{"product_id":"el-dorado-drive-isbn-9780593084984","title":"El Dorado Drive","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eUSA TODAY \u003c\/i\u003eBESTSELLER\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNamed A Best Mystery\/Thriller of 2025 by \u003ci\u003eElle \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eCrime Reads • \u003c\/i\u003eAn \u003ci\u003eNPR \u003c\/i\u003e2025 Book We Lov\u003ci\u003ee • \u003c\/i\u003eA Best Book of 2025 by \u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrom the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Turnout \u003c\/i\u003ecomes a simmering, atmospheric novel of friendship and betrayal, following a women-led pyramid scheme in suburban Detroit.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Abbott is a superstar of the suspense genre.\" —NPR\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eAll I want is to be innocent again.\u003c\/i\u003e But that's not how it works. Especially not after the Wheel.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe three Bishop sisters grew up in privilege in the moneyed suburbs of Detroit. But as the auto industry declined, so did their fortunes. Harper, the youngest, is barely making ends meet when her beloved, charismatic sister Pam—currently in the middle of a contentious battle with her ex-husband—and her eldest sister, Debra, approach her about joining an exciting new club.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Wheel offers women like themselves—middle-aged and of declining means—a way to make their own money, independent of husbands or families. Quickly, however, the Wheel’s success, and their own addiction to it, leads to greater and greater risks—and a crime so shocking it threatens to bring everything down with it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMegan Abbott turns her keen eye toward women and money in \u003ci\u003eEl Dorado Drive\u003c\/i\u003e, a riveting story about power, vulnerability, and how desperation draws out our most destructive impulses.\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times \u003c\/i\u003e31 Novels Coming This Summer\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Boston Globe\u003c\/i\u003e's Best Books of Summer\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eWall Street Journal'\u003c\/i\u003es Summer Books to Get Lost In\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eVulture's 28 Books We Can't Wait to Read This Summer\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"As surprising and electrifying as a summer storm, \u003ci\u003eEl Dorado Drive\u003c\/i\u003e deftly examines hope, need, greed and the complicated angles of sisterhood. It is suspenseful, beautifully written and, quite simply, exquisite.\" \u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003eGillian Flynn, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eGone Girl\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Tense, chilling and beautifully written, \u003ci\u003eEl Dorado Drive \u003c\/i\u003eis an absolute knockout.” \u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003eHarlan Coben, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThink Twice\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"\u003ci\u003eEl Dorado Drive\u003c\/i\u003e is a dizzying ephemeral journey where Megan Abbott confirms what many of us already knew. She is one the finest writers to ever put pen to paper in the crime genre. A rare tour de force.” —S.A. Cosby, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eMy Darkest Prayer\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The Queen of Noir takes on the world of multi-level marking and the darker side of life in the suburbs. ‘Money was rarely about money.’ So smart!” —\u003ci\u003ePeople\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“There’s no one better at exploring the competitive dynamics of intense, female-only environments than Megan Abbott.” \u003ci\u003e—Elle.com\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Megan Abbott is a modern master, and I’ll read anything she writes.” —\u003ci\u003eWashington Post\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Megan Abbott's most doom-laden novel yet . . . The spell of this smart, socially-pointed suspense novel lingers long after the Wheel's stash of cash—and one of its members—are no more.” —\u003ci\u003eNPR's Fresh Air\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Megan Abbott is my favorite suspense\/crime fiction writer working today . . . Abbott packs more emotion and information into a single sentence than some writers can do in a page, making for and gripping reading experience.” \u003ci\u003e—Chicago Tribune\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Leave it to Megan Abbott to tap into the American zeitgeist and play on her readers’ fears like a conductor leading a doomsday orchestra . . . Abbott delivers a revolting revelation that sets up a series of twists that propels the story to its inevitable, but no less satisfying, conclusion.” —\u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Abbott, a pro at exploring the underbelly of suburbia, mines the desperation of those both fallen from wealthy heights and mired in tricky family dynamics.” —\u003ci\u003eBoston Globe\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[Abbott] effortlessly excels at exploring the complexities of women’s relationships with suspenseful, atmospheric storytelling. Unsettling and darkly clever.” —\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal \u003c\/i\u003e(starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The latest buzzy thriller from the always excellent author . . . Twisty and addictive, you can almost picture the Netflix documentary that will inevitably get made about these characters.” —\u003ci\u003ePaste\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[E]xplores themes of desire, psychosocial relations and sisterhood.” —\u003ci\u003eWall Street Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Abbott, a pro at exploring the underbelly of suburbia, mines the desperation of those both fallen from wealthy heights and mired in tricky family dynamics.” —\u003ci\u003eBoston Globe\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Abbott strikes gold again with this taut, suspenseful story . . . Another top-flight thriller from a genre master.\" —\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Abbott is among the most gifted stylists at work in crime fiction today, and she brings a poetic appreciation for flawed humanity to her new novel, which is as atmospheric and compelling as any of her best books.” —\u003ci\u003eCrime Reads\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"The sense of danger simmers below the surface of \u003ci\u003eEl Dorado Drive\u003c\/i\u003e as Abbott’s superb plotting and character studies keep the story on point, making this one of the best novels of the year.\" —\u003ci\u003eSouth Florida Sun-Sentinel\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[A] deeply emotional and convoluted tale about a group of women who are trying to repair their lives. Money can be quite a deadly problem to solve.” —\u003ci\u003eDayton Daily News\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Megan Abbott strikes gold again . . . \u003ci\u003eEl Dorado Drive\u003c\/i\u003e captivates from start to finish, and Megan Abbott's star continues to shine. The story promises shocking surprises in its early pages, and it delivers on multiple fronts, including a spellbinding denouement. Readers who enjoy a well-rounded and suspenseful mystery will enjoy this book.\" —\u003ci\u003eBook Riot\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[A]nother stealthy-steely triumph from Megan Abbott, arguably the foremost living author of feminist noir . . . [It] gives readers the thrill of watching from a safe distance as characters face tough choices, make the wrong ones, and give every indication that they will do so again.”\u003ci\u003e —Shelf Awareness\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"El Dorado Drive\u003c\/i\u003e marks the first time that Megan Abbott has set a story within the confines of her hometown of Detroit. The result is a thriller that not only works well, but also holds up as a sobering mirror reflection of a once-mighty American city that is now trying to rebuild itself.” —\u003ci\u003eBookreporter\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[A] nerve-shredding thriller. . . Abbott probes the minefield of sisterhood to harrowing effect, using staccato prose to amplify the inherent apprehension and anxiety of the siblings’ relationships. The result is a tense and twisty delight.” —\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Abbott is the queen of charged atmospheres, where a restrained surface often hides a torrent of deception.” —\u003ci\u003eKirkus\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Abbott is one of the reigning queens of suspense and her latest promises to be another dark knockout.” —\u003ci\u003eLit Hub \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“If you're not reading Megan Abbott already, you need to fix that, fast . . . Her latest, a heady brew of female complexities, a cracked risk-versus-reward calculation, and more than a little desperation, proves—in darkly suspenseful ways—that still waters do indeed run deep.” —\u003ci\u003eAmazon Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Sisterhood and suspense — the dynamic duo. A twisty, unexpected plot pairs with meaningful explorations of female friendship to create a read that is equal parts emotionally satisfying and propulsive.” —Barnes \u0026amp; Noble, \u003ci\u003eBest Books of June\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Megan is the reigning queen of feminist neo-noir that’s equal parts brainy and suspenseful, and every single time she publishes a new novel it’s an occasion.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Maris Review\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Abbott’s novels are exactly what I want to read during the summer (or really, any season): beautifully written page-turners embedded with razor-sharp insights about what it means to be a woman in today’s world.” —Rowan Beaird, \u003ci\u003eWBEZ NPR\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Layer by magnetic layer, Megan Abbott reveals the story of a family coming undone beneath the paralyzing weight of material pressures. Abbott is a skilled storyteller and \u003ci\u003eEl Dorado Drive \u003c\/i\u003eis a smart, twisty, and riveting family drama.” \u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003eKarin Slaughter, #1 International and \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThis is Why We Lied\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e “\u003ci\u003eEl Dorado Drive\u003c\/i\u003e is a silky devious ride. It's suspenseful as all hell but also beautifully observed and filled with trenchant observations about the price of greed and the debilitating weight of modern womanhood.” \u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003eDennis Lehane, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eSmall Mercies\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Sharp, shocking, beautiful and brilliant. \u003ci\u003eEl Dorado Drive\u003c\/i\u003e is a thrilling, clever and powerful story of family, class, money and morality. Megan Abbott is a phenomenal storyteller.” \u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003eChris Whitaker, author of\u003ci\u003e All the Colors of the Dark \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eMegan Abbott\u003c\/b\u003e is the Edgar award-winning author of eleven crime novels, including \u003ci\u003eYou Will Know Me\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eGive Me Your Hand\u003c\/i\u003e and the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestseller \u003ci\u003eThe Turnout\u003c\/i\u003e, the winner of the \u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times\u003c\/i\u003e Book Prize. She received her Ph.D. in English and American literature from New York University and her writing has appeared in the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e, the \u003ci\u003eGuardian\u003c\/i\u003e, the \u003ci\u003eParis Review \u003c\/i\u003eand the \u003ci\u003eWall Street Journal\u003c\/i\u003e. \u003ci\u003eDare Me,\u003c\/i\u003e the series she adapted from her own novel, now streaming on Netflix. Her latest novel, \u003ci\u003eBeware the Woman\u003c\/i\u003e, is now in paperback.1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNine months ago\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEverything's changing,\" Pam said softly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"It always is,\" Harper said, squeezing her sister's hand as they sat, uncomfortably, on folding chairs sinking heavily into the football field lawn.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOnstage, Pam's son, Patrick, gauntly handsome in his goblin-green Norseman robe, rose from the folding chair to accept his high school diploma.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHarper felt her eyes fill. How was he still not age six, elbows on the table, meticulously removing the plastic and eating two rolls of powdered mini-donuts in one sitting, his fingers, his face, even his long eyelashes, dusted white?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAn average student, Patrick had devoted most of his energies to running track, to all his jobs-painting fences and mowing lawns until he was burnished brown, his arms like carved banisters. And, most of all, to the care and maintenance of his little sister, Vivian, who sat beside Harper now, chin trembling, shaking off mascara tears.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut if you looked at Patrick on that stage-so solemn, his polyester robe glinting like spun satin-you might think he was valedictorian, class president, most likely to succeed. It was the way he carried himself, so regal, very grand, and Harper wanted to cry, too, Pam sobbing beside her now.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I'm just so proud,\" Pam kept saying, but Harper wondered if there was some strange kind of relief too. Relief that he'd made it, he'd graduated, and, thanks to a modest track scholarship, he was going to some college in Chicago-away, further away than any of them ever had.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen he turned to wave to them from the dais, the look on Patrick's face reminded Harper of a skittish colt, eyes darting. He'd made it through a calamitous childhood, scissored in two by his parents' ugly and endless divorce. He had gotten out. Somehow, Pam had gotten him out. Or he had gotten himself out.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo Harper decided not to see it as an omen when his diploma slipped carelessly from his long fingers as he glided across the stage, the kid behind him accidentally stepping on it, flattening it under his penny loafer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was only when the caps flew in the air that Harper realized her niece, Vivian, had abandoned them, a flash of chlorine-blue hair slinking behind the football stands with another girl. The two of them nearly disappearing inside their spray-painted hoodies, their bare legs poking through.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"This is going to be hard for her,\" Harper said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePam nodded gravely.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo one knew what they'd do about Vivian, once a sweet, earnest little girl who followed her big brother everywhere and loved nothing more than riding. Harper herself had put her on her first, an old gray quarter pony named Lumpy, at age five.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow a surly sixteen with a midnight-black manicure and pierced tongue, Vivian spent most of her time riding around in strangers' cars, a vodka bottle necked between her knees, pouring for a parade of sweet-faced girls, many of whom would kick off their sparkly sneakers in Vivian's bedroom and slide under her satin comforter, licking Vivian's laughing face, insisting, if Harper opened the door, It's a slumber party, we swear.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePam didn't seem to register any of it, but Harper marveled over their ease and comfort, Vivian and her girlfriends. Times were so different now, she wanted to say.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHow do you keep track? Harper would tease her niece.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd Vivian would remind Harper in that scratchy voice of hers, thick with tar, I'm young.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut that was before her mother laid down the law on New Year's Eve-Vivian cuffed inside a patrol car, kicked out of some warehouse party in Corktown, jaw clenched and hands purple, something about a potato chip bag full of MDMA. That was before her father threatened to send her to boarding school-and not the kind you'd like, he warned in the all-caps text Vivian promptly showed Harper.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut Patrick had stepped up, taking Vivian everywhere he went, to the mall movie theater with the sticky carpeting and the neon arcade games, to National Coney Island for chili dogs or to Sanders Chocolate Shoppe for hot fudge ice cream puffs at the counter, like the hundred times Pam had taken them as little kids, as their mother had taken them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEvery day after school, Vivian sat high in the stands, watching her brother run track, pretending to do her homework while carving graffiti on a bleacher bench, but-at least-behaving, staying still, keeping, as Pam would say with a sigh, her panties on.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut now Patrick was leaving.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt'll be just me and Vivian, Pam had said that very morning, her brow damp from making a hundred mortarboard candy pops for the graduation party. Adding with a laugh, One of us is coming out in a body bag.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt wasn’t until after the ceremony that their big sister, Debra, finally appeared, her husband, Perry, trailing behind in the same linen Hickey Freeman sports jacket all the fathers in Grosse Pointe wore, trying to catch his breath.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"We weren't late,\" Debra insisted. \"Perry couldn't make it up the stands. I can only guess you forgot to reserve us seats on the lawn. . . .\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"It doesn't matter,\" Pam said, winking at Harper, who tried not to laugh. That morning, they'd made a twenty-dollar bet on how quickly Debra would complain about the seating.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Well, it matters to me,\" Debra started to say, then stopped herself, kissing Pam on both cheeks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Hell, Pammy, you did it,\" Perry said, squeezing Pam's arm. \"By hook or by crook, you got your boy through.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Hook and crook,\" Pam laughed. \"And a lot of sweaty glad-handing at the PTA.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"The question is,\" Debra asked, looking around, fanning herself with her program, \"where's the proud papa?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt had been the big unknown, whether Patrick’s father, Doug, would show, maybe in a puff of sulfur, Pam had joked, knowing her ex-husband all too well.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"It's okay, Mom,\" Patrick said after the ceremony, slipping one arm around her and his other around Vivian. \"He's been working a lot. I figured he might not make it.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"He could still come to the party,\" Vivian said softly, her eyes raccooned from crying all day, a bandage hanging loose, her brother's name newly tattooed on her calf.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I'm sure he'll try,\" Harper said, curling her arm around her niece.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut you never could be sure with Doug, and part of her was relieved he hadn't yet appeared. All day she kept thinking she saw him from the corner of her eye-a flash of madras, the smell of his clove-thick aftershave. It made her nervous. It had been so long.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe sky heavy with looming rain, there was an anarchic, spooky feeling in the air as the parking lot filled with crushed graduation caps and trampled robes, with sweat-slicked parents trying to corral their whooping seniors, some of them jumping on random car hoods, a champagne bottle crashing, spattering green glass, foam.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eZigzagging through the crowd, Harper ran into her nephew Stevie, Debra's sweet burnout of a son.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Where'd everybody go?\" he asked, scratching his head.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt turned out his parents had left without him, forgotten him, as Stevie put it, laughing in his slouchy jeans, his eyes red and sad. Stevie, who had no driver's license after last year's second DUI.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHarper offered him a ride in her beat-up minivan, a cast-off of Pam's, twelve years old and two hundred thousand miles.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNudging their way to the school exit, Harper and Stevie witnessed two separate fender benders and a dad-on-dad shoving match, a bristle of panic rolling through the lot.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I can't believe it,\" Stevie said, punching the cigarette lighter. \"Patrick's doing it. He's really doing it.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Going to college?\" Harper said, pulling at last onto Vernier Road.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Getting out,\" Stevie said, his sunglasses falling over his nose as Harper hit the gas. \"The great escape . . .\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHarper guessed the unremarkable school Patrick had squeaked into was as exotic as the Sorbonne to Stevie, still technically a freshman at Mercy College three years after his own high school graduation. Even if he'd had the grades to get into a state school, Debra and Perry couldn't have helped pay for it, not after Perry got sick.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo one knew how Pam planned to swing Patrick's tuition. Hope and lottery tickets, Pam said whenever Harper asked. Or, Hope and witchcraft. Or, Hope and dollar slots. Lately: Hope and turning tricks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHope and big loans, more likely. High-interest loans, car title loans, payday loans, towering credit card debt, who knew what else.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYou have to give them everything, Pam had said to Harper that very morning, stuffing an envelope with a thick ripple of cash to give Patrick later that night. Everything left in her checking account minus two months' rent.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePammy- Harper started, but what could she say?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI've never done anything, Pam said, turning her head away, sealing the envelope, but I can say I did this.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEveryone assembled at Pam’s rental house on El Dorado Drive for the party she had been planning for weeks, maybe months. Planning it like it was a wedding, a royal wedding even, and Harper half expected Patrick to arrive in a horse-drawn carriage.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMom, you don't have to, Patrick kept assuring her, worried until the last minute that he might not make that gentleman's C in trigonometry. We can just hang out. It's cool.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut Pam was the sister who planned parties, who hosted, who threw herself into everything with the sweaty fervor of a general readying her troops for the final battle, the one to win the war. It made sense when she was married to Doug, when she was president of the Junior League and chair of the Parents' Club, when she lived in a five-bedroom, six-columned mansion on a canopied boulevard near the lake and hosted three or more parties a month-dinner parties, fundraisers, meet-and-greets, luncheons, receptions.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut those days were gone, long gone, which was maybe why this party meant far more, why it had the weight of a coronation, the eerie desperation of D-Day.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt’s beautiful,” Harper told her, barely catching her sister as she flitted in and out of the house with trays, bags of ice, bug spray.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I tried,\" Pam said with a sigh, the back of her hand on her forehead like a soap opera actress. \"I just want him to remember it forever.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey both stood for a minute to take it all in: the backyard glimmering with candles and string lights, Norseman-green-and-gold balloons, a half-dozen rented tables draped with gold linen, branches strung with miniature graduation cap streamers, garlands shimmying with graduation tassels, the ancient elm tree thick with bright paper lanterns: Class of 2008!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMore than twenty years ago, Harper and her sisters had celebrated their own graduations on the grand lawn of the Hunt Club, formal affairs that ended with all the parents drunk, their chairs tipping onto the grass, and all the kids escaping to the after-parties in paneled basements and rec rooms all through Grosse Pointe.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow, as the auto industry's fortunes sank, most graduation parties resembled this one, stuffed into the backyard of Pam's split-level rental house on the optimistically named El Dorado Drive, a street that would forever remain aspirational, close as it was to the shaggier St. Clair Shores, a different county near the water, strange smells forever rising from the storm sewer drain. That ten-mile drain's giving everyone cancer, everyone always said. But would the people who live there even know the difference?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut somehow Pam made it all work, as she always did.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYou never even noticed the pitted aluminum siding, the yellowing lawn, the painted-over window latches and sagging gutters.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAll you saw was Pam's magic.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWithin an hour, more than a hundred people had arrived, many of them with go-cups, roadies, what her parents used to call “driving drinks” for the ten-minute car ride to a party.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey needn't have bothered. Pam had set up a potting-bench-turned-makeshift-bar for the adults, who rarely left it, but soon enough one of the Styrofoam coolers disappeared, only to find its way to someone's van and another to the basement, and by six o'clock, half the teenagers bore telltale rum-punch-red tongues.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOne by three, three by six, they came and in every other hand an envelope for Patrick. Some of the adults-like Marty, Pam's divorce attorney-just pulled out their wallet as soon as they saw Patrick, slapping bills into his hand like he was the maître d' at the Stork Club.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHarper hoped her nephew would do the right thing with all those checks, those fluttering bills tufting loose from the card holder sleeves. But she feared somehow he wouldn't, didn't understand money or what it meant, only that his parents never stopped arguing about it and piling up debt.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut who was Harper to talk, anyway.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHow many Bishop sisters,” Perry shouted out, “does it take to carry a cake?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd everyone laughed as Harper, Pam, and Debra lugged their mother's sterling silver cake tray across the yard to Patrick, his graduation robe ballooning behind him in the June breeze.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn the tray sat the teetering party centerpiece: the \"Money Cake,\" a towering creation that had taken Pam hours to make, rolling dozens of crisp dollar bills around toilet paper dowels and glue-gunning them to a Styrofoam pillar at least three feet high.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEveryone gasped as they saw it, pulling out their digital cameras, their disposable cameras to capture the spectacle. Money Cake! Money Cake!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"They're all the rage this year,\" Debra said, clearly relieved that all her son, Stevie, had wanted when he graduated was all-you-can-eat Buddy's Pizza, a rented slushie machine, and a keg of beer pumping for all who surrendered their keys at the door.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Jesus,\" Patrick said, running a finger along the dollar bills wrapped tight as their grandfather's Dunhills. \"Mom, Jesus.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"May the road ahead be paved with gold,\" Pam said, throwing her arms around her son, \"and the wind forever at your back.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I don't think that's how it goes,\" Perry whispered to Harper.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"May the road ahead be paved with gold,\" Harper replied, lighting a cigarette, \"but we're stuck on a cul-de-sac.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEverything felt both glorious and painful, Harper thought, like all family events.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"The beauteous Bishop sisters,\" Perry said, taking a picture of them under the string lights wrapped tight around the elm tree. \"The blond Bishop sisters, the bodacious Bishop sisters, the bountiful, the bona fide, the bold, the brilliant . . .\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"That's enough, honey,\" Debra said at last, taking the camera with one hand, his Scotch and soda with the other.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Patrick's the best thing I ever did,\" Pam whispered to Harper, thankfully out of her daughter's hearing.","brand":"G.P. 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