“A very entertaining and, ultimately, deeply moving novel about the complex bonds between mother and daughter.” — Washington Post
“An insightful, delicious novel.” — Oregonian
“A big, blowzy romp through the rainbow eccentricities of three generations of crazy bayou debutantes trying to survive marriage, motherhood, and pain, relying always on eah other… A novel of wide reach and lots of colors: fun in a breathless sort of way.” — Atlanta Journal-Constitution
“Divine Secrets is funny, funny, funny.” — Arkansas Democrat-Gazette
“One heck of a rollicking good read…” — Columbus Dispatch
“An entertaining and engrossing novel filled with humor and heartbreak… Readers will envy Vivi her Ya-Ya ‘sisters’ and Sidda her lover, who is one of the most appealing men to be found in recent mainstream fiction.” — Library Journal
“Hard to resist…Wells offers up some appealing characters and good stories.” — Chicago Tribune
“Every woman should have a pack of buddies like the Ya-Yas.” — Albuquerque Journal
“Mary McCarthy, Anne Rivers Siddons, and a host of others have portrayed the power and value of female friendships, but no one has done it with more grace, charm, talent, and power than Rebecca Wells does in Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood.” — Richmond Times-Dispatch
“An enjoyable novel with much to recommend it… It is rich stuff and Wells tells it well.” — Seattle Times
“Unforgettable… By turns comic and poignant, Wells’ latest entry fulfills the promise of her award–winning debut novel, Little Altars Everywhere. It speaks eloquently to what it means to be a mother, a daughter, a wife — and somehow, at last, a person.” — Charlotte Observer
“Wells’ Louisiana is thick with sensual excesses — bayou French, pralines and sour cream cookies, crayfish etouffee, honeysuckle–smothered trellises, camellias and jasmine… In Divine Secrets, you can hear the ice cubes clink on every page… Wells’ book succeeds marvelously.” — Seattle Weekly
“Sensitive, spellbinding… a wonderfully irreverent look at life in small–town Louisiana from the thirties on up through the eyes of the Ya–Yas, a gang of merry, smart, brave, poignant, and unforgettable godesses.” — Booklist
“Readers who like their books about the human condition spiced witha Southern drawl won’t want to miss this one.” — Mississippi Sun Herald
“The sweet and sad and goofy monkey–dance of life, as performed by a bevy of unforgettable Southern belles in a verdant garden of moonlit prose. Poignantly coo–coo, the Ya-Yas (and their Petites Ya-Yas) will prance, priss, ponder and party their way into your sincere affection.” — Tom Robbins, author of Even Cowgirls Get the Blues and Half Asleep in Frog Pajamas
“I read the first two pages and I said… I haven’t heard a white woman talk like this in literature before.” — Terry McMillan, San Francisco Chronicle
From the Back Cover
Now, four years after her award-winning, underground bestseller,Little Altars Everywhere, praised by Pat Conroy as "a splendid first novel," Rebecca Wells returns with a masterfully written novel that brims with insight, humor and compassion. When Vivi and Siddalee Walker, an unforgettable mother-daughter team, get into a savage fight over a New York Times article that refers to Vivi as a "tap-dancing child abuser," the fallout is felt from Louisiana to New York to Seattle. Siddalee, a successful theater director with a huge hit on her hands, panics and postpones her upcoming wedding to her lover and friend, Connor McGill. Vivi's intrepid gang of lifelong girlfriends, the Ya-Yas, sashay in and conspire to bring everyone back together.
In 1932, Vivi and the Ya-Yas were disqualified from a Shirley Temple Look-Alike Contest for unladylike behavior. Sixty years later, they're "bucking seventy" and still making waves. They persuade Vivi to send Sidda a scrapbook of girlhood mementos titled "Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood."
With the scrapbook in hand, Sidda retreats to a cabin on Washington State's Olympic Peninsula, tormented by fear and uncertainty about the future, and intent on discovering the key to the tangle of anger and tenderness she feels toward her mother. But Vivi's album reveals more questions than answers and leads Sidda to encounter the legacy of imperfect love and the unknowable mystery of life.
With passion and a rare gift for language, Rebecca Wells moves from present to past, unraveling Vivi's life, her enduring friendships with the Ya-Yas and the reverberations of Siddalee. The collective power of the Ya-Yas, each of them totally individual and authentic, permeates this story of a tribe of Louisiana wild women who are impossible to tame.
Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood calls to mind The Joy Luck Club in its exploration of the relationships between mothers and daughters; in its unearthing of family secrets, it evokes The Prince of Tides. Ultimately, in its aching longing, in its deep humor, in its heartbreaking fun and in its joy and forgiveness, Rebecca Wells has created a big, original, incandescent novel whose Louisiana landscape and indelible characters radiate with grace, wit and love.
When Siddalee Walker, oldest daughter of Vivi Abbott Walker, Ya-Ya extraordinaire, is interviewed in the New York Times about a hit play she's directed, her mother gets described as a "tap-dancing child abuser." Enraged, Vivi disowns Sidda. Devastated, Sidda begs forgiveness, and postpones her upcoming wedding. All looks bleak until the Ya-Yas step in and convince Vivi to send Sidda a scrapbook of their girlhood mementos, called "Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood." As Sidda struggles to analyze her mother, she comes face to face with the tangled beauty of imperfect love, and the fact that forgiveness, more than understanding, is often what the heart longs for.
Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood may call to mind Prince of Tides in its unearthing of family darkness; in its unforgettable heroines and irrepressible humor and female loyalty, it echoes Fannie Flagg's Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe.
About the Author
Writer, actor, and playwright Rebecca Wells is the author of the New York Times bestsellers Ya-Yas in Bloom, Little Altars Everywhere, and Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood, which was made into a feature film. A native of Louisiana, she now lives on an island in the Pacific Northwest.
From The Washington Post
"A very entertaining and, ultimately, deeply moving novel about the complex bonds between mother and daughter."
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter One
Tap-dancing child abuser. That's what The Sunday New York Times from March 8, 1993, had called Vivi. The pages of the week-old Leisure Arts section lay scattered on the floor next to Sidda as she curled up in the bed, covers pulled tightly around her, portable phone on the pillow next to her head.
There had been no sign the theater critic would go for blood. Roberta Lydell had been so chummy, so sisterly-seeming during the interview that Sidda had felt she'd made a new girlfriend. After all, in her earlier review, Roberta had already proclaimed the production of Women on the Cusp, which Sidda had directed at Lincoln Center, to be "a miraculous event in American theater." With subtle finesse, the journalist had lulled Sidda into a cozy false sense of intimacy as she pumped her for personal information.
As Sidda lay in the bed, her cocker spaniel, Hueylene, crawled into the crook formed by her knees. For the past week, the cocker had been the only company Sidda had wanted. Not Connor McGill, her fiance. Not friends, not colleagues. Just the dog she'd named in honor of Huey Long.
She stared at the phone. Her relationship with her mother had never been smooth, but this latest episode was disastrous. For the umpteenth time that week, Sidda punched in the number of her parents' home at Pecan Grove. For the first time, she actually let it ring through.
At the sound of Vivi's hello, Sidda's stomach began to cramp.
"Mama? It's me."
Without hesitation, Vivi hung up.
Sidda punched automatic redial. Vivi picked up again, but did not speak.
"Mama, I know you're there. Please don't hang up. I'm so sorry this all happened. I'm really really sorry. I--"
"There is nothing you can say or do to make me forgive you," Vivi said. "You are dead to me. You have killed me. Now I am killing you."
Sidda sat up in bed and tried to catch her breath.
"Mother, I did not mean for any of this to take place. The woman who interviewed me--"
"I have cut you out of my will. Do not be surprised if I sue you for libel. There are no photographs left of you on any of my walls. Do not--"
Sidda could see her mother's face, red with anger. She could see how her veins showed lavender underneath her light skin.
"Mama, please. I cannot control The New York Times. Did you read the whole thing? I said, 'My mother, Vivi Abbott Walker, is one of the most charming people in the world.'"
"'Charming wounded.' You said: 'My mother is one of the most charming wounded people in the world. And she is also the most dangerous.' I have it here in black-and-white, Siddalee."
"Did you read the part where I credited you for my creativity? Where I said, 'My creativity comes in a direct flow from my mother, like the Tabasco she used to spice up our baby bottles.' Mama, they ate it up when I talked about how you'd put on your tap shoes and dance for us while you fed us in our high chairs. They loved it."
"You lying little bitch. They loved it when you said: 'My mother comes from the old Southern school of child rearing where a belt across a child's bare skin was how you got your point across.'"
Sidda sucked in her breath.
"They loved it," Vivi continued, "when they read: 'Siddalee Walker, articulate, brilliant director of the hit show Women on the Cusp, is no stranger to family cruelty. As the battered child of a tap-dancing child abuser of a mother, she brings to her directing the rare and touching equipoise between personal involvement and professional detachment that is the mark of theatrical genius.'
"'Battered child!' This is shit! This is pure character-defaming shit from the most hideous child imaginable!"
Sidda could not breathe. She raised her thumb to her mouth and bit the skin around the nail, something she had not done since she was ten years old. She wondered where she'd put the Xanax.
"Mama, I never meant to hurt you. Many of those words I never even uttered to that damn journalist. I swear, I--"
"You Goddamn self-centered liar! It's no Goddamn wonder every relationship you have falls apart. You know nothing about love. You have a cruel soul. God help Connor McGill. He would have to be a fool to marry you."
Sidda got out of bed, her whole body shaking. She walked to the window of her twenty-second-floor apartment in Manhattan Plaza. From where she stood, she could see the Hudson River. It made her think of the Garnet River in Central Louisiana, and how red its water flowed.
Mama, you bitch, she thought. You devouring, melodramatic bitch. When she spoke, her voice was steely, controlled.
"What I said was not exactly a lie, Mother. Or have you forgotten the feel of the belt in your hand?"
Sidda could hear Vivi's sharp intake of breath. When Vivi spoke, her voice had dropped into a lower register.
"My love was a privilege that you abused. I have withdrawn that privilege. You are out of my heart. You are banished to the outer reaches. I wish you nothing but unending guilt."
Sidda heard the dial tone. She knew her mother had broken the connection. But she could not lower the phone from her ear. She stood frozen in place, the sounds of midtown Manhattan down below, the cold March light of the city fading around her.
