Excerpt from The Briar Club by Kate Quinn, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"Children? Because it's a small room, no space for more than—"

"No, only me." Mrs. March stood swinging her suitcase, and Pete could tell his mother didn't much like being half a head shorter than this prospective tenant.

"Well, I suppose you can leave your luggage in the kitchen and come up to see the room." There was a tone in his mother's voice that Pete heard quite a lot, halfway between grudging and avid—grudging because she didn't trust new people, avid because new boarders meant money—and he knew he shouldn't have uncharitable thoughts about his mother, but he wished she would sound a little more ... well, welcoming when she asked someone into their home. Don't you want the boarders to like you, Mom? he'd asked once, hearing her harangue the renter in 3B for leaving water spots in the sink, and his mother had tutted, Only patsies worry about being liked, Pete. The only thing that matters is whether they pay their rent on time. He hadn't really had an answer to that—or rather, he knew better than to voice one. If he did, Mom would just let fly with a tight-lipped Well, don't you sound just like your father when you take that tone. Hammerin' Pete was a match for any hard case in the District, but one just-like-your-father from Mom and he shriveled like he'd been slapped in the puss.

"Would you like a cup of coffee, ma'am?" he asked, opening the door for Mrs. March, and his mother shot him an irritable look.

"How kind"—another smile from the new arrival—"but I believe I'll just see the room."

It's not much of a room, he wanted to tell her as she followed his mother up the stairs. A storage closet up at the top of the old brownstone, off the fourth-floor landing: Pete's mother decided this year that she could cram a boarder in there, and Pete had spent his last break emptying out the junk, nailing down loose floorboards, and lugging up the tiny icebox so she could advertise there was a kitchenette. But he couldn't honestly believe anybody would want to live in such a shoebox.

"She'll take it," his mother said ten minutes later, sailing down the stairs flushed and jubilant. "Six months paid up front, too, and she looks like a lady. Not that you can tell, these days. Here, before you take that up ..." Popping the clasps on Grace March's suitcase.

"Mom!" Pete hissed, feeling his ears burn. "I hate it when you do this—"

"Don't be squeamish. You want a dope fiend or a floozy in the attic? Or a Communist. Better to snoop now before she digs herself in." Mrs. Nilsson flipped through the tidily folded blouses and skirts with rapid, expert fingers, poked at a big glass mason jar apparently stuffed with nylons, examined the toiletries. Pete stood gnawing his lip, remembering how the English teacher at Gompers Junior High had said that the Latin root of the word mortification was "to die" and Pete could see why, because he was so mortified right now he wanted to drop dead here on the worn linoleum of his mother's kitchen. Please don't find anything, he prayed, watching her sift through the new boarder's underwear (silky pink and peach stuff, he couldn't help but notice with a burn of shame). The fourth-floor room had already nearly been rented out to a pleasant-looking spinster with a Jersey accent, but when Mom rummaged through her suitcase she found a package of what she called Those Things (the kind of rubber things the boys at Gompers boasted about stealing from their older brothers) and there had been an ugly scene before the woman from Jersey was kicked out, all before she even moved in, and without getting her just-paid deposit back, either.

Pete was already hoping Mrs. Grace March would be sticking around for a while.

"Well, take it on up." Mrs. Nilsson closed the suitcase, looking vaguely disappointed there hadn't been anything more sinister than a pink needle case. "Hurry back down, now. I need you to weed the tomato patch after you take your sister to the library."

Excerpted from The Briar Club by Kate Quinn. Copyright © 2024 by Kate Quinn. Excerpted by permission of William Morrow. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.