Club Calvi has three new books filled with family drama, romance for your vote for its next read

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2 days ago

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Club Calvi has three anticipated books for the summer. Which one should we read?
Club Calvi is adding sizzle to your summer with three new FicPicks that focus on family and romance. Now it's up to you to vote on which book the club will read next.
Your choices are:
"Sisters of Fortune" by Esther Chehebar is about three sisters facing choices for their futures. They are caught between their dreams for themselves and the expectations in their traditional Syrian Jewish community in Brooklyn.
"These Summer Storms" by Sarah MacLean tells of a woman estranged from her family for years who returns home after the death of her billionaire father. She confronts family secrets and her father's right-hand man.
"The View from Lake Como" by Adriana Trigiani is about a dutiful daughter living in a blue collar town in New Jersey. She's newly divorced and living with her parents. She escapes to Italy for a new life.
You can read excerpts and get the books below.
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"Sisters of Fortune" by Esther Chehebar
From the publisher: The Cohen sisters are at a crossroads. And not just because the obedient middle sister, Fortune, has secretly started to question her engagement and impending wedding, even as her family scrambles to prepare for the big day. Nina, the rebellious eldest sister, is single at 26 (and growing cobwebs by her community's standards) when she runs into an old friend who offers her a chance to choose a different path. Meanwhile, Lucy, the youngest, a senior in high school, has started sneaking around with a charming older bachelor.
As Fortune inches ever closer to the chuppah, the sisters find themselves in a tug of war between tradition and modernity, reckoning with what their tight-knit community wants—and with what they want for themselves.
Esther Chehebar lives in New York.
"Sisters of Fortune" by Esther Chehebar (ThriftBooks) $23
$23 at ThriftBooks
"These Summer Storms" by Sarah MacLean
From the publisher: Alice Storm hasn't been welcome at her family's magnificent private island off the Rhode Island coast in five years—not since she was cast out and built her life beyond the Storm name, influence, and untold billions. But the shocking death of her larger-than-life father changes everything.
Alice plans to keep her head down, pay her final respects (such as they are), and leave the minute the funeral is over. Unfortunately, her father had other plans. The eccentric, manipulative patriarch left his family a final challenge—an inheritance game designed to upend their world. The rules are clear: spend one week on the island, complete their assigned tasks, and receive the inheritance.
But a whole week on Storm Island is no easy task for Alice. Every corner of the sprawling old house is bursting with chaos: Her older sister's secret love affair. Her brother's unyielding arrogance. Her younger sister's constant analysis of the vibes. Her mother's cold judgment. And all under the stern, watchful gaze of Jack Dean, her father's intriguing and too-handsome second-in-command. It will be a miracle if Alice manages to escape unscathed.
Sara MacLean lives in New York City.
"These Summer Storms" by Sarah MacLean (ThriftBooks) $23
$23 at ThriftBooks
"The View from Lake Como" by Adriana Trigiani
From the publisher: Jess Capodimonte Baratta is not living the life of her dreams. Not even close.
In blue-collar Lake Como, New Jersey, family comes first. Recently divorced from Bobby Bilancia, "the perfect husband," Jess moves into her parents' basement to hide and heal. Jess is the overlooked daughter, who dutifully takes care of her parents, cooks Sunday dinner, and puts herself last. Despite her role as the family handmaiden, Jess is also a talented draftswoman in the marble business run by her dapper uncle Louie, who believes she can do anything (once she invests in a better wardrobe).
When the Capodimonte and Baratta families endure an unexpected loss, the shock unearths long-buried secrets that will force Jess to question her loyalty to those she trusted. Fueled by her lost dreams, Jess takes fate into her own hands and escapes to her ancestral home, Carrara, Italy.
From the shadows of the majestic marble-capped mountains of Tuscany, to the glittering streets of Milan, and on the shores of enchanting Lake Como (the other one), Jess begins to carve a place in this new/old world. When she meets Angelo Strazza, a passionate artist who works in gold, she discovers her own skills are priceless. But as Jess uncovers the truth about her family history, it will change the course of her life and those she loves the most forever. In love and work, in art and soul, Jess will need every tool she has mastered to reinvent her life.
Adriana Trigiani lives in Manhattan.
"The View From Lake Como" by Adriana Trigiani (ThriftBooks) $22
$22 at ThriftBooks
Excerpt: "Sisters of Fortune" by Esther Chehebar
Fortune
Chapter One
I'm in my future mother-in-law's Formica kitchen, raking bits of belahat soaked rice and eggplant heshu off of dinner plates and into the garbage bin. I hand the plates to Marta, my future mother-in-law's long-standing housekeeper, to be cleaned with Palmolive and water. The future mother-in-law doesn't believe in dishwashers and for that reason, among many others, she reminds me of my grandma Fortune, who we call "Sitto." Like Sitto, my future mother-in-law, my MIL, believes in doing everything by hand. Shortcuts are for the lazy and incapable. The MIL calls Marta into the dining room to help clean the challah crumbs and wine-stained napkins from the table. Saul and my future father-in-law are already reclined in the den, poring over the Post and last night's Knicks game.
The MIL is no dummy, and it's only a matter of time before she catches on to my lie. The hard truth is that I've been pawning off grocery store–bought knafeh as my own for six weeks now. What would Saul say if he found out that my "Best in the Community!" knafeh wasn't mine at all but the product of a multimillion-dollar goliath of kosher baked goods? Would he still have asked to marry me? It would cost my ring a carat, at least, if he found out how I unwrapped the (parve) margarine-glued kataifi square from its frozen casing, tossed it in the oven, and waited exactly seventeen minutes until it browned. He would never trust me again if he saw how I sprinkled crushed pistachios on top to create the illusion that the store-bought pastry was mine.
In the other room, I can hear Saul over the exhausted hum of the Frigidaire say, "Ma. This one's gonna fatten me up, Ma. I'm a dead man." The MIL has finished clearing the dining room table, which means she has retreated to the den and I'd better get started on dessert.
I move from the garbage bin to the kitchen island, where cookies and pastries wait in their still-warm tins. I begin to plate the mamoul in symmetrical rows of four, wiping the excess sugar from around the silver tray. I feel the saliva collect inside my cheeks as I imagine sinking my teeth into one of the date-filled pastries. This, too, the MIL made from scratch. She made them from scratch like she makes everything from scratch. Mamoul and atayef and sambusak and yebre. Her freezer is its own supermarket, packed to the gills with Costco-bought Ziploc bags full of readily defrostable "pickups." She can whip up a meal faster than you can decline her invitation. This is a fact, and it's one she takes great pride in. According to my Sitto, there are only two things in a woman's life that should never be kept empty: her womb and her freezer. And you'd do well to remember that the contents of one of those won't grow up to talk back.
I decide in this moment that I absolutely will not tell Saul about the knafeh. Ever. But she knows, the MIL. I know that she knows and she knows that I know that she knows. And do you know how I know? Because she still hasn't asked me for the recipe. Then again, why would she? Would Cher ask Gaga for voice lessons? Instead, the MIL got to work and baked the most exquisite looking knafeh that this side of Brooklyn has ever seen. I tiptoe into the den and set the tray of mamoul down on the coffee table.
"Sit honey, please." The MIL taps the spot on the couch next to her. But I'm not dumb; I don't take the bait. Some women might think that a ring on their finger guarantees their security. Those women did not grow up with my Sitto, and they would be wrong. A daughter-in-law only stops kissing a** when that a** is six feet underground, and even then, it helps to continue the tradition.
"Just a couple more!" I chirp, and retreat back into the kitchen for a fruit plate and some sweet kaak. Marta follows with the rest and when every dessert is on the coffee table, I take a seat next to my fiancé, Saul. The vinyl-covered floral sofa squeaks as I shift and I pull my cardigan tighter around my body. In the center of the dessert spread is the MIL's knafeh, brimming with the iridescent pride of one thousand G-D-damn suns.
"G-D forbid your mother should measure up to your bride, Saul, but here, don't kill me for trying," my MIL says. She kneels to reach the cake knife laid beside the Pyrex and feigns heaviness, as though her knees threaten to buckle beneath her weight, all 175 pounds of her.
"Here, Ma. I got it, sit down!" Saul jumps to take the knife from his mother, as if she's decades beyond her fifty-two years. This is the way the MIL carries herself at all times, as if her undying commitment to her children might break her at any moment. She welcomes the pain. I imagine her saying:
"Throw me on the pyre!"
"Epidurals are for women who own bread machines!"
"Let my tombstone read: Marie 'I will always get the last word' Dweck, Beloved Wife, Mother, Grandmother, and MIL."
My MIL pulls the knife away from Saul and proceeds to cut into the knafeh. Rose water pools inside each sliver. This is not a cake that came frozen from a box. As she hands Saul the first slice, the MIL tells us her new diet is working—she is down to 165 pounds as of last Thursday. Which means she's no longer seeing the old doctor, a miracle worker before he was a liar and a crook and, eventually, as these things tend to go, an anti-Semite. How quickly the consensus around him had shifted over a plate of kaak and a particularly spirited game of canasta. Which brings me to the second lesson Sitto has taught me: Only two things can happen to a professional who stakes his reputation on women who play canasta; they're either broken or made over the game. There is no in-between. My mother-in-law tells us that somebody in her group got wind from somebody who was buying mazza from somebody, that the real miracle worker is two offices over in the ramshackle building in Sheepshead Bay that houses sixteen holistic dietitians and not one working scale. She had her doctor of three decades fax over her medical records within the hour.
Excerpted from Sisters of Fortune by Esther Chehebar. Copyright © 2025 by Esther Chehebar. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpt: "These Summer Storms" by Sarah MacLean
It was not a walk of shame.
Yes, Alice had slipped from beneath the heavy arm hooked over her hip and remained perfectly still, clinging to the edge of the too-small bed in Quahog Quay Room 3, staring at the door through which they'd crashed a handful of hours earlier in a breathless tangle of rain-soaked bodies and baggage (literal and metaphorical).
Yes, once she'd been certain he wasn't going to wake up, she'd collected her discarded clothes like they were unexploded munitions and crept to the bathroom, closing the door like she was cracking a safe.
And yes, when she'd exited the bathroom after washing her face and combing the salt and sea through her hair, she'd studiously ignored him, handsome and half-naked and asleep as she snuck out into the six o'clock sun peeking over the Bay, golden and gorgeous, promising to burn away the remnants of the night before.
She walked the quarter mile from the clapboard motel to the docks, eager to get there before the harbormaster or anyone else in that small town full of big mouths would see her—but not because she was ashamed. At least, not because she was ashamed of her one-night stand, which, while deeply out of character for Alice, had proven really pretty great—in more ways than the obvious.
Growing up Alice Storm, she'd learned to be suspicious of people who appeared from nowhere. The threats were myriad, from the obvious (photos and gossip about spoiled rich girls were the hottest of modern commodities, the messier the better) to the insidious—charming, clever parasites who would do anything, say anything, for proximity to wealth and power.
Franklin had trained all his children to be wary of any kindness that appeared freely given, resulting in something of a skills gap when it came to interpersonal relationships. The first blush of attraction that made fast friends and breathless romance for the rest of the world was not to be trusted for Storm children, and Alice had built her shields early—especially when it came to sex.
Over the years, she'd selected partners like other people selected cars, with careful consideration: miles per gallon (a career outside of tech), safety ratings (interest in Alice, but not Storm), resale value (willingness for a long-term commitment).
Sure, she'd made some mistakes (one colossal one), but the truth was, one-night stands were not well rated by Car and Driver.
But Alice hadn't been herself the night before, and her world wouldn't be itself again for a while, and she'd liked that big, steady man with his strong hands and sure touch and his willingness to step into the fray to keep her out of it.
She'd liked how different he was, not like the refined, polished boys of her youth or the frivolous, boisterous man she'd been planning to marry. Long Legs had been full of quiet steel when he'd punched a photographer and taken her hand in the darkness. And then he'd been deliciously rough—his palms stroking over her skin, the way he kicked the motel-room door closed behind them with a massive thud, his gruff words as he'd pressed his heavy weight to her, asking what she liked. Telling her what he liked. Praising her body, her touch, her kiss.
No hesitation. No apologies. Just . . . truth.
Truth was rare and precious in Alice's life, so, yes. She'd basked in the truth of that man and his desire and his ability to anchor her to her own body for a few hours.
A calm before the Storms.
Alice tossed her bags into one of the three skiffs moored at the far end of the salt-weathered dock, loosened the lines and fired up the outboard motor, tucking the night away, a secret to keep with all the others as she sailed out of Wickford Harbor for the first time in five years. Since the day her father exiled her, finally, after she'd disappointed him for the last time.
The storm from the night before had blown east toward Cape Cod and out to sea, but the scars of it remained, Narragansett Bay churning beneath the small boat, choppy enough to make the six and a half nautical miles to Storm Island a challenge.
Alice had sailed since before she'd walked, however—learned at Franklin Storm's feet how to adjust and accommodate, how to work with a mercurial sea, how to respect it. It might have been years since she'd been at the helm of a boat, but she fell back into it with ease, heading into bright sun, reveling in the sting of the salt water on her skin.
She navigated the small boat northeast into the Bay, unthinkingly taking her father's favorite approach—via the southern tip of Storm Island, where a small, ancient building housed a fog bell atop the steep, rocky slope.
For many, this was the least interesting angle of Storm Island, but her father loved an entrance, and this route, around the cliff's edge on the western side of the island, gave visitors and gawkers a breathtaking surprise, the rock sliding away to reveal a patchwork of trees and fields marked by centuries-old stone walls, leading to an enormous nineteenth-century manor house on the highest point of the island, like a character in a gothic novel, but without the woman in the nightgown running away from the ghosts within.
To be honest, though, the day was young.
Alice slowed the skiff as she came around the cliffside, taking in the view. The house, tall and imposing, all gables and stained glass, surrounded by a few acres of lush wild thyme in deep greens and bright whites and purples. The boathouse, with its weathered cedar shingles, large enough to house her father's prized sailboat, The Lizzie, in the off-season. Rugged slate steps from the dock up the rocky hillside to the house. Ancient trees—her father's favorite red oak, enormous and strong. Still there.
Five years, and nothing had changed. Except everything.
Excerpted from These Summer Storms by Sarah MacLean. Copyright © 2025 by Sarah MacLean. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Chapter 2
The Family Business
The red taillights on Uncle Louie's chartreuse Impala blink as he backs the car out of his garage on his way to pick me up for work. He and Aunt Lil live in the last house on the corner lot before the intersection of Surf Avenue, which leads to the beach. Their Cape Cod, the most landscaped home in all of New Jersey, stands out among the mix of white split‑level and soft blue saltbox houses that hug the curve of the shore of Lake Como like a rope of shimmering opals.
Through the years, Aunt Lil and Uncle Louie have installed every manner of ornamentation and architectural interest on their half‑acre lot. There's a koi pond, a three‑tier marble fountain, and a walkway of gold‑streaked pavers that swirls up to the front door like a yellow brick road. The backyard has a replica of the Parthenon built out of Carrara marble where they host the Knights of Colum‑ bus Weenie Roast every July Fourth. "My home is an advertisement for my business," Uncle Louie says. "Italian craftsmanship and American elegance?" he asks, before he answers, "I'm your man."
If he's your man, then I'm your wingman. Uncle Louie is my boss at Capodimonte Marble and Stone, our family business since 1924.
My uncle pulls up to the curb. I inhale the chill of the morning air. It tickles my nose and fills my lungs, which causes me to sneeze with my whole body. I fish through my purse for a tissue.
"Jess. Are you serious?" Uncle Louie says through his open win‑ dow as I wipe my nose.
I climb inside and snap the seat belt. He rolls his fist. "Leave your window down so any germs blow out."
"I'm not sick. It's the temperature."
"Now you're a scientist? If you don't catch a cold, it won't catch you. Words of wisdom from my mother."
"Your hypochondria flares up whenever the seasons change." "You noticed, huh?" Uncle Louie's mouth curves into a smile.
I see everything, but there's no point in bragging about it. A worldview doesn't do you much good when you live in a small town, unless your passport is current. When it comes to Lake Como, New Jersey, the Capodimonte and Baratta families own North Boule‑ vard. My Cap grandparents lived two houses down while the Baratta grandparents lived three houses down in the other direc‑ tion. They're all gone now; the Baratta homestead went to our cousin Carmine in 2019, while the Cap house has not been touched since Grandma died in 2022. We call it the Lake Como Museum because it remains intact; not a single teaspoon has left the premises since her death. Around the loop of the lake, the rest of the houses are filled with relatives.
Whenever we had a block party, we closed down the street and became a version of the Villa Capri in Paterson on their All You Can Eat Family Night. We were an Italian American a‑go‑go mi‑ nus the floor show, free hors d'oeuvres, and two‑drink minimum. Beyond our social lives, our family shares the street, a canoe, and our devotion to the Blessed Mother. A statue of Mary can be found in every yard on the lake. It may appear the patriarchy is thriving, but Italian Americans know it's the mother who has the power. Philomena Capodimonte Baratta, my own mamma mia Madonne, is proof of that.
"What's with the jacket?" Uncle Louie gives my outfit a once‑ over.
"Connie gave it to me."
"You're still in your sister's hand‑me‑downs?"
"Does it look bad?" I smooth the navy linen with my hands.
I am not up to Uncle Louie's sartorial code. Never have been. Louie Cap is the last of a group of Italian American men who came up on the Beatles but never forgot Louis Prima. He's a sharp dresser, Rat Pack debonair. He wears size 8 suede loafers like Frank Sinatra and three‑piece suits like Jerry Vale, altered for a streamlined fit on his trim frame. He is never without a fitted vest under his suit jacket because he likes the feeling of being cinched in.
"Clothes make the woman," Uncle Louie reminds me. "What the hell happened over here? You're Depression Central."
"I'm working on it. I signed up for Thera‑Me. It's an online ther‑ apy program. I got so many Instagram ads for it I must be in their target market."
"Whatever that means," Louie groans. "My goal is to make it into the arms of my Savior without having to install another app."
"I was assigned to Dr. Sharon over Zoom." "Is she a real doctor?" Uncle Louie asks.
"Board‑certified. She had me draw a self‑portrait. And she asked me to journal. Wants me to write down my memories, the happy ones and the painful times. She said past experience is the founda‑ tion of future mental health." I show Uncle Louie my self‑portrait.
Uncle Louie glances over as he drives. "That don't look like you."
"What do you mean?"
"I'd take another run at it." Uncle Louie makes a face. "Too late. I already turned it in."
"Is this therapy operation expensive?"
"Around the cost of a gym membership."
"Hmm. What a racket. Why do you need a therapist when you have me? I'm like a priest. At my age, there isn't anything you could tell me that would even slightly shock me."
"There are things I can't talk to even you about."
"Even though I have a very sensitive female side?"
"Not funny, Uncle Louie."
Uncle Louie's phone rings. He taps speaker. "Yo, Googs."
"I got a couple sleeves of black granite. You got a need?" Googs sounds far away, like he's calling from the moon.
"Putting a floor in over in Basking Ridge. How much you got?"
"Ten by six. Looks like I have six sheets total. Foyer? Small?"
Uncle Louie looks at me. I confirm that we could use the stock. "For a price," Uncle Louie says into the phone. "Don't soak me, Googs. I'm not in the mood."
"Text the address and I'll deliver." Rolando "Googs" Gugliotti hangs up. He is one of Uncle Louie's oldest work colleagues. He would be the Joey Bishop in Uncle Louie's Rat Pack. He shows up, does his business, and disappears like a vapor until you need him again, or he needs you.
I look down at my phone. "How does he know exactly when to call? It's creepy."
"Not in the least. He's an intuitive salesman. Make a note."
I scroll to the notes app on my phone and await instructions.