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New York Times bestselling author Kristin Hannah “touches the deepest, most tender corner of our hearts” (Tami Hoag). Her last novel, Between Sisters, was chosen by CBS’s The Early Show as one of the best books of the summer. Now she returns with The Things We Do for Love—a poignant, evocative story that celebrates the magic of motherhood, the joys of coming home, and the price we so willingly pay for love.
The youngest of three daughters, Angela DeSaria Malone was always “the princess” of the family, a girl who thought she knew how her life would unfold. High School. College. Marriage. Motherhood. That was how it had gone for her sisters, her cousins, her friends. But it didn’t work out that way for Angie. She and her husband tried desperately to have a child; year after year, their perfectly decorated nursery remained empty. Finally, their marriage collapsed under the weight of lost dreams.
After the divorce, Angie moved back to her hometown and rejoined her loud, loving, slightly crazy family. In West End, a place where life rises and falls in time with the tides, she will find the man who once again will open her heart to love . . . and meet the girl who will change Angie’s life.
Lauren Ribido lives in a rundown apartment in a bad part of town with a mother who cares more about her next drink than about her daughter. At seventeen, Lauren knows that her aspirations in life may never come to pass.
From the moment they meet, Angie sees something special in Lauren. They form a quick connection, this woman who is desperate for a daughter and the girl who has never known a mother’s love. When Lauren is abandoned by her mother, Angie doesn’t hesitate to offer the girl a place to stay.
But nothing could have prepared Angie for the far-reaching repercussions of this act of kindness. In a dramatic turn of events, she and Lauren will be tested in a way that mothers and daughters seldom are. Together they will embark on an intensely moving, deeply emotional journey to the very heart of what it means to be a family.
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Kristin Hannah is the bestselling author of On Mystic Lake, Angel Falls, Summer Island, Distant Shores, and Between Sisters. She lives with her husband and son in the Pacific Northwest. Visit her online at www.kristinhannah.comExcerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:
The streets of West End were crowded on this unex- pectedly sunny day. All across town mothers stood in open doorways, with hands tented across their eyes, watching their children play. Everyone knew that soon—probably tomorrow—a soapy haze would creep across the sky, covering the blue, obliterating the delicate sun, and once more the rain would fall.
It was May, after all, in the Pacific Northwest. Rain came to this month as surely as ghosts took to the streets on the thirty-first of October and salmon came home from the sea.
“It sure is hot,” Conlan said from the driver’s seat of the sleek black BMW convertible. It was the first thing he’d said in almost an hour.
He was trying to make conversation; that was all. Angie should return the volley, perhaps mention the beautiful haw- thorn trees that were in bloom. But even as she had the thought, she was exhausted by it. In a few short months, those tiny green leaves would curl and blacken; the color would be drawn out of them by cold nights, and they would fall to the ground, unno- ticed.
When you looked at it that way, what was the point in noticing so fleeting a moment?
She stared out the window at her hometown. It was the first time she’d been back in months. Although West End was only one hundred twenty miles from Seattle, that distance had seemed to swell lately in her mind. As much as she loved her family, she’d found it difficult to leave her own house. Out in the world, there were babies everywhere.
They drove into the old part of town, where Victorian houses had been built one after another on tiny patches of lawn. Huge, leafy maple trees shaded the street, cast an intricate lacework pattern of light on the asphalt. In the seventies, this neighborhood had been the town’s heart. Kids had been everywhere back then, riding their Big Wheels and Schwinn bicycles from one house to the next. There had been block parties every Sunday after church, and games of Red Rover played in every back-yard.
In the years between then and now, this part of the state had changed, and the old neighborhoods had fallen into silence and disrepair. Salmon runs had diminished and the timber industry had been hit hard. People who had once made their living from the land and the sea had been pushed aside, forgotten; new residents built their houses in clusters, in subdivisions named after the very trees they cut down.
But here, on this small patch of Maple Drive, time had stood still. The last house on the block looked exactly as it had for forty years. The white paint was pure and perfect; the emerald green trim glistened. No weed had ever been allowed to flourish in the lawn. Angie’s father had tended to this house for four decades; it had been his pride and joy. Every Monday, after a weekend of hard work at the family’s restaurant, he’d devoted a full twelve-hour day to home and garden maintenance. Since his death, Angie’s mother had tried to follow that routine. It had become her solace, her way of connecting with the man she’d loved for almost fifty years, and when she tired of the hard work, someone was always ready to lend a hand. Such help, Mama often reminded them, was the advantage to having three daughters. Her payoff, she claimed, for surviving their teen years.
Conlan pulled up to the curb and parked. As the convertible top shushed mechanically into place, he turned to Angie. “Are you sure you’re okay with this?”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” She turned to look at him finally. He was exhausted; she saw the glint of it in his blue eyes but knew he wouldn’t say more, wouldn’t say anything that might remind her of the baby they’d lost a few months ago.
They sat there, side by side in silence. The air-conditioner made a soft whooshing noise.
The old Conlan would have leaned over and kissed her now, would have told her he loved her, and those few and tender words would have saved her, but they were past such comfort these days. The love they’d once shared felt far, far away, as faded and lost as her childhood.
“We could leave right now. Say the car broke down,” he said, trying to be the man he used to be, the man who could tease his wife into smiling.
She didn’t look at him. “Are you kidding? They all think we paid too much for this car. Besides, Mama already knows we’re here. She might talk to dead people, but she has the hearing of a bat.”
“She’s in the kitchen making ten thousand cannoli for twenty people. And your sisters haven’t stopped talking since they walked in the door. We could escape in the confusion.” He smiled. For a moment everything felt normal between them, as if there were no ghosts in the car. She wished it were an ease that could last.
“Livvy cooked three casseroles,” she muttered. “Mira probably crocheted a new tablecloth and made us all matching aprons.”
“Last week you had two pitch meetings and a commercial shoot. It’s hardly worth your time to cook.”
Poor Conlan. Fourteen years of marriage and he still didn’t understand the dynamics of the DeSaria family. Cooking was more than a job or a hobby; it was a kind of currency, and Angie was broke. Her papa, whom she’d idolized, had loved that she couldn’t cook. He took it as a badge of success. An immigrant who’d come to this country with four dollars in his pocket and made a living feeding other immigrant families, he’d been proud that his youngest daughter made money using her head, rather than her hands.
“Let’s go,” she said, not wanting to think about Papa.
Angie got out of the car and went around to the trunk. It opened silently, revealing a narrow cardboard box. Inside was an extravagantly rich chocolate cake made by the Pacific Dessert Company and a to-die-for lemon tart. She reached down for it, knowing some comment would be made about her inability to cook. As the youngest daughter—“the princess”—she’d been allowed to color or talk on the phone or watch TV while her sisters worked in the kitchen. None of her sisters ever let her forget that Papa had spoiled her mercilessly. As adults, her sisters still worked in the family restaurant. That was real work, they always said, unlike Angie’s career in advertising.
“Come on,” Conlan said, taking her arm.
They walked up the concrete walkway, past the fountain of the Virgin Mary, and up the steps. A statue of Christ stood by the door, his hands outstretched in greeting. Someone had hung an umbrella from his wrist.
Conlan knocked perfunctorily and opened the door.
The house rattled with noise—loud voices, kids running up and down the stairs, ice buckets being refilled, laughter. Every piece of furniture in the foyer was buried beneath a layer of coats and shoes and empty food boxes.
The family room was full of children playing games. Candy Land for the younger kids; crazy eights for the older. Her eldest nephew, Jason, and her niece Sarah were playing Nintendo on the television. At Angie’s entrance, the kids squealed and flocked to her, all talking at once, vying for her attention. From their earliest memories, she was the aunt who would get down on the floor and play with whatever toy was “in” at the moment. She never turned down their music or said that a movie was unsuitable. When asked, they all said Aunt Angie was “way cool.”
She heard Conlan behind her, talking to Mira’s husband, Vince. A drink was being poured. She eased through the crowd of kids and walked down the hallway toward the kitchen.
In the doorway, she paused. Mama stood at the oversized butcher block in the center of the room, rolling out the sweet dough. Flour obscured half of her face and dusted her hair. Her eyeglasses—a holdover from the seventies—had lenses the size of saucers and magnified her brown eyes. Tiny beads of sweat collected along her brow and slid down her floury cheeks, landing on her bosom in little blobs of dough. In the five months since Papa’s passing, she’d lost too much weight and stopped dyeing her hair. It was snow white now.
Mira stood at the stove, dropping gnocchi into a pot of boil- ing water. From behind, she looked like a girl. Even after bearing four children, she was still tiny, almost birdlike, and since she often wore her teenage daughter’s clothes, she appeared ten years younger than her forty-one years. Tonight, her long black hair was held back in a braid that snaked almost to her waist. She wore a pair of low-rise, flare-legged black pants and a cable-knit red sweater. She was talking now—there was no surprise in that; she was always talking. Papa had always joked that his eldest daughter sounded like a blender on high speed.
Livvy was standing off to the left, slicing fresh mozzarella. She looked like a Bic pen in her black silk sheath. The only thing higher than her heels was the puffiness of her teased hair. Long ago, Livvy had left West End in a rush, certain that she could become a model. She’d stayed in Los Angeles until the sentence “Could you please undress now?” started to accompany every job interview. Five years ago, just after her thirty-fourth birthday, she’d come home, bitter at her lack of success, defeated by the effort, dragging with her two young sons who had been fathered by a man none of the family had ever seen or met. She’d gone to work at the family restaurant, but she didn’t like it. She saw herself as a big-city girl trapped in a small town. Now she was married—again; it had been a quickie ceremony last week at the Chapel of Love in Las Vegas. Everyone hoped that Salvatore Traina—lucky choice number three—would finally make her happy.
Angie smiled. So much of her time h...
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