Genre Fiction
![Mary Beth Keane - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B00ABNE1MY.jpg)
The Half Moon: A Novel
Named a Most Anticipated Book of the Year by Vogue, Entertainment Weekly, BookPage, LitHub and more
"I adored this compelling, touching, exquisitely crafted story about a marriage in crisis." -Liane Moriarty, New York Times bestselling author of Big Little Lies
From the bestselling author of Ask Again, Yes, a masterful novel about a couple in a small town who must navigate the complexities of marriage, family, and longing.
Malcolm Gephardt, handsome and gregarious longtime bartender at the Half Moon, has always dreamed of owning a bar. When his boss finally retires, Malcolm stretches to buy the place. He sees unquantifiable magic and potential in the Half Moon and hopes to transform it into a bigger success, but struggles to stay afloat.
His smart and confident wife, Jess, has devoted herself to her law career. After years of trying for a baby, she is facing the idea that motherhood may not be in the cards for her. Like Malcolm, she feels her youth beginning to slip away and wonders how to reshape her future.
Award-winning author Mary Beth Keane's new novel takes place over the course of one week when Malcolm learns shocking news about Jess, a patron of the bar goes missing, and a blizzard hits the town of Gillam, trapping everyone in place. With a deft eye and generous spirit, Keane explores the disappointments and unexpected consolations of midlife, the many forms forgiveness can take, the complicated intimacy of small-town living, and what it means to be a family.
"I adored this compelling, touching, exquisitely crafted story about a marriage in crisis." -Liane Moriarty, New York Times bestselling author of Big Little Lies
From the bestselling author of Ask Again, Yes, a masterful novel about a couple in a small town who must navigate the complexities of marriage, family, and longing.
Malcolm Gephardt, handsome and gregarious longtime bartender at the Half Moon, has always dreamed of owning a bar. When his boss finally retires, Malcolm stretches to buy the place. He sees unquantifiable magic and potential in the Half Moon and hopes to transform it into a bigger success, but struggles to stay afloat.
His smart and confident wife, Jess, has devoted herself to her law career. After years of trying for a baby, she is facing the idea that motherhood may not be in the cards for her. Like Malcolm, she feels her youth beginning to slip away and wonders how to reshape her future.
Award-winning author Mary Beth Keane's new novel takes place over the course of one week when Malcolm learns shocking news about Jess, a patron of the bar goes missing, and a blizzard hits the town of Gillam, trapping everyone in place. With a deft eye and generous spirit, Keane explores the disappointments and unexpected consolations of midlife, the many forms forgiveness can take, the complicated intimacy of small-town living, and what it means to be a family.
Editorial Reviews
"Deft, satisfying. . . . Keane writes in a realist vein–the vivid, domesticated world of Anne Tyler, of William Trevor, of Elizabeth Strout-but her insights into matters of the heart, longing and restlessness especially, have astonishing delicacy." -Vogue, Most Anticipated Books of 2023
"Once again, Keane mines the family strife and secrecy that made her absorbing Ask Again, Yes one of the bigger book-club breakouts of the last several years. Here, a full marriage story is compressed within the span of a single week as charming, gregarious bartender Malcolm and his conscientious lawyer wife Jess confront the longtime fissures in their union and the many dreams deferred." -Entertainment Weekly
"I adored this compelling, touching, exquisitely crafted story about a marriage in crisis." -Liane Moriarty, New York Times bestselling author of Big Little Lies
"Keane explores the sacrifices of a marriage, setting Malcolm's impulsive deal to buy the bar he loved against Jess's consuming dream of parenthood. . . . The tension is undeniable and deeply compelling . . . with an unexpected twist, Keane's charming, tautly-paced, and introspective novel will delight." -Booklist (starred review)
"Mary Beth Keane writes to the heart of the human heart. She shows us how love can deepen, how love can stall-hang in the sky like a half moon, waxing and waning in the same moment, equal parts shadow and light. I could not put this book down." -Miranda Cowley-Heller, author of The Paper Palace
"One of our finest writers on the interior complexities of marriage and family shines a flashlight on the intricate clockwork of love and longing that runs inside us. Because of the thoughtfulness of that examination, beauty and possibility are visible. I ran my finger over sentences while reading, thinking: 'Yes, exactly.' This kind of fiction allows us to look around our own lives with respect and kindness and is therefore a great gift." -Ann Napolitano, author of ...
"Once again, Keane mines the family strife and secrecy that made her absorbing Ask Again, Yes one of the bigger book-club breakouts of the last several years. Here, a full marriage story is compressed within the span of a single week as charming, gregarious bartender Malcolm and his conscientious lawyer wife Jess confront the longtime fissures in their union and the many dreams deferred." -Entertainment Weekly
"I adored this compelling, touching, exquisitely crafted story about a marriage in crisis." -Liane Moriarty, New York Times bestselling author of Big Little Lies
"Keane explores the sacrifices of a marriage, setting Malcolm's impulsive deal to buy the bar he loved against Jess's consuming dream of parenthood. . . . The tension is undeniable and deeply compelling . . . with an unexpected twist, Keane's charming, tautly-paced, and introspective novel will delight." -Booklist (starred review)
"Mary Beth Keane writes to the heart of the human heart. She shows us how love can deepen, how love can stall-hang in the sky like a half moon, waxing and waning in the same moment, equal parts shadow and light. I could not put this book down." -Miranda Cowley-Heller, author of The Paper Palace
"One of our finest writers on the interior complexities of marriage and family shines a flashlight on the intricate clockwork of love and longing that runs inside us. Because of the thoughtfulness of that examination, beauty and possibility are visible. I ran my finger over sentences while reading, thinking: 'Yes, exactly.' This kind of fiction allows us to look around our own lives with respect and kindness and is therefore a great gift." -Ann Napolitano, author of ...
Short Excerpt Teaser
Chapter One one
Malcolm Gephardt could tell the bar was busy even from a block away, even from behind the filthy windshield of his Honda. The night was damp, the sidewalks along the center of town laced with dirty snow that had been refusing to melt for near a week. Most businesses had heeded the weather forecast and closed in advance of the coming storm, but when Malcolm approached the traffic light and saw his own squat, brown-shingled building at the bottom of the hill, something lifted in his chest and he leaned over the steering wheel.
"Oh," he said aloud to his empty car. Something was different about the place tonight. He felt a pull of energy, that singular happy chaos that can only be found inside a crowded bar when the music is good, people are running into friends, and the whole place is cozy despite the bone-cold world outside. He tried to imagine himself a stranger, tried to see his place as a stranger would. His place. His. Did it look welcoming? Was it just his imagination or did the light spilling onto the street give the whole façade a faint glow? Yes, he decided as he slid neatly into his parking spot and felt a thrill of hope, of faith, shoot through him for the first time in weeks: in himself, in his town, in these people, in life, in destiny, in following one's intuition. It was a good town, a good bar, and he was okay, he said to himself silently, like a prayer. Half Moon the old wooden sign above the door read, punctuated by a carving of a crescent moon (people loved pointing out the mistake) that had gone black and moldy over the years, and which Malcolm had scrubbed and then retouched with bright white paint the day after the deal went through.
Tonight, there were two people outside, smoking, and another woman just standing there, shivering. A positive sign. But it meant he couldn't go around to the side entrance because they'd spotted him, were already lifting their chins to him, and now as he approached he had to say all the things: how's it goin how you feelin looking good yeah more snow coming what a winter I guess nobody's goin nowhere for the weekend hope to god we don't lose power what'll we do without the TV ha ha ha. He had to shake hands, kiss the women hello, pretend he didn't know what they were talking about when they asked how he was doing, and made serious faces. And when he told them he was good, he was fine, as if he didn't know what they could be referring to, he had to do a better job pretending when they asked him again not ten seconds later.
All of this was far more difficult without a two-foot-wide bar sitting between him and the person asking. It was more difficult than it used to be, that was for sure. But why? Because he believed he knew himself, he supposed. Because he believed he knew Jess. He held fast to the good feeling from a moment earlier and told himself to keep going, to get through the night, and then maybe there'd be another one just like it. Lately, he'd been having thoughts. While at the stoplight on Wappinger a week ago, the sunset a purple bruise above Tallman Mountain and the wide Hudson hidden beyond, he thought, I could keep driving. I could turn right and head for Mexico. Turn left and make for Canada. All he had to do was keep filling the gas tank. He was handsome and charming and people liked him instantly. This was a fact he'd known about himself his entire life, and it would give him an advantage if he were to turn up in some Québécois village looking for work. His mind glanced at how much money was in the safe, how much room was left on the credit cards. He itemized everything in his house that he considered dear, but what was there that he truly loved? The coffeepot? His leather chair? Then the light turned, the thought evaporated without taking root, and he arrived at the bar feeling off-kilter, like he'd been on the verge of saying something important, but he couldn't remember what.
As he chatted with the people standing outside, he allowed himself to hope for twenty people inside. Twenty would be a decent night, and if there were twenty people in there, he told himself to not immediately wish there were forty. He refused to look through the window as if it might bring bad luck. Thirty maybe. There might be thirty. It was the coming snowstorm. Gallagher's and The Parlor hadn't even bothered to open. Primavera, next door, seated their last table at seven sharp. He wasn't sure about Tia Anna's or the new Thai place. If he had to close, he'd close, but until then he'd pull pints.
"He's here," Roddy said as soon as Malcolm stepped inside, and he felt his optimism wobble for a moment. As always, there was a note of urgency in Roddy's voice...
Malcolm Gephardt could tell the bar was busy even from a block away, even from behind the filthy windshield of his Honda. The night was damp, the sidewalks along the center of town laced with dirty snow that had been refusing to melt for near a week. Most businesses had heeded the weather forecast and closed in advance of the coming storm, but when Malcolm approached the traffic light and saw his own squat, brown-shingled building at the bottom of the hill, something lifted in his chest and he leaned over the steering wheel.
"Oh," he said aloud to his empty car. Something was different about the place tonight. He felt a pull of energy, that singular happy chaos that can only be found inside a crowded bar when the music is good, people are running into friends, and the whole place is cozy despite the bone-cold world outside. He tried to imagine himself a stranger, tried to see his place as a stranger would. His place. His. Did it look welcoming? Was it just his imagination or did the light spilling onto the street give the whole façade a faint glow? Yes, he decided as he slid neatly into his parking spot and felt a thrill of hope, of faith, shoot through him for the first time in weeks: in himself, in his town, in these people, in life, in destiny, in following one's intuition. It was a good town, a good bar, and he was okay, he said to himself silently, like a prayer. Half Moon the old wooden sign above the door read, punctuated by a carving of a crescent moon (people loved pointing out the mistake) that had gone black and moldy over the years, and which Malcolm had scrubbed and then retouched with bright white paint the day after the deal went through.
Tonight, there were two people outside, smoking, and another woman just standing there, shivering. A positive sign. But it meant he couldn't go around to the side entrance because they'd spotted him, were already lifting their chins to him, and now as he approached he had to say all the things: how's it goin how you feelin looking good yeah more snow coming what a winter I guess nobody's goin nowhere for the weekend hope to god we don't lose power what'll we do without the TV ha ha ha. He had to shake hands, kiss the women hello, pretend he didn't know what they were talking about when they asked how he was doing, and made serious faces. And when he told them he was good, he was fine, as if he didn't know what they could be referring to, he had to do a better job pretending when they asked him again not ten seconds later.
All of this was far more difficult without a two-foot-wide bar sitting between him and the person asking. It was more difficult than it used to be, that was for sure. But why? Because he believed he knew himself, he supposed. Because he believed he knew Jess. He held fast to the good feeling from a moment earlier and told himself to keep going, to get through the night, and then maybe there'd be another one just like it. Lately, he'd been having thoughts. While at the stoplight on Wappinger a week ago, the sunset a purple bruise above Tallman Mountain and the wide Hudson hidden beyond, he thought, I could keep driving. I could turn right and head for Mexico. Turn left and make for Canada. All he had to do was keep filling the gas tank. He was handsome and charming and people liked him instantly. This was a fact he'd known about himself his entire life, and it would give him an advantage if he were to turn up in some Québécois village looking for work. His mind glanced at how much money was in the safe, how much room was left on the credit cards. He itemized everything in his house that he considered dear, but what was there that he truly loved? The coffeepot? His leather chair? Then the light turned, the thought evaporated without taking root, and he arrived at the bar feeling off-kilter, like he'd been on the verge of saying something important, but he couldn't remember what.
As he chatted with the people standing outside, he allowed himself to hope for twenty people inside. Twenty would be a decent night, and if there were twenty people in there, he told himself to not immediately wish there were forty. He refused to look through the window as if it might bring bad luck. Thirty maybe. There might be thirty. It was the coming snowstorm. Gallagher's and The Parlor hadn't even bothered to open. Primavera, next door, seated their last table at seven sharp. He wasn't sure about Tia Anna's or the new Thai place. If he had to close, he'd close, but until then he'd pull pints.
"He's here," Roddy said as soon as Malcolm stepped inside, and he felt his optimism wobble for a moment. As always, there was a note of urgency in Roddy's voice...
