Genre Fiction
![Rebecca Hardiman - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B08KBJT6P2.jpg)
Good Eggs: A Novel
When a home aide arrives to assist a rambunctious family at a crossroads, simmering tensions boil over in this "witty, exuberant debut" (People) that is an "absolute delight from start to finish" (Sarah Haywood, New York Times bestselling author)-perfect for fans of Where'd You Go, Bernadette and Evvie Drake Starts Over.
When Kevin Gogarty's eighty-three-year-old mother is caught shoplifting yet again, he has no choice but to hire a caretaker to keep an eye on her. Kevin, recently unemployed, is already at his wits' end tending to a full house while his wife travels to exotic locales for work, leaving him solo with his sulky, misbehaved teenaged daughter. Into the Gogarty fray steps Sylvia, the upbeat home aide, who appears at first to be their saving grace-until she catapults the Gogarty clan into their greatest crisis yet.
"Bracing, hilarious, warm" (Judy Blundell, New York Times bestselling author), Good Eggs is an irresistibly charming study in self-determination; the notion that it's never too late to start living; and the unique redemption that family, despite its maddening flaws, can offer.
When Kevin Gogarty's eighty-three-year-old mother is caught shoplifting yet again, he has no choice but to hire a caretaker to keep an eye on her. Kevin, recently unemployed, is already at his wits' end tending to a full house while his wife travels to exotic locales for work, leaving him solo with his sulky, misbehaved teenaged daughter. Into the Gogarty fray steps Sylvia, the upbeat home aide, who appears at first to be their saving grace-until she catapults the Gogarty clan into their greatest crisis yet.
"Bracing, hilarious, warm" (Judy Blundell, New York Times bestselling author), Good Eggs is an irresistibly charming study in self-determination; the notion that it's never too late to start living; and the unique redemption that family, despite its maddening flaws, can offer.
Editorial Reviews
"Good Eggs is a remarkably clear-eyed and surefooted debut; pure, unadulterated reading pleasure. Hardiman writes with great warmth, humor, and incisiveness about reinvention and the unique foibles of family." -JONATHAN EVISON, author of This Is Your Life, Harriet Chance! and The Revised Fundamentals of Caregiving
"Good Eggs is a joyous, exuberantly fun-filled novel of second chances. In the Gogartys, Rebecca Hardiman has created a vivid cast of characters whose schemes, adventures and mishaps keep us on the edges of our seats. We can't help but cheer each of them on-especially the exasperating and beguilingly naughty Millie Gogarty-as they untangle the various muddles in which they find themselves. With all their quirks and flaws, this is a family that earns a place in our hearts. An absolute delight from start to finish!" -SARAH HAYWOOD, New York Times bestselling author of The Cactus
"Bracing, hilarious, warm, this novel is as wayward and mad as the human heart. Hardiman takes elements I thought I knew-the sulky teen jealous of the pretty sister, the dotty grandmother, the house-husband succumbing to temptation-and takes a left turn, every time. You just want to pull up a chair to this novel, if you know what I mean. An absolute delight." -JUDY BLUNDELL, New York Times bestselling author of The High Season
"The novel is sheer delight, from the moment we meet the prickly, fabulous Millie Gogarty until her final surprise on the last page. What a pleasure to be immersed in the story of a tangled family who you just KNOW are going to come through in the end. I loved Good Eggs!" -AMANDA EYRE WARD, New York Times bestselling author of The Jetsetters, a Reese's Book Club x Hello Sunshine Pick
"Hardiman's rollicking debut dives into the stories of a good-hearted but mischievous Dublin family... in this hilarious, zippy novel, nothing is as it seems... Full of surprises, Hardiman's endearing novel stands out for its brilliant insight into the mixed blessings of family bonds." - Publishers Weekly
"I am so in love with this book - I just want to tell everyone I know to rush out and buy it. It's fresh, funny and irresistibly good humoured - the perfect lockdown read to put a big happy smile on your face! This gem has bestseller written all over it." -CLAUDIA CARROLL, author of The Secrets of Primrose Square
"In her poignant and often hilarious family-drama-turned-caper debut, Hardiman mas...
"Good Eggs is a joyous, exuberantly fun-filled novel of second chances. In the Gogartys, Rebecca Hardiman has created a vivid cast of characters whose schemes, adventures and mishaps keep us on the edges of our seats. We can't help but cheer each of them on-especially the exasperating and beguilingly naughty Millie Gogarty-as they untangle the various muddles in which they find themselves. With all their quirks and flaws, this is a family that earns a place in our hearts. An absolute delight from start to finish!" -SARAH HAYWOOD, New York Times bestselling author of The Cactus
"Bracing, hilarious, warm, this novel is as wayward and mad as the human heart. Hardiman takes elements I thought I knew-the sulky teen jealous of the pretty sister, the dotty grandmother, the house-husband succumbing to temptation-and takes a left turn, every time. You just want to pull up a chair to this novel, if you know what I mean. An absolute delight." -JUDY BLUNDELL, New York Times bestselling author of The High Season
"The novel is sheer delight, from the moment we meet the prickly, fabulous Millie Gogarty until her final surprise on the last page. What a pleasure to be immersed in the story of a tangled family who you just KNOW are going to come through in the end. I loved Good Eggs!" -AMANDA EYRE WARD, New York Times bestselling author of The Jetsetters, a Reese's Book Club x Hello Sunshine Pick
"Hardiman's rollicking debut dives into the stories of a good-hearted but mischievous Dublin family... in this hilarious, zippy novel, nothing is as it seems... Full of surprises, Hardiman's endearing novel stands out for its brilliant insight into the mixed blessings of family bonds." - Publishers Weekly
"I am so in love with this book - I just want to tell everyone I know to rush out and buy it. It's fresh, funny and irresistibly good humoured - the perfect lockdown read to put a big happy smile on your face! This gem has bestseller written all over it." -CLAUDIA CARROLL, author of The Secrets of Primrose Square
"In her poignant and often hilarious family-drama-turned-caper debut, Hardiman mas...
Readers Top Reviews
SallyKariPointy18Nor
This book makes an amazing summer read, or fall read, or winter read. It’s utterly absorbing—Rebecca Hardiman’s debut spins a yarn of credible characters, each with their own rich, inner world. She weaves together their interlocking stories and draws you in as their lives unravel. I was immediately enthralled and ultimately sad to leave when the book ended all too soon.
burgiesgirl
I thoroughly enjoyed the book and all its humor. Some of the scrapes the people got into were quite hair-raising, and improbable outcomes. A lovely escape from reality! Recommend to anyone who enjoys a good story. Set mostly in Ireland, but no alcoholic characters!
Avid Reader
This writer is truly gifted. This book is about a family dealing with real life, all 3 generations of them. The characters are well constructed. The issues are very relatable. But the author makes the story so entertaining by weaving in humor through all the travails... The reason I enjoyed it so much is because the topics are ones anyone can understand and relate to: teenage angst, sibling rivalry, elderly parents, breadwinning moms, going-through-mid-life-crisis dads and other people who come in and either wreak havoc or make things better. The storyline definitely is full of surprises, twists and turns. Highly recommend and can't wait for Rebecca Hardiman's next book! Our book club thoroughly enjoyed it.
Helen Smith
This book had me howling! If you're looking for a lovely read that is both funny and realistic then you will love this book!
J. Serling
I read this book in just a few sittings and didn't want it to end. Told from multiple points of view, the characters in this zany and all-to-familiar family will have you laughing in delight as you follow their attempts to escape the very relatable dramas of the teen, middle and elder stages of life. From Ireland to the US and back again, Hardiman carefully threads together multiple storylines to create a satisfying and unexpected ending. It's hard to believe this is her debut novel. It's that good.
Short Excerpt Teaser
Chapter 1 1 
Three-quarters of the way to the newsagent's, a trek she will come to deeply regret, Millie Gogarty realizes she's been barreling along in second gear, oblivious to the guttural grinding from the bowels of her Renault. She shifts. Her mind, it's true, is altogether on other things: the bits and bobs for tea with Kevin, a new paperback, perhaps, for the Big Trip, her defunct telly. During a rerun of The Golden Girls last night, the ladies had been mistaken for mature prostitutes when the screen went blank (silly, the Americans, overdone, but never dull). After bashing the TV-a few sturdy blows optimistically delivered to both sides in the hopes of a second coming-she'd retreated to her dead Peter's old sick room where she's taken to sleeping ever since a befuddling lamp explosion had permanently spooked her from the second floor. Here, Millie had fumbled among ancient woolen blankets for her battery-operated radio and eventually settled down, the trusty Philips wedged snugly between a naked pillow and her good ear, humanity streaming forth. Her unease slowly dispelled, not unlike the effect of a five-o'clock sherry when the wind of the sea howls round her house postapocalyptically. Even the grimmer broadcasts-recession, corruption, lashing rain-can have an oddly cheering effect: somewhere, things are happening to some people.
Now a BMW jolts into her peripheral vision, swerves sharply away-has she meandered?-and the driver honks brutally at Millie, who gives a merry wave in return. When she stops at a traffic light, the two cars now parallel, Millie winds down her window and indicates for her fellow driver to do likewise. His sleek sheet of glass descends presidentially.
"Sorry!" she calls out. "I've had a frozen shoulder ever since the accident!" Though her injury and her dodgy driving bear no connection, Millie feels some explanation is due. She flaps her right elbow, chicken wing style, into the chilled air. "It still gets quite sore." Millie offers the man, his face a confused fog, a trio of friendly, muffled toots of the horn and motors on past.
Before heading to the shop, Millie had phoned her son-technically, Kevin is her stepson, though she shuns all things technical and, more to the point, he's been her boy and she his mum since his age was still measured in mere months. Millie began by relaying the tale of the unholy television debacle.
"Blanche had checked the girls into a hookers' hotel without realizing," Millie explains, "and the police-"
"I'm just bringing the kids to school, Mum."
"Would you ever come down and take a look? I can't bear to have no telly."
"Did you check the batteries?"
"It doesn't run on batteries. It's a television."
"The remote batteries."
"Aha," says Millie. "Well now how would I…"
"Let me ring you in two ticks."
"Or you can take a look when you come for supper?"
"Sorry?"
"Remember? It'll be your last chance, you know. I leave Saturday."
"Fully aware."
"I may never come back."
"Now you're just teasing me."
"And bring one of the children. Bring all of the children! I've got lamb chops and roasties."
She had, in fact, neither. A quick inspection of the cabinet, during which she held the phone aloft, blanking briefly that her son was on the line, yielded neither olive oil nor spuds. A glimpse of the fridge-the usual sour blast and blinding pop of light-revealed exactly one half pint of milk, gone off, three or four limp sprigs of broccoli, and a single cracked egg.
"Or maybe I'm the cracked egg," she muttered as she brought the receiver to her ear.
"That," her son said, "has never been in question."
Once inside Donnelly's, Millie tips her faux-fur, leopard-print fedora to one and all. Millie Gogarty knows many souls in Dún Laoghaire and villages beyond-Dalkey, Killiney-and it's her self-imposed mission to stop and have a chat with anyone whenever, wherever possible-along the windy East Pier, in the shopping center car park, standing in the bank queue (she would have no qualms about taking her coffee, used to be complimentary after all, in the Bank of Ireland's waiting area), or indeed right in this very shop.
She sidles up to Michael Donnelly Jr., the owner's teenage, pockmarked son who slouches behind the counter weekdays after school.
"Did you know in three days' time Jessica Walsh and myself will be in New York for the Christmas? My great-great-...
Three-quarters of the way to the newsagent's, a trek she will come to deeply regret, Millie Gogarty realizes she's been barreling along in second gear, oblivious to the guttural grinding from the bowels of her Renault. She shifts. Her mind, it's true, is altogether on other things: the bits and bobs for tea with Kevin, a new paperback, perhaps, for the Big Trip, her defunct telly. During a rerun of The Golden Girls last night, the ladies had been mistaken for mature prostitutes when the screen went blank (silly, the Americans, overdone, but never dull). After bashing the TV-a few sturdy blows optimistically delivered to both sides in the hopes of a second coming-she'd retreated to her dead Peter's old sick room where she's taken to sleeping ever since a befuddling lamp explosion had permanently spooked her from the second floor. Here, Millie had fumbled among ancient woolen blankets for her battery-operated radio and eventually settled down, the trusty Philips wedged snugly between a naked pillow and her good ear, humanity streaming forth. Her unease slowly dispelled, not unlike the effect of a five-o'clock sherry when the wind of the sea howls round her house postapocalyptically. Even the grimmer broadcasts-recession, corruption, lashing rain-can have an oddly cheering effect: somewhere, things are happening to some people.
Now a BMW jolts into her peripheral vision, swerves sharply away-has she meandered?-and the driver honks brutally at Millie, who gives a merry wave in return. When she stops at a traffic light, the two cars now parallel, Millie winds down her window and indicates for her fellow driver to do likewise. His sleek sheet of glass descends presidentially.
"Sorry!" she calls out. "I've had a frozen shoulder ever since the accident!" Though her injury and her dodgy driving bear no connection, Millie feels some explanation is due. She flaps her right elbow, chicken wing style, into the chilled air. "It still gets quite sore." Millie offers the man, his face a confused fog, a trio of friendly, muffled toots of the horn and motors on past.
Before heading to the shop, Millie had phoned her son-technically, Kevin is her stepson, though she shuns all things technical and, more to the point, he's been her boy and she his mum since his age was still measured in mere months. Millie began by relaying the tale of the unholy television debacle.
"Blanche had checked the girls into a hookers' hotel without realizing," Millie explains, "and the police-"
"I'm just bringing the kids to school, Mum."
"Would you ever come down and take a look? I can't bear to have no telly."
"Did you check the batteries?"
"It doesn't run on batteries. It's a television."
"The remote batteries."
"Aha," says Millie. "Well now how would I…"
"Let me ring you in two ticks."
"Or you can take a look when you come for supper?"
"Sorry?"
"Remember? It'll be your last chance, you know. I leave Saturday."
"Fully aware."
"I may never come back."
"Now you're just teasing me."
"And bring one of the children. Bring all of the children! I've got lamb chops and roasties."
She had, in fact, neither. A quick inspection of the cabinet, during which she held the phone aloft, blanking briefly that her son was on the line, yielded neither olive oil nor spuds. A glimpse of the fridge-the usual sour blast and blinding pop of light-revealed exactly one half pint of milk, gone off, three or four limp sprigs of broccoli, and a single cracked egg.
"Or maybe I'm the cracked egg," she muttered as she brought the receiver to her ear.
"That," her son said, "has never been in question."
Once inside Donnelly's, Millie tips her faux-fur, leopard-print fedora to one and all. Millie Gogarty knows many souls in Dún Laoghaire and villages beyond-Dalkey, Killiney-and it's her self-imposed mission to stop and have a chat with anyone whenever, wherever possible-along the windy East Pier, in the shopping center car park, standing in the bank queue (she would have no qualms about taking her coffee, used to be complimentary after all, in the Bank of Ireland's waiting area), or indeed right in this very shop.
She sidles up to Michael Donnelly Jr., the owner's teenage, pockmarked son who slouches behind the counter weekdays after school.
"Did you know in three days' time Jessica Walsh and myself will be in New York for the Christmas? My great-great-...
