Kristin Hannah - Comfort and joy

Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Part One

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

Part Two

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Preview of Kristin Hannahs Magic Hour

About the Author

Other books by Kristin Hannah

Copyright Page

For Benjamin

Part One

Its a dangerous business... going out of your door.

You step into the Road, and if you dont keep your feet,

theres no knowing where you might be swept off to.

J. R. R. T OLKIEN

C hristmas parties are the star on the top of my dont list this year. Other things to avoid this season: Ornaments. Trees. Mistletoe (definitely). Holiday movies about families. And memories.

Memories most of all. Last year, I celebrated Christmas morning in my own living room, with the two people I loved most in the world. My husband, Thomas, and my sister, Stacey.

A lot can change in twelve months.

Now, I am in my kitchen, carefully packing frosted Santa cookies into Tupperware containers, layering wax paper between each row. On a strip of masking tape, I write my name in bold black letters: Joy Candellaro. When Im done, I dress for work in a pair of black jeans and a bright green sweater set. At the last moment, I add little wreath earrings. Perhaps if I look festive, people will stop asking me how I am doing. Balancing the pale pink containers in my arms, I lock up my house and make my way to the garage. As I round the hood of the car, I sidle past the row of file cabinets that line the back wall. My dreams are in those metal drawers, organized with the kind of care only a librarian can manage.

I have saved every scrap Ive ever read about exotic locales and faraway places. When I read the words and see the pictures, I dream of having an adventure.

Of course, Ive been dreaming of that for ten years now, and since Ive been single again for almost three months, and separated from Thom for eight months before that, its safe to say Im a dreamer not a doer. In fact, I havent added to my files or opened one of the cabinets since my divorce.

I ease past them now and get into my sensible maroon Volvo. Behind me, the garage door opens, and I back down the driveway.

It is still early in the morning on this last Friday before Christmas. The street lamps are on; light falls from them in cones of shimmering yellow through the predawn shadows. As my car rolls to a stop at the bottom of the driveway, the headlights illuminate my house. It looks... faded in this unnatural light, untended. The roses I love so much are leggy and bare. The planters are full of dead geraniums.

A memory flashes through me like summer thunder: there and gone.

I come home from work early... see my husbands car is in the driveway. The roses are in full, riotous bloom.

I remember thinking I should cut some for an arrangement.

In the house, I toss my coat on the maple bench and go upstairs, calling out his name.

I am halfway up the stairs when I recognize the sounds.

In my mind and my memories, I kicked the door open. Thats what I told people later. The truth was, I barely had the strength to push it open.

There they are, naked and sweating and rolling, in my bed.

Like an idiot, I stand there, staring at them. I thought hed feel my presence as keenly as Id always felt his, that hed look up, see me andoh, I dont know, have a heart attack or burst into tears and beg for my forgiveness or beg for forgiveness while having a heart attack.

Then I see her face, and a bad moment rounds the bend into horrific. It is my sister.

Now theres a For Sale sign in front of my house. Its been there for months, but who am I kidding? A wrecked marriage scares everyone. Its like a rock tossed into a still blue pond; the ripples go on and on. No one wants to buy this house of bad luck.

I hit the gas too hard and back out into the street, putting the memories in my rearview mirror.

If only they would stay there. Instead, theyre like passengers, crowding in on me, taking up too much air.

No one knows what to say to me anymore, and I can hardly blame them. I dont know what I want to hear, either. In the school library, where I work, I hear the whispers that grind to a halt at my entrance and notice how uncomfortable the ensuing silences can be.

I make it easy on my friendsor try toby pretending that everything is okay. Ive been doing that a lot this year. Smiling and pretending. What else can I do? People have grown tired of waiting for me to get over my divorce. I know I need to glide onto the track of my old life, but I cant seem to manage it; neither do I have the courage to form a new one, though, in truth, its what I want. Its what Ive wanted for a long time.

At the corner, I turn left. The streets of Bakersfield are quiet on this early morning. By the time I reach the high school, it is just past seven oclock. I pull into my parking space, gather my cookies, and go inside.

At the main desk, the school secretary, Bertha Collins, smiles up at me. Hey, Joy.

Hey, Bertie. I brought some cookies for tonights faculty party.

Her look turns worried. Arent you coming?

Not this year, Bertie. I dont feel too festive.

She eyes me knowingly. As a twice-divorced woman, she thinks she understands, but she cant, not really. Bertie has three kids and two parents and four sisters. My own math doesnt add up that way. Take care of yourself, Joy. The first Christmas after a divorce can be...

Yeah. I know. Forcing a smile, I start moving. In the past year, this technique has worked well for me. Keep moving. I walk down the hallway, turn left at the empty cafeteria and head for my space. The library.

My assistant, Rayla Goudge, is already at work. She is a robust, gray-haired woman who dresses like a gypsy and tries to write all her notes in haiku. Like me, she is a graduate of U.C. Davis with a teaching certificate. We have worked side by side for almost five years and both enjoyed every minute. I know that in May, when she finishes her masters degree in library science, I will lose her to another school. Its one more change I try not to think about.

Morning, Joy, she says, looking up from the pile of paperwork in front of her.

Hey, Ray. Hows Pauls cold?

Better, thanks.

I store my purse behind the counter and begin my day. First up are the computers. I go from one to the next, turning them on for the students, then I replace yesterdays newspapers with todays. For the next six hours, Rayla and I work side by sidechecking the catalog system, generating overdue notices, processing new books, and re-shelving. When were lucky, a student comes in for help, but in this Internet age, they are more and more able to do their school research at home. Today, of course, on this last school day before the winter break, the library is as quiet as a tomb.

That is another thing I try not to think about: the break. What will I do in the two and one-half weeks I have off?

In past years, I have looked forward to this vacation. Its part of the reason I became a school librarian. Fifteen years ago, when I was in college, I imagined traveling to exotic locales in my weeks off.

Joy, are you okay?

I am so lost in memories of Before that it takes me a second to realize that Rayla is speaking to me. Im standing in the middle of the library, holding a worn, damaged copy of Madame Bovary.

The bell rings: The walls seem to vibrate with the sound of doors opening, kids laughing, feet moving down the hall.