BONUS: This edition contains a The Late, Lamented Molly Marx discussion guide and an excerpt from Sally Koslow's With Friends Like These .
The circumstances of Molly Marx’s death may be suspicious, but she hasn’t lost her sense of humor. Newly arrived in the hereafter, aka the Duration, Molly discovers that she can still keep tabs on those she left behind: Annabel, her beloved four-year-old daughter; Lucy, her combustible twin sister; Kitty, her piece-of-work mother-in-law; Brie, her beautiful and steadfast best friend; and of course her husband, Barry, a plastic surgeon with more than a professional interest in many of his female patients. As the police question Molly’s circle of intimates about the circumstances of her death, Molly relives the years and days that led up to her sudden end—and takes responsibility for her choices in life.
Exploring the bonds of motherhood, marriage, and friendship, and narrated by a memorable and endearing character, The Late, Lamented Molly Marx is a hilarious, deeply moving, and thought-provoking novel that is part mystery, part love story, and all heart.
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|Title of eBook: The Late, Lamented Molly Marx|
|Release Date: 05-19-2009|
|Allowed Countries (hover)|
|Publisher: Random House Publishing Group|
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The Late, Lamented Molly Marx
Kill Me Now
When I imagined my funeral, this wasn’t what I had in mind. First of all, I hoped I would be old, a stately ninetysomething who’d earned the right to be called elegant; a woman with an intimate circle of loved ones fanned out in front of her, their tender sorrow connecting them like lace.
I definitely hoped to be in a far more beautiful place—a stone chapel by the sea, perhaps, with pounding purple-gray waves drowning out mourners’ sobs. For no apparent reason—I’m not even Scottish—there would be wailing bagpipes, men in Campbell tartan, and charmingly reserved grandchildren, or even great-grandchildren, coaxed into reciting their own sweet poetry. I don’t know where the children’s red curls come from, since my hair is chemically enhanced blond and straight as a ruler. The bereaved—incredibly, those weepy old souls are my own kids—dab away tears with linen handkerchiefs, though on every other occasion they have used only tissues. The service takes place shortly before sunset in air fragrant with lilacs. Spring. At least where I grew up, in the Chicago suburbs, that’s what lilacs signify: the end of a long winter, life beginning anew.
I didn’t expect to be here, in a cavernous, dimly lit Manhattan synagogue. I didn’t expect to be surrounded by at least four hundred people, a good three hundred of whom I don’t recall talking to even once. Most of all, I didn’t expect to be young. Well, maybe some people don’t think thirty-five is young, but I do. It’s far too young to die, because while my story isn’t quite at the beginning, it isn’t at the end, ei...