The author of several blockbuster novels, Emily Giffin's Where We Belong delivers an unforgettable story of two women, the families that make them who they are, and the longing, loyalty and love that binds them together
Marian Caldwell is a thirty-six year old television producer, living her dream in New York City. With a fulfilling career and satisfying relationship, she has convinced everyone, including herself, that her life is just as she wants it to be. But one night, Marian answers a knock on the door . . . only to find Kirby Rose, an eighteen-year-old girl with a key to a past that Marian thought she had sealed off forever. From the moment Kirby appears on her doorstep, Marian's perfectly constructed worldand her very identitywill be shaken to its core, resurrecting ghosts and memories of a passionate young love affair that threaten everything that has come to define her.
For the precocious and determined Kirby, the encounter will spur a process of discovery that ushers her across the threshold of adulthood, forcing her to re-evaluate her family and future in a wise and bittersweet light. As the two women embark on a journey to find the one thing missing in their lives, each will come to recognize that where we belong is often where we least expect to find ourselvesa place that we may have willed ourselves to forget, but that the heart remembers forever.
|Publisher:||St. Martin's Press|
|Edition description:||Reprint Large Print|
|Product dimensions:||4.10(w) x 6.60(h) x 1.10(d)|
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Where We Belong
By Emily Giffin
St. Martin's PressCopyright © 2012 Emily Giffin
All right reserved.
I know what they say about secrets. I’ve heard it all. That they can haunt and govern you. That they can poison relationships and divide families. That in the end, only the truth will set you free. Maybe that’s the case for some people and some secrets. But I truly believed I was the exception to such portents, and never once breathed the smallest mention of my nearly two- decade- long secret to anyone. Not to my closest friends in my most intoxicated moments or to my boyfriend, Peter, in our most intimate ones. My father knew nothing of it— and I didn’t even discuss it with my mother, the only person who was there when it all happened, almost as if we took an unspoken vow of silence, willing ourselves to let go, move on. I never forgot, not for a single day, yet I was also convinced that sometimes, the past really was the past.
I should have known better. I should have taken those words to heart— the ones that started it all on that sweltering night so long ago: You can run but you can’t hide.
But those words, that night, my secret, are the farthest things from my mind as Peter and I stroll down Bleecker Street following a lingering dinner at Lupa, one of our favorite restaurants in the city. After several stops and starts, winter finally seems over for good, and the balmy spring night is made warmer by the bottle of Barolo Peter ordered. It’s one of the many things I admire about him— his fine taste coupled with his firm belief that life is too short for unexceptional wine. Unexceptional anything really. He is too kind and hardworking to be considered a snob, shunning his lazy trust fund acquaintances who accomplished “nothing on their own,” but he’s certainly an elitist, having always traveled in prep school, power circles. I’m not uncomfortable in that world— but have always existed on the fringe of it before Peter brought me into his vortex of jet shares, yachts, and vacation homes in Nantucket and St. Bart’s.
“Ah! Finally. No slush on the sidewalks,” I say, happy to be wearing heels and a light cardigan after months of unseemly rubber boots and puffy winter coats.
“I know . . . Quel soulagement,” Peter murmurs, draping his arm around me. He is possibly the only guy I know who can get away with musing in French without sounding insufferably pretentious, perhaps because he spent much of his childhood in Paris, the son of a French runway model and an American diplomat. Even after he moved to the States when he was twelve, he was only allowed to speak French at home, his accent as flawless as his manners.
I smile and bury my cheek against his broad shoulder as he plants a kiss on the top of my head and says, “Where to now, Champ?”
He coined the nickname after I beat him in a contentious game of Scrabble on our third date, then doubled down and did it again, gloating all the while. I laughed and made the fatal mistake of telling him “Champ” was the ironic name of my childhood dog, a blind chocolate Lab with a bad limp, thus sealing the term of endearment. “Marian” was quickly relegated to mixed company, throes of passion, and our rare arguments.
“Dessert?” I suggest, as we turn the corner. We contemplate Magnolia’s cupcakes or Rocco’s cannolis, but decide we are too full for either, and instead walk in comfortable silence, wandering by cafés and bars and throngs of contented Villagers. Then, moved by the wine and the weather and a whiff of his spicy cologne, I find myself blurting out, “How about marriage?”
At thirty- six and after nearly two years of dating, I’ve had the question on my mind, the subject of speculation among my friends. But this night marks the first time I’ve broached the topic with him directly, and I instantly regret my lapse of discipline and race myself for an unsatisfying response. Sure enough, the mood of the night instantly shifts, and I feel his arm tense around me. I tell myself it isn’t necessarily a bad sign; it could just be poor timing. It even occurs to me that he could already have the ring— and that his reaction has more to do with my stealing his thunder.
“Oh, forget it,” I say with a high- pitched, forced laugh, which only makes things more awkward. It’s like trying to retract an “I love you” or undo a one- night stand. Impossible.
“Champ,” he says, then pauses for a few beats. “We’re so good together.”
The sentiment is sweet, even promising, but it’s not even close to being an answer— and I can’t resist telling him as much. “Sooo that means . . . what, exactly? Status quo forever? Let’s hit City Hall to night? Something in between?” My tone is playful, and Peter seizes the opportunity to make light of things.
“Maybe we should get those cupcakes after all,” he says.
I don’t smile, the vision of an emerald- cut diamond tucked into one of his Italian loafers beginning to fade.
“Kidding,” he says, pulling me tighter against him. “Repeat the question?”
“Marriage. Us. What do you think?” I say. “Does it ever even . . . cross your mind?”
“Yes. Of course it does . . .”
I feel a “but” coming like you can feel rain on your face after a deafening clap of thunder. Sure enough, he finishes, “But my divorce was just finalized.” Another noncommittal nonanswer.
“Right,” I say, feeling defeated as he glances into a darkened storefront, seemingly enthralled by a display of letterpress stationery and Mont Blanc pens. I make a mental note to buy him one, having nearly exhausted gifts in the “what to buy someone who has everything” category, especially someone as meticulous as Peter. Cuff links, electronic gadgets, weekend stays at rustic New En gland B and Bs. Even a custom LEGO statue of a moose, the unofficial mascot of his beloved Dartmouth.
“But your marriage has been over for a long time. You haven’t lived with Robin in over four years,” I say.
It is a point I make often, but never in this context, rather when we are out with other couples, on the off chance that someone sees me as the culprit— the mistress who swooped in and stole someone else’s husband. Unlike some of my friends who seem to specialize in married men, I have never entertained so much as a wink or a drink from a man with a ring on his left hand, just as I, in the dating years before Peter, had zero tolerance for shadiness, game playing, commitment phobias, or any other symptom of the Peter Pan syndrome, a seeming epidemic, at least in Manhattan. In part, it was about principle and self- respect. But it was also a matter of pragmatism, of thirty- something life engineering. I knew exactly what I wanted—who I wanted— and believed I could get there through sheer effort and determination just as I had doggedly pursued my entire career in television.
That road hadn’t been easy, either. Right after I graduated from film school at NYU, I moved to L.A. and worked as a lowly production assistant on a short- lived Nickelodeon teen sitcom. After eighteen months of trying to get lunch orders straight in my head and not writing a single word for the show, I got a job as a staff writer on a medical drama series. It was a great gig, as I learned a lot, made amazing contacts, and worked my way up to story editor, but I had no life, and didn’t really care for the show. So at some point, I took a gamble, left the safety of a hit show, and moved back to New York into a cozy garden apartment in Prospect Park. To pay the bills, I did freelance projects and wrote specs for existing shows. My favorite spot to write became a little family- owned bar named Aggie’s where there was constant drama between the four brothers, much of it inspired by the women they married and their Irish- immigrant mother, and I found myself ditching my other projects and sketching out their backstories. And suddenly South Second Street was born (I moved the bar from modern- day Brooklyn to Philly in the seventies). It wasn’t high concept like everything in television seemed to be becoming, but I was old-school, and believed I could create a compelling world with my writing and characters— rather than gimmicks. My agent believed in me, too, and after getting me in to pitch my pi lot to all the major networks, a bidding war ensued. I took the deal with a little less money (but still enough for me to move to Manhattan) and more creative license. And voilà. My dream had come true. I was finally an executive producer. A showrunner.
Then, one intense year later, I met Peter. I knew his name long before I actually met him from the industry and snippets in Variety: Peter Standish, the esteemed television executive poached from another network, the would-be savior to turn around our overall struggling ratings and revamp our identity. As the new CEO, he was technically my boss, another one of my rules for whom not to date. However, the morning I ran into him at the Starbucks in our building lobby, I granted myself an exception, rationalizing that I wasn’t one of his direct reports— the director of programming buffered us in the chain of command. Besides, I already had a name— my series was considered a modest hit, a tough feat for a mid- season show, so nobody could accuse me of using him to get ahead or jump-start a stalling career.
Of course at that point, as I stood behind him in line, eavesdropping as he ordered a “double tall cappuccino extra dry,” the matter was completely theoretical. He wasn’t wearing a ring— I noticed instantly— but he gave off an unavailable vibe as I tapped him on the shoulder, introduced myself, and issued a brisk, professional welcome. I knew how old he was by the press release still sitting in my inbox—forty- seven—but with a full head of dark hair, he looked younger than I expected. He was also taller and broader than I thought he’d be, everything on a larger scale, including his hand around his cup of extra dry cappuccino.
“It’s nice to meet you, Marian,” he said with a charming but still sincere tilt of his head, pausing as I ordered my own tall latte, even lingering as the barista made my drink, telling me I was doing a hell of a job on my show. “It’s got a nice little following, doesn’t it?”
I nodded modestly, trying not to focus on the elegant cut of his suit and the cleft in his clean- shaven, square jaw. “Yes. We’ve been lucky so far. But we can do more to expand our audience . . . Have you ever watched it?”
It was bold to put your boss’s boss on the spot, and I knew the answer in his hesitation, saw that he was debating whether to admit he’d never actually seen my show.
He sheepishly told the truth, then added, “But I will tonight. And that’s a promise.” I sensed in that moment that he really was a man of his word— a reputation he had earned in a business full of lecherous, egomaniacal slicksters.
“Well, at least you know it’s on Thursday nights,” I say, feeling a wave of attraction and suddenly sensing that it wasn’t completely one- sided. It had been a long time since I had felt anything close to chemistry with someone— at least not someone so eligible on paper.
The next morning, to my delight, we both showed up at Starbucks at 7:50 A.M., once again, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he had done it on purpose, as I had.
“So, what did you think?” I asked with a hint of coyness— which wasn’t my usual style, especially at work. “Did you watch?”
“I loved it,” he announced, ordering his same drink but this time opting for whipped cream, proving he could be spontaneous. I felt myself beaming as I thanked him.
“Tight writing. And great acting. That Angela Rivers sure is a pistol, isn’t she?” he asked, referring to our up- and- coming, quirky, redhead lead who often drew comparisons to Lucille Ball. During casting, I had gone out on a limb and chosen her over a more established star, one of the best decisions I had ever made as a producer.
“Yes,” I said. “I can see an Emmy in her future.”
He nodded, duly noting. “Oh, and by the way,” he said, an endearing smile behind his eyes. “I not only watched the show, but I went back and watched the pilot online. And the rest of the first season. So I have you to thank for less than four hours of sleep last night.”
I laughed. “Afternoon espresso,” I said as we strolled to the elevator bank. “Works like a charm.”
He winked and said, “Sounds good. Around four-thirty?”
My heart pounded as I nodded, counting down the minutes to four- thirty that day, and for several weeks after that. It became our ritual, although for appearances, we always pretended that it was a coincidence.
Then one day, after I mentioned my love of hats, a package from Barneys appeared by messenger. Inside was a jaunty, black grosgrain beret with a card that read: To Marian, the only girl I know who could pull this one off.
I promptly called his direct dial from the network directory, delighted when he answered his own phone.
“Thank you,” I said.
“You’re welcome,” he said— with what I could tell was a smile.
“I love it,” I said, beaming back at him.
“How about the card? Was ‘girl’ okay? I debated ‘girl’ versus ‘woman.’” His second- guessing confirmed that he cared— and that he could be vulnerable. I felt myself falling for him a little more.
“I like ‘girl’ from you,” I said. “And I love the beret. Just glad that it wasn’t raspberry.”
“Or from a secondhand store,” he deadpanned. “Although I would love to see you in it. And if it was warm . . .”
I laughed, feeling flushed, a churning in my stomach, wondering when— not if— he was going to ask me out on an official date.
Three days later, we flew to Los Angeles for the Emmys on the network jet. Although my show hadn’t been nominated, we were getting a lot of great buzz and I had never felt better about my career. Meanwhile, Peter and I were getting some buzz of our own, a few rumors circulating, clearly due to our coffee break repartee. But we played it cool on the red carpet, and even more so at the after- parties, until neither of us could take it another second, and he sent me a text I still have saved on my iPhone: That dress is stunning.
I smiled, grateful that I had not only overspent on an Alberta Ferretti gown but had opted for emerald green instead of my usual black. Feeling myself blush, I turned to look in his direction as another text came in: Although it would look better on the floor.
I laughed and shook my head as he sent a final text: I promise I won’t try to find out if you meet me in twenty minutes. Room 732.
Less than ten minutes later we were in his room, finally alone, grinning at each other. I was sure that he’d kiss me immediately, but he showed a restraint that I found irresistible, increasingly more so with every glass of champagne we poured from the minibar. We grew tipsier by the hour as we talked about everything— the state of television, our network, my show, gossip about actors, and even more drama among the executives. He told me about his thirteen- year- old son Aidan and his ongoing divorce proceedings. Despite the fact that he jokingly referred to his ex as “the plaintiff,” he didn’t make her out to be the villain, which I found to be a refreshing change from the few other divorcés I had dated. We talked about places we had traveled, our favorite hotels and cities, and where we hoped to someday go, both literally and in our careers. We were different in some ways— I preferred the Caribbean or traditional urban trips to places like Rome and London, while he also loved exotic adventure, once pedaling through the Golden Triangle in Thailand, another time trekking up the Pacaya volcano in Guatemala. He had also taken more risks in business, which of course had paid off, while I generally avoided conflict and preferred to stick with something if it was working, even a little. Yet at the core, we had a common sensibility— a belief in striving for excellence and never settling, a love of New York and all that came with it, a sense of conservatism with a core philosophy that we should all live and let live, what ever our political or religious beliefs. He was handsome, confident, intelligent, and thoughtful— the closest I’d ever come to perfection. And I had the distinct feeling he might just like me too.
Then, as the California sky showed its first streaks of muted pink, he reached over and took my hand, pulled me onto his lap and kissed me in a way I hadn’t been kissed for years. We said good night a few minutes later, then laughed, and said good morning.
Within a few weeks, we were an established couple, even having the conversation about no longer wanting to see others. One evening, we were photographed dining together, our picture appearing in a blurb on Page Six with the caption: “Powerful Love Connection: TV Exec Peter Standish with Producer Marian Caldwell.” As the calls rolled in from friends and acquaintances who had seen the press,
I pretended to be some combination of annoyed and amused, but I secretly loved it, saving the clipping for our future children. Things would have seemed too good to be true, if I hadn’t always believed I could— and would— find someone like him.
Maybe they were too good to be true, I think now, squinting up at him as we turn the corner, hand in hand. Maybe we had stalled. Maybe this was as good as it was ever going to get. Maybe I was one of those girls, after all. Girls who wait or settle—or do some combination of both. Disappointment and muted anger well inside me. Anger at him, but more anger at myself for not facing the fact that when a person avoids a topic, it’s generally for a reason.
“I think I’m going home,” I say after a long stretch of silence, hoping that my statement doesn’t come across as self- pitying or manipulative, the two cards that never work in relationships— especially with someone like Peter.
“C’mon. Really?” Peter asks, a trace of surrender in his voice where I’d hoped to hear urgency. He was always so controlled, so measured, and although I usually loved the quality, it irritated me now. He abruptly stops, turns, and gazes down at me, taking both of my hands in his.
“Yeah. I’m really tired,” I lie, pulling my hands free.
“Marian. Don’t do this,” he meagerly protests.
“I’m not doing anything, Peter,” I say. “I was just trying to have a conversation with you . . .”
“Fine,” he says, exhaling, all but rolling his eyes. “Let’s have a conversation.”
I swallow my dwindling pride and, feeling very small, say, “Okay. Well . . . can you see yourself getting married again? Or having another child?”
He sighs, starts to speak, stops, and tries again. “Nothing is missing in my life if that’s what you’re asking. I have Aidan. I have you. I have my work. Life is good. Really good. But I do love you, Marian. I adore you. You know that.”
I wait for more, thinking how easy it would be for him to appease me with a nonspecific promise: I don’t know what I see exactly, but I see you in my life. Or: I want to make you happy. Or even: I wouldn’t rule anything out. Something. Anything.
Instead, he gives me a helpless look as two cabs materialize, one after the other, a coincidence to which I ascribe all sorts of meaning. I flag the first and force a tight- lipped smile. “Let’s just talk tomorrow. Okay?” I say, trying to salvage what’s left of my image as a strong, independent woman and wondering if it’s only an image.
He nods as I accept a staccato kiss on the cheek. Then I slide in the cab and close my door, careful not to slam it, yet equally careful not to make eye contact with him as we pull away from the curb, headed toward my apartment on the Upper East Side.
Thirty minutes later, I’m changed into my oldest, coziest pair of flannel pajamas, feeling completely sorry for myself, when my apartment intercom buzzes once.
My heart leaps with shameful, giddy relief as I nearly run to my foyer. I take a deep breath and buzz him up, staring at the door like my namesake Champ waiting for the mailman. I imagine that Peter and I will make up, make love, maybe even make plans. I don’t need a ring or a promise of a baby, I will say, as long as I know that he feels the way I do. That he sees us sharing a life together. That he can’t imagine us apart. I tell myself it isn’t settling— it’s the opposite— it’s what you do for love.
But a few seconds later, I round the corner to find not Peter at my door, but a young girl with angular features, a narrow face, and small, pointed chin. She is slight, pale, and almost pretty— at least I think she will be in a few years. She is dressed like a typical teenager down to her oversized backpack and peace sign necklace, but has a composed air, something telling me that she is not a follower.
“Hello,” I say, wondering if she is lost or has the wrong apartment or is peddling something. “Can I help you?”
She clears her throat, shifts her weight from left to right, and asks in a small, raspy voice, “Are you Marian Caldwell?”
“Yes,” I say, waiting.
She nervously tucks her long, dirty- blond hair behind her ears, which are a little on the big side or at least at an unfortunate angle to her head, a trait I understand too well, then glances down at her scuffed black boots. When her eyes meet mine again, I notice their distinctive color—bluish- gray and banded by black— and in that instant, I know exactly who she is and why she has come here.
“Are you . . . ?” I try to finish my sentence, but can’t inhale or exhale, let alone speak.
Her chin trembles as she nods the smallest of nods. “My name is Kirby Rose,” she says, wiping her palms on her jeans, threadbare at the left knee. “And . . .”
I stand frozen, anticipating the words I have imagined and feared, dreaded and dreamt about, for the last eighteen years. Then, just as I think my racing heart will explode, I finally hear her say them: “I think you’re my mother.”
Excerpted from Where We Belong by Emily Giffin Copyright © 2012 by Emily Giffin. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
A Special Note from Emily
After I finish writing a book, there is always a lag time of several months before it hits the shelves. In the past, I've been content to focus on the editing and marketing process, but this time, I am incredibly impatient for July 31st, the publication date for Where We Belong, to arrive. I simply can't wait to share Marian and Kirby and Conrad with all of youand am dying to know what you think of their stories.
Where We Belong is written from the viewpoint of two womenthirty-six-year old Marian and eighteen-year-old Kirby. It a special book to me because it's the first time (since writing my unpublished YA novel) that I've written from the viewpoint of a teenager, and I simply adore Kirby. In fact, she is quite possibly my favorite character in any of my novels to date. Although I find Marian deeply sympathetic, in some ways she was a more complicated character to grasp, perhaps due to the secret she has kept for half of her life. Secrets have always fascinated me, and I loved exploring the questions surrounding them in Where We Belong: Why do people keep secrets, and what is their effect, both on those who cling to them and those who are kept in the dark? Are secrets and lies one and the same? Is there ever a circumstance when it's better to let the past remain undisturbed? Where We Belong also explores the issues of family, friendship, identity, and our sense of belonging. Are we more a product of our genes or the people who love us? Or is it our own choices that really define us in the end?
Unfortunately, I'll have to wait four more months before we can talk about these things togetherhopefully face to face on my summer tour! Until then, I want to thank you for reading my books and for your amazing support during the last eight years of my publishing journey. I feel so lucky to have readers like you.
With warmest wishes,
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
Like any of Emily Giffin's books she makes her readers fall in love with the characters. Written in both Marian and Kirby's point of views, it gave us a better view of each character and their reaction to discovering each other and the secrets behind Kirby's adoption. I just fell in love with the entire book. I have read all of Emily's books and this one does not disappoint because it was addicting and full of emotions and love between all the characters. I read this book in one day!! Its one book that you will not be able to put down! The plot was great!! I loved the point of views from both Marian and Kirby because as a reader we see the past, future and what they are both up to after the adoption. Each of the characters were amazing to read about because many people can connect with Emily's writing. I even loved how she showed how Marian and Conrad met on that fateful night as well as falling in love during that great summer as well as discovering the truth of family, as well as finding pieces of yourself showing up on your doorstep. As the story went on the development of each character evolved as they got to know each other better. I really liked Conrad because he was one of those bad boys who is Marian's real true love and despite what was happening Marian did make a choice with her situation (not telling) and then meeting him in the book once Kirby sees him is the most rewarding to read about. Kirby is a character many can relate too because as young adults we go through the stages. Her own story is remarkable and her meeting Marian really changes her life because compared to her life at her "family" she never felt that she belonged and related to, but she is a smart, talented girl who would later discover who she is and where she belongs. Marian life has changed ever since meeting her daughter who she gave up for adoption and when these two women meet each other they develop a relationship and this is a different type of view compared to Emily Giffin past writing which makes this book shine! Where We Belong is one of the best books yet!! I am a big fan of Emily Giffin, because her writing is one of the best out there for those who love romance/contemporary in fiction. I could re-read this book over and over again because its soo memorable to go back and enjoy it again! I am looking forward to many more books by this fabulous author. I also love how she incorporate updates from her past books!! If you love Sophie Kinsella, Meg Cabot this book is for you!! You are missing out on this amazing book!! DEFINITELY A MUST READ!! + the cover is adorable.
I loved this book. very well written. Good story line with likeable characters. One of fav
I'm a huge fan of Emily Giffin, but she missed the mark on this one. 'Where We Belong' had no "meat" to the characters/story. This simply could have been a fault of the way it was written; every chapter switching between Marian, and Kirby. On top of that, it was written in the first person, (for each chapter), so I would forget who I was reading about. This style worked nicely in the beginning of the book, however, by the middle it just got confusing when both characters were together. Or maybe there was no "meat" simply because Giffin left it out. I think it's a combination of both. I felt as though the characters were robots. Especially in situations where many of them interact together. There could have been much more depth, interaction, and drama....but there was none of this! Made for a very boring book. As I turned each page, I expected it to get better. Much to my dismay, it never did. Many diehard Emily Giffin fans will probably like this book by default, but I didn't want to be bias. As much as it pains me to write a disappointing review, I must give my honest thoughts. I cringe to hear that there's a possibly of a sequel. I don't think this story line is strong enough to continue.
Good yet refreshing allows readers to indulge!
I loved her writing, the characters, and plot. However, I agree with the others that the ending ruined it for me & was inconclusive. It was a big disappointment!
I have read all of E.G.'s books and this was my least favorite of them all. I love how she ties in characters from other novels (and provides updates). However I this story was a departure from what I expected of this book. I did not have the anxious feel with this book that I have had with all the others. It did not leave me on the verge of tears, getting angry with the characters,etc. that I felt with other books. I also agree with other reviews, I did not particularly care for the ending or how abrupt the ending seemed to be. I would wait to check this one out at the library!
I'm not entirely sure it was worth 12.99, buuuut it was an okay read. I will say that the ending was sort of inconclusive, but that may just be her lining up for a following book with the same characters. If not, then I'd have to say the ending was less than stellar.
I loved the entire book..up until the ending. I really hope the author is in the process of writing a sequel.
Ms.Giffin is a gifted writer and a fabulous storyteller who creates characters that we care about. I would love this book were it not for its ending. I like depth of characterization and plausibility in the storyline, but l love happy endings! Life is hard enough, so please let me find vicarious pleasure when characters that an author has made me care about find happiness. This ending didn't do that. There has got to be more to the story. Ms. Giffin, please don't let Marian and Conrad be another Scarlett and Rhett!
This book had me hooked from the beginning. What happened Emily? So disappointed with the ending! I sure hope there is a second book because the ending was a big LET DOWN:(
I generally only read non fiction. For this author I make an exception! This book is wonderful and told in a unique way! GREAT read, hands down! For those that felt "let down" at the end....read it again....you missed the point! And not everything in life wraps up like a Christmas present! You will not be disappointed with this book....a definite summer read!!
I love all of her books except this one. I did not care for the plot. I also felt parts of the book were repetative and long. Not her best work!! Boring!! Never-ending!!!
The book kept me very engaged throughout. If this would have ended differently I would have given this a higher rating. However, the book really left me hanging with limited closure for Marian and Conrad which really ruined the overall book/reading experience. It seemed as if the author copped out with a "maybe she'll do this or maybe she'll do that" type ending. This was very disappointing.
I FELL IN LOVE WITH THIS BOOK INSTANTLY. It is unlike any other book I have read. It is one of the best I have ever read and I have read a lot of books. Each page never disappointed. There was a surprise on almost every page. There was always someone to relate to.
This book is another hit. It is heartwarming and unique. I wish she would write another book to go along with this one so we can see what else happens in their lives. A+
I really enjoyed getting to know the characters of this book, and found that once I started, I could not put the book down!
I love how her stories are so real... the whole time, Im trying to think of the crazy twist theres gonna be, but instead, it just unfolds and it is what it is. Stress free reading. But im pretty sure nothing beats the ending of Something Borrowed. Literally, when i finished that one, my mouth was still open, I was just in shock. Best ending ever. :) And of course, Something blue wraps it up perfectly.
I have read most of Emily Giffin's prior books, and although this one was not my favorite, it was a quick, easy and entertaining story. The only think that I was a little annoyed with was the sudden ending. There was not a whole lot of closure, I guess it's just up to our imaginations!
It seemed that all throughout the book, you only saw what was on the surface of characters and situations. The story is told from the point of view of Kirby and Marion, but the author's voice penetrates the characters, and they speak in ways that they shouldn't. The high powered executive would slip into a loosey goosey speech, riddled with grammatical errors. And conversely, Kirby (whose 18 year old rebellious nature made grammatical errors more tolerable) would suddenly erupt into a perfectly crafted description that, while sometimes it was good writing, was not in character. Characters also tended to behave in ways that were inconsistent with their natures. Isolated deviations can be rebellious choices, but these inconsistencies were too frequent and haphazard. Marion's friends seemed to be invented because not having friends is not believable. But so many of these characters lacked enough depth to contribute to the story. Why should you trust a friend's advice? Their character depth will rell you that they're reliable, or fun but irresponsible, or always optimistic. In my opinion, the one liners of advice they give were just as shallow, and the lot of them could have been left out entirely. It seemed that the author was afraid to talk about tough issues, only glossing over deep topics by mentioning that the characters talked about something important over a burger. You get no deeper glimpses into the important things, but have highly detailed descriptions of the activites people employ to avoid talking about important issues. This was highly disappointing. Other reviews mention displeasure with the ending, which didn't bother me so much (life isn't always wrapped up neatly), but I'd say the whole book left something wanting.
I am a HUGE fan of Emily Giffin and have ready all of her other books and loved ALL of them. The characters in ths book seemed forced and unnatural and the ending was very underwhelming. I will continue to be a fan of her work, but this book has been my least favorite, by far.
This is the first time I've read this author. The story line was good and this was one reason I bought the book. It was the ending that was disappointing--I guessed what happened before I was half way through the book. This is a book for people who don't put much thought into what's written. It's definetly not for book club discussion as it's not much to discuss. I'd probably read her again to fill in some time between books where I don't have to put much thought into the reading.
I have enjoyed most of her books and this one did not fail. Kirby and Marian were great characters. Sure some of the side characters were a little stiff but all-in-all a quick and satisfying read!
Well, I for one, really enjoyed this book. I keep reading all the negative comments posted below and I agree that everyone is entitled to their own opinion, but I mean, one star? Really? It wasn't awful. Yes, some of her past books have been better, but it doesn't mean that this one is total crap. Oh, and about the ending, I think certain people didn't like it because they didn't get their ideal fairy tale or something of that sort. I know many of us wanted to have a little more of a story between Marian and Conrad (potentially, have them end up together) but Ms. Giffin didn't write it like that and it's okay. Maybe she's saving it for a sequel (I wish!). Or maybe not all romantic novels have their typical happy ending. In Something Borrowed, it was evident that the whole story wasn't quite over and a sequel emerged. Although Dex and Rachel ended up together, the other half of the story involving Darcy was still to be told- and it was. In conclusion, people, just read the book. We, the customer reviewers, are giving you a mere opinion.
I loved, loved, loved this book! As a woman and a mother, Marian's story struck such an emotional cord. Although I don't necessarily agree with some of her choices, I understood her dilemma. Ms. Giffin created yet another gem that you all must read.