What We Never Said

Some things you say once. Some things you spend nine years not saying.

On the morning of October 19, 1987, Erin Whitfield watched a room full of men on the thirty-first floor stop shouting and start doing arithmetic. Nine days later a man from Personnel used the word restructuring, and two weeks after that she was sitting in a Honda in her parents' driveway in a small town in Central New York, with the whole of her life in a truck that had beaten her home.

Jamie Costa is still there. Three years on second shift at the flatware plant, two at the plastics press, and now a Central Market apron with her name spelled wrong on the tag and, since September, accounting classes at the two-year college twenty minutes south. She has four rooms over a landlord who watches the driveway, a mother who manages what the street says about her house, and a key to the Whitfields' back door that she has carried on her ring since she was twelve and has not used since 1978.

They were best friends from the age of nine. Then there was a party, a dare, and two seconds that everybody laughed at, and they never spoke of it again. Erin went to Cornell and Wall Street. Jamie stayed. Each of them has spent nine years certain the other forgot.

Now there is a lasagna, a standing Thursday, and a winter closing in. A decent man at the bank who speaks Erin's language. A decent man at the Agway who puts tires on Jamie's car. Two mothers who see everything and say none of it. And a woman at the end of the diner counter who has run a business in that town for sixteen years by knowing everything and repeating nothing.

What We Never Said is a love story about restraint: about two women who learned early exactly what a word costs, and about the year they finally find out what silence does. Set across one upstate winter and the summer that follows it, from the first snow off the lake to the morning the corn goes gold, it is a novel for readers who have been waiting for the quiet ones to get their kiss.

Explicit on the page. Honest to the period. Nothing fades to black.