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  PRAISE FOR TRUE PLACES

  “Engrossing and provocative.”

  —Cynthia Swanson, New York Times bestselling author of The Glass Forest and The Bookseller

  “A knockout novel: beautiful, unique, suspenseful, and full of wonder.”

  —Julie Cantrell, New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of Perennials

  “A stunning novel with luminous prose and a story that speaks straight to the heart.”

  —Camille Pagán, bestselling author of Life and Other Near-Death Experiences

  “A smart, tension-filled family drama—Yoerg at her best.”

  —Julie Lawson Timmer, author of Five Days Left, Untethered, and Mrs. Saint and the Defectives

  “Gripping, emotional, and deeply authentic, True Places will have you flipping pages long into the night.”

  —Kristy Woodson Harvey, national bestselling author of The Secret to Southern Charm

  “Tender and triumphant . . . readers will be swept along in the gorgeous narrative and fall in love with the artfully drawn characters plucked from real life.”

  —Nicole Baart, author of Little Broken Things and You Were Always Mine

  “Readers will enjoy every moment of getting lost in the pages of True Places, with its richly drawn, realistic characters and loving attention to the details of the natural world. A beautiful book, all around.”

  —Susan Gloss, USA Today bestselling author of Vintage and The Curiosities

  PRAISE FOR ALL THE BEST PEOPLE

  “Not just the best people, but real people: authentic, quirky, and troubled. I cared for them all.”

  —Chris Bohjalian, New York Times bestselling author of The Flight Attendant

  “Deftly and with the delicate brush of a master, Yoerg draws us into this brilliant, multigenerational saga of love, madness, mysticism, and the markings they leave on a family.”

  —Christopher Scotton, author of The Secret Wisdom of the Earth

  “A stirring tale of mothers and daughters, their secrets and their strength . . . a mesmerizing read.”

  —Lynda Cohen Loigman, author of The Wartime Sisters

  “A powerful and haunting novel about betrayal and shame, acceptance and unconditional love. Book clubs will devour it.”

  —Barbara Claypole White, bestselling author of The Perfect Son

  PRAISE FOR THE MIDDLE OF SOMEWHERE

  “Yoerg knows how to keep the pages turning in this fast-paced, action-packed, heart-tugging novel.”

  —Heather Gudenkauf, New York Times bestselling author of Before She Was Found

  “The perfect blend of self-discovery and suspense.”

  —Kate Moretti, New York Times bestselling author of In Her Bones

  “Yoerg skillfully explores how the weight of remorse makes the search for personal redemption a test of not just the will, but the heart . . . stunningly descriptive prose.”

  —Susan Meissner, USA Today bestselling author of The Last Year of the War

  PRAISE FOR HOUSE BROKEN

  “A stunning debut that will have readers wanting more! Yoerg is on par with Jennifer Weiner and Sarah Pekkanen.”

  —Library Journal starred review

  “With beautiful prose and an unflinching eye, Sonja Yoerg has created a riveting tale exploring the power of family secrets. House Broken is a novel that will burn itself into your memory. The book is, by turns, brilliant, heartbreaking, shocking, and hopeful.”

  —Ellen Marie Wiseman, author of The Life She Was Given

  “House Broken is a powerful tale of the ways in which families hurt and heal. Gorgeously written with characters that shine.”

  —Eileen Goudge, New York Times bestselling author of Garden of Lies

  “A compelling tale of a family gone awry and the ultimate cost of maintaining shameful secrets. House Broken is everything I love in women’s fiction . . . beautiful writing, strong characters, a dash of mystery, and the hope for redemption.”

  —Lori Nelson Spielman, #1 international bestselling author of The Life List

  ALSO BY SONJA YOERG

  All the Best People

  The Middle of Somewhere

  House Broken

  True Places

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2020 by Sonja Yoerg

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542019729 (hardcover)

  ISBN-10: 1542019729 (hardcover)

  ISBN-13: 9781542004664 (paperback)

  ISBN-10: 1542004667 (paperback)

  Cover design by Rex Bonomelli

  First edition

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  Nasira’s Story

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  Miles’s Story

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  Harlan’s Story

  Jackie’s Story

  CHAPTER 31

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER 1

  Just dinner.

  The innocence of the phrase is deceptive, as deceptive as the dinner itself would turn out to be, as Jackie would discover ninety-eight days later. Dinner with friends, a table for four. Dinner with people she thought she knew and loved. As it turns out, no one is who she believed they were, least of all herself. So much secrecy, and in its service so many lies. And shame, at least for some.

  They say—the infamous, authoritative “they”—that the worst lies are those you tell yourself. Even before the dinner, before everything began to unravel, Jackie had been skeptical of the veracity of that old chestnut. Being true to yourself is noble, but other people’s lies can cripple you whether you are self-actualized or not. All it takes is a little misplaced trust, a scrap of faith made of white cloth.

  That night at dinner a match would be struck, and the white cloth lit, although it would burn slowly. Slow, too, would be the dawning of Jackie’s understanding. She knew (in her mind, not her heart) that appearances could be deceptive, and that love, desire, and ambition make it harder to see others for who they are.

  Smart, rational people—even those who study people for a living, like Jackie—can get it wrong.

  Dead wrong.

  For a second time, Jackie checks her hair and makeup in the visor mirror, stalling. She hates being late, and there’s no reason to dawdle now. It is, after all, just dinner with two people she knows intimately: Mi
les, her husband of eighteen months, and Harlan, her colleague in the Psychology Department and, more saliently, her former boyfriend. Oh, and a surprise guest.

  Jackie frowns at herself and fusses with her eyebrow. She also hates surprises.

  She hasn’t seen Miles in ten days. It’s his busy season, scouting young athletes, football players mostly, hoping to sign them. He’s meeting her at the restaurant—she checks her watch—ten minutes ago. Harlan’s been on sabbatical the past year, and during that interval they met only once, briefly, at a conference. Has she missed him? Of course. You don’t date a man for five years, then pretend he has nothing going for him, especially when that man is Harlan. Jackie’s not a revisionist.

  The three have had dinner before, many times, and weathered the initial awkwardness. It was Harlan’s idea to socialize when Jackie and Miles began dating four years ago. He invited them to a Redskins game, and the men became fast friends, with no apparent jealousy on either side. The Psychology Department isn’t big enough to harbor enmity, so Jackie welcomed the chance to normalize her relationship with Harlan.

  Phone in hand, Jackie grabs her bag, opens the door. She’s parked too close to the next car and maneuvers through the narrow gap, scuttling sideways, sucking in her stomach to avoid getting dirt on her dress. She texts Miles, In 5! , and hurries out of the parking garage. She glances at her screen, reading Harlan’s message from earlier today for the fifth time.

  Bringing a friend tonight so changed the table to four. Eager to catch up with you and Miles. It’s been too long.

  A friend? Never did a word convey less. If Harlan meant to arouse her curiosity, he’d succeeded.

  She pockets the phone and makes her way out to Potomac Street. Partway along the second block she spots Miles; his white-blond hair is a beacon. He’s resting against a lamppost, extinguishing a cigarette on the sole of his shoe, a move at once masculine and regrettable. Three cigarettes a day aren’t going to kill him, but why not just quit? It almost seems weaker to smoke three than the pack a day he’d smoked when she met him. Miles pulls a roll of mints from his trouser pocket and slides one into his mouth with one hand, extracting his phone from the breast pocket of his blazer with the other. Jackie smiles. For a former rugby star built like a dumpster, he has grace.

  He looks up from his phone, zeroes in on her, and sends her a lopsided grin. She lifts her face to his for a minty, smoky kiss. “Hello, husband mine.”

  “Hello, beautiful.” His usual greeting, springing from his European gentility and inherent goodness, but delivered in a way that never allows her to question his sincerity.

  They set off and turn left onto Horatio. Within seconds Miles is out in front, as usual. Jackie takes several quick steps to catch up and tugs the sleeve of his jacket.

  “Slow down. Notice my footwear?”

  Miles peers at her feet, clad in emerald-green stilettos. “Oh. Those.”

  “You can’t say ‘those’ with that tone. You must pay homage to their fabulousness.”

  “You’re teetering.”

  “Hardly.”

  He resumes walking, albeit more slowly, and tucks her arm under his. “It’s just that we’re late.”

  She checks her watch. “Harlan’s never on time. And I only wore these in case his friend is one of those six-footers that are so common nowadays. I don’t want to look like the doomed runt about to be pushed out of the nest.”

  He squeezes her arm. “You look fine.”

  “Fine? If I get another downgrade before we get to the restaurant, I’m not going in.”

  Miles guides them around a group of college students—Adams University, judging by a sweatshirt and a baseball cap—lined up outside a pizza place. “What are you worried about anyway? It’s dinner. Relax.”

  “You know I don’t like to relax. And all the intrigue around this late-breaking plus-one.” Jackie had texted Miles about Harlan’s friend. “Who do you suppose? Someone from the sandbox? A college roomie? No, wait. A paramour?” She figured it had to be the latter. Why else be cagey? But not even that made sense. Jackie had obviously moved on to, well, marriage, so Harlan had no reason to be delicate with her feelings. Not that he had ever been.

  Miles laughs. “We’re about to find out.”

  Miles holds open the glass door of the Estrela for her and approaches the host, a Christian Bale look-alike in a slim-fit charcoal suit and a white shirt open at the collar.

  “Reservation for Crispin, please. For four.” Miles doesn’t have to ask her who booked the table. Harlan has this top DC restaurant on speed dial.

  The bar stretches behind the host stand, slightly elevated and delineated by a brass railing that curves into the room. Opposite the bar, a row of small tables lines a wall, where geometric artwork hangs inside an alcove illuminated from below by golden lights. More tables, squares for four, fill the center. White linens, beechwood chairs, hushed waitstaff. It’s Saturday night, and the place hums, redolent of warm sourdough and roasted meat. Jackie turns away, not wanting to scan for Harlan and appear overeager. She slips off her coat, and Miles hangs it among others off to the side. She catches her reflection in the glass entry, runs her fingers through her shoulder-length hair, arranging the waves, a move so practiced as to be invisible.

  The host leads them into the room. Jackie pulls her shoulders back and pictures Miles behind her, his casual ease, his “it’s dinner” straightforwardness. Her husband. A role Harlan refused.

  “Enjoy your evening.” The host steps aside, and Harlan stands in front of her, smiling, looking as he always does, his graying hair, long and thick as a pirate’s, swept back from his forehead, his dark-brown eyes clear, glinting.

  “Jackie,” he says.

  Something inside her pulls open, his voice like the swipe of a finger moving along a feather in the wrong direction, unzipping the interlocking barbs, splaying them apart.

  “Welcome back.” She gives him her cheek, leaning awkwardly because she doesn’t trust herself to take a step just now, not in these shoes. And not when the citrus pinch of his aftershave, Guerlain Vetiver, rings in her head like a fucking bell and she is Pavlov’s bitch. Couldn’t he switch brands? There ought to be a law. Olfactory memories are made of hardened steel—she knows that—but her reaction surprises her nonetheless. Her reptilian brain has apparently misplaced the memo that she is over him.

  Miles reaches around to shake Harlan’s hand. “Hey, great to see you.” Miles’s smile is warm, genuine, like everything about him. Jackie stabilizes herself against her husband’s shoulder.

  Harlan gestures toward the table, toward the woman seated to his left.

  Jackie smiles reflexively in greeting, then realizes who it is. “Nasira?” Jackie glances at Harlan, but he’s taking a seat, arranging his napkin.

  “Hi, Jackie.” Nasira’s voice is soft and breathy.

  Harlan says, “Miles, I don’t think you’ve met Nasira Amari, have you?”

  Miles answers, but the words don’t register. Jackie stares across the table at Nasira, her new postdoctoral research associate. What is she doing here? For a moment Jackie thinks that perhaps she invited Nasira and forgot, but no, that is impossible. She wouldn’t include Nasira in an intimate dinner with friends, not before getting to know her.

  “What a surprise,” Jackie manages, and turns to Harlan with raised eyebrows. Getting to know her. Surely he will offer an explanation, a reason for inviting her postdoc at the last minute, or perhaps an account of how they have come to know each other. Jackie spots a flicker of mischief in his eyes, which dissolves as quickly as Jackie’s certainty that it ever existed. Classic Harlan.

  Jackie feels everyone’s eyes on her and sits. Miles holds her chair—ever the gentleman—and takes his seat. Jackie, having been sideswiped by Nasira’s presence, is eager to prove she can still steer. “Sorry we’re a little late. Harlan, what’s this new zest for punctuality?”

  Harlan laughs. “You know how keen I am on self-improvement.” This is a so
lid brick of irony, but it flies right past Nasira, as it would, since she couldn’t possibly know Harlan at all well. She’s only been in the department, what, not even three weeks?

  Nasira says, “The Portrait Gallery closes at seven, but they start hustling you out earlier. The timing was perfect.”

  “The Portrait Gallery,” Jackie repeats. She wants to ask Harlan what the hell they put in the water in Madison to render him amenable to a museum outing—portraiture no less—but stops herself. She stacks that question behind the others; her curiosity is her sharpest, largest sword. But she can’t interrogate her ex-boyfriend in front of her new postdoc or her husband. Even as her mind races to illicit and alarming conclusions, she’s wary of jumping the gun and making an ass of herself.

  Miles asks about the exhibits (more good manners—he cares less about stuffy art than Harlan does, or did), and small talk swirls around the table. Jackie studies Nasira. Of course, Jackie is familiar with Nasira’s appearance from work, but either the lighting in the lab is worse than Jackie thought or she hadn’t been paying attention to her postdoc. Whatever the cause, tonight Nasira is gorgeous in every detail: heart-shaped face, dusky olive complexion, catlike eyes so dark the irises are nearly black, perfectly arched eyebrows, full lips. Until now, Jackie hasn’t been able to pinpoint whom Nasira reminds her of: Jasmine, the Disney princess. And like the princess, Nasira is tiny, as if it would be an offense to the balance of the universe for her to be so beautiful and take up any more space. Jackie feels like a mastodon by comparison and regrets the shoes. What is Nasira wearing exactly? Some garment consisting of lengths of soft dove-colored cloth, twisted and draped loosely across her body. Its construction confounds Jackie. Nasira wouldn’t undress so much as unravel.

  Jackie hurries away from that thought.

  The waiter arrives, a godsend of distraction, and asks for drink orders.

  “I think so,” Harlan says. “Jackie?”

  Sure, age before beauty. But there is nothing other than affection and solicitousness in his expression. “I’d love a martini. Dirty.”

  Harlan’s grin slides sideways, and he winks at her.

  “I’m fine with water, thanks,” Nasira says.