Rise and Shine: A Novel

Rise and Shine: A Novel

2.9 58
by Anna Quindlen

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From Anna Quindlen, acclaimed author of Blessings, Black and Blue, and One True Thing, a superb novel about two sisters, the true meaning of success, and the qualities in life that matter most.It’s an otherwise ordinary Monday when Meghan Fitzmaurice’s perfect life hits a wall. A household name as the host of Rise and Shine, the

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From Anna Quindlen, acclaimed author of Blessings, Black and Blue, and One True Thing, a superb novel about two sisters, the true meaning of success, and the qualities in life that matter most.It’s an otherwise ordinary Monday when Meghan Fitzmaurice’s perfect life hits a wall. A household name as the host of Rise and Shine, 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. In 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.

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Editorial Reviews

Two little words; that's all that's necessary to plunge Meghan Fitzmaurice into a major career disaster and life crisis. A pair of verboten words spoken impulsively into an open mike not only costs the morning-talk show star her job; it destabilizes her relationships and her sense of self-esteem. The effects of this personal earthquake extend even to Meghan's sister Bridget, a Bronx social worker who has always existed in the afterglow of Big Sis's glory. Anna Quindlen's deceptively simple fiction draws us into a family drama that we can all recognize all too well. Artful, subtle, and arresting.

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From 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.

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.

"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.

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.

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.

I do like it here. It is the center of the universe.

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!"

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.

"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.

"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-"

"How is it possible that you can make bringing someone flowers sound like the Stations of the Cross?"

"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."

"I thought you loved them. You always have one on that chest under the windows."

"What can I tell you? I'm a slave to fashion."

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.

"The one with that great haircut?"

"I don't understand why everyone says that. That haircut is not that great."

"Okay, fine. What's the point?"

"Someone told me that she doesn't eat anything except apples and Triscuits."

"That can't be true."

"Probably not, but you never know."

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.

"I want to go back to the dinner gift issue," I said. "How much does an orchid plant cost?"

"A hundred and fifty dollars. You have to send the ones with two stems."

"Jesus Christ. That's a lot of money for a stranger who invites you to dinner."

"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."

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.

"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."

"Of course," he replied.

"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.

"Oh, get over yourself," I said.

"I am so over myself."

"As if."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"Where's Evan?" I mumbled with my mouth full.

"Evan? Evan who? Oh, you mean my husband? That is his name, isn't it? Evan."

"I'm sorry I asked," I said.

"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?"

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.

"In the square cabinet over the wine fridge," I said.

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.

"Why do you need Tupperware?" I asked.

"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."

"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?"

My sister gave me a long level look, her lip slightly raised on one side. "Maybe you're preaching to the converted here?"

"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."

From the Hardcover edition.

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Rise and Shine 3 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 58 reviews.
elagain More than 1 year ago
bad. disappointing. what a let down. vain, vacuous characters. I really like this writer, but hate this book.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I loved Anna Quindlen's columns and thought this looked interesting, but it was almost unreadable. It was boring and rambling. I stopped reading and just skimmed to the end. I should have read the reviews before I bought the book.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This is not at all as good as her other books...this is just self indulgent fluff at best...don't bother..she must have been trying to meet a deadline...
Guest More than 1 year ago
I love Anna Quindlen's columns. I did not love this book. Maybe she would be surprised to discover that many of us in the 'suburbs', i.e., what New Yorkers consider anything but their city, are pretty sophisticated and experience many of the things she seems to think apply only to New Yorkers. I don't want to give away any of the plot - although please save you money on this book - but I could see the 'crisis' coming a mile away as well as what happens to Bridgett. I got sick after a while reading the name Meghan, Meghan, Meghan and found her sister Bridgett a bore. I did not enjoy 'Black and Blue' nor 'Blessings' and I guess I will stick to just reading Quindlen's columns. Trite plot, trite characters.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I have read quite a few books by this author, but never could get into this book. I found it BORING!
ShyCopernicus More than 1 year ago

I bought this as a bargain book based on the description on the book jacket. Sounded like an entertaining book, but it turns out -- not so much. I got very irritated at the characters: their lives seemed just a little too, too lucky: lucky to have rich friends with an all but private island where you can lick your wounds; lucky to have a rich and famous sister to invite you to all these great parties; lucky to have a wonderful, caring, fortuitously-connected man in one's life; lucky to have such a wonderful son/cool nephew/caring aunt/caring mother; blah-blah-blech. You get the picture -- everything works out just a little too well for pretty much everyone. The author makes even the very grim life of the projects seem not quite so bad.

Yeah, yeah, I know that there's that one sorrowful, tragic event at the center of the novel, but it involves a character who's just too good to be true. You just know that he will rise above the tragedy to be an even better human being (if that's possible for someone who isn't a product of immaculate conception). In presenting how this tragedy plays out, Quindlen misses the opportunity to contrast the world of very rich and fabulous Manhattanites with that of the great unwashed (to give her her due, she does remember to do this in other places, just not here).

Very disappointing book. Perfect Lifetime movie.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I paid 35 cents for this book on a bargain table at a used book store. It was too much money for the book. So much beating up of the middle class with no accountability for the lower class actions. Blah Blah Blah
Guest More than 1 year ago
Having discovered Anna Quindlen's novels this past year, I have devoured all of her works and enjoyed each of them greatly. Rise and Shine seemed to give great insight on a variety of characters and lifestyles, juxtaposing the rich with the poor, and proving that money does not equal happiness. Her dynamic characters are an excellent presentation of how circumstances can alter ones perception of life. Quindlen's writing is captivating, descriptive--characters are truly brought to life and one can relate to their problems and thoughts. Not many writers tackle the challenge of exposing the diversity of NYC--Quindlen masters the ability to show how the lifestyles of Manhattan and the Bronx diverge, but are also alike in many ways. Not only a leisurely read, Rise and Shine can actually inspire reanalysis of motivations and goals.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This was difficult to get into and although I stuck with it it was trite and actually silly...quite a few times. I wish I had not bothered to finish it. Read the author's earlier books...
Guest More than 1 year ago
This was my first AQ book and I have to say I won't be reading anymore. The story never pulled me in but I kept reading hoping it would get better. It never did. I was very disappointed.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I read Quindlen's book twice to review for my book club. It was one of the worst books that I have ever read. But for Quindlen's established reputation, the book would not have been published. The inconsistencies in the story line are too numerous to mention. Very bad editing job.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Bought the book as soon as it was released without hesitation. Read other books by this author and enjoyed them. This was the worst I have read by this author and probably will be the last. Couldn't even finish the last 50 pages. I wasn't at all connected to the characters.
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