The Goddesses of Kitchen Avenue

Trudy Marino never expected her life to turn out perfectly. But at forty-six, she was content with what she did have: her caring husband Rick . . . twenty-plus happy years raising three accomplished kids . . . and a lovely house in the artistic, vibrantly diverse town of Pueblo, New Mexico. But a heartbreaking discovery and a suddenly shattered marriage now has Trudy looking back on the choices she didn’t make—and where she might go from here.

Struggling to pick up the pieces, Trudy finds support from a quirky, eclectic group of friends and neighbors—her goddesses of Kitchen Avenue—all of whom are trying in their own unique ways to navigate life’s little surprises. There’s Jade, a fiery social worker who’s finding unexpected strength to deal with her “player” ex-husband, thanks to a most unorthodox passion; Jade’s grandmother, Roberta, who has just lost her husband of sixty-two years—and through memory and piercing grief wonders what to do with the rest of her life; Shannelle, Trudy’s young neighbor and an aspiring writer, determined to realize her talent despite formidable obstacles . . . including the husband who’s afraid her success will be his loss; and Angel, a young, quietly-knowing photographer who makes Trudy uncover a sensuality she never knew—even as he tries to get over the one love he can never really forget.

As Trudy faces her future, she discovers that figuring out what to let go and what to keep is just as difficult as moving on. As she weighs what she and Rick still share against new possibilities, she’ll surprise everyone— including herself—as she tries to reconcile the best of both.

From an acclaimed voice in fiction, this is a wry, beguiling, heartfelt, and warmly wise novel about second chances, unexpected choices, and the dreams that we all hunger to fulfill.

Read an Excerpt

 Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Chapter 1


Sunday, October 25, 20

Dear Harriet,

My hands are shaky as the leaves on the trees today. Hope you can read this all right. I hate seeing that I’ve got old lady handwriting. But then, it stands to reason, doesn’t it? How’d we get so old?

It’s Sunday and I ain’t been to church. Been sitting here all morning by my Edgar, trying to get enough courage up to let him go. I sent everybody away—all the parishioners who been bringing greens and pots of stew and washing up my dishes while I sit with him. Sent even the children away. They can all come back later, when I’ve gone and done what I need to do.

Sister, I been here all morning and can’t open up my mouth to say it. Go on, Edgar. I’ll be all right. He’s just waiting for that, because when he fell into this coma, I grabbed his old hand and begged him not to leave me.

And he’s such a good man, he’s holding on. There, now I’m crying again.

I been holding his hand for sixty-two years. This morning, I was holding it and remembering that morning he first came to our back door, asking for a drink of water. Remember? He’d been down on his luck, but he was so proud. He looked so good in the sunshine with his pretty head and that strong old nose. My heart flipped clean over and I wasn’t but fifteen. I’ve had no use for any other man since that day.

I been remembering all of it this morning. Wondering how it would of been if we’d stayed back there in Mississippi with all y’all. Wondering what it was he saw in Italy that made him never talk about it his whole life long. Wondering if we’d of had as good a life if we hadn’t come west to Pueblo, where we’ve been so peaceful. Home of the Heroes. Did you know they call it that nowdays? Fitting. Edgar put away all his medals, but he was sure proud when the Medal of Honor winners all came here. He put on his best suit that morning, and went down to listen to them, all four old men like him. I went along with him, of course, but I didn’t hear what he did. I asked him one time if it was so bad as all that, and he just bowed his head and said, Worse.

So I just let it be.

And he’s not a perfect man, not by any means. He was too stern with the children, fussy about things as he got old, wanting every little thing his way. We’ve had our share of dark times, too, times when I wanted to take a meat cleaver to his stubborn old head. Once or twice, he hurt my heart, but he never did it on purpose.

It’s not those times I’m thinking of now, though. I’m remembering how hard we could laugh, so much that Edgar would get to wheezing. I’m thinking about waking up morning after morning after morning with him lying beside me. Listening to him, whistling as he fiddled with a television dead but for the magic he gave it with his clever mind.

Lord, give me strength. I have got to let him go. He’s withering away right in front of my eyes. But I’m telling you the truth, sister, I’m going, too. I asked the Lord to take me. Y’all know I love you, but you, sister, know my life won’t be nothing without him.

Your sister,


“A COMPELLING EMOTIONAL PORTRAIT . . . Samuel’s writing is a gift to readers, her voice a demand for us to feel everything in our lives and to meet it with courage . . . a truly luminous novel.”

Contra Costa Times

“Barbara Samuel’s writing is, quite simply, splendid. . . . These women are as familiar as your next-door neighbor and as exotic as the goddesses who archetype their lives. Samuel soars with genius in the humanity of her storytelling.”


“Warmhearted . . . [Samuel’s] characters are warmly drawn and sympathetic, their problems real and believable.” 

Publishers Weekly

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