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A NATIONAL BESTSELLER from the Pulitzer Prize-winning author of Empire Falls Three men in their late sixties old friends from college, each with a secret come together on Martha s Vineyard in this gripping, wise, and wonderful summer treat. (The Boston Globe).

A cascade of charm . Russo is an undeniably endearing writer, and chances are this story will draw you back to the most consequential moments in your own life. The Washington Post

One beautiful September day, three men in their late sixties convene on Martha's Vineyard, friends ever since meeting in college in the sixties. They couldn't have been more different then, or even today Lincoln's a commercial real estate broker, Teddy a tiny-press publisher, and Mickey is a musician beyond his rockin' age. But each man holds his own secrets, in addition to the monumental mystery that none of them has ever stopped puzzling over since a Memorial Day weekend right here on the Vineyard in 1971. Now, forty-five years later, three lives and that of a significant other are put on display while the distant past confounds the present in a relentless squall of surprise and discovery. Shot through with Russo's trademark comedy and humanity, Chances Are . . . introduces a new level of suspense and menace that will quicken the reader's heartbeat throughout this absorbing saga.

Look for Richard Russo's new book, Somebody's Fool, coming soon.

[Russo s] first novel in ten years hits the ball out of the park . . . Along with his wry eye for irony and regret, [Russo] offers up a compelling mystery . . . When the denouement comes, it s a stunner. Nevertheless, all bombshells feel earned. If you re on a hammock in the Vineyard or under a tent in Acadia, or slumped over the fire escape of your hot city apartment, chances are your chances are awfully good that you ll lap up this gripping, wise, and wonderful summer treat. The Boston Globe

A cascade of charm . . . Each [character is] so appealing that you hate to let him go, though you ll quickly feel just as fond of the next one . . . One of the great pleasures of Chances Are... stems from how gracefully Russo moves the story along two time frames, creating that uncanny sense of memories that feel simultaneously near and remote . . . Russo is an undeniably endearing writer, and chances are this story will draw you back to the most consequential moments in your own life.   The Washington Post

"Chances Are... is, at heart, less a mystery than an evocation of what happens when [its characters] discover that 'the membrane separating sympathy from pity could be paper thin' . . . . The cloud of remorse that hangs over [the novel] can be affecting precisely because these old friends have so much difficulty articulating their emotions. Will they be able to open up to whatever the future holds?"  The New York Times Book Review

"Irresistible . . . with the complexities of human relationships, from first love to parenthood to aging [and] rich with humor." Tampa Bay Times

No one understands men better than Russo, and no one is more eloquent in explaining how they think, suffer, and love. At a rough time for masculinity, Russo s flawed but always decent characters are repositories of the classic virtues of their gender. . . . [Chances Are...] blends everything we love about this author with something new. Yes, this is a novel about male friendship, fathers and sons, small-town class issues, and lifelong crushes, and it provides the familiar pleasure of immersion in the author s distinctive, richly observed world and his inimitable ironic voice. But this is also a mystery about a 1971 cold case. Kirkus (starred)

For his first stand-alone novel in 10 years, Russo has written a bewitching tale of male friendship with thriller elements . . . This is vintage Russo with a cunning twist. Booklist (starred)

"A surprising work that is as much a mystery as a meditation on secrets and friendship . . . a moving portrait of aging men who discover the world's worst-kept secret:  You may not know the people you thought you were closest to." BookPage

Russo s first standalone novel in a decade mixes his signature themes father-and-son relationships, unrequited love, New England small-town living, and the hiccups of aging with stealthy clue-dropping in a slow-to-build mystery . . . In the final stretch, surprising, long-kept secrets are revealed. This is vintage Russo. Publishers Weekly

Lincoln

September was the best month on the island. The crowds were gone, the beaches empty, the ocean still warm. No need for restaurant reservations. After Labor Day, the politicians had all returned to D.C., the left-wing Hollywood/media types to L.A. and New York. Also gone were the smug, privileged frat boys, many of whom imagined themselves Democrats but who in the fullness of time would become mainstream Republicans. Half of Lincoln s Las Vegas agency or what was left of it after the Great Recession was made up of Sigma Chis who d been long-haired pot smokers and war protesters in the sixties and seventies. Now they were hard-line conservatives, or anyway harder than Lincoln. These days, a lifelong Republican himself, Lincoln had a difficult time finding comfort anywhere on the political spectrum. Voting for Hillary was out of the question, but if not her, then who? A baker s dozen of GOP candidates were still in the race some legitimately stupid, others acting like it at least through Iowa. So Kasich, maybe. Bland wouldn t be so bad. Think Eisenhower.

Anyway, a relief to shelve politics for a few days. Lincoln had little doubt that Teddy, who would arrive tomorrow, was still a raging lib, though there was no way of telling whether he d be in the Clinton or the Sanders camp. Mickey? Did he even vote? Probably not a bad idea to give Vietnam a conversational miss, as well. The war had been over for decades, except not really, not for men of their age. It had been their war, whether or not they d served. Though his memory was increasingly porous these days, Lincoln still remem­bered that evening back in 1969 when all the hashers had gathered in the back room of the Theta house to watch the draft lottery on a tiny black-and-white TV someone had brought in for the occasion. Had they asked permission to watch on the big TV in the front room? Probably not. The social boundaries of sororities, like so much else in the culture, had started eroding, as evidenced by their regular Friday afternoon hasher parties, but they could still crop up unexpectedly. Hashers still entered the house through the rear. Anyway, the draft wasn t about the Thetas, it was about Lincoln and Teddy and Mickey and the others. Eight young men whose fortunes that night hung in the balance. A couple were dating Thetas, as Lincoln would the following year with Anita, and planned to see them later in the evening, but they d watch the lottery on the crappy little set in the back room, not the big color one in the front room, because they belonged there, as did the war itself.

They d made a party of it, everybody chipping in for a case of beer strictly against the rules, but Cook wouldn t squeal, not that night. The rule was that you couldn t start drinking until your birthday had been drawn and you knew your fate. Mickey s came first, shockingly early. Number 9. How was it that Lincoln could recall this detail, when time had relegated so much else to memory s dustbin? He remembered, too, how his friend had risen to his feet, his arms raised like a victorious boxer, as if he d been hoping for precisely this eventuality. Going over to the aluminum tub, he d pulled a beer out of the ice, popped the top and chugged half of it. Then, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he d grinned and said, You boys must be feeling pretty dry in the mouth right about now. The other thing Lincoln recalled was glancing over at Teddy and seeing that all the blood had drained out of his face.

Absent from these vivid memories, though, was how he d com­ported himself. Had he joined the others in serenading Mickey with the Canadian national anthem? Had he laughed at the god-awful jokes ( Been nice knowin ya, Mick )? He had a dim, perhaps false, memory of taking Mickey aside at some po

RICHARD RUSSO is the author of nine novels, most recently Chances Are..., Everybody s Fool and That Old Cape Magic; two collections of stories; and the memoir Elsewhere. In 2002 he received the Pulitzer Prize for Empire Falls, which, like Nobody s Fool, was adapted into a multiple-award-winning miniseries; in 2017, he received France s Grand Prix de Littérature Américaine. He lives in Port­land, Maine.