Mothers, by Brit Bennett, is the story of Nadia Turner, the local bad girl, a golden-skinned black, too pretty for her own good.

Add in a boy, a washed-up football hero, whose pecs look so good she can ignore the slight limp.

Add in an unlikely friendship with Aubrey, the straightest arrow in town

Add in Nadia’s father, who loans his truck to The Upper Room, their church. Hauling chairs to the next picnic fills up the gaping hole left by his wife’s suicide

It’s a story about mothers, mostly absent ones. Naturally, Nadia’s got a huge hole of her own. She attempts to fill it with boys, or alcohol, or leafing through old picture albums and wondering why the happiness in the photos wasn’t good enough for her mother, or by imagining her mother’s last hours, gun in hand, decision made.

Aubrey, too, got a gem of a mother, the kind that goes through boyfriend after boyfriend. It’s surprising that she turned out so buttoned-up. Even though Bennett offers us an explanation, Aubrey never quite rises off the page.

This is also a story about future motherhood. No woman can dodge biology. She either has to make decisions about babies, or live with the fact that babies won’t happen.

And Bennett includes a cast of old mothers, the women of The Upper Room, who notice everything, and talk about it.

Nearby, there’s the Pacific Ocean, and the boot-camp Marines that swarm around town.

On this stage, and with this cast, a secret works its way through the scenes. Who knows this secret? And who knows only part of it?

The book is best when the drama flows naturally. Now and then, Bennett throws in some trouble that doesn’t quite fit. Then she corrects herself for a few chapters.

My favorite character was the minister’s wife. I’m not saying she was likable, or even moral. For some reason, I saw and heard her the clearest of all. If they make a movie, that’s the part I’m auditioning for. With this pink skin, though, I’m pretty sure my chances are worse than ice cream on a July sidewalk.

Photo credit: minniemouseaunt on Visualhunt / CC BY