently received a coat of white paint. The front door was black and slightly ajar. Bonnie knocked timidly, then pushed the door open farther. Immediately, she heard voices coming from one of the back rooms. A man and a woman. Maybe Joan. Maybe not. Possibly in the middle of an argument. It was hard to tell. At any rate, she wouldn't eavesdrop. She'd wait a few minutes, cough discreetly a few times, let them deduce someone else was in the house. |
Bonnie looked around, helping herself to one of the many fact sheets that loan had left stacked on a small bench in the front foyer next to an open guest register. According to the information on the sheet, the house was three thousand square feet over two floors, with four bed rooms and a finished basement. A wide center staircase divided the house into two equal halves, the living room to oneside, the dining room to the other. The kitchen and family room were at the back. A powder room was some where in between. |
Bonnie cleared her throat softly, then again, more loudly. The voices continued. Bonnie checked her watch, wandered into the beige and cream-colored living room. She'd have to leave soon. As it was, she'd be late getting back, miss the first part of the lecture on how today's schools had to adapt to today's teens. She checked her watch again, tapped her foot on the hardwood floor. This was ridiculous. While she hated to interrupt Joan while she was trying to make a sale, the fact was that the woman had insisted she be here before one o'clock, and it was almost that now. "Joan,'' she called out, returning to the hall, walking down the corridor toward the kitchen. |
The voices continued as if she hadn't spoken. She heard snatches -- "Well, if this health plan is implemented..." "That's a pretty lamebrained assessment." -- and wondered what was going on. Why would people -- Joan, of all people -- be involved in such a discussion at such a time? ''I'm going to have to cut you off, caller," the man's voice suddenly announced. "You don't know what you're talking about and I feel like listening to some music. How about the always classic sound of Nirvana?'' |
It was the radio. "Jesus Christ," Bonnie muttered. She'd been wasting her time discreetly coughing so that a rude radio host could finish hurling invectives at some hapless caller! Who's the crazy lady here? she wondered, losing her patience, raising her voice over the sudden onslaught of sound that was Nirvana. "Joan,'' she called, stepping into the yellow and white kitchen, seeing Joan at the long pine kitchen table, her large sable eyes clouded over with booze, her mouth slightly open, about to speak. |
Except that she didn't speak. And she didn't move. Not even as Bonnie approached, waving her hand in front of the woman's face, not even as she reached out to shake her shoulder. "Joan, for God's sake..." |
She wasn't sure at what precise moment she realized that Joan was dead. It might have been when she saw the bright patch of crimson that was splattered across the front of Joan's white silk blouse like an abstract work of art. Or perhaps it was when she saw the gaping dark hole between her breasts, and felt blood on her hands, warm and sticky, like syrup. Maybe it was the awful combination of smells, real or imagined, that was suddenly pushing its way toward her nose that convinced her. Or maybe it was the screams shooting from her mouth like stray bullets, the ungodly sound creating a strangely appropriate harmony with Nirvana. |
Or maybe it was the woman in the doorway screaming with her, the woman with her arms full of groceries who stood paralyzed against the far wall, the bags of groceries glued to her sides, as if they were all that were keeping her upright. |
Bonnie walked over to her, the woman recoiling in horror as Bonnie pried the groceries from her arms. "Don't hurt me," the woman pleaded. ''Please don't hurt me." |
"Nobody's going to hurt you," Bonnie assured her calmly, laying the bags on the counter and wrapping one arm around the shaking woman. The other arm reached toward the wall phone and quickly pressed in 911. In a clear voice she gave the operator the address and told her that a woman appeared to have been shot. Then she led the still-trembling owner of the house into the living room where she sat down beside her on the textured tan sofa. Then she put her head between her knees to keep from fainting and waited for the police to arrive. |