"Fiend," "The White Hot" and "The Weekend Crashers" are Club Calvi's quick read suggestions
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Find out more about the books below.
Club Calvi has new books for you to consider for your weekend and holiday getaways. They are stories you can finish in a few sittings, in the car or on the plane, whether you read them with your eyes or listen with your ears.
Mary and I talked about three books: "Fiend" by Alma Katsu, "The White Hot" by Quiara Alegria Hudes and "The Weekend Crashers" by Jamie Brenner.
"Fiend" is 256 pages and six and a half hours listening time on the audiobook. The story may remind you television shows featuring very wealthy dysfunctional families, but Katsu adds a demon to the mix. FIEND is about the Berisha family of Manhattan, whose wealth was built over generations. There's infighting among the children of the current patriarch and a looming congressional investigation. In this story, you don't want to get daddy angry.
"The White Hot" by Hudes is 175 pages, and just over five hours of listening on audiobook. "The White Hot" hinges on a mother-daughter relationship, but Hudes gives the story an emotional punch of a mother who abandoned her daughter. Much of the novel takes the form of a letter from the mother to her daughter explaining why she left and "the white hot," which is the rage she feels from the traumas of her life.
"The Weekend Crashers" by Brenner is longer at 320 pages, and nearly 10 hours, but its engaging story may have you finishing the book in a couple of reading sessions. "The Weekend Crashers" is about relationships between mothers and daughters, fathers and sons, couples, and friends. The book focuses on a New York City single mother and daughter who go to a knitting retreat in Pennsylvania, but find their peaceful inn is also hosting a bachelor party. There is a lot of love among the people involved, but also miscommunication and drama. It's all woven together with details of knitting and bushcraft.
You can listen to the conversation, read excerpts, and get the books below.
The CBS New York Book Club focuses on books connected to the Tri-State Area in their plots and/or authors. The books may contain adult themes.
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"Fiend" by Alma Katsu
From the publisher: The Berisha family runs one of the largest import-export companies in the world, and they've always been lucky. Their rivals suffer strokes. Inconvenient buildings catch on fire. Earthquakes swallow up manufacturing plants, destroying harmful evidence. Things always seem to work out for the Berishas. They're blessed.
At least that is what Zef, the patriarch, has always told his three children. And each of them knows their place in the family—Dardan, as the only male heir, must prepare to take over as keeper of the Berisha secrets, Maris's most powerful contribution, much to her dismay, will be to marry strategically, and Nora's job, as the youngest, is to just stay out of the way. But when things stop going as planned, and the family blessing starts looking more like a curse, the Berishas begin to splinter, each hatching their own secret scheme. They didn't get to be one of the richest families in the world without spilling a little blood, but this time, it might be their own
Alma Katsu lives outside of Washington, DC.
"Fiend" by Alma Katsu (ThriftBooks) Hardcover $22
"The White Hot" by Quiara Alegría Hudes
From the publisher: April is a young mother raising her daughter in an intergenerational house of unspoken secrets and loud arguments. Her only refuge is to hide away in a locked bathroom, her ears plugged into an ambient soundscape, and a mantra on her lips: dead inside. That is, until one day, as she finds herself spiraling toward the volcanic rage she calls the white hot, a voice inside her tells her to just . . . walk away. She wanders to a bus station and asks for a ticket to the furthest destination; she tells the clerk to make it one-way. That ticket takes her from her Philly home to the threshold of a wilderness and the beginning of a nameless quest—an accidental journey that shakes her awake, almost kills her, and brings her to the brink of an impossible choice.
The White Hot takes the form of a letter from mother to daughter about a moment of abandonment that would stretch from ten days to ten years—an explanation, but not an apology.
Quiara Alegría Hudes lives in New York City.
"The White Hot" By Quiara Alegría Hudes (ThriftBooks) Hardcover $20
"The Weekend Crashers" by Jamie Brenner
From the publisher: Maggie Hodges and her daughter Piper are looking forward to a restful knitting retreat in the picturesque village of New Hope, Pennsylvania. But instead, they are surprised to find themselves sharing their charming riverside inn with a rowdy bushcraft bachelor party. Undaunted by the clash of interests and personalities, Maggie suggests a lighthearted competition—a battle of crafts—that sparks a rivalry between the two groups, and perhaps something more. But as the weekend unfolds, old mistakes and buried resentments begin to surface, threatening to destroy Maggie and Piper's cherished connection.
In knitting, one can easily fix mistakes by picking apart each stitch and starting anew. But life's tangles aren't so easily mended. With tensions rising and the retreat coming to a close, Maggie must act quickly before she loses everything she holds dear. Can she repair what's been broken before everything unravels?
Jamie Brenner lives in Pennsylvania.
"The Weekend Crashers" by Jamie Brenner (ThriftBooks) Paperback $16
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Excerpt: "Fiend" by Alma Katsu
It is the time of day that Dardan hates the most.
He is seven years old and it is almost time for bed. He and Maris have had dinner, mother sitting with them in the breakfast room but not eating. She will eat with their father later, a dignified adults' dinner. Dardan wonders when he will be allowed to join them.
A nurse has taken his sisters off to bed. Face scrubbed, teeth brushed, dressed in flannel pajamas. Dardan is allowed to stay up a little longer. But he's alone. If Maris was allowed to stay up, he would have someone to play with. But she's only four, and a girl. It's just as well they've taken her away.
He is in the hall outside the room where his parents have cocktails before dinner. He wishes that his father would ask for him, smile at him as he played at Zef's feet. But no, Zef never wants the children around when he comes home from work. This hall is almost always deserted, yet another seldom-used part of the sprawling house. The hall is lined with bookcases displaying family treasure, old things that the Berisha family has come to possess at some point in their long history. Statuary found in a tomb in Pella, Macedonia; a painted Turkish urn; a gold brooch made by a Mongol artisan, studded with precious stones. They are all reminders of how long the Berisha empire has been in existence, how far it has stretched geographically. These pieces belong in a museum, he's often heard, but of course that will never happen. The Berishas never willingly give up treasure.
Dardan plays with some of the things on the lower shelves left within a child's reach. He makes the books into hills and bridges, pretending to march an army over hill and dale, on its way to a battle. What battle? Does it matter? There's always a battle.
He doesn't know why he's pretending, it's not like his parents are watching. They are on the other side of this door and because he wants so badly to be near them, he has contrived to be here.
Dardan loves his mother. The children spend their days with her while Zef is at work. It's been this way forever. Dardan knows well the story of how she met Zef, because Olga delights in telling it. How she had been famous for her beauty in Albania, the mother country. She had won many contests and pageants and had her heart set on going to America to try her luck in Hollywood, that's how beautiful she was. He knows this is true because he's seen the special photos that Olga keeps apart from the family albums. Dardan often sneaks into his mother's bedroom to pull the leather album from the bottom drawer on her nightstand. He flips the pages in solitude but surrounded by the smell of her perfume and powders, it's almost like they're doing it together. In this picture: his mother looking much younger in a modest bathing suit, a sash draped from her right shoulder to her left hip, words inscribed with gold script he can't read. His mother again, posed like a mannequin on a runway, her make-up perfect, her expression studiously neutral, while an audience looks up at her in admiration.
Word of her beauty had gotten to Zef in New York City. He flew to Tirana, the meeting arranged by a friend. When Olga told him that she wanted to become an actress, he'd laughed and said he had a better job for her: become his wife. Make beautiful children for me and I will make you richer than any movie star.
Are they richer than movie stars, Dardan wonders. He supposes that, if you're a man, it's better to be rich than good looking. Better to have whatever it is that makes you rich. Smarts. A strong work ethic. Good instincts. Things his father told him. He's sure his father has all of these. No one would call his father handsome but he's famous. Dardan once heard his father call the Berishas a dynasty. A thousand years of trading wares wherever they could. Like they're still the rug merchants and spice traders they were a millennia ago. His father likes to pretend, too.
Dardan hears voices raise in the den. It's no surprise. This happens frequently at the cocktail hour. Another reason it's his least favorite time of the day.
Dardan creeps closer to the door, which is ajar, and with one careful finger, pushes it open the slightest bit more. He cannot see much but at least he will be able to hear what they are saying.
"You knew what you were getting into when you agreed to marry—" His father snaps at his mother. His tone is disgusted and weary.
A barbed laugh. "I didn't know. No one could have known."
Dardan is gripped by terror. He hasn't heard them talk like this before. What if they got a divorce? He knows these things happen: half the children in his class at the Saint Vitus Academy come from broken homes. They tell horror stories of being dragged from one parent's house to the other, being used like a hostage to extract concessions from the other spouse, of new stepparents who favor their own children and pretend they don't exist. Knowing you're not the only one makes no difference when your parents' unhappiness suddenly hovers over you like a huge bird of prey.
The fight continues on the other side of the door. Dardan has heard some of this before: You tricked me! You never told me… The voices are hard to make out and he's only catching scattered words. Ungrateful bitch. Look at all I do for you, for this family… No getting out now. It's done. The cold fear turns into a burning lodged in the center of Dardan's chest.
He wishes he could rush in and beg his parents to stop arguing, but he's afraid.
He peeks around the door. His parents are in each other's faces, screaming at each other, and suddenly Dardan can't hear a word they're saying. His ears are stoppered up like when he has a bad cold. Ringing reverberates in his skull, like an alarm going off. It's the most awful thing he's ever been exposed to in his young life. He wishes he could disappear.
Before he can run and hide, his father starts to tremble, like something is shaking him. Black smoke starts to peel off him, wisps and curls like wood shavings at first, but then rolling waves of it.
Dardan is paralyzed with fear. His mother, too, is frozen. Her green eyes are wide in horror and her beautiful red mouth stretched in a silent scream, her eyes locked on Zef, now nearly hidden in swirls of black smoke that rise to the ceiling, gathering until it is so dense it looks solid, a heavy black cloud hovering over his parents.
Olga is pleading with Zef but he doesn't seem to hear her. It's like he's in a trance.
Dardan wants to run up to his bedroom and hide under the covers, but he knows that if he does, a terrible thing will happen to his mother. He should run to his father, try to snap him out of it. But he is afraid of the black cloud.
He needs help, but all the servants are downstairs, getting ready to serve his parents' dinner.
He can think of only one servant who can help at a time like this: Mr. Murdoch. Olga has a funny French name for his position that Dardan can't remember, but he is in charge of the servants and talks to Olga constantly. Mr. Murdoch is the only one Zef might listen to.
Dardan runs to the servants' staircase at the end of the hall. He dashes down the stairs two at a time, almost barreling headfirst into one of the maids, who throws herself against the wall to avoid him. He bursts into the kitchen, where he sees Mr. Murdoch standing at one of the long tables speaking to the cook. Mr. Murdoch is an older man with an unfailingly calm disposition that Dardan finds comforting. He looks at Dardan, doubled over and panting, then looks up at the ceiling.
Dardan doesn't have to say a word. The house manager takes Dardan's hand and lets him lead him upstairs. They hurry, but they do not run.
By the time they arrive at the drawing room, the danger seems to have passed. Zef kneels next to Olga, tucking pillows under her head. The worst seems to be over but both parents are pale and clammy. Most mystifying, however, is that the smoke is gone. There was so much of it and now there isn't a trace of it anywhere. No cloud, no smell, either.
"Forgive the intrusion Mr. Berisha, but I thought I heard a disturbance of some kind and, well… can I be of any assistance?" Dardan is grateful that Mr. Murdoch doesn't say that Dardan fetched him, as it means his father doesn't have to know he was eavesdropping. Mr. Murdoch even released Dardan's hand just as they stepped into the room, allowing Dardan to hide behind him.
Zef clears his throat. "Mrs. Berisha fainted, that's all. Perhaps a glass of water?"
Once Mr. Murdoch goes to the drinks cart to pour a glass, Dardan can see his mother directly. The monumental fear that Dardan witnessed only minutes earlier is now ebbing, but a trace of it is still there. Olga tries to extract a promise from Dardan with her eyes: you will say nothing about this to anyone. Not your siblings, not your friends. Not your father.
He nods to show that he understands.
"Would you take Dardan up to his room?" Zef asks Murdoch as he helps Olga off the floor. She is still coughing. "It's past his bedtime."
As Mr. Murdoch leads him up the stairs, Dardan recalls something that happened at church a few months earlier. It was one of the high holy days, one of the rare times Zef joined them at church. He saw an old man talking to a boy and pointing to his family as they walked by.
Stay away from them, he whispered. They're cursed.
The next day, Zef moved out of the family's house on Central Park West to a house two blocks away. Maids spend the morning packing his clothing into trunks and a special moving company arrives that afternoon to carry it all away. From this day forward, the family only sees Zef when he comes to dinner on Sunday evenings and leaves after dessert, kissing Olga on the forehead before heading out.
Nora never knows a time when her father lives with them.
Excerpted from Fiend by Alma Katsu. Copyright © 2025 by Alma Katsu. Excerpted by permission of G.P. Putnam's Sons. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpt: "The White Hot" by Quiara Alegría Hudes
Noelle received the envelope eight years after her mother's disappearance. She got home from school and found it propped on the counter, oversize and leaning against the microwave door, clearly placed there by her dad or stepmother to catch her eye. She ran a finger over the uppercase letters: NOELLE SOTO. It wasn't the handwriting that dinged memory's bell so much as the pen's feral indentations. No sender was named above the return address but Noelle recognized those grooves like a gut recognizes a fist. The same ones she'd glimpsed on emergency contact forms—"blue cards"—brought into school in Septembers, on grocery lists carried to the corner store. Why did her mom press so hard for the littlest of nothings? Grooves that attacked the paper, letters like jackhammers.
One corner was ripped and a binder clip peeked through. She folded the torn flap and saw a return address in Pittsburgh. Six hours away. Did that mean her mom had been close all this time, or far? "Pittsburgh, Pittsburgh . . ." the devil laughed in her ear. "Pitts-burgh . . ."
On the back, a note: To my daughter. An explanation. Do not open until your eighteenth birthday.
And so, with rumbling heart and saliva pasting tongue to teeth (fury's alchemy gave her a mouthful of metal), Noelle plunged a finger into the manila corner and ripped open the fabric of her world. Seven weeks left till graduation, till the long-awaited diploma, but no: adulthood began now, with these loosely stacked pages and whatever "explanation" they might offer, or claim to offer, or fail to offer. Noelle devoured her mother's words in three hours, standing by the microwave, before meeting her dad, stepmother, and brothers at the Italian restaurant where her birthday tiramisu would arrive with a glittering lit sparkler plunged into its core.
Dear Noelle, (I am tempted to say dear Noe or dear Nolita),
I am not going to send this. It's an exercise, it should probably say Dear April at the top because it's for me. I've written it a thousand times already, in countless ways—defenses, apologies—the only difference now is I've gotten real paper involved.
Your milestone barrels at me. Wishes push up. They don't care that I've forfeited the right to wish them.
That we splurge on Crayolas and a notepad and head to East River Drive.
That we get lemonades and do your homework on the bench outside Target.
That I give you double Dutch braids, the diagonal ones that take at least four episodes of America's Got Talent.
That a midnight thunderstorm rouses you, we go downstairs, kneel on the sofa like cats, and watch the sky streak, scared together. You scared of the volume, me of your fear.
I know, I know. Unfair desires. Outdated, too. I ping myself each time.
Deeper down, though, a realer wish rumbles, directed at tangible present-tense you, a wish for Noelle Soto on the cusp of womanhood.
That you lick the winds of freedom.
On this, I have some experience. The knowledge cost me everything and I'll be damned if it goes to waste. So, imagine this: We meet up at a café. Maybe it's the Dominican bakery on my corner, where I crammed for my GED and spent a year wrestling Beloved. First, I marvel at your changed appearance, eight years has transformed you. Oh, mija. (May I? What right do I have?) We sit. Place to ourselves. There's just one table by the window, and a lace curtain blurs the sidewalk beyond. A little privacy, but it still requires of us some public civility. Bachata twanging (Romeo Santos?) so I gotta lean in to tell you why I left . . . the when and how of it . . . Maybe at an angle so close I can't even see your face as I speak, cuz certainly I'd have a change of heart . . .
• •
That awful day began with your classroom art show. Do you remember? Our Family Homes. In a roomful of parents and fourth-graders—some sweeter than you, others more assured—you were a vexing blend of devious and brilliant. During the presentation, you bombed on vocal projection and eye contact, but no one cared because what you captured in pencil, crayon, and Oprah magazine cutout was uncanny for a ten-year-old. It wasn't the first time your smarts were borderline embarrassing.
"We got two bedrooms, two beds, four people," you said, pointing out various corners of your drawing. "Me and Mom sleep head to foot here, Abuela Omara and Mamá Suset sleep head to foot here. This is the hallway, with a rhinestone baby Jesus. We redid the bathroom to be a Zen sanctuary with a plastic bamboo on the toilet," you said. Not only had you drawn the Evening Buddha aromatherapy candle, but also its half-ripped price tag from Ross Dress for Less. "There's a Do Not Disturb sign on the bathroom door. And a lock, too." You spoke the word lock as if it were salvation. "My mom be loving that lock. That's her favorite part of the whole house."
I began to feel caustic and unsound.
There it was: Our handsomely appointed Section 8 row home. The crystal knickknacks and faux greenery. The warped dollar store plaque with its cursive "I am the light of the world." Floor plan as prelude to exposé.
And of course, you had drawn us. Mamá Suset stood at the doorway, shopping bags in hand with their optimistic logos. Abuela Omara guarded the stove with a lemon-print pot holder and a can of Pledge. You had framed yourself in the front window, pondering the pyramid of tires at the garage across the street. (Remember those? Learning to count to a hundred on old Goodyears?)
And me? I was seated at the foot of our bed, back to the viewer—faceless—with headphones cupping my ears. This part of your drawing required a special inset box, a pencil-and-glitter close-up that captured my blue wired Beats in detail: iridescent, the color of a mermaid's tail. I could practically hear the Ocean Sounds app coming through your drawing.
"When Mom busts out the Beats," you said, "that's her 'me' time. Don't tap her shoulder or say her name."
"I hear that," one of the dads chuckled. "Gon' get me some Beats!"
Your audience was primed. "Sometimes she got the Beats, the Do Not Disturb, and the bathroom lock going all at once. A trifecta."
Much parental hooting. "Girl said trifecta!" Laughter volume eleven.
Talk about being pinned. You knew me, hija, unlike any ever will. It was gold-star work. Four generations of Soto women sardined into HGTV prettiness, not a speck of dust—or man—in sight.
During the next kid's talk you didn't turn around to wave or to ask me with your eyes, Did you like it, Mom? Which is how I knew I'd received your artwork as intended. A provocation. Your phone pinged and the teacher mouthed "Algebra?" then waved that you could go. Without glancing my way, you wove through the parents and out into the hall. More parental voices: "Algebra? Dayum." "Go get 'em, Doogie Howser!" I stood in the back of the class, breathless. That you were smarter than me was no surprise. That you were more honest? Trouble lay ahead.
• •
Did I walk to work from there? Hop the bus or El? I only remember the blocks whooshing by, my mind roaring its own narration of Our Family Homes:
Once upon a time there was an abuela whose pot of café did overflow. With a grain of rice and droplet of water she fed four generations of Soto women, letting love dry the tear at the corner of her eye—from cataracts, not regret.
See her daughter (Mamá Suset): the first-gen airport bartender with a penchant for bargains, ever lighting church candles. See who's next in the lineup: the teen mom (me) making sure her kid Just Said No and Stayed in School. See the final link in the chain: you, Noelle, seeing Las Mujeres Soto for what they were.
Though the Sotos wanted gold earrings, they bought textbooks and multivitamins. Though they craved a spa day, they took lukewarm dribble showers after night shifts. O, urban foursome who know not of greenery—whose very Christmas tree is plastic! Just as fake pine needles forever cling to metal branches, so is their loyalty evergreen.
The OG loyalty: Abuela hunched that they might stand. Abuela stretched every teaspoon of harina that they might taste a Number Four with Fries. Abuela migrated that they might Netflix and chill.
And all the while the dads disappeared, off to find the meaning of life or a new sink to put a dirty dish into. (Apart from their pin-toothed chihuahua, Soda Crackers, no male had ever stayed long among them.)
Now here we find ourselves at present, dear reader, after another dutiful day in the land of Soto. April dons her blue Beats headphones, inwardly reciting: Dead inside, dead inside, dead inside. Ah, it works every time!
Excerpted from The White Hot by Quiara Alegria Hudes Copyright © 2025 by Quiara Alegria Hudes. Excerpted by permission of One World. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpt: "The Weekend Crashers" by Jamie Brenner
GRACIE MEWS DINER has occupied the corner of East 81st Street and First Avenue for decades. The portions are huge and the prices are outrageous, but it's the dining equivalent of a warm cozy
blanket. The place has had the same staff for as long as she can remember, and when she asks for her usual, LEO (lox, eggs, onion) omelet—her server comments:
"Breakfast for dinner."
Maggie exchanges a look with Piper. Dimitris, their server, says this same thing every time, in the same deadpan expression, as if he's never made the comment before. And she plays along, not sure if it's a reprimand, a question or a suggesting for framing her order.
"He never disappoints," Piper says. Maggie and Piper are seated in a booth next to windows overlooking 81st Street. It's dark outside, and all she sees are car headlights. Piper moves French fries around her plate, but doesn't take even one bite. Across the aisle, Maggie spots a familiar old woman sitting alone at a table for two. She has dyed red hair and overly rouged cheeks and cartoonish blue eyeshadow. She's been eating at the same table every night for all the years Maggie's lived in the neighborhood.
"You're finally quiet enough to appease the Dragon Lady," Maggie jokes. Piper dubbed the old woman Dragon Lady back when she was in fourth grade because the woman used to scold her for talking too loudly. "She still fucking terrifies me."
Maggie steals a glance at the woman. It seems she hasn't aged, but that's probably because she's the type of person who looked eighty when they were sixty.
It's sad, really. Maggie wonders, with a shudder, if that will be her fate. Sitting alone at a table in Gracie Mews eating overpriced breakfast food for dinner and snapping at small children. But no, she will never be alone. She has Piper.
Maggie reaches across the table and pats her arm.
"I know you're embarrassed about last night. But trust me, no one else is thinking about it anymore. The important thing is to get right back on the horse." Right back on the horse? Oh god. She was turning into Birdie. "You know what I mean," she adds.
Piper exhales. "Yeah, well, it's not that simple. That's why I wanted to have dinner—to talk to you in person. But I don't want you to get upset."
Maggie's stomach tightens into a knot. "Now I'm already upset. What happened?"
Piper reaches for a lock of her hair, twisting it around her forefinger.
"Gretchen dropped me."
"Dropped you meaning…what?" Maggie knows, but she can't believe it.
"Meaning, she no longer represents me."
She understands that Piper's manager would be upset, concerned even. But to drop her?
"That doesn't make sense," Maggie says. Piper starts talking about her contract being up, that she doesn't have enough momentum—but that she's fine with it. Clearly, she's determined to put up a brave front. But Maggie knows deep down she must be heartbroken. Maggie feels helpless. Motherhood was so much easier when almost anything could be fixed with a trip to the ice cream shop or toy store. She wonders, what's the adult equivalent?
She remembers the knitting retreat.
"Piper, let's get away this weekend."
Piper shakes her head. "Mom, you don't have to fix this for me. I'm fine."
"I know you're fine," Maggie says. "But Elaine told me about this amazing knitting retreat. It's just two hours away. I think it would be good for both of us."
She shows Piper her phone, where's she pulled up the retreat website.
Welcome to New Hope: Indulge your passion for all things yarn in the heart of a charming historic town nestled on the Delaware River. Our exclusive knitting and crochet retreat offers a sanctuary for creativity and relaxation . . .
"A sanctuary for creativity," Piper says.
"Are you making fun?" Maggie says, swiping the phone away.
"No! Come on—show me again."
Maggie hands the phone back, and Piper reads aloud: "Craft in comfort. Your accommodations will be the cozy New Hope Inn, blending old-world charm with modern amenities, providing the perfect backdrop for your crafting endeavors." She looks up. "I like old-world charm."
"As do I," Maggie says, and they share a smile. She has the rest of the post memorized:
Something for Everyone: Whether you're an experienced crafter looking to refine your skills or a novice eager to learn the basics, our knitting and crochet retreat promises an enriching experience for all.
"What do you think?" Maggie says.
Piper nods. "I mean, it sounds great. But it starts tomorrow.
I'm sure it's sold out."
Maggie's thinking the same thing, and that's why she's not going to bother trying to register online. "Let's see about that."
She dials the number for the inn, and a man answers.
"New Hope Inn."
"Oh, hello," she says, glancing at Piper. "I'm calling about the knitting retreat? Are there any spots left?"
"Hold on," he says. "That's my wife's domain."
Maggie hears the thunk of a landline receiver hitting a hard surface. Across the aisle, The Dragon Lady gets up and grabs hold of her walker.
"Hello, Belinda speaking."
The woman's voice is warm and mellifluous.
"Oh, Belinda, hi, my name is Maggie Hodges. I'm calling to see if you have any spots left for your retreat this weekend."
The woman asks how many people are in her "party."
"Two. Just me and my daughter."
"I have space in my workshops," the woman says. "The only issue is . . . I'm looking at my occupancy now . . . you'd have to share a room. We have a deluxe twin available."
Sharing a room is even better. It will be just like the old days when Piper lived at home and they ate popcorn on the couch and watched Gilmore Girls.
"We'll take it." She looks at Piper and gives her the thumbs-up.
They're going to have the perfect mother-daughter weekend.
Friday
New Hope Knitting Retreat: Day 1
Noon: Welcome Tea & Yarn Market
Course Offerings: Intro to Crochet; Intro to Knitting;
Know Your Yarn; Color Theory and Stranded Knitting;
Lacework; Reversible Knit-purl Color Combinations;
Classic and Cozy: Shetland Hap Shawl
Evening Activity: Group dinner at Bucks Tavern
Excerpted from The Weekend Crashers by Jamie Brenner, Copyright © 2025 by Jamie Brenner. Published by Park Row Books.