Sunlight and Joy Read online

  FIRST ANCHOR BOOKS EDITION, APRIL 2011

  Copyright © 2011 by Barbara Delinsky

  Excerpt from Escape copyright © 2011 by Barbara Delinsky

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Anchor Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  Anchor Books and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This work contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book Escape by Barbara Delinsky. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

  Cover photo by Debra Lill

  Cover design by John Fontana

  eISBN: 978-0-307-94757-4

  v3.1

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Sunlight and Joy

  A Conversation with Barbara Delinsky

  Escape Excerpt

  Also by Barbara Delinsky

  I set a place at the dinner table for him, though I doubted he would fill it. Typically, he walked in at ten after having a meal more lavish than any I could make. He would have eaten at one of a dozen favorite restaurants with one of a dozen potential clients, and would be so talked out when he finally reached our kitchen that he would have little interest in rehashing his day with me.

  Why the place setting, then? First, for the sake of the kids. They knew something was wrong. Where’s Dad? asked Charlotte, our fifteen-year-old daughter, whose mind was usually on her role in the school play far more than on her father’s role in the family. Did you guys have a fight? asked sixteen-year-old Jimmy, the middle child and eternal peacemaker. Is this fair to you? asked Sam, who would be off to college in another nine months and was newly protective of me.

  I gave them the same kinds of answers I’d been giving for years—that their father was busy and successful, that he wanted to be there with them and was trying to see his way clear to do it, and that, no, there’d been no fight.

  And there hadn’t. Rick and I didn’t fight. We talked. Sometimes we disagreed. In this instance, though, I’d done the unthinkable. In the reasonable voice that we used even in disagreements, I had issued an ultimatum.

  It happened last night. He and I hadn’t talked since. We had shared a bed, shared a bathroom, shared the kitchen at breakfast time. But we hadn’t talked, not this morning nor at any other time today. I had no idea where he stood.

  Naturally, I was having second thoughts. I was calling myself every kind of fool for speaking my mind so bluntly, for being selfish and brash, for saying fighting words in the heat of the moment.

  Thinking about those words, though, I wouldn’t take them back. In fact, the heat of the moment hadn’t been a momentary thing at all, but the culmination of eighteen years of putting my husband first. Didn’t I deserve a turn at coming first for a change?

  No, my second thoughts weren’t about what I’d said, but the ramifications. My marriage was in limbo. Rick might choose to take that job halfway across the country from us, in which case I had to either give up my own professional dreams and the kids’ ties to follow him, or dig in my heels. If I dug in my heels, and he chose to leave, my marriage might be over.

  But I didn’t want that. I loved Rick, workaholic that he was. We had eighteen years of memories—twenty, if you included the two years we’d been together before the wedding—and we still loved being together, though we were rarely alone other than in bed at night, when we were often so tired that we couldn’t do much more than settle in each other’s arms, kiss each other good night, and go to sleep. I loved the energy we used to have, and wanted it back. I loved the family life we used to have, and wanted that back, too.

  So the place I’d set at the dinner table for Rick wasn’t just for the sake of the kids; it was for me, too. Wishful thinking, perhaps. Yearning, even. Regret, certainly. But I wanted him there.

  Feeling the same black dread I’d carried with me since he had walked away from me the night before, I looked at what remained of dinner now that the kids had gone off. Of the three, Charlotte had left the most on her plate, not because she was attuned to watching her weight, but because this month she was a vegetarian. That meant she had eaten every last pinto bean, every last carrot chunk, zucchini slice, and pea, every last grain of rice, while decorating the rim of the plate with the shreds of beef that had filtered through my slotted spoon. Did I want her to be a vegetarian? No. But Rick and I were conscious of her being the youngest in a close trio of siblings, and rather than have her rebel to establish her individuality, we always encouraged her to try different things.

  “Life is full of opportunities,” we told her, Rick as often as me. “They’re yours for the taking, but you have to make them happen.”

  She was doing just that, and not only with her eating style. Having decided that she wanted a life in the theater, she had thrown herself into drama programs. After paying her dues painting sets, moving furniture between scenes, and tacking production flyers to bulletin boards around town, she won her first part. It had been a small one, but she did it well. Three years, a handful of other parts and multiple voice lessons later, and she had her first leading role. She had worked hard to build her credentials, had played her cards right, and earned her place on the marquis.

  So had Rick. He had worked hard to build his credentials, had played his cards right, and earned his spot at the top, too. The difference was that Charlotte was fifteen and had no responsibilities. Rick was forty-five, and had a wife and three children with lives to be considered—which was pretty much what I’d told him the week before.

  “I have news,” he said on that awful night. He was late again, coming into the kitchen when I was cleaning up after dinner, but his excitement was contagious.

  I couldn’t help but smile as I wiped my hands on a dish towel. I assumed that the research firm he headed had won a big client. “What’s your news?”

  “Ever hear of a company called GenTell?” When I shook my head, he said, “It specializes in gene therapy research. It’s in the forefront of everything that’s happening, and is three times bigger than my company now. The board just fired its CEO. I’m on the short list to replace him.”

  Responding first to the achievement, I wrapped an arm around his neck. “Really? That’s great!” Then his words registered. “The short list? Versus the long list?”

  “I made the first cut-off.”

  “So this isn’t new? You’ve known about it for a while?”

  “Not a while,” he assured me wisely. He knew where I was headed. “A month. But there was no point telling you about it then. I thought it was a long shot.”

  If he hadn’t told me earlier, there was a downside. An obvious one was the scope of the job. A larger company would demand more of his time, yet we saw too little of him already.

  “Where is GenTell?” I asked with the queasy feeling that I hadn’t felt in a while—in eight years, to be exact. A shadow was forming above me even before he answered.

  “Houston.”

  “Texas? Are you serious?”

  “Sure am. It’s a super area.”

  He had flown there no less than three times in as many months, but he had said he was meeting with clients. I hadn’t dreamed he was interviewing for a job.

  Swallowing, I withdrew my arm. “Texas,” I repeated, smiling woodenly now. “But we live in New Hampshire.”

  “Hey, it could be California,” he joked, looking his adorable boyish self with his dark hair mus
sed, his blue eyes wide, and a flush of color high on his cheeks. “Texas isn’t so far. Once you get to the airport, what’s the difference if you fly two hours or four? Do you know how flattering it is that I’ve made the finals in this? It would be a challenge professionally, everything I’ve worked for. It would be a bump up financially—give us the cushion we’ve always wanted.”

  Dismayed, I studied his face, but he was serious. Turning back to the sink, I wet the sponge, squirted it with soap from the built-in dispenser, and ran it over a waiting dish. “We already have a cushion, don’t we?”

  “You can never have too much.”

  “Too much?” I glanced around. “My God, look at this kitchen. If it isn’t state of the art, I don’t know what is.”

  “And here you are washing dishes by hand. Why not use the dishwasher?”

  I thought about that as I circled the dish with the sponge. With each pass, it moved more smoothly on the china until it fairly glided around the rim. “I don’t know. I guess I had time to kill.” I shot him a wry smile. “You weren’t here. What better to do?” My smile faded. “Houston. Could you telecommute? Or would we have to live there?”

  “We’d move.”

  My heart fell. “Oh, Rick.”

  “We’ve done it before.”

  Yes. Three times in the last thirteen years. “But you promised we were done moving. Promised. When we came here.”

  “I know, honey, I know. But I had no idea this kind of opportunity would come my way.”

  Frustrated by his enthusiasm, annoyed even, I turned on the water, rinsed the plate under the fresh cascade, and stood it on the rack. Sponge in hand again, I took up the next plate and made it slick with suds.

  “This would be a good move, sweetheart,” he urged. “Good for me, good for us.”

  “How would it be good for us?” I asked without looking up. “I have a job here. I have friends here. The kids have school here. They have friends here.”

  “Sam’s leaving next year anyway.”

  “Okay. That leaves three of us who’d be uprooted.”

  Rick sighed. “It wouldn’t be so bad.”

  I didn’t believe him. I had suffered with each previous move, having to start all over again making friends and finding work. After rinsing the plate in my hand, I added it to the rack.

  “Well,” Rick said into the silence, “it isn’t a done deal. I’m only one of three.”

  Watching him walk from the room, I felt very much alone.

  I picked up Charlotte’s plate, carried it to the sink, and carefully scraped bits of rejected beef into the drain. I told myself that I should be more flexible and generous where Rick was concerned. Except that moving was hard on me. I had needs that were different from those of the kids. I had a career, too, and finally, after all those restarts, it was moving forward. The principal of the elementary school where I taught had suddenly resigned, and I was being eyed to fill her spot. I didn’t have the advanced degree that would normally have been required for the position, but I was viewed as a good teacher, a faculty unifier, even an innovator. I could get the job because I was known for those things. It was a unique opportunity. Rick knew that. If we moved, I would be little more than a name on a résumé. I would lose the ground I’d gained in the last eight years.

  Returning to the table, I took Jimmy’s plate next. There was nothing on it but a few gravy streaks left by the tines of his fork. Granted, he was still growing fast and needed all the food he could get. But he was also the one who wanted to please people—in this case me, by eating every last bite, particularly with his father nowhere in sight.

  Poor Jimmy. Likeable to the extreme, he was the president of his class for a second year in a row. Last year, as a freshman, he had successfully lobbied the school administration to give students a voice in disciplinary matters. What he hadn’t counted on was being drafted to serve on the disciplinary committee, himself. To his chagrin, he was having to make hard decisions—decisions that couldn’t possibly please everyone. That was causing him angst.

  It was a taste of real life. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that the angst of making hard decisions got no easier with time and age.

  “You’re upset,” Rick said. He was home for dinner for a change, and, albeit between phone calls, had done some catching up with the kids. They had gone off to their rooms now, so I began to clean up.

  I couldn’t pretend not to know what he meant. “I’m okay,” I said as I collected dirty dishes from around the table.

  “You’re upset,” he repeated.

  I took the dishes to the sink. “Worried.”

  “There’s no need,” he said gently and came to lean against the counter close by, while I ran water over the stack of dishes. “I haven’t been chosen yet.”

  “What if you are?” I asked. The question had been eating at me since he had mentioned the possibility. “Will you take the job?” I let the stream of water soothe my hands, then soaped the sponge, angled the first dish, and scrubbed its face.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I take it you’re against it.”

  I scrubbed harder to dislodge bits of dried food, letting my silence speak for itself.

  “The kids will adjust,” he argued, “Besides, we can’t make decisions based on them. Their needs are changing. Another three years, and they’ll be out of the house.”

  Setting the first dish aside, I used the froth on the sponge to wash the next in the pile. “I won’t. I’ll be here without them, and without you, given the amount of work you do now. I’ll want my career more than ever then.”

  “You can teach in Houston.”

  I set the second plate aside and looked up. “I’m in line to be principal here. You know that. You’ve known it as long as I have, which is three months, which is longer than you’ve been flying to Houston. Yes, I can get a teaching job in Houston, but I can’t be a principal there. I don’t have the experience or the advanced degree. It’s my connection here—the people I know and the eight years of building relationships—that will give me the shot.”

  “Is it that important to you?”

  “It’s my career.”

  “But your career is different.” He stopped short.

  Irked, I finished his thought. “Different from yours because I don’t make much money?”

  “Because it’s voluntary. I’m the one with the responsibility for putting food on the table.”

  “If we’d ever stayed put long enough for me to build my seniority, I might have contributed more. But this isn’t about money. It’s about lifestyle.”

  “Lifestyle?” he asked dryly. “And here you are doing this again?”

  “Doing what?”

  “Washing dishes by hand. We have an automatic dishwasher. Wouldn’t it be easier to just load it up and turn it on?” He had the gall to sound miffed. “What’s with doing them by hand?”

  I looked at the dishes. Yes, we had a dishwasher. We also had three kids, any one of whom would have helped if I’d asked. But that would have defeated the purpose.

  “It’s therapeutic,” I said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’m upset. I’m worried. There’s a serenity to this. It’s easy. I see progress. It’s satisfying. I’m in control.”

  “Control. Ah. That makes sense.”

  I shot him a look. “What does that mean?”

  “Nothing,” he muttered. Seconds later, in an obvious attempt to lighten things up, he gave my arm a playful nudge. “Look at it this way. You hate the cold. You wouldn’t have to deal with it in Houston. Think of the money we’d save on winter clothes.”

  I wasn’t in a playful mood. The stakes were too high and my feelings too raw. Dropping the sponge, I faced him. “So what would we spend it on? How much do we need? When do we have enough?” When he seemed troubled, I pressed my point. “It’s not about money, Rick,” I pleaded. “It’s about lives. It’s about my job, my friends, my connections. It’s about the kids’ school
and their friends. How can we think of tearing them away from that? How can you think of tearing me away from that?”

  “But what about me?” he asked.

  My restraint snapped. “No. What about the rest of us, for once. But okay, let’s talk about you. You work seventy hours a week. That’s up from sixty a few years ago, and it’ll be eighty if you take this job. How far will it go? How much more of you do I have to lose until there isn’t anything left to have? How much do the kids have to lose? These are the last years they’ll be with us full-time. The memory of things we do now are the ones that’ll be freshest in their minds once they’re gone.”

  “I didn’t choose the timing of this, Ellen.”

  “Maybe not, but it’s bad. It’s bad for the kids, and it’s bad for me—and it has nothing to do with Houston. I’d be feeling the same way if you were talking New York. It isn’t the distance or the climate. It’d be just as bad if you were talking Boston. I don’t want to move, Rick. Not at this stage in my life.”

  Back at the table, I took Sam’s plate. He had eaten most of what he’d been served and had picked at the rest—this from a guy who had eaten us out of house and home at the height of his growing years. But he was nearly eighteen, and he was in love. At least, he imagined that he was, and though he had never said the words to me—would never say them to his mother—I had easily read that puppy dog look whenever his best friend and the lady in question were over. The best friend and the lady in question had broken up two weeks ago, and Sam had stepped into the void—treading lightly, knowing that he was risking that best-friendship, but unable to help himself. I’d seen his smile when she called, had heard the breathless tone of voice that sounded so odd in my six-foot-three-inch almost-man.

  For two weeks—twelve days, actually—all had been right in Sam’s world. Then the best friend decided that he wanted the girlfriend back, and she was letting them fight it out. Sam had to make a choice. He could have the girl, but he would lose his best friend. There was definitely a price to be paid for winning.