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Zusatztext Wichita Falls Times/Record (KS) A powerful novel that takes the reader by storm....the rich tale of a woman whose life is as real as that of your next-door neighbor. Informationen zum Autor Elizabeth Richards is the author of Rescue, now available from Pocket Books. She has published fiction in Mademoiselle and various literary magazines and lives in Riverdale, New York, with her two daughters. Klappentext In the rare moments when Leigh Adelman has time to consider her chaotic life, it takes her breath away: it's filled with three wonderful children and Simon, a devoted husband and father. Leigh's suburban New York life is fourteen years distant from her first love, an electric adventure that produced her first child -- and taught her that even all-consuming passion doesn't mean happily ever after. That intense, hopeful time had slowly receded to a remote corner of her heart...until the summer morning when Fowler popped back into her life.Unfinished business compels Leigh to see the brilliant, uncompromising Fowler. And as soon as she hears his voice she understands that she has always loved him. But this rendezvous turns out to be less about first love than it is about a last chance. For it is clear that Fowler is dying.Honest, moving and utterly authentic, EVERY DAY is about testing the boundaries of love, and living with the often messy consequences. For anyone who has ever daydreamed about the past, or silently wondered what if, this unforgettable novel rings with one essential truth: the toughest choices yield the most unexpected rewards. Chapter One The card was postmarked Kanab, Utah, and it said he was coming today, that he'd call, that he needed to see me. All morning, between things, I've been looking for it, drifting through rooms with my eyes on stacks of papers, wastebaskets, piles of laundry, wondering how on earth I could have mislaid something so important. At one point, in the baby's room, I said aloud, "Now what could I have done with it?" My voice was lifted, girlish. I wasn't loud, so the baby didn't wake. She stirred, brought her feet up to meet her velvety hands, then sighed. Jane, my eight-year-old, was downstairs with the TV on, so I know she didn't hear. Earlier, though, she had remarked upon my short fuse, advising therapy once again, which they seem to be teaching children about in the third grade now. Isaac, fourteen, is at baseball practice. As far as he's concerned, I don't have an awareness of men, have no connection to or need for them, and if he even suspected I was crazed because I couldn't find a postcard written to me by a man who happens to be his father but has made no attempt to see him in fourteen years, he'd never stop gagging. The man's name is Fowler. At the time of my knowing him I was a wreck, but I could have stayed that way and not noticed. We made a truckload of plans, the old story, and he went on to fulfill them without me. We had a son with whom he fell in love but to whom he had the same trouble committing himself. I was eighteen when he left, but thanks to Isaac and my mother, I didn't have time to bottom out. The three of us lived in the apartment where I grew up, while I earned the credits for an equivalency diploma and eventually a B.A. from Hunter. My father, who had gotten his own place downtown while I was still in grade school, gave us money and had us to lunch on Saturdays. He still does the lunch thing when we can coordinate schedules. But I know that my mother goes every Saturday. They are devoted grandparents, and they're devoted to each other. They just don't live in the same house. From them I have learned: that living arrangements can be just that: living arrangements. For fourteen years I've had no direct news of Fowler. I've seen his name listed as visiting lecturer for some of New York's film series. I know when a film of his is playing or up for an award. I know he's moved out of the an...
