A Window Opens by Elisabeth Egan (English) Paperback Book

Description: A Window Opens by Elisabeth Egan A hilarious and heart-rending debut from Glamour books editor Elisabeth Egan that reads like I Dont Know How She Does It. FORMAT Paperback LANGUAGE English CONDITION Brand New Publisher Description What happens when having it all proves too much to handle? In this "fresh, funny take on the age-old struggle to have it all" ( People ) a wife and mother of three leaps at the chance to fulfill her professional destiny--only to learn every opportunity comes at a price. "A winning, heartfelt debut" ( Good Housekeeping ), A Window Opens introduces Alice Pearse, a compulsively honest, longing-to-have-it-all, sandwich generation heroine for our social-media-obsessed, lean in (or opt out) age. Like her fictional forebears Kate Reddy and Bridget Jones, Alice plays many roles (which she never refers to as "wearing many hats" and wishes you wouldnt, either). She is a (mostly) happily married mother of three, an attentive daughter, an ambivalent dog-owner, a part-time editor, a loyal neighbor and a Zen commuter. She is not: a cook, a craftswoman, a decorator, an active PTA member, a natural caretaker, or the breadwinner. But when her husband makes a radical career change, Alice is ready to lean in--and she knows exactly how lucky she is to land a job at Scroll, a hip young start-up which promises to be the future of reading. The Holy Grail of working mothersan intellectually satisfying job and a happy personal lifeseems suddenly within reach. Despite the disapproval of her best friend, who owns the local bookstore, Alice is proud of her new "balancing act" (which is more like a three-ring circus) until her dad gets sick, her marriage flounders, her babysitter gets fed up, her kids start to grow up, and her work takes an unexpected turn. In the midst of her second coming of age, Alice realizes the question is not whether its possible to have it all but, what does she really want the most? "Smart and entertaining...with refreshing straight-forwardness and humor" ( The Washington Post ), "fans of I Dont Know How She Does It and Whered You Go, Bernadette will adore A Window Opens " ( Booklist , starred review). Author Biography Elisabeth Egan is the books editor at Glamour . Her essays and book reviews have appeared in Self, Glamour, O, The Oprah Magazine , People, Publishers Weekly, Kirkus Reviews , the Huffington Post , the New York Times Book Review , the Los Angeles Times Book Review , The Washington Post , the Chicago Sun-Times and The Newark Star-Ledger . She lives in New Jersey with her family. Review Quote "Witty and charming debut novel....Egan has written a heartfelt, humorous take on the pressures faced by moms and working women, tackling her subject matter with a charming candor that makes readers feel like they are listening to the confidences of a friend. A playful and provocative meditation on what it means to "have it all," A Window Opens is more than just a mommy manifesto-its also an intimate and entertaining yarn that will speak to women from all walks of life." -BookPage Excerpt from Book A Window Opens 1 In my book, January and February are just frozen appetizers for the fillet of the year, which arrives in March, when you can finally wear a down vest to walk the dog. Thats when I commit to my annual resolutions: become more flexible in all senses of the word, stop snapping at my family, start feeding the parking meter, take wet laundry out of the machine before it mildews, call my mom more, gossip less. Throughout my thirties, the list has remained the same. On this particular sunny and tentatively warm day, I was driving home from spin class, daydreaming about a pair of patent leather boots Id seen in the window of a store near my office. They were midheight and semi-stylish, presentable enough for work, with a sole suited for sprinting through the aisles of the grocery store. Maybe I recognized a little bit of myself in those boots; after all, I fit the same description. When I stopped for a red light in front of the high school, my phone lit up with a photo of Nicholas. The snapshot was three years old, taken on wooden bleachers at the Y while we were waiting for our son, Oliver, to finish basketball practice. Splayed across Nicholass chest was the paperback edition of The Cut by George Pelecanos; while he grinned at my then new iPhone, our daughters, Margot and Georgie, each leaned in and kissed one of his cheeks. "Hey, whats up? Im just driving back from Ellies class. Since when does Stairway to Heaven qualify as a spin song?" Silence on the other end. I noticed a spray of white crocuses on the side of the road, rearing their brave little heads. "Nicholas? Are you there?" "Yeah, Im here." Another pause. "Nicholas? Are you okay?" "Yeah, Im fine. I just--" More silence. I watched as a group of high school kids trampled the crocuses with their high-tops and Doc Martens. The light turned green. "You just . . . what?" "Listen, Al, Id rather not have this conversation on speaker while youre driving. Can you call me when you get home?" I felt a slow blossom of anxiety in my throat. When someone starts talking about the conversation in the third person, you know its not going to be pretty. "Nicholas. Whats going on?" "I cant . . . You know what?" I heard a noise in the background that sounded like a big stack of papers hitting the floor. "Actually? Im coming home. Ill be on the 11:27 train. See you soon." There was a strain in his voice, as if someone had him by the neck. "Wait--dont hang up." But he was gone. Suddenly, I felt chilly in my sweaty clothes. I distractedly piloted my minivan down Park Street, past a church, a temple, a funeral home, and a gracious turreted Victorian wed lost in a bidding war when we first started looking for houses in Filament. My mind raced with possibilities: Nicholass parents, my parents, his health, an affair, a relocation. Was there any chance this urgent conversation could contain good news? A windfall? What was so important that Nicholas had to come home to say it to me in person? In the seven years wed lived in New Jersey, hed rarely arrived home before dark, even in the summer, and most of our daytime conversations took place through an intermediary--his secretary, Gladys, doyenne of the Stuyvesant Town bingo scene. I called Nicholas back as soon as I pulled into the driveway of our blue colonial. When the ringing gave way to voice mail, I suddenly felt dizzy, picturing the old photo pressed to my ear. The girls had grown and changed since then--Margots round face chiseling down into a preteen perma-scowl, Georgies toddler legs losing their drumstick succulence. But what struck me was Nicholass jet-black hair. It had been significantly thicker in those days, and a lot less gray. I couldnt remember the last time Id seen him kick back with a book, let alone look so relaxed. I was about to find out why. * * * I spent the next hour repairing damage wrought by the daily cyclone of our kids eating breakfast, getting dressed, and supposedly cleaning their rooms but really just shoving socks, towels, and Legos under their beds. Eggshells in the garbage disposal, Leapin Lemurs cereal in the dustpan, Margots tried-on-and-discarded outfits directly into her hamper even though I knew they were clean. I filled out class picture forms--hadnt I already paid for one round of mediocre shots against the backdrop of a fake library?--and called in a renewal of the dogs Prozac prescription: "His birthday? Honestly, I have no idea . . . Hes not my son! Hes my dog!" Cornelius lifted his long reddish snout and glanced lazily in my direction from his favorite forbidden napping spot on the window seat in the dining room. I kept checking my phone, hoping to hear from Nicholas, but the only person I heard from was my dad. Ever since losing his vocal cords to cancer, hed become a ferocious virtual communicator. His texts and e-mails rolled in at all hours of the day, constant gentle taps on my shoulder. The highest concentration arrived in the morning, while my mom played tennis and he worked his way through three newspapers, perusing print and online editions simultaneously. Many messages contained links to articles on his pet subjects: social media, the Hoyas, women doing it all. That day, in my state of anticipation and dread, I was happy for the distraction. Dad: Dear Alice, do you read me? Alice: I do! Dad: Just wondering, are you familiar with Snapchat? Me: Sorry, not sure what this is. Dad: Reading about it in WSJ. Like Instagram, but temporary. Pictures only. No track record. Me: Im not on Instagram either. Have nothing to hide anyway. Dad: I can educate you. These are great ways to stay connected. Me: Im on FB. Thats all I can handle. Dad: Yes, but why no cover photo on your timeline? Dad: Hi, are you still there? Dad: OK, TTYL. Love, Dad We live four houses from the station, so I headed over as soon as I heard the long, low horn of the train. By the time Id walked by Margot and Olivers school and arrived at the steep embankment next to the tracks, Nicholas was already on the platform. He looked surprisingly jaunty, with his suit jacket hanging from his shoulder like a pinstriped cape. He kissed me on the cheek--a dry nothing of a peck that you might give to someone who baked you a loaf of zucchini bread. He smelled like the train: newsprint, coffee, vinyl. I shivered inside my vest and pulled him in for a tight hug, wrapping my arms around his neck. "What is going on?" Nicholas sighed. Now I smelled mint gum with an undernote of--beer? Was that possible? The train pulled out of the station and we were the only two people left on the platform. I was vaguely aware of a gym class playing a game of spud on the school playground behind us. "I called it and he moved!" "I didnt move, she pushed me!" Nicholas leaned down to put his leather satchel on the ground. It was a gift from me for his thirtieth birthday: the perfect hybrid of a grown-up briefcase and a schoolboys buckled bag. As he straightened his back, his green eyes met mine. He put his hands through his hair and I thought of the photo, my chest tightening. "Alice, I didnt make partner." At first, the news came as a relief. A problem at work was small potatoes compared to a secret second family or an out-of-control gambling problem or the middle-age malaise of a friends husband who said, simply, "I dont feel like doing this anymore," before packing a backpack and moving to Hoboken. Just a backpack! Then: the lead blanket of disappointment descended gently but firmly, bringing with it a sudden X-ray vision into our past and our future. The summer associate days when we dined on Cornish game hen and attended a private Sutherland, Courtfield-sponsored tour of the modern wing of the Met; the night Nicholass official offer letter from the firm arrived, when we climbed a fire escape to the roof of our apartment building and started talking--hypothetically, of course--about what we would name our kids; the many mornings Id woken up to find him, still dressed in clothes from the day before, with casebooks, Redwelds, and six-inch stacks of paper scattered willy-nilly across the kitchen table. You dont know how big a binder clip can be until youve been married to a lawyer. What next, if not this? But first, why? "Oh, Nicholas. Im so sorry. I mean, just . . . Really. Wait, I thought the partners meeting wasnt until November. Why are they--" "Its not. Until November, I mean. But I had a feeling--" "You had a feeling? Why didnt you tell me?" "Alice, I dont know, okay? Im working with Win Makepeace on this bankruptcy--the one I told you about with those bankers who wanted to go out for karaoke? And he let slip that its not going to happen for me. Actually, he said it, flat out, as if I already knew. Should have known." I pictured Win in his spindly black chair with its smug Cornell crest, how he would have smoothed a tuft of sandy hair over a bald spot that Details ISBN1501105450 Author Elisabeth Egan Short Title WINDOW OPENS Publisher Simon & Schuster Language English ISBN-10 1501105450 ISBN-13 9781501105456 Media Book Format Paperback DEWEY FIC Year 2016 Pages 400 Publication Date 2016-07-14 Audience General/Trade Imprint Simon & Schuster Place of Publication New York Country of Publication United States Illustrations stepback AU Release Date 2016-07-14 NZ Release Date 2016-07-14 US Release Date 2016-07-14 UK Release Date 2016-07-14 We've got this At The Nile, if you're looking for it, we've got it. 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