Reading *The Briar Club* felt like stumbling into a secret gathering of fascinating women, each with a story that demanded to be heard. The house itself, as the narrator, was an unexpected but brilliant choice—it lent an almost ghostly intimacy to the lives unfolding within its walls.

Grace’s character was magnetic. Her ability to weave this mismatched group of women into something resembling family was heartwarming, especially when contrasted against Mrs. Nilsson’s brittle control. There were moments I wanted to shake Mrs. Nilsson for her choices, but even she felt painfully real—flawed, yes, but never caricatured.

The book’s structure—switching between timelines and perspectives—could’ve been messy, but instead it mirrored the way memories layer over one another in an old home. The recipes sprinkled throughout were a stroke of genius; I found myself pausing to imagine the scent of Nora’s soda bread or Bea’s spice cake lingering in Grace’s room during their Thursday gatherings.

What stayed with me most was how Quinn made history feel immediate. The Red Scare wasn’t just a textbook footnote—it was the knot in your stomach as Julia risked everything for principles, or the ache when Pete’s trauma from war collided with McCarthy-era paranoia. Even minor characters (like the jazz musicians at the Tiger’s Eye) had weight.

By the final twist—which I absolutely didn’t see coming—I realized this wasn’t just a book about women sharing meals. It was about how we carve out spaces of rebellion in ordinary places: a boarding house kitchen, a baseball diamond, an artist’s studio. The house itself became my favorite character—witnessing secrets without judgment, holding stories in its creaky floorboards long after the last page.