Very Slowly All at Once by Lauren Schott (2026)
10h 54m narrated by Andrew J. Andersen, 311 pages
Genre: Domestic Suspense
Rating as a movie: R for adult situations and themes
Featuring: Multiple POVs, Marital Issues, August, Money Troubles, English Professor, Lawyer Attorney, Terminally Ill Parent - Off-Camera, Cleveland, Ohio; Bratenahl, Ohio; Children, Dog - Dachshund, Jupiter, Florida; Mafia, Estranged Family, Sex - Off-Camera, December, Workplace Setting, Family Dynamics, Christmas, Neighbors, Employers, Suburbs
My rating: ⭐️ ⭐️⭐️⭐️🏡🌊⛲️⚖️👨🏫
My thoughts: 📱 77% 8:25:22 Chapter 41: Hailey - Mabel is a very popular name this year. This is definitely a suspense, not bad, but not great either, more funny than suspenseful, but I am enjoying it.
Honestly this is probably a 3-star read for most readers, but I like domestic fiction and this was quite enjoyable, not as a thriller, until the anticlimactic ending.
Recommend to others: Not for thrill junkies, but if you enjoy domestic fiction and a bit of dark comedy, this is for you.
Songs for the soundtrack: "Wake Up Little Susie" by The Everly Brothers, "Won’t Get Fooled Again" by The Who, "Whole Lotta Love" by Led Zeppelin, "Drive My Car" by Laurie Berkner, "All I Have To Do Is Dream" by The Everly Brothers, "All Along The Watchtower" by Jimi Hendrix, "Purple Haze" by The Jimi Hendrix Experience
Books and Authors mentioned: GoodFellas by Nicholas Pileggi and Martin Scorsese [based on] Wiseguy by Nicholas Pileggi; Tom Wolfe, The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway, The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald, J. D. Salinger, The Shining by Stanley Kubrick and Diane Johnson [based on] The Shining by Stephen King; The Wizard of Oz by Noel Langley, Florence Ryerson, and Edgar Allan Woolf [based on] The Wonderful Wizard of Oz by L. Frank Baum; Hunter S. Thompson
Memorable Quotes: They spent just over a million on that house, which seems like a lot for two people with pretty ordinary jobs. A big chunk of that price tag was for the lot—on the corner, close to the lake, best one in the Magpie Court development. Not a huge piece of land, not the rolling hills that the mansions on the shoreline have, but theirs is the only spot on the street that gets you views of the lake and the sailboats lined up outside the Shoreby Club. The whole street is brand-new, with only five houses on it, all variations on the same style: sharp angles to the roofs, and exteriors in local stone and wood so dark that when it rains the surface gleams like metal. In summer, the landscaping is fat with green hydrangea and bushy rows of lavender, and in the winter the place looks like a little pioneer town. Two rows of (seven-figure) cabins lined up cozy in the snow, the glowing windows like paintings: Emptying Miele Dishwasher, oil on canvas, 2022. Even the neighbors farther away in the mansions, your plastic surgeons and your tech magnates and your battle-scarred bankers who have taken on the upkeep of the estates built by the great Cleveland industrialists, even some of those guys must sit in their train-station houses with leaky roofs and outdated paneling and envy these sleek new builds. Most people would take a custom kitchen and a first-floor master over a chilly ballroom and a cracked swimming pool any day of the week. The downside to the houses in Magpie Court is the name: The developers insist on referring to them as “cluster homes,” on account of the smaller parcels of land. This is a terrible piece of marketing if you ask me. Only bad things come in clusters: headaches, viruses, bombs. Fucks too, and not the good kind.
The man watched as she pressed a hand to her side and gasped in pain. “I think you broke a couple of mine as well,” he said. “I could sue you, you know?” But his eyes were grateful. “I’m okay, really,” Hailey told him, gripping the hand he extended. “And I wouldn’t try that. I’m a lawyer.” “Me too.” He held her arm as she got to her feet, and before she could stop him, he pressed her to his chest in a massive bear hug, right there in front of an entire restaurant full of Cleveland’s white-collar workforce. They clapped and cheered, and for a wild minute, Hailey wished that Mack had been there to see it.
Which is why the Evans house stands out. Granted, Hailey Evans does manage to grow pots of red geraniums that tone nicely with the lavender, and the souped-up Jeep Cherokee they sometimes leave out in the driveway is unusually clean for a family car. But there are cracks in the facade. Hideous, gaping cracks: cheap plastic pinwheels stuck in front of the hedges, bird sculptures of reclaimed metal on the lawn, wind chimes swinging from the corner of the garage. And the shoes. Oh my God the shoes. I can only surmise that they went for some kind of rare flooring option. Expensive, elegant, and utterly impractical. The delicate nature of bamboo, maybe, is the only possible explanation for the piles of footwear that I have seen amassed on the Evans’s front porch: tiny Crocs and muddied running shoes, stilettos and snow boots, flip-flops and sneakers and fur-lined slippers and Wellingtons. Golf spikes and ski boots and roller skates and . . . it’s a miracle they can still access their own front door, the absolute hillbillies. Let me tell you, growing up in my house, you kept your shoes in the closet or on your feet. Otherwise, you got hit with one right across your backside.
That night, after the girls were tucked in and the painkillers the emergency vet had prescribed Gulliver had rendered him unconscious, Mack treated Hailey to a little more of the story of his father. They were in bed, and she was wearing a silk nightie that he liked, and he thought that if he laid the groundwork properly, he might even get some sex out of his terrible childhood.
Why did everything always have to happen all at once? Thursday, August 29. Mabel and Gigi’s camp had finished for the summer. But (of course) school and preschool didn’t start until the following week, so neither did the after-school babysitter. Mack had promised the girls one last trip to the pool at the Shoreby Club, and then inevitably swanned off to some mysterious department meeting. Yesterday, Hailey’s mother had selfishly decided to break her ankle in what must have been the only jazzercise class still running in the twenty-first century. Gulliver was only now starting to recover from a near-death experience; the incident with Mabel’s doll stroller had resulted in a strangulated hernia and an infection that cost $2,000 and nearly killed him, and now he couldn’t be left unattended, lest he try to chew at his freshly stitched-up manhood. And the grand finale: the firm’s best paralegal, the ballbuster rock star who worked all hours and rose to every challenge Hailey set for her, had chosen today of all days to arrange a call between Hailey and the impossible-to-get-hold-of David Rainier. Rebekah’s estranged husband was basically Batman, as far as Hailey could tell, so this wasn’t something that could be rescheduled for a more convenient time.
This had been her focus during the preparations, and so she hadn’t supervised Mabel’s final swimsuit choice. Which was why Mabel, who had just removed her cover-up, was now prancing around the very exclusive Shoreby Club in a tiny sequined bikini from Walmart and jelly plastic platform sandals, both gifted by Hailey’s mother.
“We brought our dog Gulliver swimming,” Gigi immediately said to Betsy. “He has an infection in his privates and so we can’t leave him so now we’re going to take him in the pool so he can swim. Have you met Gulliver?” “I certainly hear Gulliver all the time,” said Betsy, with a disgusted glance at the verboten four-legged pool guest. “But I don’t believe we’ve met formally, no.”
Of course she took the call, directing Mabel and Gigi, who still hadn’t taken her T-shirt and shorts off, toward the baby pool.
Gulliver had escaped Hailey’s bag and was sprinting toward the baby pool. He was going to pull the stitches right out of his dick.
Her obsession with the neighborhood had endured, and the very first phone call she made from her brand-new house in the new Magpie Court subdivision of Bratenahl, Ohio, was to Molly Maids. The $200 they charged for a biweekly visit was worth every penny.
Hailey laughed in spite of herself. Maybe the Kool-Aid had vodka in it. It wouldn’t have been the first time.