{"product_id":"comfort-joy-isbn-9781984800848","title":"Comfort \u0026 Joy","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eNEW YORK TIMES \u003c\/i\u003eBESTSELLER • The beloved author of \u003ci\u003eThe Women \u003c\/i\u003epresents a modern-day fairy tale—the story of a woman who gets a miraculous chance at happiness. \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJoy Candellaro once loved Christmas more than any other time of the year. Now, as the holiday approaches, she is at a crossroads in her life; recently divorced and alone, she can’t summon the old enthusiasm for celebrating. So without telling anyone, she buys a ticket and boards a plane bound for the beautiful Pacific Northwest. When an unexpected detour takes her deep into the woods of the Olympic rainforest, Joy makes a bold decision to leave her ordinary life behind—to just walk away—and thus begins an adventure unlike any she could have imagined.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the small town of Rain Valley, six-year-old Bobby O’Shea is facing his first Christmas without a mother. Unable to handle the loss, Bobby has closed himself off from the world, talking only to his invisible best friend. His father Daniel is beside himself, desperate to help his son cope. Yet when the little boy meets Joy, these two unlikely souls form a deep and powerful bond. In helping Bobby and Daniel heal, Joy finds herself again. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut not everything is as it seems in quiet Rain Valley, and in an instant, Joy’s world is ripped apart, and her heart is broken. On a magical Christmas Eve, a night of impossible dreams and unexpected chances, Joy must find the courage to believe in a love—and a family—that can’t possibly exist, and go in search of what she wants . . . and the new life only she can find.“Happy, hopeful and \u003ci\u003etrès romantique\u003c\/i\u003e.”—\u003ci\u003eHartford Courant\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“[Kristin Hannah’s] best book yet.”—\u003ci\u003eThe Columbus Dispatch\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Hannah will touch the deepest corner of your heart.”—\u003ci\u003eRendezvous\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“An engaging holiday tale.”—\u003ci\u003eSeattle Post-Intelligencer\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“A heartwarming holiday tale [that] resonates with poignancy and deep emotion.”—\u003ci\u003eRomantic Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eKristin Hannah\u003c\/b\u003e is the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of many acclaimed novels, including \u003ci\u003eWinter Garden, Firefly Lane,\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eNight Road\u003c\/i\u003e. She and her husband live in the Pacific Northwest and Hawaii.\u003c\/p\u003eChristmas parties are the star on the top of my \"don't\" list this   year. Other things to avoid this season: Ornaments. Trees. Mistletoe   (definitely). Holiday movies about families. And memories.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    A lot can change in twelve months.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    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 I'm 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    I have saved every scrap I've ever read about exotic locales and   faraway places. When I read the words and see the pictures, I dream   of having an adventure.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Of course, I've been dreaming of that for ten years now, and since   I've been single again for almost three months, and separated from   Thom for eight months before that, it's safe to say I'm a dreamer not   a doer. In fact, I haven't added to my files or opened one of the   cabinets since my divorce.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    I ease past them now and get into my sensible maroon Volvo. Behind   me, the garage door opens, and I back down the driveway.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    A memory flashes through me like summer thunder: there and gone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    I come home from work early . . . see my husband's car is in the   driveway. The roses are in full, riotous bloom.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    I remember thinking I should cut some for an arrangement.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    In the house, I toss my coat on the maple bench and go upstairs,   calling out his name.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    I am halfway up the stairs when I recognize the sounds.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    In my mind and my memories, I kicked the door open. That's what I   told people later. The truth was, I barely had the strength to push   it open.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    There they are, naked and sweating and rolling, in my bed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Like an idiot, I stand there, staring at them. I thought he'd feel my   presence as keenly as I'd always felt his, that he'd look up, see me   and--oh, I don't know, have a heart attack or burst into tears and   beg for my forgiveness or beg for forgiveness while having a heart   attack.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Then I see her face, and a bad moment rounds the bend into horrific.   It is my sister.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Now there's a \"For Sale\" sign in front of my house. It's been there   for months, but who am I kidding? A wrecked marriage scares everyone.   It's 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    I hit the gas too hard and back out into the street, putting the   memories in my rearview mirror.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    If only they would stay there. Instead, they're like passengers,   crowding in on me, taking up too much air.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    No one knows what to say to me anymore, and I can hardly blame them.   I don't 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    I make it easy on my friends--or try to--by pretending that   everything is okay. I've 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 can't seem to manage it; neither do I have the   courage to form a new one, though, in truth, it's what I want. It's   what I've wanted for a long time.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    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 o'clock. I pull into my parking space, gather my cookies,   and go inside.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    At the main desk, the school secretary, Bertha Collins, smiles up at   me. \"Hey, Joy.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Hey, Bertie. I brought some cookies for tonight's faculty party.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Her look turns worried. \"Aren't you coming?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Not this year, Bertie. I don't feel too festive.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    She eyes me knowingly. As a twice-divorced woman, she thinks she   understands, but she can't, not really. Bertie has three kids and two   parents and four sisters. My own math doesn't add up that way. \"Take   care of yourself, Joy. The first Christmas after a divorce can be . .   .\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    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 master's degree in library science, I will lose her to   another school. It's one more change I try not to think about.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Morning, Joy,\" she says, looking up from the pile of paperwork in   front of her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Hey, Ray. How's Paul's cold?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Better, thanks.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    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 yesterday's newspapers with todays. For the   next six hours, Rayla and I work side by side--checking the catalog   system, generating overdue notices, processing new books, and   re-shelving. When we're 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    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?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    In past years, I have looked forward to this vacation. It's 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Joy, are you okay?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    I am so lost in memories of Before that it takes me a second to   realize that Rayla is speaking to me. I'm standing in the middle of   the library, holding a worn, damaged copy of Madame Bovary.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The bell rings: The walls seem to vibrate with the sound of doors   opening, kids laughing, feet moving down the hall.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The winter break has begun.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Do you need a ride to the party?\" Rayla asks, coming up to me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"The party?\" I say, as if I'm actually thinking about it. \"No, thanks.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"You're not coming, are you?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Rayla has always been able to do that: pierce my defenses with a look. \"No.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"But . . .\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Not this year, Ray.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Rayla sighs. \"So, what will you do tonight?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    We both know that the first night of our vacation is special. Last   year, on this Friday evening, Stacey and I met up for dinner and went   to the mall, where I agonized over the perfect gift for Thom.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    It turned out to be my sister.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Those are exactly the kind of memories I try to avoid, but they're   like asbestos: invisible and deadly. You need special gear to get rid   of them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Rayla touches my arm. \"Have you put up a tree yet?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    I shake my head.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"I could help you decorate one.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"No, thanks. I need to do it myself.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"And will you?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    I look down into her kind gray eyes and find it surprisingly easy to   smile. \"I will.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    She loops an arm through mine. Together, we walk through the quiet   library and emerge into the crowded, busy hallways of the high   school. All around us kids are laughing and talking and high-fiving   one another.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    In the parking lot, Rayla walks me to my car. There, she stops and   looks up at me. \"I hate to leave you alone for the holidays. Maybe   Paul and I should cancel our trip to Minnesota.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Don't you dare. Enjoy your family. I'll be fine.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"You and Stacey . . .\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Don't,\" I say sharply, and then whisper: \"Please.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"She and Thom will break up, you'll see. She'll come to her senses.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    I have lost count of the times Rayla has said this to me, and of the   times I've said it to myself.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Why don't you go to one of those dream places of yours--like Machu   Picchu or London?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Maybe I will,\" I say. It's what I always say. We both know the   truth: I'm scared to go alone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Rayla pats my hand and kisses my cheek. \"Well. I'll see you in January, Joy.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Merry Christmas, Rayla.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"And to you.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    I watch her walk to her car and drive away. Finally, I get into my   own front seat and sit there, staring through the windshield. When I   start the engine, the radio comes on. It's an instrumental rendition   of \"Upon a Midnight Clear\" that immediately reminds me of better   times in previous years. My mom loved this song.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Rayla is right. It's time for me to get started on Christmas. There's   no more putting it off. Smiling and pretending will not get me   through the holidays. It's time for me to embark on this new single   life of mine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The traffic out of the high school is bumper to bumper with kids   yelling out the window to one another, but by the time I reach Almond   Street, the road is empty.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    On Fifth Street, I turn left and pull into the lot beside a Chevron   station, where Scout Troop #104 has set up their yearly tree sale. On   this late Friday afternoon, I can see right away that the stock is   pretty depleted, and frankly, there's more brown on these branches   than green. In this part of California, the trees go bad fast and   I've waited too long to get a prime choice.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    I wander through the fake forest on the corner of Fifth and Almond,   nodding now and then to friends and strangers, trying to pretend I'm   picking out the perfect tree. In truth, I'm trying not to look at   them too closely. Finally, I can't stand it anymore. I choose the   tree to my left, find a kid to help me, and reach for my wallet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The nice young boy scout who takes my money hands me a receipt and a Kleenex.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    I'm crying. Perfect.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    By the time the tree is strapped onto my car, I'm a basket case.   Sniffling and crying and shaking.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    I am still in bad shape when I pull up to the ATM machine, though,   thankfully, there are no witnesses to my meltdown. On a whim, I   withdraw two hundred and fifty dollars. If I'm going to put up this   tree, I'll need all new ornaments. I can hardly use the ones I   collected during my marriage. And I intend to buy myself a killer   gift to open on Christmas morning.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The thought of spending money on myself should make me happy; it's   not something we high school librarians do a lot.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    At least that's what I tell myself as I turn into my neighborhood.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Madrona Lane is a pretty name for a pretty street in a not-so-pretty   suburb of Bakersfield. I've always appreciated the irony of living on   a street named for a tree that doesn't grow here; especially in view   of the fact that the developers cut down every green thing that dared   to grow on the block. When my husband and I first saw the house it   was run down and neglected, the only home on the cul-de-sac with   grass that needed cutting and a fence in need of paint. The realtor   had seen all these as possibilities for a young couple such as us.   \"The previous owners,\" she'd whispered to me as I stepped through a   patch of dry-rotted floor in the bathroom, \"went through a terrible   divorce. A real War of the Roses thing.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    We'd all laughed at that. Of course, it turned out not to be so funny.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    I am almost to my house when I see Stacey standing in my driveway,   all by herself.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    I slam on the brakes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    We stare at each other through the windshield. The minute she sees   me, she starts to cry. It is all I can do not to follow suit.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    She's come to tell you it's over with Thom. It's the moment I've been   waiting for, but now that it's here, I don't know what to do. Without   forgiveness, there's no future between Stacey and me, but how can I   forgive a sister who slept with my husband?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    I ease my foot back onto the accelerator and pull into the driveway.   Then I get out of the car.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Stacey stands there, looking at me, clutching her ski coat around   her. Tears glisten on her cheeks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    It's the first time we've really looked at each other since this   nightmare began, and instead of anger, I feel an unexpected longing.   I remember a dozen things about her, about us, just then, like our   famous family road trip through the desert states. Hell in a   Volkswagen bus with my mom singing Helen Reddy songs at the top of   her lungs and smoking Eve cigarettes one after another.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    I approach her slowly. As always, looking at my younger sister is   like looking in a mirror. Irish twins; that's what our mom called us.   We're less than twelve months apart in age and have the same curly   copper-red hair, pale, freckled skin, and blue eyes. No wonder Thom   fell for her; she's the younger, smiling version of me.#1 New York Times bestselling author of The Great Alone","brand":"Ballantine Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46305197359333,"sku":"NP9781984800848","price":19.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781984800848.jpg?v=1767723957","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/comfort-joy-isbn-9781984800848","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}