Home Safe

Home Safe

by Elizabeth Berg


$15.93 $16.00 Save 0% Current price is $15.93, Original price is $16. You Save 0%. View All Available Formats & Editions
Choose Expedited Shipping at checkout for guaranteed delivery by Tuesday, October 22


In this stunning novel, beloved bestselling author Elizabeth Berg weaves a beautifully written and richly resonant story of a mother and daughter in emotional transit. Helen Ames–recently widowed, coping with grief, unable to do the work that has always sustained her–is beginning to depend too much on her twenty-seven-year-old daughter, Tessa, meddling in her life and offering unsolicited advice. Then Helen is shocked to discover that her mild-mannered and seemingly loyal husband was apparently leading a double life. When a phone call from a stranger sets Helen on a surprising path of discovery, both mother and daughter reassess what they thought they knew about each other, themselves, and what really makes a home and a family.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780345487551
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Publication date: 10/06/2009
Pages: 288
Sales rank: 584,880
Product dimensions: 5.10(w) x 7.90(h) x 0.70(d)

About the Author

Elizabeth Berg is the author of many bestselling novels as well as two works of nonfiction. Open House was an Oprah’s Book Club selection, Durable Goods and Joy School were selected as ALA Best Books of the Year, and Talk Before Sleep was short-listed for an Abby Award. Her bestsellers also include The Year of Pleasures, The Day I Ate Whatever I Wanted, and Dream When You’re Feeling Blue. Berg has been honored by both the Boston Public Library and the Chicago Public Library and is a popular speaker at various venues around the country. She lives near Chicago.


Chicago, Illinois

Date of Birth:

December 2, 1948

Place of Birth:

St. Paul, Minnesota


Attended the University of Minnesota; St. Mary¿s College, A.A.S.

Read an Excerpt

Chapter One

“Mom,” Helen’s daughter says. “Mom. Mom. Mom. Don’t.”

Helen leans into the mirror to pick a clot of mascara off her lashes. This mascara is too old. She’ll buy a new tube today, now that she intends to be a regular working woman, someone who, rather than making a thirty-foot commute from bedroom to study and working in her pajamas, actually dresses up and goes out of her house to be among other human beings. She’ll buy some antiaging mascara, surely they’ve come up with that by now. What she really needs is an antiaging mirror.

“It’s not cute, what you’re doing,” Tessa says. “It’s not funky or cool or fun. You’ll hate it.”

Helen turns to face her. “How do you know? You’re talking about yourself. Just because you didn’t like working there doesn’t mean I won’t.”

“Mom. Imagine yourself folding the same sweater one hundred times a day. Imagine saying, ‘Welcome to Anthropologie!’ to hostile customers who only want to be left alone.”

“I hardly think they’ll be hostile.”

Tessa waves her hand as though flicking away the blackfly of her mother’s ignorance. “You’ve never worked retail. You have no idea how rude people can be. Or how weird.”

Helen refrains from answering, Expect the worst, and you’ll get it! She applies a thin coat of coral-colored lipstick.

“Too yellow for your complexion,” Tessa says. She is the beauty editor at an online magazine; she makes pronouncements like this with some regularity.

“You gave it to me!”

“I know, but it’s too yellow for your complexion. Throw it out. I’ll get you more red tones.”

Helen looks at the tube. “I don’t want to throw it out. I’ll donate it somewhere.”

“Mom. Mom. It’s used.”

“Well, then, I’ll give it to Grandma.” Helen regards herself in the mirrror. She sees that Tessa is right about the color of the lipstick on her. She wipes it off and puts on a pinkish shade. Then she walks to the front hall closet to get her coat.

“This is going to be a complete waste of your time,” Tessa says. One eyebrow is arched, and her head is tilted in the “I can’t wait to say I told you so” position.

“The operative word being ‘your.’ ”


“It’s my time. I can waste it if I want to. And anyway, it won’t be a waste. I need a change of pace.”

Tessa puts on her coat. She does not button it, and Helen does not tell her to. As she is frequently reminded, her daughter is twenty-seven years old. Still, it’s November and cold outside, an insinuating dampness in the air. Tessa does wrap her muffler securely around her throat, Helen is happy to see.

“You aren’t going to listen to me no matter what I say,” Tessa says. “You’re going to go down there and apply and they’ll hire you because they’re desperate and then you’ll see how disgusting it is to work with spoiled brats and then you’ll quit.”

“Well,” Helen says. “It will be something to do. Won’t it. Do you want a ride back downtown?”

Tessa wordlessly exits the house, letting the storm door fall shut instead of holding it open for her mother, who is close behind her. Helen figures the whole way downtown, Tessa will continue to punish her, and she considers for a moment telling her daughter to take the el home, but she won’t. It’s her daughter. She wonders how many times in her life she’s told herself that.

There is silence until they are out of Oak Park and onto the Eisenhower, and then Helen looks over at Tessa, who is pointedly staring straight ahead.

“Who’s spoiled?” she asks, and is gratified to see Tessa smile, then reach over and turn on the CD player. It’s over.

Tessa selects Nicole Atkins’s Neptune City and turns the volume up. Helen boosts the volume a bit more. On music she and her daughter agree completely. They have even gone to concerts together, and Tessa never seems to be embarrassed by the fact that she is there with her mother. Oftentimes, they will both hear something in a song, and turn to smile at each other like girlfriends. They feel music in the same way; it is a source of pride for Helen. Helen’s best friend, Midge, has a daughter Tessa’s age, and Amanda plays music that Midge says makes her feel like shooting herself, twice. But Tessa custom-mixes a CD for her mother every Christmas, selecting her own favorite songs of the moment, and it is always Helen’s favorite gift.

Helen’s husband, Dan, died suddenly eleven months and three days ago, dropping his coffee cup and sliding almost noiselessly out of his kitchen chair and onto the floor. Helen, who’d been standing at the sink, still feels guilty about yelling at him for breaking his cup before she turned to see him sprawled on his back, his eyes wide open and startled-looking. She believes the last thing Dan felt was surprise, and to her way of thinking, it wasn’t a bad way to go. The bad part is he left her here without him, ignorant of . . . oh, everything.

People used to accuse her of being overly dependent on Dan, and it was true. “You give away your power,” one friend told Helen. “You infantilize yourself.” On that occasion, Helen looked down at her salad plate as though acknowledging culpability and feeling bad about it, but what she was thinking was, Oh, shut up. It feels good to infantilize myself. You ought to try it. Might take an edge off.

On that awful day when Helen realized her husband was dead, it nonetheless occurred to her to ask him what to do about the fact that he had just died. She had called the paramedics; she had tried CPR, now what should she do? When it came to her—slowly at first, then in a breath-snatching rush of feeling—that she could not ask him this or any other thing ever again, Helen ran to the bathroom to vomit. Then she ran back to kneel beside Dan, and called his name over and over again. And then she called Tessa, to ask her what to do.

As soon as Tessa heard her mother say her name, her voice dropped to a flat and foreboding pitch to ask, “What happened?” But she knew, she later told Helen, she knew right away that her dad had died. After Helen hung up the phone, she swept up the shards of broken china, including one that had cut Dan’s hand. Then she put a Band-Aid over the wound on his little finger because although he was now clearly beyond needing her care, she was not beyond needing to care for him. She sat staring at the cuff of his sleeve, trying not to think, until the paramedics finally arrived and pronounced Dan dead. Helen thought, Those words don’t even go together, “your husband” and “dead.” And then she experienced the oddest sensation. It was of feeling herself ascend—her, not Dan. She felt as though she were leaving the planet and her own life, never to return. Because she was herself, but she was also Dan: they had merged their two personalities to create a shared one, that was what their marriage was, and she lived inside the marriage more than she lived inside herself. For her to lose Dan—especially so suddenly—was to step off a cliff where the falling seemed never to stop.

In addition to her greatest love, Helen has lost the person who handled the practical side of their life together. All this time later, Helen is still shaky on managing the simplest aspects of her finances, despite the fact that she has an accountant to ask questions of. She trusted Dan to take care of his own income and hers; she didn’t want to know anything about what he was doing. Numbers had made her nervous since early on in elementary school, when her teacher had announced ominously that tomorrow they were going to start learning fractions, and the whole class had groaned. Helen remembers sitting in her plaid dress with the little bow at the neckline, laying her pencil down carefully in the desk trough and thinking, Okay, that’s it for me. She’d been having trouble enough with what they were doing; long division made her jiggle her leg and yank at her bangs; she was not interested in being challenged further. Later she would learn about math anxiety and the things one might do to help oneself, but by that time it was irrelevant. She and Dan both were used to her making astonishing mistakes in the world of numbers: “It was four hundred and fifty dollars,” she once told Dan about a refrigerator she had looked at and wanted to buy after theirs had broken. “Are you sure?” Dan asked. “Yes!” she said. “I remember exactly! Four hundred and fifty dollars.” It was, in fact, four thousand, five hundred. “Oh,” Helen said, when Dan came with her to the appliance store and showed her the price tag.

She didn’t see her shortcomings as serious problems. What she believed was that each person brought to a marriage certain strengths and weaknesses; so each became naturally responsible for certain things. She rolled out the piecrusts and scheduled doctors appointments; Dan balanced the checkbook and managed their holdings at Morgan Stanley.

After her husband’s death, Helen had left the investment firm’s monthly statements sitting unopened on Dan’s desk until a few days ago, when she mailed them to the accountant. She’ll get around to looking at them when she’s ready, if she needs to. She knows that whatever is there has been both wisely and conservatively invested and is earning a fair amount of interest; that much of what Dan told her she retained.

Mechanical repairs have become a more immediate problem. This morning, in fact, Tessa had taken the forty-five-minute el ride out to her mother’s house to reset Helen’s garbage disposal, adjust the flapper on her toilet, and replace a lightbulb in the ceiling of the front porch while Helen steadied the ladder, she was really very good at steadying ladders. Helen knows she should hire a handyman since she is unable or unwilling to learn about such things, but thus far, Tessa has not complained about helping her mother—in some ways, Helen feels it is her daughter’s legacy.

“Do I have to do everything?” Dan used to say, kind of kidding and kind of not, and Helen would say, “Yes,” and she was not kidding at all. She figured cooking and cleaning and the better part of child rearing were enough of a contribution, that and the money she made from writing, which was not insignificant. She contributed her imagination to the relationship, didn’t that count for something? It may have been Dan who built the playhouse for their daughter, but it was Helen who had conceived of the idea for the design, complete with take-out window just off the kitchen, this because Tessa’s ambitions at the time included having a drive-up pie shop.

Still, Helen had meant to help out a bit more at some point. She’d had glittering intentions to roll up her sleeves one day and become a citizen of the hands-on world, to acquaint herself with Dan’s toolbox, with the way to change batteries and filters and fuses. She meant to learn to jump-start a car and change a tire. (“Well, why do we have Triple A?” Helen asked when Dan offered one day to show her these things. And Dan said, “What if Triple A doesn’t come?” “When would that happen?” Helen asked. “Believe me, it happens,” Dan said, and Helen said oh all right, she would learn but not today, she was wearing white pants today. On her way back into the house, she deadheaded some petunias in the garden, thinking, See? I help!)

The day for Helen’s baptism into practicality had never come, in the way that most people never get around to cleaning the attic or garage, leaving their survivors to argue with their siblings over what stays and what goes. And so now she has made her daughter her fix-it man. She knows it’s wrong, but she tells herself it is temporary. She’ll be glad when she and Tessa go to visit her parents for Christmas. Then Tessa will get a break from being on call, for Helen’s father is the consummate fix-it man: one of the first things he always does is ask if anyone has brought anything for him to repair. He’s a specialist in stain removal, harbors some now illegal substance in his basement that works like a charm.

Last July, when Helen and Tessa came to visit, they took a walk around the neighborhood and Tessa asked her, “Mom? How come Grandma and Grandpa live in such a tiny house? Everything’s so tiny.”

“It wasn’t so tiny when they bought it,” Helen said. “People didn’t used to have such big houses. Look around: all the houses in this neighborhood are tiny.”

“I guess.”

Carefully, then, Helen said, “I kind of like it. I’ve been thinking about downsizing, myself.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just . . . You know, I think it might be nice to have a smaller place. Not so much to take care of. When Dad and I first got married, we lived in a really small one-bedroom apartment, and I loved how cozy it was. We lived above the landlady. Her name was Mrs. Assolino, and she had this really low and distinctive voice. She used to call us all the time, complaining about this thing or that: we were too noisy, or our blinds weren’t pulled down evenly.”

“What?” Tessa said.

“Oh yeah. When we moved in, she said”—and here Helen spoke in a low, gravelly voice—“?‘This is my house, see? And I don’t like the blinds to be uneven. It looks sloppy from the outside. So keep the blinds even.’ We would try to remember, but we never did and then she would call us to complain and she could never get our name right. She would say, ‘Hello, Mrs. James? I’m calling about the blinds. This is Mrs. Assolino.’ As though it would be anyone else!”

Tessa was silent. Then she said, “You love our house.”

“I know,” Helen said. “Don’t worry. I’m not doing anything yet. Just thinking about it.”

“Was that apartment you guys lived in in San Francisco?”


“Why didn’t you stay there?”

“I didn’t like it,” Helen said, remembering the way she would sit at the window staring out at the piece of the ocean she could see, homesick for the Midwest, for the flatness of the land, the plainness of it. It was taxing to live in a place like San Francisco, where tourists crowded the sidewalks and exclaimed over the beauty, and the people who lived there were so happy; did everyone have to be so happy all the time?

“How could you not like it?” Tessa said. “I would love to live in San Francisco!”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

“You always do this. You can’t decide for me what—”

“I know,” Helen said. “I’m sorry.”

Helen supposes downsizing might be inevitable, but she can’t give it much thought now. There is, after all, a more pressing concern: she can no longer write. Bad enough that writing was the way she made her living; it was also her anchor, her lens, her abiding consolation. Next to Dan, it was her greatest love. Without her husband or the practice of laying out words on a page, she feels that she spends her days rattling around inside herself; that, whereas she used to be a whole and happy woman, now she is many pieces of battered self, slung together in a sack of skin.

In what she now thinks of as the olden days, she would leap out of bed, her mind watered, as she used to say, by the rich blankness of sleep. She would pour herself a cup of coffee, go and sit in her study in her pajamas and write for four to five hours, then get dressed and carry on with the rest of the day. That meant first scanning the newspaper, trying to focus on the stories about the better side of humanity, and reading the want ads for dogs, she liked particularly to see if there were any English mastiffs being offered. Dan was allergic to pet dander and they’d never had so much as a parakeet, but Helen grew up with dogs and missed them, their glad eyes, the way their paws smelled like corn chips.

After the paper, there was grocery shopping and laundry; expeditions about town to run errands; and always, always, always, people watching. Helen thought of observation as a kind of shopping, too: into her writer’s basket would go snatches of conversation, the sheen of someone’s long black hair, an exaggerated limp, the look that passed between lovers. Natural events that she witnessed—furious summer thunderstorms, the oblique flight of migrating birds, the cocooning of caterpillars, the formation of fuzzy stars of frost against her window—all these seemed rich with potential for metaphor. She would walk past a nursing home and see an imaginary Elwood Lansing, trembling hands resting on his knees, waiting for his five o’clock supper; she would see a couple arguing in a car and create lines of blistering dialogue for them both. She would walk along a narrow dirt path in the woods hearing things characters in whatever novel she was working on were saying to each other. Oftentimes, embarrassingly, she used to blurt lines of dialogue out loud. Once, a man turned around and said, “Well, hey. You, too.”

These days, Helen looks around the places she goes to, and nothing seems worth noting, or even quite there. These days, she comes into her study, sits at the desk, starts up the computer, and drinks coffee while she tries to avoid looking at the blinking cursor, that electronic tapping foot. Sometimes she moves to her little white sofa to read from volumes of poetry she used to find inspiring, and sometimes she reads from her own previously published novels. Irrespective of what she reads, though, when she goes back to sit before the computer, there is the same stubborn emptiness, the same locked door. So she shuts the computer down and leaves the room, pulling the door firmly closed behind her. Her study, once bright with bouquets of flowers and Post-it notes and various ephemera meant to inspire whatever story she was working on (once she strung a clothesline across her office and hung vintage dresses on it, items her main character would wear), that study has now become a mausoleum. The framed book jackets on the wall and the gold trophy Dan gave her when she published her first book rebuke her; the three fetish stones she always believed brought her luck have been revealed as the false idols that they are; daily, they gather more dust.

Financially, she is fine: she and Dan created for themselves a nice nest egg. It is in other ways that she is not. “You still have Tessa,” her mother told her shortly after Dan died, and Helen nodded, recalling the friend of the mother who lost her child on that day so long ago, the friend who offered the same words of consolation. But love for one child does not make up for the loss of another, and anyway, the love of a child is a very different thing from the love of a husband.

Naturally, she had expected great sorrow and disorientation after Dan’s sudden death. But she had expected, too, that she would eventually get better, becoming one of those women whose well-managed grief endows them with an enlarged capacity for empathy and kindness and perspective, and with a newfound ability to manage things they never could manage before. Instead, in the time since Dan died, Helen’s feeling of disconnection and helplessness has grown worse month by month, if not day by day. Now she thinks she has reached a kind of crisis point, and she is afraid.

Last time she and Midge had lunch, Helen tried to explain how she felt. She said, “Honest to God, Midge, I feel like I’m moments away from everything just . . . imploding. I can’t even think, I’m not thinking right. I forget words, whole thoughts. I wake up at night and I don’t know where I am. I mean, I know I’m at home, in my bed, but I don’t know where I am.” She cleared her throat against the embarrassing tremulousness in her voice.

Midge waved a hand that held a heavily buttered piece of French bread. It was unsalted butter, and Midge had remedied that with characteristic gusto—when she shook the saltshaker, grains had flown so far as to land in Helen’s lap. Now she spoke around her bite of bread to say, “Oh, well, that.”

“No, not that,” Helen wanted to say. “This.” But what good would it do to try to explain? Midge was the kind of woman who had no problem knocking down walls in her house—herself. She knew how to upholster sofas, how to change the oil in her car. As a young woman, she had climbed mountains in a way that required driving spikes into rock, and run marathons, and gone through men like Kleenex until she finally found one who could stand up to her. Helen and she had agreed early on in their friendship that opposites really did attract, and anyway, they were alike in many ways, too—their love of food and cooking and gardens and books, of sappy movies, of old people and children, of trench coats and white orchids. So Helen shook salt on her bread and smiled and shrugged, as though she agreed with Midge that all this angst was really rather amusing, at least in daylight, in a pretty little French restaurant, sitting opposite your best friend. She tried to act like it was all to be expected, and, once expressed, was no longer anything to be afraid of—it was a boogeyman jerked out from under her bed, a bad dream whose power slowly dissipated with the turning on of the bedside lamp. It was just problem number 445.173 in some fat medical diagnosis book, something for which there was surely a pastel-colored pill that, if it didn’t fix you, made you not care that you couldn’t be fixed.

“What’s Amanda up to?” Helen asked, but the lightness in her tone was glaringly false.

“Listen,” Midge said, leaning over the table to speak quietly. “I don’t mean to dismiss all you’re going through. It’s just that I don’t always know what to say—or do—anymore. It’s been almost a year. I know you’re still hurting, of course you are, but I would think that by now you would be starting to normalize, at least a little. You seem so stuck, sweetheart. Not that you’re doing anything wrong! Grief takes many forms, it takes varying lengths of time to move through, there are all those stages; everybody knows that. But maybe you need to find a way to change channels, you know?” She took a drink of iced tea, and it seemed to Helen that in this small act was evidence of the yawning difference between them. Midge’s husband would come home that night and sit around the living room with his shoes off. He would find a movie for them to see that weekend. Midge would go to sleep beside him and wake up beside him, and she, like most people, took all of this for granted.

Midge was not experiencing grief. When you were, you did not remark upon it and then sip your iced tea. If you spoke about your pain in any truthful way, you clenched your fists in your lap. You looked out the window to find something to distract you, to stop a flow of thoughts that would quickly overwhelm you. Or you laughed that thin laugh that is not laughter at all but tears, rerouted. So on that day when Helen had lunch with Midge, she decided not to talk about her problem anymore. She decided to finally do something about it.

Reading Group Guide

1. In the opening pages of Home Safe, we see Helen as a young girl, writing poetry to deal with the grief of losing a classmate: "With this, she was given peace" (page 4). What types of activities calm or fulfill you? How do they resonate emotionally?

 2. Helen says that her favorite Christmas gift is the custom- mixed CD her daughter makes for her each year. Do you have a tradition of making homemade gifts? What have been some of your favorite or most memorable holiday gifts? What gift would you be thrilled to get from your child? From your parent? 

3. As a diversion, Helen prepares an elaborate meal of "roast pork with cinnamon apple chutney, mashed sweet potatoes, green beans with crispy shallots," and an apple crisp (page 26). If you were making such a meal just for yourself, what foods would you choose? What roles does food play in our lives? What types of situations and occasions do you associate with special meals? Discuss other creative pursuits that you might have or indeed have tried in a similar situation. 

4. One writing exercise Helen uses as a teaching tool is for her students to write short stories using a number of given objects: "an old silver hairbrush, a blackened frying pan, a love letter from the 1930s, a pair of men's shoes, a floppy- necked teddy bear, one dusty wing of a butterfly" (page 47). What sort of story might you construct about these objects? Who do these things belong to? If you had created this exercise, what objects might you have chosen? 

5. Helen relates, on page 89, that Dan used a children's book to illustrate his dream of sailing. Are there any particular children's books that resonate with you as an adult? That influence you? Why? 

6. The book's title, Home Safe, appears in an expression Helen recalls on page 95. How did Helen and Dan use this phrase? What people or places in your life give you this feeling? 

7. Helen wonders what she and Dan might have discussed in the tree house, recalling that a friend had wisely said, "It's not the things you have in a tree house, it's the things you think about there" (page 129). If you could have a special retreat of your own, what and where would it be, and why? What sorts of things would you discuss there, and with whom? 

8. When Helen considers moving to San Francisco, knowing that Tessa has accepted a job there, she wonders if Tessa will be upset about it and asks herself if she "is allowed to make a decision that is for and about herself?" (page 202). This question of whether an action is for Tessa or for Helen recurs throughout the novel. From where does this question stem? How does this issue affect their relationship? How would you advise each party? Do you know a mother- daughter pair, or a female pair with a different bond, who disagrees on such issues? 

9. Helen thinks that "if you leave one home, you can find another" (page 202). Who or what makes a home? What qualities do you associate with home? Have you found Helen's thought to be true in your own life? 

10. The details and features of Helen's dream house are carefully and delightfully described. What might your dream house look like? What features would it include? Where would it be located? 

11. What parts of Helen's journey are universal? What parts can you relate to your own life? What themes does Elizabeth Berg draw out of the characters? 

12. The lush and detailed images in this novel are unique. Can you point out a few effective images that really conveyed the novel's themes to you? What images did you most relate and respond to?  

Customer Reviews

Most Helpful Customer Reviews

See All Customer Reviews

Home Safe 3.1 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 677 reviews.
The-Good-Peasant More than 1 year ago
A disappointing read with cliched characters, a flat plot , and a not-unexpected ending. Woman becomes widow, realizes she can't do anything for herself, endlessly nags her grown daughter to "find a man", and then "finds herself" by teaching a writing class. The main character was annoying, her daughter sounded like a 10-year-old, and the story lines resolved in the most predictable ways. Read "Durable Goods" or "Talk Before Sleep" for better works by this author.
Brandie185 More than 1 year ago
Berg just has a great way of writing - she drew me in. I love her writing about a writer and it made me want to talk to her to see if she had ever had periods where she couldn't she write, and how she overcame it, etc, etc. This is definitely a feel good book and I'm tempted to call it a coming of middle age book. Interesting how the story unfolds and how it ends (no, I wont' spoil it for you!) But I really recommend this book. Especially if you are a Berg fan already, this one won't disappoint!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
This was a terrific read: a mystery, a romance, and an elegant exploration of the process of writing and the nature of creativity. It's something I'll recommend to others.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Just like its title promises, Home Safe by Elizabeth Berg is a comfy, pleasant, and not too challenging read. A widowed author deals with writer's block while navigating life alone. She has to learn how to handle household chores, finances and parenting without the man she can only remember as perfect. But just as she is settling into her quiet, lonely life a secret is revealed that sets her on a new, uncomfortable path. What makes this novel interesting is the relationships, particularly the parent-child dynamic between the main character and her grown daughter. Who is taking care of whom and why? Who needs a better job and who needs a date? Where is the line between caring and meddling? Navigating this relationship is the ultimate goal for both. Home Safe starts off a little sappy as we see life through the widow's eyes. Her life was idyllic, her marriage wonderful, her husband a saint. But helped by a colorful mix of characters she begins to wake from that fog to see reality, past and present. The book gets more interesting as her story becomes more realistic. This is a good book for a lazy weekend or a long flight. It won't stir your soul or call you to arms. You won't really learn anything, but you will be entertained.
writerEB More than 1 year ago
reminding readers that neither editor nor author forgot the date of 9/11. The text reads that Tom's WEDDING was planned for Saturday, September 15th. And now, as this is my book, I'll give it five stars. My books are like my children, so I'm sure you'll understand the impulse.
soddydoc More than 1 year ago
A poignant story of feelings, dreams, mistakes and resolution.
danadOK More than 1 year ago
The book was slow to get into. The book also did not resolve what I felt needed to be resolved in the end. The summary of the book left me high hopes that did not quite materalize. I will try more from this author.
Barca6 More than 1 year ago
Another great book by Elizabeth Berg. Her writing style is so easy to read and her characters are just like people you know. Helen's feelings of being unsettled and clinging to her child after the loss of her husband ring true to anyone who has been in Helen's shoes.
MinnesotaReader More than 1 year ago
You'll definitely enjoy this beautifully written tale of love, loss, identity, and the intricate bond between a mother and daughter. It tells the story of middle-aged author, Helen Ames, who's grieving the sudden death of her overly-protective husband. Turning to her adult daughter for help with everyday life's challenges puts a strain on their relationship and creates problems. Helen is dismayed when she finds herself unable to write and has to put her writing career on hold. To make matters worse, her late-husband had withdrawn a large portion of their retirement account for unknown reasons, making it necessary for her to find another job. As the story unfolds, she begins her unsteady journey from dependency to learning to cope on her own. Ms. Berg is wonderfully descriptive in her storytelling. She is incredibly gifted in her ability to conjure scenes and express emotions that I could actually experience with the characters. Her storyline was very captivating, from the first page to the last. I thoroughly enjoyed the enlightening insider's view of the realities of being a writer. Also, there's a lot of wisdom to be gained in the poignant, evolving relationship between Helen and her daughter. I absolutely loved this engaging book and I highly recommend it!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Many relationship aspects. Well written. Great section describing the joy of reading and books and bookstores.
Mickeymarie More than 1 year ago
She never lets me down.
Quintal More than 1 year ago
As a writer whose husband died unexpectedly, I picked this book up because I, too, suffered an entire year not being able to write anything. However, an intelligent woman, with money, would not fail to see her own dependence and interference with others' lives, and certainly wouldn't be blind to her husband's other life.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I read this book over a weekend. Elizabeth Berg's books are always this way--so wonderfully written and engaging and absorbing. You invest in her characters and the books, though they are so much more about character and feeling and the human experience than about action and conflict, somehow read like page turners. As always, more than once I read passages in her books that are so profoundly true to life that I feel moved by a sentence or a perfect phrase, somehow so insightful. She is the greatest writer of women's lives and feelings I have ever read. I loved how this novel seemed to provide us little "meta" glimpses into her own autobiographical experiences of being a writer. It's hard not to assume that some of Helen's feelings on writing, writer's block, and the business of writing are Elizabeth's own. There were a couple plot devices that were perhaps a little too coincidental or well-timed, but I didn't mind in the least, because they added such interest. What I love most and remember most about E.B.'s books is not the action of the story as much as how I felt while reading it -- how her power of observation provides such insight. Elizabeth, if you ever read these reviews: ignore the Margot Langley's! You can't begin to imagine how much your books mean to many of us. This one was so wonderful and I'm truly grateful for her as a writer.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
allenkl on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
This book is about recent widow struggling with living on her own, strangely without grief or sadness. She was not at all a believable character to me nor was her non-dimensional daughter. It is a pretty boring book. Seems to be much like a Romance novel, I suppose, I don't read them so that is just a guess. Simple sentences devoid of much description does make it a quick read. I've got to remember to skip Elizabeth Berg no matter how enticing her titles and book covers may be!
pdebolt on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
This book is worth reading for the insights into a writer's world, and for the description of the love affair between books and readers. It isn't my favorite of Berg's plots, but she writes beautifully about finding one's way.
njmom3 on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
This book seemed unbelievable and the story seemed to drag on.
SugarCreekRanch on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
I don't like hanging out with helpless people in real life. Turns out that I don't like hanging out with them in novels, either.
burnit99 on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
I've been reading a lot of particularly fine novels lately by women authors, with female lead characters who are forced to grow in uncomfortable and unexpected ways when their lives are suddenly upheaved. This is one such book, about Helen Ames, a recently widowed novelist who finds herself frozen in life after her husband's death, unable to write anymore, and too dependent on her adult daughter for the simplest of life's tasks, which her husband had always performed. Her world is further shattered by the discovery that before his death, her husband withdrew most of their life savings for an unknown purpose. When she does discover what his intentions were, she is forced to weave this knowledge into the fabric of the new life she is attempting to create for herself. A very good book with a satisfying and realistic conclusion.
readerwritergirl on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
I've been a fan of Elizabeth Berg since reading Open House during my own divorce eight years ago. Home Safe is a heartwarming story of a 59-year-old woman coming to terms with the death of her husband, her inability to write, and the amazing gift her husband left for her. Helen's journey is a real-life journey. I thoroughly enjoyed traveling with her, first page to last.
LesaHolstine on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
It was particularly interesting to read Berg's acknowledgements, in which she said she herself faced writer's block, and her daughter told her, then write about not being able to write. It takes a talented writer to tell that story. Home Safe might be Helen Ames' story, but it's also a beautifully written story of a writer, who feels as if she lost everything, not only her beloved husband, but also her writing, the art that gave her a reason to live. She lost the husband, and the writing, what kept her Home Safe.
irishwasherwoman on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
This is definitely one of Berg's best. The story of a middle-aged woman coping with the sudden death of her husband, a secret he kept, her loss of creativity, the death of her father, and her tendency to meddle in her grown daughter's life. This is an engaging read and well-crafted story. As she makes strides in learning to cope with her situation, Helen gains strength. There are a number of sidebars that add to the telling of the story. A recommended fast read.
julyso on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Helen is a novelist whose husband died a year ago and she is struggling with the loss. She has been unable to write and worries about her future as a writer. She has an unmarried daughter, Tessa, who also worries her because she doesn't have a man in her life. She then finds out that her husband had withdrawn a large amount of money from their retirement account and she wonders about the man she was married to for so many years. This is Helen's story of finding her way to a new life.I am a big-time Elizabeth Berg fan, but what a disappointment! She usually tells a story about people and I always fall in love with her story, with her people. This one, I didn't fall in love with anybody! Helen was clueless and I didn't understand anything she did. Her daughter wasn't much better. I am usually sad to finish an Elizabeth Berg book because I love them so, but this time I was sad that I wasted time reading it:(
St.CroixSue on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
This story centers on a recently widowed mother and her relationship with her daughter. The mother is a writer who has been unable to get back into writing, but ends up teaching a writing class to non-writers. Her interaction with her students and the work that they are producing is a beautiful part of the book.
larestout on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
There were so many things that I liked about this book. The author's voice as the reader really brought the story home to me and made it seem more personal. I felt for Helen as she dealt with her husband's death and her dependence on him, the loss of her father, and the letting go of her only daughter. This was not just "another woman finds her independence and learns to stand on her own" story. And yet, I did not completely agree with all of the conclusions that she came to at the end of the book. Helen's was still the story of a woman without any lasting hope outside of herself. But, I still appreciated the style, tone and voice that Elizabeth Berg offered in this novel. I have read two of her other books and will try another one in the future.