A Secret Word: A Novel

A Secret Word: A Novel

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by Jennifer Paddock

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Jennifer Paddock's incandescent debut novel spans fifteen years in the lives of friends Leigh, Sarah, and Chandler, beginning one fateful day in high school that forever connects them. While Leigh remains stuck in dead-end jobs in their Arkansas hometown, the more privileged Sarah and Chandler move to Manhattan, where Sarah seeks acting fame and Chandler struggles to…  See more details below


Jennifer Paddock's incandescent debut novel spans fifteen years in the lives of friends Leigh, Sarah, and Chandler, beginning one fateful day in high school that forever connects them. While Leigh remains stuck in dead-end jobs in their Arkansas hometown, the more privileged Sarah and Chandler move to Manhattan, where Sarah seeks acting fame and Chandler struggles to make sense of her failed relationships, only to be sent reeling by an unexpected tragedy.
Sweeping from the Deep South to New York and interweaving each girl's distinctive voice into a seamless narrative, A Secret Word is a luminous story of friendship and family, sex and secrets, growing up and growing apart. It is about how well you can ever really know another person and the secrets we keep from our friends, our families, and, most important, ourselves.

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
Paddock's striking debut is an intricately balanced story of three girls from Fort Smith, Ark., linked for life by a high school tragedy. In 1986, tennis and country club pals Sarah and Chandler hitch a ride to lunch from the less privileged Leigh; they're pursued by footballer Trey, who crashes his car and dies. Flash forward to 1990: Chandler and Sarah have gone to college; Leigh stays behind to work at a dry cleaner's. But their paths continue to intersect, and Paddock follows her characters through 15 years as they peel apart and reunite, capturing each of the young women in separate first-person chapters. Chandler-introspective, loyal and passionate-moves to New York to go to law school, but loses her way after the death of her financially troubled father. Leigh is still in Fort Smith, her drunken, promiscuous mother a source of embarrassment. She goes on to work at the local grocery store and marries a local boy, though she's never quite content with the smallness of her life. Rich, stunning Sarah moves to New York in Chandler's wake to make it as an actress (though, as her acting coach tells her, she's a better tennis player than thespian). Supported by her father's money, she develops a mild cocaine habit and leans on Chandler for friendship and constancy. Paddock dances between characters and years, tracing her protagonists' tortured and happy relationships, their anguish and confusion and eventually the strength that comes to each. This is a subtle, surprising first novel, with unforgettable characters, a quiet sense of place and a nuanced exploration of the secrets, loves, despairs, friends and relatives that shape our lives. (Apr. 5) Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
Uncommonly assured debut about three girls united by a shared tragedy who head off into the world only to find their lives on strangely parallel courses. Fort Smith, Arkansas (also the author's hometown), is pretty much like any other small burg: everybody knows everybody's else's business, and while most teenagers can't wait to get out of the place, many soon come orbiting back like errant satellites. Storywriter Paddock focuses on three such teenaged girls with travel itches to scratch, tracking them from 1986 to 2001. Chandler and Sarah are tighter friends and move in more rarified circles than working-class Leigh, but the three are nevertheless bonded for life in tenth grade, when an off-campus lunch trip results in Chandler's boyfriend dying in a car crash. In separate first-person chapters, Paddock jumps among the trio in the years afterward as the trust fund-enabled Chandler and Sarah saunter off to sample the opportunities in New York while Leigh is stuck working minimum-wage jobs back in Fort Smith. At first, it seems the author is giving decent, generous Leigh short shrift, preferring instead to revel in the glamorous exploits of jet-setting Sarah and morose but similarly silver-spooned Chandler. But once Chandler is brought low by a family tragedy and unexpectedly helped through it by Leigh, who has been an elusive presence in her more privileged friends' lives since high school, the tables are somewhat turned. Paddock's narrative is deceptively simple. Her characters neither implausibly obsess over minutiae nor have conveniently placed dramatic episodes; instead, their creator relies on a smoothly authoritative voice to simply carry us through. An unusually generous spiritanimates these pages, knowledgeable about shared pain, the call of the big city, disappointments, and secret keeping. Nobody is spared, but no one is punished, either. Reads less like a novel than the lucky discovery of three secret diaries. Agent: Michelle Tessler/Carlisle & Co.

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Chapter One: The Ones Who Are Holding Things Up

November 1986


Leigh is the kind of girl who hangs around girls who get in fights. Not that she wears rock-concert T-shirts, but she does smoke. She and I are different, but we are friends. She's been to my house, three stories with woods and a lake in back, a game room, halls you can do cartwheels down. And I've been to her house, dark and small and sad.

Sarah is beautiful and theatrical and is my best friend and has been since the day I almost killed her. When we were eight, she talked the assistant golf pro into letting us hit range balls, and she walked right behind me on my backswing. There was screaming and blood and an ambulance, and seventeen stitches to the back of her head in the shape of a C, my own initial. Then we began taking tennis lessons and now are known as those tennis girls. A tournament can get us out of school for a week. We go to a public school and make good grades without studying. We are on the outside of the inner circle of cool kids but are cool enough.

I'm in Spanish class zoning out, not listening to the scratchy record of a Mexican family having a conversation at breakfast. I'm thinking about my plan for lunch today with Leigh and Sarah, maybe at the country club, and wondering how that would go.

My father tells me that where we live, in Fort Smith, Arkansas, used to be called "Hell on the Border." It was a place people passed through: Cherokee Indians on the Trail of Tears, gold miners to California, trappers canoeing upriver, ranchers headed to Texas, outlaws seeking freedom.

I imagine there are worse places to grow up, and I am lucky to be rich and to love my parents, but I do not love it here. I will pass through.

Between first and second period, at my locker, I see Leigh at her locker, tapping a pack of Camel Lights, and when she catches my eye, I start to walk over, but somebody, a real genius of slapstick, comes up behind me and pushes the back side of my right knee, causing my leg to buckle, and I almost trip. I turn around with a little agitation and find Sarah smiling her coy Sarah smile.

"Falling apart at the seams, Chandler?" she says. Then Trey, the running back, rushes Sarah, taking her in a headlock, holding her like he's in love, and I wonder if Sarah notices this, and when he lets go, there is purple dye smeared across his white jersey. Sarah is always dying her hair. She probably just did it thirty minutes ago, staying home during first period, using one of the drawerful of late notes her mom has written for her.

I watch Trey pushing Sarah down the hall.

"Trey's walking me to class," Sarah yells back. "I'll meet you on the court."

Second period Sarah and I have gym, and so does Leigh, but Coach McGavin lets Sarah and me play tennis, while Leigh and all the other girls have to square dance with the PE boys. I look around for Leigh. I know she has a car today because I saw her pulling into the lot in her mom's old Chrysler, a two-tone two-door.

Sarah and I aren't sixteen yet like Leigh is, even though we're all in the tenth grade, so every day we try to find an older kid with a car to take us off campus for lunch. We've never asked Leigh to take us because you never know when she's going to have her mother's car. Mostly we ask this sweet guy who's a senior in the band, a trombone player, and sometimes we go with this swimmer girl who's a junior with a Bronco. If we ask guys, we always ask guys we would never want to go out with. It would be too humiliating to beg for a ride from a senior on the football team like Trey. But I don't see Leigh anywhere.

I'm late to gym, but I don't mind. I actually prefer it because I hate undressing in front of the other girls. It's not that I'm overweight or ugly or anything. Though I'm cute enough and have blonde hair, I'm shorter and look younger than the others, with smaller hips and breasts. At home, everyone is always covered up. My mother wears a pink or blue cotton nightgown and a pink flowery robe, and my father wears neat Brooks Brothers pajamas with a tattered terry-cloth robe that used to be brick red, but is now pale with spots from too much washing.

Sarah likes undressing in front of other people. When I spend the night at her house, she'll walk down the hall from the bathroom to the bedroom, naked and thin, her straight past-the-shoulders hair hidden under a towel knotted in front, and when I stand there frozen, watching, Sarah says, "What?"

I see Sarah already on the court, sweatpants on, her lucky blue Fila jacket tied around her waist. She's hitting her serve so hard that it bounces in the square, then flies to the metal fence with a clang. My serve takes a couple bounces before it hits the fence with barely a rattle. I can still beat Sarah, though I know it's only a matter of time until she learns to play more consistently, eases up on her power, mixes up her shots. Right now it's a head game -- our matches are close, but I always win.

When I was nine, I went the entire summer, at least ten tournaments in all parts of Arkansas, beating my opponents, even Sarah, 6-0, 6-0. I'm so dreamy about the days when I used to kill everyone.

Sarah and I play a groundstroke game to eleven. I win, barely, by hitting the same shot, deep with topspin, every time. I really do get into a kind of rhythm, and I start thinking of myself like a Buddhist monk chanting one two three hit or like my father who meditates saying the same secret word over and over.

Afterward, we fill up an empty tennis-ball can with water and take turns drinking and talk about what we're going to do for lunch.

"We could stay here," I kid. "Get a Coke and an ice-cream sandwich and stand outside."

"Ah, Chandler baby, no," Sarah says, and I smile.

We start walking back to get dressed for third period, and I spot Leigh smoking under the stadium bleachers. She's long-limbed and awkward there in the shadows but has a pretty face, her wavy brown hair pulled back by two silver barrettes.

I twirl my racquet twice and catch it on the grip. "Why aren't you inside square dancing?" I ask.

"They don't ever miss me," Leigh says.

"Can I have one of those?" Sarah says, then sets her racquet and the tennis balls on the ground.

"Sure," Leigh says, like she's honored that Sarah would smoke one of her cigarettes, and lights it for her. Sarah and Leigh don't really know each other, only a little about each other through me.

"Hey, Leigh," I say, thinking about my lunch plan, and I take the rubber band out of my hair, letting my ponytail fall. "Did your mom call in sick?"

Leigh doesn't answer, just gives me a look like she's ashamed.

"I don't mean anything by it," I say. "I just wondered if you have the car today?"

"I have the car."

"You're sixteen?" Sarah says.

"Yeah, since October." Leigh pauses a moment, taking a drag and looking at us. "Why, do y'all want to go to lunch?"

I smile. "That'd be great. Thanks, Leigh." I reach out for a smoke, and Leigh lights my cigarette off hers, then flicks hers away.

Sarah lets her hand fall to the side and drops her half-smoked cigarette in the grass. "So, how about Hardscrabble?"

Hardscrabble is the name of the country club where Sarah and I have spent nearly every day of our lives playing tennis. I used to think the name was a golfing term, but my dad told me it's because the golf course used to be a farm, which was known, because of its rocky conditions, as a "hardscrabble" way to make a living. It seems weird to me that it's a name of a place where rich people go to take it easy.

"Definitely," I say. "Hardscrabble."

"Do we have time?" says Leigh.

"I have study hall next period," I say. "I can call in our order. No problem."

"But I'm not a member," Leigh says.

"We know, and we'll buy," Sarah says. "What do you want?"

Leigh gathers her hair in her hand, then lets it go. "Maybe a turkey sandwich. With bacon."

"You mean a club sandwich?" Sarah says.

"I guess," says Leigh.

"All right, Leigh," I say. "We'll meet you in the parking lot right when the bell rings. We have to beat everyone out and get there, or we'll never finish in time. It's like a sit-down dinner."

"I know," Leigh says. "We'll get there fast. I'm a good driver."

"Then we'll see you later," Sarah says. She picks up her racquet and the can of balls and walks away, and with the cigarette in one hand and my racquet in the other, I follow.

In study hall, all the football players sit in the back and never study. The closest they come to any real work is copying assignments from me or any other humanitarian who will let them. Trey is always goofing off and thinks it's funny to hold up notes written in big letters that say something like, "Hi, Chandler." I always smile when he does that, even though I know it's subnormal.

Trey and I went to the movies once, and he called my house right before he was supposed to show up and asked my dad, who rarely answers the phone, to ask me if I would iron his shirt for him. My dad was laughing and yelled the message up to my room, and I yelled back that I would. And when Trey came to the door, my dad actually answered because he said he wanted to meet this boy. Usually, if I had a date, my dad would run and hide in the kitchen and leave my mother or me to open the door. It's not that my dad doesn't care about who I go out with. He just doesn't know what to say. And neither did Trey and I on our one and only date.

Coach McGavin runs the study hall. What an easy schedule he has -- gym and study hall. I walk up to him, and he gives me the pass before I even say what I want it for. "Thanks, Coach," I say. I go to the pay phone and call Hardscrabble's clubhouse, where we like to eat lunch. They also have a snack bar, but it's not nearly as nice as the clubhouse. I order a club sandwich for Leigh and two French dips for Sarah and me. I tell the guy who answers to have it ready at 11:30, that we're coming from school, that we only have forty minutes. He says, "No problem. Last name Carey, right?" I feel a little embarrassed that he knows my voice. I say politely as I can, "That's right. Thanks so much."

Sarah and I meet by the trophy case and walk out to the parking lot together. Leigh is already waiting for us in her mom's car.

"Cool," I say, getting into the backseat.

"Yeah, Leigh," Sarah says and shuts the door. "How'd you get out here so fast?"

"I left physics early."

"You must have Mr. Holbrook," Sarah says. "I have him first period, and I'm always late. He doesn't care."

"Well, we can't be late coming back from lunch," I tell Leigh. "We have geometry fourth. Mrs. Schneider."

Leigh nods and starts driving. "Want some music?"

"Yeah, baby," Sarah says and starts turning the dial.

We're just about to leave the lot when we hear a horn blaring behind us. We all turn to see Trey hanging halfway out the window of his new black Firebird, his white jersey waving. We take a right and a quick left onto Cliff Drive, the road that Hardscrabble Country Club is on, and Trey follows us, with his shiny chrome rims, his big tires, his tail fin high in the air.

"God, what a tacky car," I say.

"It's not that bad," Sarah says. "I kind of like it."

"I'd rather be in this one," I say. "Right, Leigh?"

Leigh turns back and smiles at me, then looks ahead, speeding up a little. Cliff Drive is a long, windy road lined with expensive houses with long driveways. It's hard to see the houses from the road, but Leigh keeps glancing back and forth, trying to see something. Sarah rolls down her window and climbs halfway out, the purple streaks in her dark hair blowing, and yells "woo" over to Trey like she's at a concert.

"Good Lord," I say and pull on her to get back in. "Be careful."

"Hey," she says. "Relax."

As we round the corner coming up to the club, I turn around and see Trey taking the curve too fast. His car swings off the road, jackknifes, then goes into a ditch, only his stupid tail fin showing. Sarah sees it, too, and laughs.

"What a moron!" I say.

"What is it?" asks Leigh, and Sarah tells her what she missed.

Leigh slows down and takes the exit for Hardscrabble. She circles the lot, hesitating. "Should we go back?"

"No, he's fine," I say. "He's wrecked there twice before."

"Yeah, don't worry about little Trey, Leigh baby," Sarah says. "Try to park up front."

"Yeah," I say. "Time is of the essence." This is a phrase my mother uses when I'm running late, which is almost always.

We rush into the country club and walk through the bar, and Sarah and I grab nuts and mints from little bowls set around on small marble tables. In the dining room, we sit by a window, so we have a good view of the golf course. Sarah tells Leigh about how I almost killed her with a 7 iron. She always tells that story whenever she gets the chance.

A waiter comes up to us with menus, but I tell him we already ordered by phone, and he smiles and fills our water glasses and takes our drink order. I get a Coke like always, and Sarah gets a virgin strawberry daiquiri, and Leigh orders iced tea.

Leigh leans over and says in a hushed voice, "Is everyone that works here black?"

I shrug. "I guess."

"I think I've seen a few white ones before," Sarah says, then waves her hand and gets a different waiter to bring us crackers and bread and butter.

"This is really nice," Leigh says. "Thanks for bringing me here."

"Thanks for driving us here," Sarah says, buttering a cracker.

The waiter returns with our sandwiches on a big round tray he carries with one hand above his shoulder, and another waiter follows him, like he's the other waiter's waiter, carrying our drinks.

"Cool," I say. "We still have twenty-seven minutes."

On the side of Leigh's plate are silver cups with mayonnaise and mustard, and she spreads both on each layer of the four triangles of her sandwich. Sarah and I dig into our French dips and have a silver cup of ketchup between us for our fries.

"This is way better than the school cafeteria," Leigh says.

"Chandler and I," says Sarah, "have never eaten there. We've successfully gotten a ride every day for three months. And in just four more months, we won't have to. I'm sixteen in March."

"When are you sixteen, Chandler?" Leigh says.

I take a drink of my Coke. "Not until next September."

"God," Leigh says. "I'm almost a year older."

"Chandler's got a bad birthday," Sarah explains, holding her virgin daiquiri like it's real. "If she were just one month younger, she could play sixteen-and-under tennis for an extra year." Sarah waves her drink around. "So Leigh, what's up with your mom?"

Leigh takes a bite of her sandwich, then a drink of her iced tea. "What do you mean?"

I eat a fry and Leigh doesn't say anything, so I say, "Nothing's up with her. She just calls in sick a lot."

"She hates working," Leigh says.

"Man, I don't blame her." Sarah raises her glass and says, "To not ever having to work."

Leigh smiles, and I smile.

"Let's get out of here," I say. "Time is of the essence."

I raise my hand for the waiter, and he brings over our ticket, and I sign my father's name with a short yellow pencil, Ben L. Carey #379.

We have about five minutes before the bell rings. What takes the most time is finding a parking place in the school lot. But Leigh tells us not to worry about it and that if we're late getting back, she'll drop us off by the door.

Leigh turns on the radio and switches the dial around and stops on a commercial that we all know by heart, and we say together in a deep, dopey voice, "C&H Tire. 8701 Rogers. Where we do it just for you."

Leigh takes a right onto Cliff Drive, and we only go about ten yards because there's so much traffic. It normally gets a little backed up every day with kids rushing from McDonald's or Wendy's, but this is way worse than usual.

Sarah's in the backseat this time, and she yells up, "What the hell?"

Leigh is quiet, concentrating, moving the car slowly.

"I can't tell," I say. I roll down the window and lean out as far as I can. In the distance, I can see a fire truck and blue police lights. A cop is waving cars around.

Sarah leans up, too, and tries to get a look. "Is that all for Trey?" she says.

"It has to be," Leigh says.

We creep forward, and as we approach the curve, I see Trey's black Firebird still tipped down into the ditch. His shiny chrome rims, his big tires, his tail fin.

"That looks pretty bad," Leigh says.

I feel relieved when I see Trey standing there by a cop. He looks fine. The back of his white jersey is clean around the number and not torn or anything. The cop is probably talking to him about the big away game tonight in Pine Bluff, which is pretty far from Fort Smith, about four hours. I think the football team is supposed to leave right after lunch. Trey's probably worried about missing the bus. "Thank God," I say. "He's okay. He's right there."

Sarah is still leaning up over the seat, but she doesn't say anything.

"That's not him," Leigh says. "That's someone else. Trey's #68."

"She's right," Sarah says.

Leigh inches the car forward, then the policeman directing traffic makes us stop, and we're right next to Trey's car. Leigh shifts into park, and we all look. The front end is crumpled by at least three feet against the side of the ditch. Firemen are working to cut Trey out. The door is open, but his body is wrapped around the steering wheel. His head stuffed between the dash and the windshield. There is blood on his jersey and on his head and in the cracks of the glass.

I look away and notice that people are starting to drive around us and that we're the ones who are holding things up. The policeman knocks on the back of our car and startles us, tells us to get moving. Leigh puts the car in drive, and we proceed.

Nobody says anything. Maybe we don't know what to say, or what to think. I look at one of the fancy houses and think that I like my house better. And I like Sarah's house even better than mine. She lives in this long sprawling one on the other side of Hardscrabble, on the back nine of the golf course. Sometimes, when I spend the night over there, we'll sneak out and meet guys.

One night Trey met us there with another football player. I was the one who was supposed to be with Trey, but we still had the same problem talking to each other. We lay down on a green, the short grass more perfect than carpet, and looked at the stars. We never kissed, but he put his arm around me, and his other hand rubbed on my shoulder and on my elbow and on my wrist and on my palm and on each finger. He was the first boy to ever touch me like that, and I never even kissed him.

Traffic is moving almost back to normal. The second lunch has already started, and we see kids breeze by the other way, not knowing what's ahead.

Leigh turns off the radio. Sarah starts crying. Leigh looks over to me, and I look back to her, then put my hand over my eyes. Sarah's breathing is loud and erratic. Leigh turns into the lot.

"You can go ahead and park," I say.

"No, I'll drop you off," she says. "I want to."

She pulls up to the entrance of the school, and I wipe my eyes.

"You sure?" I ask. "We'll wait and walk in with you."

"No, go ahead," she says.

I open my door and get out, then pull the seat forward for Sarah. I grip her arm and steady her until she's standing. I start to thank Leigh for the ride but stop myself. I want to tell her that I'm sorry, that we should've gone back, I should've let her go back, but I don't say anything, just shut the door and watch her drive off, all by herself, looking for a place to park.

Sarah and I walk into the school, and I'm wondering how long it will take to forget this walk. It seems too quiet. There should be a commotion in the halls. Others saw what we saw, but classes have already started, and we are going to be late.

Copyright © 2004 by Jennifer Paddock

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What People are saying about this

Melinda Haynes
A Secret Word is a rare gem of a book, distilled and heartbreaking, yet full of quiet grace that illuminates the page in extraordinary ways. There is something about Paddock's writing that defies conventional description. The closest word I can summon is 'magic.
author of Mother of Pearl and Willem's Field
Jay McInerney
A Secret Word is a remarkably subtle and nuanced coming of age novel which captures the dreamy rhythms of adolescence between staccato moments of crisis as three perfectly ordinary and utterly memorable young southern women find themselves transported inexorably into the cosmopolitan landscape of womanhood. While many first novelists wave their arms and stamp their feet to get our attention, Jennifer Paddock seduces the reader with the narrative equivalent of a raised eyebrow or the almost imperceptible nod of the head. At the end the reader is inclined to ask of the writer as well as her characters--what's next?
author of Bright Lights, Big City
William Gay
Poignant and true, Paddock's language evokes the elegiac way lives play themselves out. Her characters are vividly alive, for she writes with her heart as well as her hands.
author of I Hate to See that Evening Sun Go Down
Amanda Eyre Ward
A Secret Word combines the shards of three young women's lives to create a glorious kaleidoscope of loneliness, yearning, and hope. Jennifer Paddock's dreamy, lyrical prose captures each careful moment--we watch, spellbound, as Chandler, Leigh, and Sarah reach toward adulthood.
author of Sleep Toward Heaven
Michael Knight
Jennifer Paddock has written a perfect novel-in-stories. A Secret Word is whole in a way that most of the kind are not; it resonates. That's partly because the three women at the center of the story are so memorable, their lives so inexorably linked, and partly because Paddock writes like Raymond Carver with a bigger heart--simple, graceful but tough, always with an eye on the possibilty of redemption.
author of Goodnight, Nobody

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Meet the Author

Jennifer Paddock is the author of A Secret Word. She lives in Point Clear, Alabama.

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Secret Word 4.5 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 19 reviews.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This book was excellent--filled with heart and beautiful writing. It made me think back to what life was like in my twenties--the job that wasn't what I thought it would be, the bad boyfriends, friendships that would come and go. I related to all the characters, but probably to Chandler the most, who is the main character. I look forward to reading more from Jennifer Paddock.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Totally disappointed with this mediocre book- juvenile waste of time- this is typical chick lit which is an insult to a thinking woman's intelligence
Guest More than 1 year ago
This is a wonderful novel about three girls who are friends in high school and then go their separate ways. But it is more than just a female friendship book. It is tragic and beautiful and an honest account of what it is like to to be young and sad and hopeful for what your life could become.
Guest More than 1 year ago
The reviews for this book are incredible, so I thought I would check it out. A Secret Word is not the genius work I expected. Overall, I found the book to be decent, but juvenile and maybe should have been classified as 'Young Adult'. I did appreciate the way the author portrayed the 3 main characters as girls who think they know it all, but individually do not.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Unfortunately, 'chick lit' has come to equal 'light, fluffy, magazine-esque,' and this book is not that. It is lovely, assured, touching, moving... I loved it. My only complaint is that the cover sorely misrepresents the kind of book this is, full of heart and some seriously quality writing. Marketing dept, wake up! This is a major talent, not just another booze- boyfriends-and-the-city one-book wonder.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This is chick lit - but it's really good chick lit. The characters are very real and their stories have that quality of universality your high school English teacher droned on about. You don't have to be from Ft Smith, Arkansas or Manhattan to relate to their plights.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Three generations of women in my family read this book. We all loved it. Parts of it took place in my hometown, and that was cool. But I also liked the scenes in New York City and Florence.
Guest More than 1 year ago
What a fun novel with fascinating characters and plot turns. And I love the clever chapter headings ('The Kind of Girl He Plays Guitar For', 'A Winter's Daughter', 'Florence in a Room'). So there's smart language here, but also good solid storytelling. I know these girls! you'll say over and over. Then you'll realize, I AM these girls! And, you know what, in the end, it's a good thing, which is really nice to realize.
Guest More than 1 year ago
The author, Jennifer Paddock, does something I have never seen anywhere else. Over a significant span of time, she graduates the voices of her characters. Usually an author will cover 15 years or the like by utilizing a reflective voice, someone looking back and using the past tense so that all you get is a mature voice capturing an immature past. Too easy. What Paddock does is use the present tense so that what you witness as the pages pass is human evolution, literally. And she does that not just once, with one narrator. Too easy. Paddock does that with three characters, three narrators, and interweaves their immature, though gradually maturing, voices into a breath-takingly radiant and harmonious tapestry elegant enough for the Vatican. Really. And the surprise is that Paddock does this so softly, so subtly. Technique never overshadows the story of these three unique young women who are narrating because, ultimately, they're just living their lives. They're in love. Or they're not loved. They're desperate to flee their small town. Or they're desperate to return. And while so much goes on, story-wise, emotion-wise, the reader just might miss this intricate network of nuanced language. And that's why I've decided to write this review, simply because no one has yet singled out what I find in this remarkable book to be the most remarkable element about it.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I've read about 20 books so far this summer, because I'm a fast reader, because I love to read, especially during the summer, and I keep comparing everything, even what I like or even like a lot, to this stunning debut by Jennifer Paddock. She sets the bar to a new, higher level for how a book should be written: concise but rich in detail, page-turning but remarkably nuanced and complex. There's a cast of very original characters that weave in and out of this mesmerizing novel--some even real people fictionalized (the use of the tap dancer Savion Glover is extraordinary and so is the singer Freedy Johnston). Every woman should read this book, and every man should who wants to know how we think, how we feel, how we grieve, and how and why we love.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Jennifer Paddock's debut novel is strikingly original. As clever as Mark Haddon's The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, as poignant as Chang-rae Lee's Aloft, and as fun and easy to read as Helen Fielding's Bridget Jones's Diary. What else can I compare it to? The Catcher in the Rye. You get the point. A Secret Word is a breathtaker. It's brilliant, and it's musical. Sentences still loop in my head. And you'll never guess where it goes next in plot, or in character, or in insight. Prediction: we have the next Salinger, the next Carver, the next Hemingway. Paddock. Remember the name.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I loved this book. It's set in Arkansas, New York, Washington, D.C., and Florence, Italy, and covers 15 years in the lives of three girls. The storylines of the three girls converge and break apart in magical and surprising ways. The characters are new and different, but still feel like someone you know, an older sister, a best friend, a girl you remember from high school.
Guest More than 1 year ago
In A Secret Word, Jennifer Paddock reveals herself to be a new and fresh voice in literature, one sure to be heard from again. Once a talent such as this becomes known, it will almost certainly return to the lists. My congratulations to Ms. Paddock on her success in emerging from the pack of otherwise deserving authors who are still waiting for the 'break' they need. Of course, writing a great book helped.
Guest More than 1 year ago
The author, Jennifer Paddock, does something I have never seen anywhere else. Over a significant span of time, she graduates the voices of her characters. Usually an author will cover 15 years or the like by utilizing a reflective voice, someone looking back and using the past tense so that all you get is a mature voice capturing an immature past. Too easy. What Paddock does is use the present tense so that what you witness as the pages pass is human evolution, literally. And she does that not just once, with one narrator. Too easy. Paddock does that with three characters, three narrators, and interweaves their immature, though gradually maturing, voices into a breath-takingly radiant and harmonious tapestry elegant enough for the Vatican. Really. And the surprise is that Paddock does this so softly, so subtly. Technique never overshadows the story of these three unique young women who are narrating because, ultimately, they're just living their lives. They're in love. Or they're not loved. They're desperate to flee their small town. Or they're desperate to return. And while so much goes on, story-wise, emotion-wise, the reader just might miss this intricate network of nuanced language. And that's why I've decided to write this review, simply because no one has yet singled out what I find in this remarkable book to be the most remarkable element about it.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I was disappointed with the plot of this novel. I had to force myself to finish the book and by the last chapter, I was still asking what was the purpose of the plot. I was expecting the events to tie into the characters, but they didn't.
Guest More than 1 year ago
A Secret Word caught my eye in bookstores a number of times, with its flashy cover, but it wasn't until I read a very poignant excerpt in the New York Times was I compelled to buy it and read it, and I learned all over again why you shouldn't judge a book by its cover. Not that I don't like the cover, I just thought the book might ONLY be fun and flashy and ONLY for young girls. This book, though, is for ANYONE, and amazingly it's about EVERYTHING--the burden of parents, the sadness of love, the necessity of art, and the interesting dynamic of friendships unbeknownst to us, among other things. My point: there's a wild, exhilarating unpredictability to this novel--with its structure of leaping time and alternating voices, and how the three heroines grow into very wise women who observe the world much more perceptively than most of us. A Secret Word is definitely a fun book, but it's also a thoughtful one. One I can't stop thinking about.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This book mesmerized me. Totally. Like a Coldplay CD, by how musical, how circular and soothing the writing style is, and how it riffs with themes as easily, really brilliantly, as it does with seemingly benign details, like the color of a golf tee or the shape of a scar. I like to underline lines that I like a lot when I read so I can come back to them and reread them. Here are some: 'Leigh is the kind of girl who hangs around girls who get in fights.' 'I don't feel anything. And when I should feel something, some kind of gratitude, it is too late, and my chance to feel what I should have felt has passed.' 'Outside it's snowing, big flakes coming down like linen between the buildings.' 'I shake my head, and before I can speak, as if he knows what I'm about to say, he shakes his head, too, and we're now rocking, locked in each other's grasp, smiling and shaking our heads, then nodding, as if to questions and declarations in a language we have just discovered and is all our own.' 'The salt air is medicine to me, and I am now certain that I will become who I really am here, to be cured of all that I never was.' Paddock is real. Lyrical without being boring, and wise without being pretentious. I recommend A Secret Word highly, highly.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This is a wonderful, beautiful, fun, sad, seductive book. I can¿t think of another novel that captures the female experience as this one does, and so perfectly. There are three main characters, three friends with three very different backgrounds, and their lives are intricately and poetically woven over the span of fifteen years--between ages 15 and 30. Leigh, Chandler, and Sarah strive and struggle, but when the novel ends, it seems they know everything that they need to know, or can be known. That¿s the amazing trick to this book. There¿s rare honesty, and wisdom, in Jennifer Paddock¿s writing. I read it straight through in one day and one late night.
Guest More than 1 year ago
In 1986 Fort Smith, Arkansas, three tenth grade coeds and the boyfriend of one of the trio is in a car crash during an off campus lunch. The boy dies in the crash bonding the threesome with this tragedy. Two of the female students were already close friends coming from the elite of the community while the third belonged to the working poor. Not long after graduating, the affluent duo Chandler and Sarah leave the hicks for the bright lights of Broadway while Leigh remains behind toiling at minimum wage.

Over the years, Chandler and Sarah enjoy the swinging life of the Big Apple until a tragedy forces the former to come home. While Sarah continues jet setting, Leigh tries to help Chandler adapt to her new life.

The novel is an intriguing look over a fifteen-year span at three individuals tied together through the starting point tragedy. The low-key novel rotates first person narratives so that the audience sees the same event or time in separate first-person chapters. The crucial element that makes the tale work is that regardless of whether you remain behind in Fort Smith, move to Manhattan, or return to your small hometown, a person can never escape a pivotal moment calamity that ensures you can never truly leave home.

Harriet Klausner