{"product_id":"rise-and-shine-isbn-9780812977813","title":"Rise and Shine","description":"\u003cb\u003e#1 \u003ci\u003eNEW YORK TIMES \u003c\/i\u003eBESTSELLER • A superb novel about two sisters, the true meaning of success, and the qualities in life that matter most from beloved, Pulitzer Prize–winning author Anna Quindlen\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“The dialogue sparkles, the insights are right on . . . and the characters are appealing. . . . [\u003ci\u003eRise and Shine\u003c\/i\u003e] has humor, heartbreak and drama.”—\u003ci\u003eThe Charlotte Observer\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt’s an otherwise ordinary Monday when Meghan Fitzmaurice’s perfect life hits a wall. A household name as the host of \u003ci\u003eRise and Shine\u003c\/i\u003e, the country’s highest-rated morning talk show, Meghan cuts to a commercial break—but not before she mutters two forbidden words into her open mike.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn an instant, it’s the end of an era, not only for Meghan, who is unaccustomed to dealing with adversity, but also for her younger sister, Bridget, a social worker in the Bronx who has always lived in Meghan’s long shadow. The effect of Meghan’s on-air truth telling reverberates through both their lives, affecting Meghan’s son, husband, friends, and fans, as well as Bridget’s perception of her sister, their complex childhood, and herself. What follows is a story about how, in very different ways, the Fitzmaurice women adapt, survive, and manage to bring the whole teeming world of New York to heel by dint of their smart mouths, quick wits, and the powerful connection between them that even the worst tragedy cannot shatter.\u003cb\u003eAnna Quindlen\u003c\/b\u003e is the author of many bestselling books, including the #1\u003ci\u003e New York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling novel \u003ci\u003eRise and Shine, \u003c\/i\u003ethe #1 bestselling memoir \u003ci\u003eLots of Candles, Plenty of Cake, \u003c\/i\u003eand\u003ci\u003e A Short Guide to a Happy Life. \u003c\/i\u003eHer other novels include \u003ci\u003eBlessings, One True Thing, \u003c\/i\u003ethe Oprah Book Club Selection \u003ci\u003eBlack and Blue, \u003c\/i\u003eand\u003ci\u003e Still Life with Bread Crumbs.\u003c\/i\u003eFrom time to time some stranger will ask me how I can bear to live in New York City. Sometimes it happens when I am on vacation, passing the time in a buffet line filled with the sunburned and the semidrunk.   Sometimes it comes up at a professional conference, drinking coffee in   the corner of a hotel meeting room with a clutch of social workers, most of them wearing the dirndl skirts and dangling earrings of the socially conscious woman of a certain age. My aunt's friends will ask,   although they live only a half hour north, up the Saw Mill Parkway, but   in a state of bucolic isolation that might as well be Maine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Even in New York itself I will sometimes hear the question, from the   ld men on the Coney Island boardwalk who knew Irving Lefkowitz when he  was a bar mitzvah boy and who, from their benches on the Brooklyn   beach, envision the long and slender island of Manhattan as an urban Titanic, sinking beneath the weight of criminals, homosexuals, and atheists, sailing toward certain disaster.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"And you live there why, sweetheart?\" one of them once asked me with an openmouthed squint, his neck thrust forward from the V of a ratty cardigan so that he looked like a Galápagos tortoise with a wool-Dacron argyle shell.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Sometimes, if I'm tired, I just shrug and say I like it here.   Sometimes, if I'm in a foul mood or have had a bit too much to drink, which often amounts to the same thing, I will say I live in New York because it is the center of the universe.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Most of the time I say my sister lives here and I want to be near her, and her husband, who is like a brother to me, and her son, whom I covertly think of as at least partly my own. The old men like that   answer. They make a humming sound of approbation and nod their mottled hairless heads. A good girl. A family person. They peer up at Irving.  The next question will be about marriage. We flee to Nathan's for a hot dog.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    I do like it here. It is the center of the universe.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    And I do want to be near my sister, as I always have been. We have our   rituals. Every Saturday morning, unless she is covering the Olympics, the Oscars, a disaster, or an inauguration, my sister and I go running   together in the park and have breakfast either at her apartment or at   the Greek diner down the street from mine. She will tell you she is forced to set a slower pace because I don't exercise enough. She sees this as evidence of my essential sloth. I see it as emblematic of our   relationship. Our aunt Maureen says that I was a baby so plump and phlegmatic that the only reason I learned to walk was so I could follow my older sister. Some of my earliest memories are of wandering down a street of old Dutch Colonials and long-leafed pines, the backs of a covey of eight-year-old girls half a block in front of me, the demand from the one at their center carrying on the breeze: \"Bridget! Go home! Go home now! You can't come!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    I'm always a little breathless when I run with Meghan on Saturday mornings. But I'm accustomed to it now. \"Listen and learn,\" she has said to me since we were in high school, and I always have.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"How weird is it that we were at the same dinner party last night?\" she said one overcast March morning as we began to trot down the park drive   in tandem, and I tried not to hear that long-ago plaint in her comment: Go home, Bridget! You can't come. It had indeed been strange to enter a   vast living room, beige velvet and Impressionist paintings, and see her at one end nursing a glass of sparkling water. Our hostess had attempted to introduce us, since no one ever suspected Meghan and I were related. Then she had disappeared to hand off the bunch of anemones bound with ribbons I had given her at the door.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"God, flowers, Bridge?\" my sister said, running around a stroller-size class of new mothers trying to trim their baby bodies. \"I couldn't believe you brought flowers to a dinner party. That's the worst. With   everything else you have to do when people are showing up, you have to stop to find a vase and fill a vase and cut the stems and then find a   place for them and if they're blue, Jesus, I never know where to put them in our apartment, and then-\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"How is it possible that you can make bringing someone flowers sound like the Stations of the Cross?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Sometimes I just leave them on the kitchen counter and toss them with   the leftovers.\" I knew this was not exactly true; Meghan had long had   staff to toss the leftovers, and the people from Feeding Our People, the big society starvation charity, sent over a van to pick up the   excess food from her larger dinner parties. \"Just bring wine. Even if they don't want to use it they can put it away for cocktail parties. Or wait and send an orchid plant the next day. I don't know why, but every damn living room on the East Side has to have an orchid plant. I think   they're creepy, like big white bugs. They don't look like flowers at all.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"I thought you loved them. You always have one on that chest under the   windows.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"What can I tell you? I'm a slave to fashion.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    We always see the same people when we run: the soap opera actor with   the carefully tinted hair and heavily muscled legs, the small woman with the spiky gray hair who had the ropy muscles and sharp bones of a marathoner, the Chinese couple who wore identical fashionable warm-up   suits and ran with a pair of borzois. One of our regular anorexics streaked past us, collarbone draped in the shroud of an extra-large Harvard sweatshirt. \"You know that woman who does the financial news?   Grace Shelton?\" Meghan said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"The one with that great haircut?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"I don't understand why everyone says that. That haircut is not that great.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Okay, fine. What's the point?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Someone told me that she doesn't eat anything except apples and Triscuits.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"That can't be true.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Probably not, but you never know.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    A runner in front of us turned and began to run backward. Meghan dipped her head so that the bill of her cap covered her face.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"I want to go back to the dinner gift issue,\" I said. \"How much does an orchid plant cost?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"A hundred and fifty dollars. You have to send the ones with two stems.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Jesus Christ. That's a lot of money for a stranger who invites you to dinner.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Accepted and acknowledged,\" Meghan said. Like the aunt who raised us, Meghan has a variety of expressions that she uses constantly and whose   meaning is somewhat obscure on their face. This one has endured for decades. I think it was even beneath her yearbook picture. Once she   told me it meant \"I know but I don't care.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    On the sidewalk, glittery with mica in the late winter sunlight, a  solitary glove lay, palm up, as though pleading for spare change.  Meghan barely broke stride as she lifted it and blew through the doors   of her building. \"Good morning, Ms. Fitzmaurice,\" the doorman said. The   modern honorific was articulated plainly, a sound like a buzzing bee.  The building staff know our Meghan.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Can you see if someone dropped this?\" she said, handing over the glove. \"It's a shame this late in the season for somebody to find out they're one short.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Of course,\" he replied.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"I'm such a good citizen,\" she muttered as we got into the elevator and Meghan took off the baseball cap that shaded her face so conveniently.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Oh, get over yourself,\" I said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"I am so over myself.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"As if.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    We are creatures of habit, Meghan and I. At the diner we have western omelets and rye toast; at her house we have oatmeal and orange juice. This works fine because we live in the city of habit. New York is so   often publicly associated with creativity and innovation that outsiders   actually come to believe it. The truth is that behavior here is as codified as the Latin Mass. The dinner party the night before had been no exception. The dining room walls glazed red, the tone-on-tone   tablecloths, the low centerpiece of roses and some strange   carnivorous-looking tulips. The single man on one side of me. \"I hear you're a social worker,\" he said as we both lifted our napkins and   placed them on our laps, as so many had said before him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    That was best case, of course. At the home of one donor to the women's shelter where I work, two men who were equity traders spent an entire   dinner talking to each other about the market within spitting distance-literally-of my face, bent so close above my dinner that I couldn't reach my bread plate. At the duplex apartment of a woman who   worked with my brother-in-law at Sensenbrenner Lamott, I'd turned to the man on my left and asked, \"How do you know Amelia?\" and watched his   face crumble and tears run into his beard. Everyone at the table   ignored the display as he talked of his wife, who had been our   hostess's college roommate and who had left him for a well-connected   lesbian who lived in London. With very little help from me he worked his way through their college years, marriage, apartment renovation, career changes, and the dinner party (of course) where he himself had been the lesbian's dinner partner, the hostess having mistaken her for   a more conventional single woman. He had invited the woman to their home for brunch because the two shared an interest in Fiesta ware, an   interest his wife had never, in his words, \"given a tinker's damn about.\" (\"Oh, God, he's gay himself,\" Meghan had said at our next   breakfast. \"What kind of straight man even knows what Fiesta ware is?\")   In the face of his grief and rage, the table had fallen silent except   for the torrent of words from one stay-at-home mother, who was doing a   monologue about her child's learning disabilities.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    It wasn't always that bad, of course. I once dated a professor at NYU for almost a year after I met him at a dinner party given by a woman who'd graduated from Smith and whom I met at an alumnae phonathon. I   developed a firm friendship with a lighting tech who works on Broadway   shows, an Irish expat named Jack who was seated next to me at a neighbor's annual Fourth of July potluck.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    That was a good dinner, excellent company, excellent food. There were figs with goat cheese stuffed inside, and pumpkin bisque, and rack of   lamb with broccoli rabe. The men all run together in my head, all the   lawyers\/filmmakers\/academics\/brokers\/editors with whom I've been   paired. But I almost always remember the food, even the bad food. There was a lot of that in the early days, before all around me grew rich   while I moved from a studio to a bigger studio to a small one-bedroom to a one-bedroom with a window in the kitchen, that window that will be presented by brokers to apartment supplicants as though it were a fresco by Michelangelo. As, by Manhattan standards, it is.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    For some of us the kitchen with the window means we have finally arrived at some precarious level of prosperity. For others it was a   momentary triumph, a way station between the first book proposal and   the third bestseller, the summer associate's job and the partnership, the husband who teaches comparative lit at Columbia and the one who   runs the big brokerage house. One moment a kitchen with a blessed window, the next a kitchen with two imported dishwashers, two   glass-fronted fridges, terra-cotta floors, stainless countertops, an   extra-deep sink, a tap over the restaurant range for the pasta pots,   designed in consultation with the caterers because they use it more   than the homeowners. The kitchen is always hidden in the back of the   apartment, away from the pricey views of Central Park and the master bedroom with the cherry chest at the foot of the bed that holds the television, which rises up out of the chest at the touch of a bedside   button. It's funny how everyone feels they need to hide the TVs and the   food, since both are the things they talk about most often. Meghan's   kitchen has a flat-screen television, although Meghan hates to watch TV when she is not working.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Where's Evan?\" I mumbled with my mouth full.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Evan? Evan who? Oh, you mean my husband? That is his name, isn't it?   Evan.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"I'm sorry I asked,\" I said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Evan is at the office. The office here, not the office in London or   the one in Tokyo, although God knows he's spent enough time in both in   the last six months. When he's in New York, he usually comes home when   I'm already asleep. I turn over and look and say to myself, Yep, that's   him. Every dinner party now, he says, I'm exhausted, can you go without me? And people accuse me of being a workaholic. Which reminds me: Where   the hell do the guys keep the Tupperware?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Only the team of Robert and John, who made the meals, served the meals,   and cleaned up after the meals, had a clue where anything was stored in   Meghan and Evan's kitchen. Except for Leo, my nephew, he of the   take-out Chinese and late-night ramen noodles, of the endless bowls of   Count Chocula and the ice cream eaten straight from the container. He'd shown me where the Tupperware was one night when we'd eaten enough rice   pudding to kill us both.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"In the square cabinet over the wine fridge,\" I said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Another reason not to bring flowers: the lady of the house doesn't know where the vases are kept. If she had to find the vacuum cleaner or the   Windex, the world would stop on its axis.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Why do you need Tupperware?\" I asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"We're doing a Tupperware party on the air on Monday morning, and apparently I'm going to have to do something called burping the Tupperware. We talked ad nauseam about whether it would be better if it was clear that I didn't know what the hell burping the Tupperware meant   or if I burped it convincingly. With authority, I think they said. I opted for authority.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Of course you did. On the other hand, it's hard to figure how anyone can look authoritative with Tupperware. I mean-Tupperware. Who cares?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    My sister gave me a long level look, her lip slightly raised on one side. \"Maybe you're preaching to the converted here?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Hey, who am I to talk? I spent yesterday trying to break up a bootleg sneaker ring that apparently is being fronted by two of the women   living in our shelter. The precinct was nice about it, but they said   either we could shut down the Nike Air operation or they could shut us down.\"by the author of Black and Blue and One True Thing; #1 New York Times bestseller","brand":"Random House Trade Paperbacks","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303608144101,"sku":"NP9780812977813","price":21.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780812977813.jpg?v=1767735802","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/rise-and-shine-isbn-9780812977813","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}