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Danielle Steel - Daddy

Here you can read online Danielle Steel - Daddy full text of the book (entire story) in english for free. Download pdf and epub, get meaning, cover and reviews about this ebook. year: 1990, genre: Prose. Description of the work, (preface) as well as reviews are available. Best literature library LitArk.com created for fans of good reading and offers a wide selection of genres:

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Oliver Watsons world suddenly dissolves around him when Sarah, his wife of eighteen years, returns to Harvard to get her masters degree. Oliver is left on his own, with three children and a freedom he never wanted and doesnt completely understand. His familys needs and demands suddenly consume his life. When Olivers mother is diagnosed as having Alzheimers disease and dies soon thereafter, Olivers fathers life is changed as well. Braver than his son with less of a future before him, George Watson, at seventy-two, quickly embraces new relationships and, eventually, a new life. The sudden changes come as a shock to both father and son. Ben, Olivers oldest son, rejects his father and reaches outward, under the illusion that he is grown-up and can make it on his own. Melissa, the middle child, blames Oliver for her mothers desertion. And Sam, the baby, is too shaken to deal with it at all. Now the only parent, Daddy must somehow cope this, his troubled family and explore a world of new responsibilities, new women, and new experiences. Each of the three men must start a new life: Oliver in New York and then in Los Angeles with his children; once he faces the biggest change in his life; his widowed father with the woman next door; and seventeen-year-old Ben with his girlfriend and baby. Nothing is as it was before... nothing is as they once thought it would be. But in the end, different is better... different is more... for each of themand especially for Daddy.

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Books by Danielle Steel

DATING GAMEJEWELS
ANSWERED PRAYERSNO GREATER LOVE
SUNSET IN ST. TROPEZHEARTBEAT
THE COTTAGEMESSAGE FROM NAM
THE KISSDADDY
LEAP OF FAITHSTAR
LONE EAGLEZOYA
JOURNEYKALEIDOSCOPE
THE HOUSE ON HOPE STREETFINE THINGS
THE WEDDINGWANDERLUST
IRRESISTIBLE FORCESSECRETS
GRANNY DANFAMILY ALBUM
BITTERSWEETFULL CIRCLE
MIRROR IMAGECHANGES
HIS BRIGHT LIGHT!THURSTON HOUSE
THE STORY OF NICK TRAINACROSSINGS
THE KLONE AND IONCE IN A LIFETIME
THE LONG ROAD HOMEA PERFECT STRANGER
THE GHOSTREMEMBRANCE
SPECIAL DELIVERYPALOMINO
THE RANCHLOVE: POEMS
SILENT HONORTHE RING
MALICELOVING
FIVE DAYS IN PARISTO LOVE AGAIN
LIGHTNINGSUMMER'S END
WINGSSEASON OF PASSION
THE GIFTTHE PROMISE
ACCIDENTNOW AND FOREVER
VANISHEDPASSION'S PROMISE
MIXED BLESSINGSGOING HOME

Visit the Danielle Steel Web Site at:
www.damellesteel.com

D ELL P UBLISHING .

Chapter 1 The snowflakes fell in big white clusters clinging together like a - photo 1

Chapter 1 The snowflakes fell in big white clusters clinging together like a - photo 2

Chapter 1

The snowflakes fell in big white clusters, clinging together like a drawing in a fairy tale, just like in the books Sarah used to read to the children. She sat at the typewriter, looking out the window, watching snow cover the lawn, hanging from the trees like lace, and she completely forgot the story she'd been chasing around in her head since early that morning. It was so damn picturesque. So pretty. Everything was pretty here. It was a storybook life in a storybook town, and the people around her seemed like storybook people. They were exactly what she had never wanted to become, and now she was one of them, and had been for years. And probably always would be. Sarah MacCormick, the rebel, the assistant editor of the Crimson, the girl who had graduated from Radcliffe in 1969 at the top of her class and knew she was different, had become one of them. Overnight. Or almost. In truth, it had taken almost twenty years. And now she was Sarah Watson. Mrs. Oliver Wendell Watson. She lived in Purchase, New York, in a beautiful house they almost owned, after fourteen years of struggling with the mortgage. She had three children, one dog, the last hamster had finally died the year before. And she had a husband she loved. Dear sweet Ollie. He graduated from Harvard Business School when she finished Radcliffe, and they'd been in love since her sophomore year. But he was everything that she wasn't. He was conservative when she was wild, he had believed in what they had tried to do in Vietnam, and for a while she had hated him for it. She had even stopped seeing him for a time after graduation, because she insisted that they were too different She had gone to live in SoHo, in New York, and tried to write, and she'd actually done pretty well. She'd been published twice in The Atlantic Monthly, and once holy of holies in The New Yorker. She was good and she knew it. And Oliver lived uptown, in an apartment he shared with two friends on East 79th Street, and with his MBA, he got a pretty good job in an ad agency on Madison Avenue. She wanted to hate him for it, wanted to hate him for conforming, but she didn't. Even then, she knew how much she loved him.

He talked about things like living in the country, having Irish setters, wanting four kids, and a wife who didn't work, and she made fun of him for it. But he just grinned that incredible boyish grin that made her heart pound even then even when she pretended to herself that what she really wanted was a man with hair longer than her own an artist a sculptor a writer someone creative. Oliver was creative, and he was smart. He had graduated magna from Harvard, and the trends of the sixties had never touched him. When she marched, he fished her out of jail, when she argued with him, even calling him names, he explained quietly and rationally what he believed in. And he was so damn decent, so good-hearted, he was her best friend, even when he made her angry. They would meet in the Village sometimes, or uptown for coffee, or drinks, or lunch, and he would tell her what he was doing and ask her about the latest piece she was writing. He knew she was good, too, but he didn't see why she couldn't be creative and married.

Marriage is for women who are looking for someone to support them. I want to take care of myself, Oliver Watson. And she was capable of it, or she had been then, after a fashion. She had worked as a part-time gallery sitter in SoHo, and a free-lance writer. And she'd made money at it. Sometimes. But now, sometimes, she wondered if she would still be able to take care of herself, to support herself, to fill out her own tax forms, and make sure her health insurance hadn't lapsed. In the eighteen years they'd been married, she'd become so dependent on him. He took care of all the little problems in her life, and most of the big ones. It was like living in a hermetically sealed world, with Ollie always there to protect her.

She counted on him for everything, and more often than not, it scared her. What if something happened to him? Could she manage? Would she be able to keep the house, to support herself, or the kids? She tried to talk to him about it sometimes, and he only laughed, and told her she'd never have to worry. He hadn't made a fortune, but he had done well and he was responsible. He had lots of life insurance. Madison Avenue had been good to him, and at forty-four, he was the number three man at Hinkley, Burrows, and Dawson, one of the biggest ad agencies in the country. He had brought in their four biggest accounts himself and he was valuable to the firm, and respected among his peers. He had been one of the youngest vice-presidents in the business, and she was proud of him. But it still scared her. What was she doing out here, in pretty little Purchase, watching the snow fall, and waiting for the kids to come home, while she pretended to write a story a story that would never be written, that would never end, that would never go anywhere, just like the others she had tried to write in the last two years. She had decided to go back to writing on the eve of her thirty-ninth birthday. It had been an important decision for her. Thirty-nine had actually been worse than turning forty. By forty, she was resigned to impending doom, as she woefully called it. Oliver took her to Europe alone for a month for her fortieth birthday. The kids were away at camp, two of them anyway, and her mother-in-law had kept Sam. He had only been seven then, and it was the first time she'd left him. It had been like opening the gates to heaven when she got to Paris no car pools no children no pets no PTA no benefit dinners to run for the school or the local hospitals no one nothing except the two of them, and four unforgettable weeks in Europe. Paris Rome driving through Tuscany, a brief stop on the Italian Riviera, and then a few days on a boat he rented, drifting between Cannes and St. Tropez driving up to Eze and Saint-Paul-de-Vence, and dinner at the Colombe d'Or, and then a few final whirlwind days in London. She had scribbled constantly during the trip, and filled seven notebooks. But when she got home nothing. None of it wanted to be woven into stories, or tales, or articles, or even poems. She just sat there, staring at her notebooks, and a blank page in her typewriter that she never seemed to fill. And she was still doing it a year and a half later. At forty-one, she felt as though her entire life were behind her. And Oliver always laughed at her when she said it.

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