{"product_id":"if-only-love-isbn-9781039013711","title":"If Only Love","description":"\u003cb\u003eAN INSTANT NATIONAL BESTSELLER\u003cbr\u003eA HEATHER'S PICK\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eAn astonishing memoir of love's enduring power, resilience and transformation, \u003ci\u003eIf Only Love\u003c\/i\u003e is a celebration of the timeless connection between two souls—a real-life love story for the ages.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn 1973, a seventeen-year-old Canadian girl meets an American boy on her first day of school in Japan and falls in love, not realizing that he is also a goner for her. When they finally connect, they only have two months together before school's out and she has to head home. Bad timing and swirling emotion botch their attempt to stay together and they fall out of touch. Long after she loses him, she still thinks of him, and even sets out on a journey to find him, one that fails in the most traumatic of ways.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThirty years later—after her award-winning documentary career has taken her to the most dangerous of places pursuing the toughest of stories—Daniel Peterson's name pops up in an email in Shelley Saywell's inbox, delivering them both a second chance at love. Soon they are edging towards each other in a soul-baring exchange of emails that slowly confirms that their teenage love was real. For fifteen years, they are bonded in life and in love, only to have their marriage cut short when Daniel is diagnosed with terminal cancer. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBy braiding together the strands of time—threads of first love enhancing threads of grief, a magic reunion undone by final separation—Saywell reveals the power of memory and the healing magic of love. In his last moments, she asks Daniel, \"Can we do this again?\" and he replies, \"We'll do it again, only better.\" Hard to imagine any two people doing love better, or any writer creating a more touching, revelatory story and testament to the heart.\u003cb\u003eAN INSTANT NATIONAL BESTSELLER\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eA HEATHER'S PICK\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Shelley Saywell’s \u003cb\u003epoignant, hauntingly beautiful\u003c\/b\u003e memoir takes us on an epic journey of resilience and regret that will at once break your heart and give you hope in the enduring power and endless possibility of love.” \u003cb\u003e—Mellissa Fung, author of \u003ci\u003eBetween Good and Evil\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A \u003cb\u003eheartbreaking\u003c\/b\u003e memoir of love lost, love found and then lost again. Shelley Saywell, the accomplished creator of documentary films, reveals another part of herself—a tender heart and the joy and grief that accompany deep passion. Even through the pain, she shows that over time profound love is completely worth the risk.” \u003cb\u003e—Antanas Sileika, author of \u003ci\u003eSome Unfinished Business\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“In this miracle of a story, Saywell interweaves two strands of profound human experience at opposing ends of the emotional spectrum: falling in love and grieving the premature death of a life partner. In the hands of \u003cb\u003ea master storyteller\u003c\/b\u003e, this seemingly incompatible double helix soars into \u003cb\u003ea triumph of the heart\u003c\/b\u003e. A transcontinental journey of hope and serendipity, \u003ci\u003eIf Only Love\u003c\/i\u003e is a book for anyone who has ever dreamt of a second chance.” \u003cb\u003e—Roxana Spicer, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Traitor’s Daughter\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eIf Only Love\u003c\/i\u003e is \u003cb\u003ean epic true story\u003c\/b\u003e of a great love lost in youth and rekindled decades later, only to be wrenched away again. It is a \u003cb\u003ebeautiful\u003c\/b\u003e, sometimes painful and \u003cb\u003ealways inspiring\u003c\/b\u003e tribute to everlasting love. It \u003cb\u003etook my breath away\u003c\/b\u003e and made me look into my own heart.” \u003cb\u003e—Anna Maria Tremonti, broadcast journalist and the creator of the podcast \u003ci\u003eWelcome to Paradise\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“\u003cb\u003eAn extraordinarily fine story\u003c\/b\u003e that in fact transcends genre. . . . \u003cb\u003eBrave and astute\u003c\/b\u003e. . . . [Saywell] portrays raw emotion but in a classic, controlled way.” \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Winnipeg Free Press \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eSHELLEY SAYWELL is a Canadian documentary filmmaker and author whose work bears witness to life in some of the world’s most desperate places. Saywell has written, directed and produced more than twenty independent documentary films, telling stories of struggle and conflict, the fight for justice and the power of hope. Her films, including \u003ci\u003eA Child’s Century of War\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eKim’s Story\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eOut of the Fire\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eMartyr Street\u003c\/i\u003e have been shown in more than thirty countries and won numerous awards, including an Emmy for Investigative Journalism. Saywell has been personally honoured with the WIFT Creative Excellence Award and a UNESCO Gandhi Medal for the Promotion of Peace. Her memoir, \u003ci\u003eIf Only Love\u003c\/i\u003e, is the story of the great love and events that shaped her life behind the lens.\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003ePhone Call \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDaniel was lying with his head in my lap. I traced the lines of his eyebrows, his cheekbones and jaw, feeling my way over the shapes and planes, the soft and rough surfaces I knew so well. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI loved to study his face. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the years we were apart, I had often tried to picture it, wondering how it had changed from the face of a teenager into a man’s. When I finally saw him again after almost three decades, I shook my head and laughed. His eyes were the same as I remembered, a shifting hazel colour. The indent in his cheek when he smiled still had the power to slay me. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter twelve years of marriage I still snuck sideways glances at him, just to reassure myself. Yes, he was really here. Yes, it was really him. I wanted to know what he was thinking, loved the sound of his laughter, was set on fire by his touch. But staring at his face was my favourite thing. It was like looking into a deep well, his eyes pools of grey or jade green. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI stroked his beard with its flecks of grey, then traced his bottom lip. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I wish you were coming with me.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Me too,” he sighed. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI was leaving for Italy. Daniel had encouraged me to go, to take a break after completing two documentary films back-to-back, one on domestic violence, the other on home­less musicians. He was returning to his rented condo in Washington, D.C., where he was part of a conservation team restoring murals painted by Constantino Brumidi in the 1800s to adorn the ceilings and hallways of the United States Senate. While the lawmakers were in recess during August, there would be fewer restrictions to working on site, and they could push towards their next deadline. For the past few years, the Brumidi Corridors had been more of a companion to him than I was, and though we had promised we would meet every three weeks, in D.C. or in our house in Toronto, deadlines too often kept us apart.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe were lounging around, listening to music, feeling a little blue because one of our infrequent weeks together was coming to an end. “All You Need Is Love” by the Beatles came up on the playlist. Daniel mimicked the trumpet notes through closed lips. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eLove, love, love. \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I read somewhere that Paul and Linda McCartney never spent a night apart in all the years of their marriage.” I made a long face. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I know.” Daniel let out a sigh. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“If we aren’t careful, we’ll piss off the gods who reunited us.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis laughter turned to a moan. “Don’t make me laugh, it hurts too much.” He had slipped on a scaffold and thrown out his back, and it didn’t seem to be getting better. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Please get an X-ray when you get to D.C.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe sat up and wrapped his arms around me, pressing his lips to my ear. “I will. And don’t worry, I promise I’ll come with you on holiday next time.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn Rome I checked into my hotel and called Daniel, but he didn’t answer. I left a message, then sent a text. The next morning I took a train to Tuscany. My brother Jim and his husband, Keith, picked me up at the station. We drove past fields of sunflowers and olive groves and distant stone villages that had looked the same for five hundred years. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Welcome to Pieve,” my brother said as we pulled up out­side the sixteenth-century stone house he’d bought for a song when he was teaching architecture in Florence years before. He and Keith lived in Hong Kong, but every August they came back here to cook and paint and restore themselves. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI left my phone on the bedside table to charge, then joined them on the terrace overlooking the garden and raised a glass to missing family and friends. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Daniel would adore this,” I said. “Too bad he has to work on the murals of an Italian master instead of enjoying \u003ci\u003ela dolce vita\u003c\/i\u003e.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ex x x\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe next afternoon, the Tuscan sun was burning hot, scorch­ing the garden. We went inside to take a siesta in the cool stone rooms. I chose a novel from the bookshelf and settled into the sofa. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe phone rang. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“That’s strange,” said my brother. “No one ever calls on the landline.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe picked it up. “\u003ci\u003ePronto\u003c\/i\u003e.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI felt my stomach drop. My brother was listening to someone but looking at me. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It’s Daniel,” Jim said, handing me the phone. He and Keith left the room to give me privacy. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Honey, I’m sorry, I must have left my cellphone off. How did you get this number?” I asked without taking a breath. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDaniel’s voice was muffled, hard to make out. “This is a call I never wanted to make,” I thought I heard him say. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA thousand black birds clawed at my scalp, flapping their wings against my ears. “What’s happened?” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I fainted from pain, went to emergency . . . had an MRI . . . they want to admit me.” He began to sob. I had never heard Daniel cry. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSomething takes over when the brain can’t register. I’ve noticed this while making documentaries in conflict zones, seeing people in unimaginable situations slip into automatic mode. My mind was shuttering, blocking fear, focused on the practical. We didn’t have health coverage in the United States. We both had to get home. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’m going to hang up now,” I said. “I’ll call my dad and ask him to book us flights to Toronto. It’s too hard from here—the internet is sketchy. Keep your phone on.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he was saying. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“No, baby, don’t say that. Soon we’ll be together, and we’ll figure everything out.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJim and Keith drove me back to the station. The scenery moved in reverse past the train window. Back in Rome, I checked into the hotel I’d left two days earlier, to wait for my flight in the morning. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI needed to get some air. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe streets surrounding the Spanish Steps were thick with end-of-summer crowds moving in slow motion, lethar­gic in the heat. Next to the fountain, across from the house where the poet Keats had died, a busker was singing “Hotel California” off-key. Time seemed inverted, collapsed, strange. Children slurped gelato as it dripped down from small plastic cups onto sticky fingers and melted on the uneven cobblestones beneath my feet. Against the sky, three lone palm trees wavered like a mirage. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI moved aimlessly, my mind splintered like the patterns of late-day sun refracted off shop windows. I found myself staring at a display of lingerie in pale blue lace. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eDaniel would love it if I surprised him by wearing something like that\u003c\/i\u003e, I thought. Then I was in the boutique, fishing out my credit card, paying the exorbitant price. \u003ci\u003eEverything will be okay\u003c\/i\u003e, I told myself, clutching the bag with its fancy logo. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOutside, the crowds carried me along the busy shopping street until I stopped dead, forcing a stream of people to fork around me. How could this be happening after everything we’d been through, after all the years apart? \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the hotel room I rested my head on the pillow, know­ing there would be no sleep. The air conditioner made a whirring noise like an old movie projector, and a filmstrip of memories played in my head. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere he was, a boy of seventeen, moving across the green towards me. He grinned, revealing a small gap between his front teeth. I was arguing a point, acting contrary to hold his attention, until he put a finger to my lips and said, “Hush.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe scenes flickered and flashed through the decades until I reached the last one. He was heading out the front door to go to the airport. I called him back, demanding one last hug. He opened his arms and smiled, but he was pale, and dark smudges circled his eyes. Why hadn’t I noticed? \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI turned on the light, the words he’d said on the phone finally sinking in. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“They think it might be cancer.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy mind cast around, searching for something, anything to hold on to. It flew through a myriad of terrifying sce­narios until, like a homing bird, it returned to a safe place, my fixed point. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe had imprinted at seventeen. Whatever happened, we had already proved that love can defy time.","brand":"Random House Canada","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":48233264120037,"sku":"NP9781039013711","price":19.95,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781039013711.jpg?v=1767729786","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/if-only-love-isbn-9781039013711","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}