Fiction Elisabeth Egan A Window Opens: A Novel

ISBN 13 : 9781501105432

A Window Opens: A Novel

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9781501105432: A Window Opens: A Novel

"Egan's delightful debut is a fresh, funny take on the age-old struggle to have it all." --"People" "*People, "Summer's Best Books"*Entertainment Weekly, "8 Big Fat Beach Reads"*Woman's Day, "Great Summer Reads*"Publishers Weekly, "Best Summer Books"*Good Housekeeping, "Your Ultimate Summer Reading List*"Minneapolis Star Tribune, "10 Novels Not to Miss*"Coastal Living, "Great Summer Reads *"Time Out New York, "Summer Reading List*Goop Newsletter, Best Summer '15 Reading* Fans of "I Don't Know How She Does It" and "Where'd You Go, Bernadette" will cheer at this "fresh, funny take on the age-old struggle to have it all" ("People") about what happens when a wife and mother of three leaps at the chance to fulfill her professional destiny--only to learn every opportunity comes at a price. In "A Window Opens," beloved books editor at "Glamour" magazine Elisabeth Egan brings us 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 wouldn't, 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, with its chain of chic literary lounges and dedication to beloved classics. The Holy Grail of working mothers?an intellectually satisfying job and a happy personal life?seems suddenly within reach. Despite the disapproval of her best friend, who owns the local bookstore, Alice is proud of her new "balancing act" (which

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Extrait :

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. That’s 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 I’d 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 Whole Foods. 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 Nicholas’s 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, what’s up? I’m just driving back from Ellie’s 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, I’m here.”

Another pause.

“Nicholas? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m 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, I’d rather not have this conversation on speaker while you’re 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 it’s not going to be pretty.

“Nicholas. What’s going on?”

“I can’t . . . You know what?” I heard a noise in the background that sounded like a big stack of papers hitting the floor. “Actually? I’m coming home. I’ll 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—don’t 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 we’d lost in a bidding war when we first started looking for houses in Filament.

My mind raced with possibilities: Nicholas’s 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 we’d lived in New Jersey, he’d 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—Margot’s round face chiseling down into a preteen perma-scowl, Georgie’s toddler legs losing their drumstick succulence. But what struck me was Nicholas’s jet-black hair. It had been significantly thicker in those days, and a lot less gray. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d 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, Margot’s tried-on-and-discarded outfits directly into her hamper even though I knew they were clean. I filled out class picture forms—hadn’t I already paid for one round of mediocre shots against the backdrop of a fake library?—and called in a renewal of the dog’s Prozac prescription: “His birthday? Honestly, I have no idea . . . He’s not my son! He’s 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, he’d 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: I’m not on Instagram either. Have nothing to hide anyway.

Dad: I can educate you. These are great ways to stay connected.

Me: I’m on FB. That’s 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 I’d walked by Margot and Oliver’s 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 didn’t 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 schoolboy’s 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 didn’t 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 friend’s husband who said, simply, “I don’t 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 Nicholas’s 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 I’d 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 don’t know how big a binder clip can be until you’ve been married to a lawyer.

What next, if not this?

But first, why?

“Oh, Nicholas. I’m so sorry. I mean, just . . . Really. Wait, I thought the partners’ meeting wasn’t until November. Why are they—”

“It’s not. Until November, I mean. But I had a feeling—”

“You had a feeling? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Alice, I don’t know, okay? I’m 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 it’s 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 was permanently tanned from a lifetime of sailing on Little Narragansett Bay. Who names their kid Win, anyway? Not Winthrop, Winston, or Winchester, just Win. I was proud to come from a family where all the men are named Edward.

Then I snapped back into the moment, shaking my head as if to dislodge a pesky thought. “So, wait, he just said, ‘Nicholas Bauer, you are not going to make partner at this law firm’?”

“No, not like that. I made a tiny mistake on a brief—a comma instead of a period—and he said, ‘Bauer, let’s face it, you’re not Sutherland, Courtfield partner material.’ ”

“He did not.”

“He did.”

“Nicholas, is this even legal?” I grabbed his hand and pointed us in the direction of home.

“Of course it is. He just stood there in his fucking houndstooth vest and basically told me I had no future there. That, in fact, the partners decided last November, and they weren’t going to tell me until a year from now—”

The swings on the playground were empty, swaying lazily in the breeze by their rusted chains. Sadness kicked in at the sight of them. Hadn’t Nicholas given up enough for this law firm? How many times had I watched him knot his tie, lace his dress shoes, and board the train on a Saturday? How many vacations had been interrupted by urgent calls from clients and arbitrary deadlines from partners?

Nicholas kept going, spelling out the logistics of how these decisions are made and the arcane, draconian methods law firms use for meting out information to their unsuspecting workhorse associates. But I already knew the drill. My dad was a retired partner at another midtown law firm; I grew up hearing about the personality quirks and work ethics of candidates who didn’t quite make the cut. There had been eighty aspiring partners in Nicholas’s so-called class at Sutherland, Courtfield; by the time they were officially eligible for lifelong tenure—the proverbial golden handcuffs—they would be winnowed down to five, at most. Even knowing this, I’d never imagined Nicholas would be part of the reaping.

By this point, we were in our kitchen, where Cornelius wove among our legs, whimpering anxiously as if he sensed the tension. I made a fresh pot of coffee that neither of us would drink. Nicholas and I were rarely home alone without our kids, but my mind didn’t go where it normally would in such a situation.

Only two weeks before, my parents had taken the kids for the weekend, and before their car was even out of the driveway, we’d raced upstairs to our room. Suddenly, Georgie had materialized at the foot of our bed, looking perplexed. “Wait, why are you guys going to sleep?”

Nicholas and I leapt apart, and he grabbed a book from the floor and made a show of reading it. I tucked the sheet under each arm and reached for her hand, which was dwarfed by a plastic ring from the treasure chest at the dentist’s office. “Georgie! You’re back so soon?”

“Pop brought me back. I forgot Olivia.” Olivia is a pig in striped tights; she came with a book by the same name, and she’s a key member of Georgie’s bedtime menagerie, which also includes Curious George and a stingray. “What are you two doing?”

Nicholas put down the book: Magic Tree House #31: Summer of the Sea Serpent. “We’re . . . napping.”

Georgie chewed the end of her scraggly braid, beholding us suspiciously with hazelnut (her word) eyes.

“Okay, well, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” She turned on her heel and ran downstairs. The minute we heard the front door close, we picked up where we’d left off.

•  •  •

Now Nicholas leaned against the counter, absentmindedly peeling the clear packing tape we used to hold our cabinets together. Our kitchen was in dire need of a facelift—the black-and-white checkered floor was so scratched, it looked like the loading dock at a grocery store. We’d been saving up for a renovation.

“But at least you can stay at the firm until you find a new job, right?”

“No, that’s another thing.”

“What?” I envisioned sand pouring through a sieve: vacations, restaurant dinners, movies, a new car, college savings, retirement—?every iota of security spilling out and away.

“Alice, I can’t stay there.”

“What do you mean you can’t stay there?”

“Oh, come on. You know how it is. ‘Up or out.’ ” Nicholas’s shoulders slumped and I rubbed his back in wide circles, as I did when one of the kids threw up on the floor in the middle of the night. It’s okay. It’s okay. He unbuttoned the top button of his shirt with a defeated air. “Now that I have this information, I really need to move on. It would be humiliating to stay—I’m a dead man walking.”

I pictured Nicholas in an orange prison jumpsuit, shackled at the ankles and cuffed at the wrists. “I get that.”

“So, I’ve been thinking—and this isn’t the first time it’s crossed my mind—now might be the time to hang out a shingle. Bring in my own clients; run my own show.”

“Really?”

“Really.” Nicholas leaned over the sink, turned it on full blast, and threw water at his face in little cupped handfuls. Then he turned back to me with glistening cheeks, shiny droplets clinging to his eyebrows. He looked ashamed instead of refreshed. “Alice, I have to tell you, I didn’t react well to the news.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean . . .” Now Nicholas opened the fridge and grabbed a bottle of beer. After he flicked off the cap, he lifted it by its brown neck and tilted the bottom in my direction in a gesture that telegraphed both “What have I got to lose?” and “Here’s looking at...

Revue de presse :

"Elisabeth Egan’s wry, up-to-the-minute social comedy perfectly captures the harried life of a working mother who is, by necessity, on call 24/7 in every sphere. Filled with humor and heartbreak, this acutely observed debut is compulsively readable."
—Christina Baker Kline, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Orphan Train

“Elisabeth Egan has not only written a relatable, empathic story about woman at a personal and professional crossroads. She has turned a sharp and satirical eye to both the self-important, neologism-choked jargon of the corporate world and the claustrophobic self-satisfactions that are often endemic to suburban life. The result is a buoyant, engaging novel that manages the rather remarkable feat of taking no sides even as it takes no prisoners. A delightful and impressive debut.” —Meghan Daum, author of The Unspeakable: And Other Subjects of Discussion

"An instant classic. Egan manages to be wise, honest, poignant and laugh out loud funny about marriage, motherhood, daughterhood, and that ever elusive concept: having it all. If you're a fan of characters like Bridget Jones and I Don't Know How She Does It's Kate Reddy, prepare to fall madly in love with Alice Pearse."
—J. Courtney Sullivan, New York Times Bestselling Author of Maine

"I thoroughly enjoyed every page of this funny, touching, true-to-life novel about dealing with the complexities of family and career–a delightful read!" —Liane Moriarty, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Big Little Lies

“Egan's voice is knowing and funny, and she has a great eye for the minutiae of the modern working mother's life… Egan, herself the books editor at Glamour, packs an incredible amount of humor, observation, and insight into her buoyant debut novel, a sort-of The Way We Live Now for 21st-century moms who grew up loving the bookish heroines of Anne of Green Gables and Betsy-Tacy. Women may not be able to have it all, but this novel can.”
Kirkus, starred review


“A winning, heartfelt debut.”
Good Housekeeping

“Alice’s struggles are relatable and heartrending...fans of I Don’t Know How She Does It (2002) and Where’d You Go, Bernadette (2012) will adore A Window Opens.”
Booklist, starred review

"... a fun, breezy read... a heartfelt and sometimes funny look at all sorts of change: From marriage, to loss, to parenting, to the future of media."
—goop.com

“A smart, relatable story about a working mother who is trying to have it all, all at the same time. You'll laugh, you'll shake your head in recognition, and you'll want to grab your entire family for a hug. A Window Opens by Elisabeth Egan pulls at your heart and leaves you thinking about it long after finishing the book.”
—Popsugar.com

“Alice Pearse, a mother of three who takes on the breadwinner role after her husband doesn’t make partner at his law firm, shows us just how real, and how interesting, it is to be a working mom.”
Glamour

“Forget leaning in—can poor Alice even manage to stay upright? You’ll have a great time finding out.”
People

“Egan’s novel is both smart and entertaining, and has the added pleasure of some insider publishing juiciness…Though the novel’s focus is on Alice’s work/life balance, the true heart of the story, and what I found most moving, was her relationship with her ailing father. His illness is presented with refreshing straight-forwardness and humor, and his text and e-mail missives are copious.”
—Emma Straub, The Washington Post

“Alice Pearse appears on the page as the quintessential 2015 thirtysomething heroine…the novel is peppered with her consumerist commentary, which largely manages to keep the voice functioning as a tongue-in-cheek self-parody. Egan nails this ridiculous yet terrifying rat race reality in perfect detail… A Window Opens provides us an emergency exit to situations into which we keep cornering ourselves. It's a powerful reminder we all need — and a great read at that.”
—Bustle.com

“I can't think of a more delicious literary cocktail.”
—The Fug Girls, Conde Nast Traveler

“Egan has an eye for the absurdities of the corporate workplace and an ear for its preposterous jargon: “drilling down,” “onboarding,” “action item,” “noodle that over.” And she’s very funny on the cultural chasm separating Alice, who is in her late 30s, from her savvy younger colleagues in their “statement glasses.” As Alice puts it, “Sometimes I felt like one of the Danish au pairs I made plans with on the front lawn of the school – understanding but not understanding.” These workaday passages are further enhanced by the presence of two delightfully loathsome villains.”
The New York Times Book Review

“Egan offers a gentle but telling look at a time when having it all often means doing too much, and crossing the line between working mother and overworking mother is all too easy. She has given readers a heroine who could be anyone's best friend as well as written a first-rate satire of big retail's attempt to roll books into the pervasive one-stop shopping, one-size-fits-all mentality. Alice's open window will give readers a breath of fresh air.”
—Shelf-Awareness

“A funny debut novel that will have book lovers and working moms nodding in recognition.”
New York Post

A Window Opens is funny and perceptive novel about a woman who makes a big career change and has to manage that — as well as her family. Think Where’s You Go, Bernadette and Bridget Jones’s Diary.”
— Gretchen Rubin, author of The Happiness Project

“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—it’s also an intimate and entertaining yarn that will speak to women from all walks of life.”
—BookPage

“This take on the work-life imbalance from Glamour books editor Egan was released at the very end of August, but it still made eight "Best Summer Reads" lists, not to mention August's Library Reads Top Ten. It's still great reading for fall. "Egan has an eye for the absurdities of the corporate workplace" ( New York Times Book Review)and got starred Kirkus and Booklist reviews.”
Library Journal

“If Elisabeth Egan’s debut novel, A Window Opens, makes you want to run out and kiss your loved ones and your carbon-based books, rest assured that you’re not alone. We’ll explain.”
—Pure Wow Books

“...a charming novel. By the end of it, I so loved Alice, the main character, that I wished she were real and we were pals…It's a joy to experience the year with Alice, to see her come into herself and by the end to wonder what happens next."
Newark Star Ledger

“a clever, engaging debut novel…clear,well-structured prose that makes for effortless reading. Ms. Egan’s description of the corporate culture of Scroll, replete with anacronyms and New Age terminology, is hilarious.”
Miami Today

“Alice’s struggle is an inspiring, painful, funny and familiar account of a contemporary woman trying to maintain a work/family balance.”
Charleston Post & Courier

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Description du livre Simon and Schuster 2015-08-25, 2015. Hardcover. État : New. Hardcover. Publisher overstock, may contain remainder mark on edge. N° de réf. du libraire 9781501105432B

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10.

Egan, Elisabeth
Edité par Simon & Schuster (2015)
ISBN 10 : 1501105434 ISBN 13 : 9781501105432
Neuf(s) Soft cover Quantité : 1
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Description du livre Simon & Schuster, 2015. Soft cover. État : New. No Jacket. This is an advance reading, soft cover, uncorrected proof copy. These editions are issued prior to publication in small numbers and often are marked as first edition. FULL COLOR COVER. N° de réf. du libraire 000549

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