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DANIELLE STEEL“STEEL IS ONE OF THE BEST!”—Los Angeles Times“THE PLOTS OF DANIELLE STEEL'S NOVELS TWIST AND WEAVE AS INCREDIBLE STORIES UNFOLD TO THE DELIGHT OF HER ENORMOUS READING PUBLIC!”—United Press International“Ms. Steel's fans won't be disappointed!”—The New York Times Book Review“Steel writes convincingly about universal human emotions.”—Publishers Weekly“One of the world's most popular authors.”—The Baton Rouge SunA LITERARY GUILD DUAL MAIN SELECTION
A DOUBLEDAY BOOK CLUB MAIN SELECTION“ENTIRELY PLAUSIBLE … VERY MUCH ABOUT 'REAL' PEOPLE … DADDY HAS MORE MALE TEARS THAN YOU FIND IN YOUR AVERAGE NOVEL—BUT THEN, OLIVER'S IS A FOUR-HANDKERCHIEF SITUATION.”—Daily News (New York)“A REFRESHING NEW TANGENT … A WELL-DONE, OFFBEAT STORY.”—Los Angeles Times“A BITTERSWEET STORY … IT'S DIFFICULT TO TURN THE PAGES FAST ENOUGH.”—US magazine“CAPTIVATING … A GREAT STORY, A REAL PAGE-TURNER, FULL OF INSIGHT AND COMPASSION AND CHARACTERS THAT WILL TUG AT YOUR HEART AS THEY STRUGGLE WITH THE CHANGES IN THEIR LIVES. YOU'LL WANT TO CHEER THEM ON AS THEY LEARN TO COPE… STEEL IS AT THE TOP OF HER BEST-SELLING FORM.”—Houston Chronicle“MAY EVEN BE THE BEST OF THE TWO DOZEN NOVELS STEEL HAS MINED IN 17 YEARS.”—Fort Worth Morning Star-Telegram“THERE AREN'T ANY SLOW MOMENTS, AND THE THREE GENERATIONS GIVE THE AUTHOR A LARGE CANVAS ON WHICH TO SKETCH IN DE TAILS OF SINGLE PARENTHOOD, ROMANCE, AND MODERN SEX IN AN EVER-CHANGING WORLD.”—Richmond Times-Dispatch“FAST-PACED PLOTTING.”—The Plain Dealer (Cleveland)“ONE COUNTS ON DANIELLE STEEL FOR A STORY THAT ENTERTAINS AND INFORMS … IT WOULD BE HARD TO FIND A BETTER BIT OF POPULAR FICTION FOR READING ON A COLD NIGHT.”—The Chattanooga Times“A PAGE-TURNER … [WE] GROW TO CARE ABOUT HER CHARACTERS … FRESH, NEW … HER MOST INTERESTING AND UNIQUE NOVEL IN MANY YEARS.”—Rave Reviews“STEEL CONTINUES TO DO WHAT SHE DOES VERY, VERY WELL.”—Kirkus Reviews
Books by Danielle Steel
DATING GAME JEWELS ANSWERED PRAYERS NO GREATER LOVE SUNSET IN ST. TROPEZ HEARTBEAT THE COTTAGE MESSAGE FROM NAM THE KISS DADDY LEAP OF FAITH STAR LONE EAGLE ZOYA JOURNEY KALEIDOSCOPE THE HOUSE ON HOPE STREET FINE THINGS THE WEDDING WANDERLUST IRRESISTIBLE FORCES SECRETS GRANNY DAN FAMILY ALBUM BITTERSWEET FULL CIRCLE MIRROR IMAGE CHANGES HIS BRIGHT LIGHT! THURSTON HOUSE THE STORY OF NICK TRAINA CROSSINGS THE KLONE AND I ONCE IN A LIFETIME THE LONG ROAD HOME A PERFECT STRANGER THE GHOST REMEMBRANCE SPECIAL DELIVERY PALOMINO THE RANCH LOVE: POEMS SILENT HONOR THE RING MALICE LOVING FIVE DAYS IN PARIS TO LOVE AGAIN LIGHTNING SUMMER'S END WINGS SEASON OF PASSION THE GIFT THE PROMISE ACCIDENT NOW AND FOREVER VANISHED PASSION'S PROMISE MIXED BLESSINGS GOING HOME
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He talked about things like living in the country, having Irish setters, wanting four kids, and a wife who didn't work, and she made fun of him for it. But he just grinned that incredible boyish grin that made her heart pound even then … even when she pretended to herself that what she really wanted was a man with hair longer than her own … an artist … a sculptor … a writer … someone “creative.” Oliver was creative, and he was smart. He had graduated magna from Harvard, and the trends of the sixties had never touched him. When she marched, he fished her out of jail, when she argued with him, even calling him names, he explained quietly and rationally what he believed in. And he was so damn decent, so good-hearted, he was her best friend, even when he made her angry. They would meet in the Village sometimes, or uptown for coffee, or drinks, or lunch, and he would tell her what he was doing and ask her about the latest piece she was writing. He knew she was good, too, but he didn't see why she couldn't be “creative” and married.
“… Marriage is for women who are looking for someone to support them. I want to take care of myself, Oliver Watson.” And she was capable of it, or she had been then, after a fashion. She had worked as a part-time gallery sitter in SoHo, and a free-lance writer. And she'd made money at it. Sometimes. But now, sometimes, she wondered if she would still be able to take care of herself, to support herself, to fill out her own tax forms, and make sure her health insurance hadn't lapsed. In the eighteen years they'd been married, she'd become so dependent on him. He took care of all the little problems in her life, and most of the big ones. It was like living in a hermetically sealed world, with Ollie always there to protect her.
She counted on him for everything, and more often than not, it scared her. What if something happened to him? Could she manage? Would she be able to keep the house, to support herself, or the kids? She tried to talk to him about it sometimes, and he only laughed, and told her she'd never have to worry. He hadn't made a fortune, but he had done well and he was responsible. He had lots of life insurance. Madison Avenue had been good to him, and at forty-four, he was the number three man at Hinkley, Burrows, and Dawson, one of the biggest ad agencies in the country. He had brought in their four biggest accounts himself and he was valuable to the firm, and respected among his peers. He had been one of the youngest vice-presidents in the business, and she was proud of him. But it still scared her. What was she doing out here, in pretty little Purchase, watching the snow fall, and waiting for the kids to come home, while she pretended to write a story … a story that would never be written, that would never end, that would never go anywhere, just like the others she had tried to write in the last two years. She had decided to go back to writing on the eve of her thirty-ninth birthday. It had been an important decision for her. Thirty-nine had actually been worse than turning forty. By forty, she was resigned to “impending doom,” as she woefully called it. Oliver took her to Europe alone for a month for her fortieth birthday. The kids were away at camp, two of them anyway, and her mother-in-law had kept Sam. He had only been seven then, and it was the first time she'd left him. It had been like opening the gates to heaven when she got to Paris … no car pools … no children … no pets … no PTA … no benefit dinners to run for the school or the local hospitals … no one … nothing … except the two of them, and four unforgettable weeks in Europe. Paris … Rome … driving through Tuscany, a brief stop on the Italian Riviera, and then a few days on a boat he rented, drifting between Cannes and St. Tropez … driving up to Eze and Saint-Paul-de-Vence, and dinner at the Colombe d'Or, and then a few final whirlwind days in London. She had scribbled constantly during the trip, and filled seven notebooks. But when she got home … nothing. None of it wanted to be woven into stories, or tales, or articles, or even poems. She just sat there, staring at her notebooks, and a blank page in her typewriter that she never seemed to fill. And she was still doing it a year and a half later. At forty-one, she felt as though her entire life were behind her. And Oliver always laughed at her when she said it.
“Christ, Sarrie … you haven't changed a bit since I met you.” And he meant it. It was almost true. But not quite. She, and those who wanted to be critical, could tell the difference. The shining dark red hair that used to hang down her back in sheets of coppery brilliance had faded to a reddish brown now. She wore it to her shoulders and there were more than a few threads of silver, which bothered the children more than they did Sarah. The bright blue eyes were the same, they were a dark, vibrant blue, and the creamy skin was still fine and for the most part unlined, but there were tiny traces of time here and there, but Oliver only said that they gave her face more expression. She was a pretty woman, and she had been a pretty girl, long and lean, with a good figure and graceful hands, and a sense of humor that danced in her eyes. It was that that he had loved about her from the first. Her laughter and her fire, and her courage, and her rabid determination to stick by what she believed in. There were those who thought her difficult when she was young, but not Ollie. Never Ollie. He liked the way she thought, and the things she said, and the way she said them. They had a relationship built on mutual respect and caring, and they had a very good time in bed. They always had, and they still did. Sometimes he even thought that after twenty years it was better. And it was, in some ways. They knew each other perfectly, like satin-smooth wood that had been touched and caressed and traveled a thousand times by loving hands and the tenderness of true belonging.
It had taken him exactly two years to convince her to marry him after her SoHo days, and at twenty-three she had become Mrs. Oliver Watson. Balking all the way, and in typical fashion, she had refused to have a traditional wedding. They had been married in the garden of his parents' Pound Ridge home, and her parents and her younger sister had come from Chicago. Sarah had worn a bright red dress and a big picture hat, and she looked more like a young girl in a painting than a bride, but they had both been happy. They had gone to Bermuda for their honeymoon, and the weather had been lousy, but they never noticed. They laughed and played, and stayed in bed until the late afternoon, emerging only for an early foray in the staid dining room of the hotel, and then they would hurry back to their room again, giggling and laughing, like two children.
It was three weeks after that that Sarah was less amused. They were living in a small apartment on Second Avenue, in a building filled with stewardesses and young executives, and “singles” who seemed to turn the entire building into a constant party.