"Beautifully poignant tale of strength and love."
Reviewed by Marie Pyko
Posted October 20, 2005
Contemporary
Joy Candellaro is a dreamer who clips travel advertisements
and plans trips she never takes. She's also a well-loved
school librarian who had a perfect life with her husband,
Thom, and her best friend/sister Stacey. Then she loses
everyone she's cared about when she comes home early from
work to find Thom and Stacey together in her bed. From that
moment on, Joy has been living in limbo, going through the
motions of life. That is, until Stacey appears at her door,
wanting to mend fences and become sisters again. At first,
Joy is hopeful that Stacey and Thom have split up, but
instead, she hands Joy a wedding invitation and shares with
her that she's pregnant. Joy has had enough and with little thought and no planning,
she heads for the airport to get as far away from her life
and the holidays as possible. When she arrives at the
airport, Joy searches the departure board and finds the
ideal destination, Hope. With only the clothes on her back,
Joy departs for Hope, British Columbia, and risks it all. What Joy discovers along the way is both terrifying and
magical. Walking away from a tragedy that few survive, Joy
is transported to a tranquil town where she meets a
beautiful child in need of encouragement and love. Nine-
year-old Bobby O'Shea befriends Joy and invites her to stay
at Comfort Lodge, an inn he and his dad run. Joy finds
peace, comfort and a sense of family for the first time
since her husband and sister's betrayal. Comfort Lodge, Bobby and Daniel O'Shea become Joy's
salvation and help her to become a strong independent woman
once again. Circumstances force Joy back to her home in
Bakersfield and no one believes Joy when she relates her
time in Comfort Lodge. Joy, however, believes that her
destiny lies with Bobby and Daniel, and that if she
believes hard enough, she can once again go back to Comfort
Lodge. Kristin Hannah is a magical and gifted writer who
presents a beautiful tale of strength, love and tragedy
that balances the reality of trauma with the dreamlike
quality of perfection. COMFORT & JOY is a beautiful and
poignant story that's captivating, intriguing and charming,
at the same time.
SUMMARY
Newly divorced, Joy Candellaro is presented with a
serendipitous opportunity to leave her past behind.
Arriving
in the small town of Rain Valley, Joy glimpses the
possibility of a new life in the faces of widower Daniel
O'Shea and his son, Bobby. But dramatic events force Joy to
make a painful choice. In a world of impossible dreams and
unexpected chances, can she summon enough faith to hold on
to her newfound happiness? A modern-day fairy tale, Comfort & Joy tells the
story of a woman caught between two lives, and finding a
joyous resolution one momentous, emotional Christmas Eve.
ExcerptChapter One Christmas parties are the star on the top of my "don't"
list this year. Other things to avoid this season:
Ornaments. Trees. Mistletoe (definitely). Holiday movies
about families. And memories. Memories most of all. Last year, I celebrated Christmas
morning in my own living room, with the two people I loved
most in the world. My husband, Thomas, and my sister,
Stacey. A lot can change in twelve months. Now, I am in my kitchen, carefully packing frosted Santa
cookies into Tupperware containers, layering wax paper
between each row. On a strip of masking tape, I write my
name in bold black letters: Joy Candellaro. When I'm done,
I dress for work in a pair of black jeans and a bright
green sweater set. At the last moment, I add little wreath
earrings. Perhaps if I look festive, people will stop
asking me how I am doing. Balancing the pale pink
containers in my arms, I lock up my house and make my way
to the garage. As I round the hood of the car, I sidle
past the row of file cabinets that line the back wall. My
dreams are in those metal drawers, organized with the kind
of care only a librarian can manage. I have saved every scrap I've ever read about exotic
locales and faraway places. When I read the words and see
the pictures, I dream of having an adventure. Of course, I've been dreaming of that for ten years now,
and since I've been single again for almost three months,
and separated from Thom for eight months before that, it's
safe to say I'm a dreamer not a doer. In fact, I haven't
added to my files or opened one of the cabinets since my
divorce. I ease past them now and get into my sensible maroon
Volvo. Behind me, the garage door opens, and I back down
the driveway. It is still early in the morning on this last Friday
before Christmas. The street lamps are on; light falls
from them in cones of shimmering yellow through the
predawn shadows. As my car rolls to a stop at the bottom
of the driveway, the headlights illuminate my house. It
looks . . . faded in this unnatural light, untended. The
roses I love so much are leggy and bare. The planters are
full of dead geraniums. A memory flashes through me like summer thunder: there and
gone. I come home from work early . . . see my husband's car is
in the driveway. The roses are in full, riotous bloom. I remember thinking I should cut some for an arrangement. In the house, I toss my coat on the maple bench and go
upstairs, calling out his name. I am halfway up the stairs when I recognize the sounds. In my mind and my memories, I kicked the door open. That's
what I told people later. The truth was, I barely had the
strength to push it open. There they are, naked and sweating and rolling, in my bed. Like an idiot, I stand there, staring at them. I thought
he'd feel my presence as keenly as I'd always felt his,
that he'd look up, see me and-oh, I don't know, have a
heart attack or burst into tears and beg for my
forgiveness or beg for forgiveness while having a heart
attack. Then I see her face, and a bad moment rounds the bend into
horrific. It is my sister. Now there's a "For Sale" sign in front of my house. It's
been there for months, but who am I kidding? A wrecked
marriage scares everyone. It's like a rock tossed into a
still blue pond; the ripples go on and on. No one wants to
buy this house of bad luck. I hit the gas too hard and back out into the street,
putting the memories in my rearview mirror. If only they would stay there. Instead, they're like
passengers, crowding in on me, taking up too much air. No one knows what to say to me anymore, and I can hardly
blame them. I don't know what I want to hear, either. In
the school library, where I work, I hear the whispers that
grind to a halt at my entrance and notice how
uncomfortable the ensuing silences can be. I make it easy on my friends-or try to-by pretending that
everything is okay. I've been doing that a lot this year.
Smiling and pretending. What else can I do? People have
grown tired of waiting for me to get over my divorce. I
know I need to glide onto the track of my old life, but I
can't seem to manage it; neither do I have the courage to
form a new one, though, in truth, it's what I want. It's
what I've wanted for a long time. At the corner, I turn left. The streets of Bakersfield are
quiet on this early morning. By the time I reach the high
school, it is just past seven o'clock. I pull into my
parking space, gather my cookies, and go inside. At the main desk, the school secretary, Bertha Collins,
smiles up at me. "Hey, Joy." "Hey, Bertie. I brought some cookies for tonight's faculty
party." Her look turns worried. "Aren't you coming?" "Not this year, Bertie. I don't feel too festive." She eyes me knowingly. As a twice-divorced woman, she
thinks she understands, but she can't, not really. Bertie
has three kids and two parents and four sisters. My own
math doesn't add up that way. "Take care of yourself, Joy.
The first Christmas after a divorce can be . . ." "Yeah. I know." Forcing a smile, I start moving. In the
past year, this technique has worked well for me. Keep
moving. I walk down the hallway, turn left at the empty
cafeteria and head for my space. The library. My assistant, Rayla Goudge, is already at work. She is a
robust, gray-haired woman who dresses like a gypsy and
tries to write all her notes in haiku. Like me, she is a
graduate of U.C. Davis with a teaching certificate. We
have worked side by side for almost five years and both
enjoyed every minute. I know that in May, when she
finishes her master's degree in library science, I will
lose her to another school. It's one more change I try not
to think about. "Morning, Joy," she says, looking up from the pile of
paperwork in front of her. "Hey, Ray. How's Paul's cold?" "Better, thanks." I store my purse behind the counter and begin my day.
First up are the computers. I go from one to the next,
turning them on for the students, then I replace
yesterday's newspapers with todays. For the next six
hours, Rayla and I work side by side-checking the catalog
system, generating overdue notices, processing new books,
and re-shelving. When we're lucky, a student comes in for
help, but in this Internet age, they are more and more
able to do their school research at home. Today, of
course, on this last school day before the winter break,
the library is as quiet as a tomb. That is another thing I try not to think about: the break.
What will I do in the two and one-half weeks I have off? In past years, I have looked forward to this vacation.
It's part of the reason I became a school librarian.
Fifteen years ago, when I was in college, I imagined
traveling to exotic locales in my weeks off. "Joy, are you okay?" I am so lost in memories of Before that it takes me a
second to realize that Rayla is speaking to me. I'm
standing in the middle of the library, holding a worn,
damaged copy of Madame Bovary. The bell rings: The walls seem to vibrate with the sound
of doors opening, kids laughing, feet moving down the
hall. The winter break has begun. "Do you need a ride to the party?" Rayla asks, coming up
to me. "The party?" I say, as if I'm actually thinking about
it. "No, thanks." "You're not coming, are you?" Rayla has always been able to do that: pierce my defenses
with a look. "No." "But . . ." "Not this year, Ray." Rayla sighs. "So, what will you do tonight?" We both know that the first night of our vacation is
special. Last year, on this Friday evening, Stacey and I
met up for dinner and went to the mall, where I agonized
over the perfect gift for Thom. It turned out to be my sister. Those are exactly the kind of memories I try to avoid, but
they're like asbestos: invisible and deadly. You need
special gear to get rid of them. Rayla touches my arm. "Have you put up a tree yet?" I shake my head. "I could help you decorate one." "No, thanks. I need to do it myself." "And will you?" I look down into her kind gray eyes and find it
surprisingly easy to smile. "I will." She loops an arm through mine. Together, we walk through
the quiet library and emerge into the crowded, busy
hallways of the high school. All around us kids are
laughing and talking and high-fiving one another. In the parking lot, Rayla walks me to my car. There, she
stops and looks up at me. "I hate to leave you alone for
the holidays. Maybe Paul and I should cancel our trip to
Minnesota." "Don't you dare. Enjoy your family. I'll be fine." "You and Stacey . . ." "Don't," I say sharply, and then whisper: "Please." "She and Thom will break up, you'll see. She'll come to
her senses." I have lost count of the times Rayla has said this to me,
and of the times I've said it to myself. "Why don't you go to one of those dream places of yours-
like Machu Picchu or London?" "Maybe I will," I say. It's what I always say. We both
know the truth: I'm scared to go alone. Rayla pats my hand and kisses my cheek. "Well. I'll see
you in January, Joy." "Merry Christmas, Rayla." "And to you." I watch her walk to her car and drive away. Finally, I get
into my own front seat and sit there, staring through the
windshield. When I start the engine, the radio comes on.
It's an instrumental rendition of "Upon a Midnight Clear"
that immediately reminds me of better times in previous
years. My mom loved this song. Rayla is right. It's time for me to get started on
Christmas. There's no more putting it off. Smiling and
pretending will not get me through the holidays. It's time
for me to embark on this new single life of mine. The traffic out of the high school is bumper to bumper
with kids yelling out the window to one another, but by
the time I reach Almond Street, the road is empty. On Fifth Street, I turn left and pull into the lot beside
a Chevron station, where Scout Troop #104 has set up their
yearly tree sale. On this late Friday afternoon, I can see
right away that the stock is pretty depleted, and frankly,
there's more brown on these branches than green. In this
part of California, the trees go bad fast and I've waited
too long to get a prime choice. I wander through the fake forest on the corner of Fifth
and Almond, nodding now and then to friends and strangers,
trying to pretend I'm picking out the perfect tree. In
truth, I'm trying not to look at them too closely.
Finally, I can't stand it anymore. I choose the tree to my
left, find a kid to help me, and reach for my wallet. The nice young boy scout who takes my money hands me a
receipt and a Kleenex. I'm crying. Perfect. By the time the tree is strapped onto my car, I'm a basket
case. Sniffling and crying and shaking. I am still in bad shape when I pull up to the ATM machine,
though, thankfully, there are no witnesses to my meltdown.
On a whim, I withdraw two hundred and fifty dollars. If
I'm going to put up this tree, I'll need all new
ornaments. I can hardly use the ones I collected during my
marriage. And I intend to buy myself a killer gift to open
on Christmas morning. The thought of spending money on myself should make me
happy; it's not something we high school librarians do a
lot. At least that's what I tell myself as I turn into my
neighborhood. Madrona Lane is a pretty name for a pretty street in a not-
so-pretty suburb of Bakersfield. I've always appreciated
the irony of living on a street named for a tree that
doesn't grow here; especially in view of the fact that the
developers cut down every green thing that dared to grow
on the block. When my husband and I first saw the house it
was run down and neglected, the only home on the cul-de-
sac with grass that needed cutting and a fence in need of
paint. The realtor had seen all these as possibilities for
a young couple such as us. "The previous owners," she'd
whispered to me as I stepped through a patch of dry-rotted
floor in the bathroom, "went through a terrible divorce. A
real War of the Roses thing." We'd all laughed at that. Of course, it turned out not to
be so funny. I am almost to my house when I see Stacey standing in my
driveway, all by herself. I slam on the brakes. We stare at each other through the windshield. The minute
she sees me, she starts to cry. It is all I can do not to
follow suit. She's come to tell you it's over with Thom. It's the
moment I've been waiting for, but now that it's here, I
don't know what to do. Without forgiveness, there's no
future between Stacey and me, but how can I forgive a
sister who slept with my husband? I ease my foot back onto the accelerator and pull into the
driveway. Then I get out of the car. Stacey stands there, looking at me, clutching her ski coat
around her. Tears glisten on her cheeks. It's the first time we've really looked at each other
since this nightmare began, and instead of anger, I feel
an unexpected longing. I remember a dozen things about
her, about us, just then, like our famous family road trip
through the desert states. Hell in a Volkswagen bus with
my mom singing Helen Reddy songs at the top of her lungs
and smoking Eve cigarettes one after another. I approach her slowly. As always, looking at my younger
sister is like looking in a mirror. Irish twins; that's
what our mom called us. We're less than twelve months
apart in age and have the same curly copper-red hair,
pale, freckled skin, and blue eyes. No wonder Thom fell
for her; she's the younger, smiling version of me.
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