Genre Fiction
![Joy Fielding - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_a_joy_fielding.jpg)
The Housekeeper: A Novel
A woman hires a housekeeper to care for her aging parents-only to watch as she takes over their lives in this riveting novel from the New York Times bestselling author Samantha M. Bailey calls "an ingenious master of domestic suspense."
In the end, I have only myself to blame. I'm the one who let her in.
Jodi Bishop knows success. She's the breadwinner, a top-notch real estate agent. Her husband, Harrison . . . not so much. Once, he had big dreams. But now, he's a middling writer who resents his wife's success.
Jodi's father, Vic, now in his late seventies and retired, is a very controlling man. His wife, Audrey, was herself no shrinking violet. But things changed when Audrey developed Parkinson's ten years ago and Vic retired to devote himself to her care. But while still reasonably spry and rakishly handsome, Vic is worn down by his wife's deteriorating condition.
Exhausted from trying to balance her career, her family, and her parents' needs, Jodi starts interviewing housekeepers to help care for Audrey and Vic. She settles on Elyse Woodley, an energetic and attractive widow in her early sixties, who seems perfect for the job. While Vic is initially resistant, he soon warms to Elyse's sunny personality and engaging ways.
And Jodi is pleased to have an ally, someone she can talk to and occasionally even confide in. Until . . .
She shuts Jodi out. And Audrey's condition worsens-rapidly. Who is this woman suddenly wearing her mother's jewelry? What is she after? And how far will she go to get it?
In the end, I have only myself to blame. I'm the one who let her in.
Jodi Bishop knows success. She's the breadwinner, a top-notch real estate agent. Her husband, Harrison . . . not so much. Once, he had big dreams. But now, he's a middling writer who resents his wife's success.
Jodi's father, Vic, now in his late seventies and retired, is a very controlling man. His wife, Audrey, was herself no shrinking violet. But things changed when Audrey developed Parkinson's ten years ago and Vic retired to devote himself to her care. But while still reasonably spry and rakishly handsome, Vic is worn down by his wife's deteriorating condition.
Exhausted from trying to balance her career, her family, and her parents' needs, Jodi starts interviewing housekeepers to help care for Audrey and Vic. She settles on Elyse Woodley, an energetic and attractive widow in her early sixties, who seems perfect for the job. While Vic is initially resistant, he soon warms to Elyse's sunny personality and engaging ways.
And Jodi is pleased to have an ally, someone she can talk to and occasionally even confide in. Until . . .
She shuts Jodi out. And Audrey's condition worsens-rapidly. Who is this woman suddenly wearing her mother's jewelry? What is she after? And how far will she go to get it?
Editorial Reviews
"An exciting roller-coaster ride of family dysfunction, marital dynamics, and gaslighting . . . Fielding's novel is gripping from the beginning, and Jodi is a fleshed-out, relatable protagonist. The plot builds to a nail-biting climax. . . . Recommended for fans of women-led suspense novels such as Mary Kubica's The Other Mrs. and Ruth Ware's The Lying Game."-Library Journal
Praise for Joy Fielding
"We can always count on Joy Fielding to turn out a well-dressed, well-developed psychological suspense novel."-The Globe and Mail
"Fielding masterfully manipulates our expectations."-The Washington Post
"Fielding has made the woman-in-jeopardy genre her own."-People
"[Fielding] takes domestic situations that everyone faces and combines them with chilling suspense."-Richmond Times-Dispatch
"Gripping . . . As Fielding slowly reveals each character's secrets, she nicely upsets readers' perceptions and expectations as they try to figure out who will be the first to snap-and who will die. Suspense fans will be well rewarded."-Publishers Weekly
Praise for Joy Fielding
"We can always count on Joy Fielding to turn out a well-dressed, well-developed psychological suspense novel."-The Globe and Mail
"Fielding masterfully manipulates our expectations."-The Washington Post
"Fielding has made the woman-in-jeopardy genre her own."-People
"[Fielding] takes domestic situations that everyone faces and combines them with chilling suspense."-Richmond Times-Dispatch
"Gripping . . . As Fielding slowly reveals each character's secrets, she nicely upsets readers' perceptions and expectations as they try to figure out who will be the first to snap-and who will die. Suspense fans will be well rewarded."-Publishers Weekly
Short Excerpt Teaser
Chapter One
It's my fault.
I'm the one who first brought up the idea, who championed it, who set the ball rolling, and who ultimately insisted on hiring her. My father was adamantly opposed to the idea, my mother ambivalent at best, my sister as indifferent as always. Only my husband, Harrison, thought it was a good idea, and only because he hoped it would take some of the strain off me.
"You do too much," he was always saying. Followed by, "There are things you can control and things you can't. You can't be all things to all people. Concentrate on our family. Let the rest go."
He was right, of course. Except it wasn't that easy to just let the rest go. And try as I might, I couldn't help hearing the unstated corollary: If only you'd put half the effort and energy into our house . . . our children . . . our marriage, as you do into your parents . . . your sister . . . your career . . .
Forget that it was precisely that career that not only covered our mortgage, but paid all the bills, thus allowing him the luxury of working full-time, and without any noticeable remuneration, on his latest novel.
I say "latest," although it's been almost a decade since his first novel was published. To great acclaim, I might add. But still . . . If I sold only one house every ten years, I think I might be tempted to try my hand at something else.
To this, Harrison would undoubtedly point out that writing is more a calling than a career, rather like the priesthood, and nothing at all like selling real estate in an overheated, overpriced market. This would likely be followed by "It's not easy to create anything of value with two young children underfoot."
This last argument might hold more merit were it not for the fact that our son, Samuel, who is eight, is in school most of the day, and our daughter, Daphne, age three, is in daycare. True, Harrison is sometimes tasked with putting them to bed when I have an evening showing, or entertaining them when I have weekend appointments. Selling real estate isn't exactly a nine-to-five profession. Rather like writing, I'm tempted to say.
But, of course, I don't, because it would likely lead to a confrontation. And I hate confrontations.
"The male ego is a fragile thing," my mother once told me. And she would know. She was married to my father-never the easiest of men-for almost fifty years.
Not that my mother was any shrinking violet. She gave as good as she got, and their loud fights were legendary in their upscale neighborhood of Rosedale. Some of my earliest memories consist of lying in bed with my hands pressed tightly against my ears, in a vain effort to block out the angry accusations and furious denials flying up the stairs, threatening to burst through the door to the room I shared with my sister, who lay sleeping in the twin bed next to mine, as oblivious as always. Even now, when I can't sleep, I hear their raised voices piercing the stillness of the night to shout in my ear.
A therapist would no doubt explain that this would account for my aversion to confrontations. And the therapist would probably be right.
If only the rest of what happened were so easy to explain.
Of course, my mother's voice had all but disappeared in recent years, lost to the unrelenting ravages of Parkinson's disease. In response, my father, having lost his favorite sparring partner, had little choice but to mellow accordingly.
Oh, he could still be difficult-the male ego is a fragile thing after all-but he could also be solicitous and even tender on occasion. Eight years ago, he resigned his position as head of the real estate company he founded-yes, the same company for which I work-to devote himself full-time to my mother's care.
A noble idea, to be sure.
But the man was in his late seventies, and while he remained healthy and enviably spry-not to mention still rakishly handsome-he was no longer a young man. And caring for a woman with advanced Parkinson's is no easy chore at any age.
Which is why I suggested hiring a live-in housekeeper.
An idea that was promptly, and soundly, rejected. ("We're quite capable of managing on our own, thank you very much!" he bellowed.)
I tried enlisting my sister's help. Tracy, four years my senior, had always been my parents' favorite, a blond, blue-eyed goddess, standing six feet tall and weighing all of one hundred and twenty-five pounds. (For the record, my hair and eyes are matching shades of light brown, my height is ...
It's my fault.
I'm the one who first brought up the idea, who championed it, who set the ball rolling, and who ultimately insisted on hiring her. My father was adamantly opposed to the idea, my mother ambivalent at best, my sister as indifferent as always. Only my husband, Harrison, thought it was a good idea, and only because he hoped it would take some of the strain off me.
"You do too much," he was always saying. Followed by, "There are things you can control and things you can't. You can't be all things to all people. Concentrate on our family. Let the rest go."
He was right, of course. Except it wasn't that easy to just let the rest go. And try as I might, I couldn't help hearing the unstated corollary: If only you'd put half the effort and energy into our house . . . our children . . . our marriage, as you do into your parents . . . your sister . . . your career . . .
Forget that it was precisely that career that not only covered our mortgage, but paid all the bills, thus allowing him the luxury of working full-time, and without any noticeable remuneration, on his latest novel.
I say "latest," although it's been almost a decade since his first novel was published. To great acclaim, I might add. But still . . . If I sold only one house every ten years, I think I might be tempted to try my hand at something else.
To this, Harrison would undoubtedly point out that writing is more a calling than a career, rather like the priesthood, and nothing at all like selling real estate in an overheated, overpriced market. This would likely be followed by "It's not easy to create anything of value with two young children underfoot."
This last argument might hold more merit were it not for the fact that our son, Samuel, who is eight, is in school most of the day, and our daughter, Daphne, age three, is in daycare. True, Harrison is sometimes tasked with putting them to bed when I have an evening showing, or entertaining them when I have weekend appointments. Selling real estate isn't exactly a nine-to-five profession. Rather like writing, I'm tempted to say.
But, of course, I don't, because it would likely lead to a confrontation. And I hate confrontations.
"The male ego is a fragile thing," my mother once told me. And she would know. She was married to my father-never the easiest of men-for almost fifty years.
Not that my mother was any shrinking violet. She gave as good as she got, and their loud fights were legendary in their upscale neighborhood of Rosedale. Some of my earliest memories consist of lying in bed with my hands pressed tightly against my ears, in a vain effort to block out the angry accusations and furious denials flying up the stairs, threatening to burst through the door to the room I shared with my sister, who lay sleeping in the twin bed next to mine, as oblivious as always. Even now, when I can't sleep, I hear their raised voices piercing the stillness of the night to shout in my ear.
A therapist would no doubt explain that this would account for my aversion to confrontations. And the therapist would probably be right.
If only the rest of what happened were so easy to explain.
Of course, my mother's voice had all but disappeared in recent years, lost to the unrelenting ravages of Parkinson's disease. In response, my father, having lost his favorite sparring partner, had little choice but to mellow accordingly.
Oh, he could still be difficult-the male ego is a fragile thing after all-but he could also be solicitous and even tender on occasion. Eight years ago, he resigned his position as head of the real estate company he founded-yes, the same company for which I work-to devote himself full-time to my mother's care.
A noble idea, to be sure.
But the man was in his late seventies, and while he remained healthy and enviably spry-not to mention still rakishly handsome-he was no longer a young man. And caring for a woman with advanced Parkinson's is no easy chore at any age.
Which is why I suggested hiring a live-in housekeeper.
An idea that was promptly, and soundly, rejected. ("We're quite capable of managing on our own, thank you very much!" he bellowed.)
I tried enlisting my sister's help. Tracy, four years my senior, had always been my parents' favorite, a blond, blue-eyed goddess, standing six feet tall and weighing all of one hundred and twenty-five pounds. (For the record, my hair and eyes are matching shades of light brown, my height is ...
