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THE STORYTELLER EBOOK

Friday, October 18, 2019


An astonishing novel about redemption and forgiveness from the “amazingly talented writer” (Huffington Post) and #1 New York Times bestselling author Jodi Picoult. When Josef Weber, an elderly man in Sage’s grief support group, begins stopping by the bakery, they strike up an. Read "The Storyteller" by Jodi Picoult available from Rakuten Kobo. Sign up today and get £3 off your first download. THE NUMBER ONE SUNDAY TIMES. Open eBook Preview · Store; The Storyteller. The Storyteller (eBook). by Jodi Picoult (Author). , Words; Pages. An astonishing novel about.


The Storyteller Ebook

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Editorial Reviews. From Booklist. Best-seller Picoult takes on a heavy subject in her latest Kindle Store; ›; Kindle eBooks; ›; Literature & Fiction. Editorial Reviews. About the Author. Antonia Michaelis is the author of Tiger Moon--for which she won the Batchelder Honor Award--and Dragons of Darkness. The Storyteller - Kindle edition by M Arthur. Download it once and read it on your Kindle device, PC, phones or tablets. Use features like bookmarks, note taking.

All you knead is love, I read. Rocco, our barista, is wiping down the counter. She was willing to overlook that little verbal tic because of his prodigious talent creating foam art—the patterned swirls on top of lattes and mochaccinos.

Amen to that. Has it been this quiet all day? He wants a special-order birthday cake for Joseph Kony? If the shoe fits. She seems to function with more energy and speed than the rest of us ordinary mortals; she makes Tinker Bell look like a sloth. At the bakery, I have a gigantic spiral mixer, because I make multiple loaves at a time. I have pre-ferments in various temperatures stored in carefully marked canisters.

But my favorite kind of baking is just a bowl, a wooden spoon, and four elements: flour, water, yeast, salt. Then, all you need is time. Making bread is an athletic event.

Not only does it require dashing around to several stations of the bakery as you check rising loaves or mix ingredients or haul the mixing bowl out of its cradle—but it also takes muscle power to activate the gluten in the dough.

Push and roll, push and fold, a rhythmic workout on your floured countertop. After seven or eight minutes—long enough for your mind to have made a to-do list of chores around the house, or for you to replay the last conversation you had with your significant other and what he really meant—the consistency of the dough will transform. Smooth, supple, cohesive. I have to admit, I often feel that way myself.

When your workday begins at p. You do not recognize the echo of your own voice; you begin to think you are the only person left alive on earth. The world just feels different for those of us who come alive after dark. Most days this means I get about six hours of sleep before I return to Our Daily Bread to start all over again, but being a baker means accepting a fringe existence, one I welcome wholeheartedly.

And Mary and Rocco, of course, who close up the bakery shortly after I arrive. They lock me in, like the queen in Rumpelstiltskin, not to count grain but to transform it before morning into the quick breads and yeasted loaves that fill the shelves and glass counters.

I was never a people person, but now I actively prefer to be alone. This setup suits me best: I get to work by myself; Mary is the front man responsible for chatting up the customers and making them want to return for another visit. I hide. Baking, for me, is a form of meditation. I get pleasure out of slicing up the voluminous mass of dough, eyeballing it to just the right amount of kilos on a scale for a perfect artisan loaf.

I love how the snake of a baguette quivers beneath my palm as I roll it out. I love the sigh that a risen loaf makes when I first punch it down.

I like curling my toes inside my clogs and stretching my neck from side to side to work out the kinks. I like knowing there will be no phone calls, no interruptions.

I am already well into making the one hundred pounds of product I make every night by the time I hear Mary return from her gardening stint up the hill and start to close up shop. Rocco is zipping up his motorcycle jacket.

Through the plate-glass windows, I see heat lightning arc across the bruise of the sky. The one lone customer is Mr. Weber, from my grief group, and his tiny dog. Mary sits with him, a cup of tea in her hands. He struggles to get to his feet when he sees me and does an awkward little bow. His dachshund comes closer on her leash to lick at a spot of flour on my pants.

Animals never stare. Weber slips the loop of the leash over his wrist and stands. I enjoy the company. After all, I have plenty to do.

But it has started to pour now, a torrential sheet of rain. Weber is either walking home or waiting for the bus. Weber says. He nods in gratitude and sits down again. As he cups his hands around the coffee mug, Eva stretches out over his left foot and closes her eyes. Weber, I follow Mary into the back room, where she keeps her biker rain gear. What if he tries to rob us?

Or worse? It was three days before I heard that Osama bin Laden had been killed. The worst he could do is talk you to death. She ducks at the onslaught of driving rain and waves without looking back. I close the door behind her and lock it. I know you have much to do. Weber gestures to the chair Mary had occupied. My timer will go off in three minutes, then I will have to go back into the kitchen. Weber replies. His words sound as if he is biting them off a string: precise, clipped. Certainly Mr.

He shakes his head. My grandma is always talking about how at her age, her friends are dropping like flies. I imagine for Mr. Weber, the same is true.

Not very social. Almost simultaneously there is a sweep of approaching lights through the glass windows of the bakery as the Advanced Transit bus slows at its corner stop. Call me Josef.

As he walks out of the bakery he squints into the bright beams of the bus. In spite of what I have told Mary, I go to collect his dirty mug and plate, only to notice that Mr. Weber—Josef—has left behind the little black book he is always writing in when he sits here. It is banded with elastic. I grab it and run into the storm.

The Storyteller

I step right into a gigantic puddle, which soaks my clog. Ever since Mary installed free WiFi at Our Daily Bread, the place has been crawling with people who intend to be published.

He looks startled. This is just a place to keep all my thoughts. They get away from me, otherwise. We both turn in the direction of the noise. I wince as the beams of the headlights flash across my face. Josef pats his pocket. I met him on the worst day of my life, the day my mother died.

He was the funeral director my sister Pepper contacted. I have a vague recollection of him explaining the process to us, and showing us the different kinds of caskets.

It was my job to give the CD to the funeral director—to Adam. I downloaded the song from the Wizard of Oz soundtrack on iTunes.

As the service began, he played it over the speaker system. The Witch Is Dead. Saffron had to leave the service, she was so upset. Me, I started to giggle. It just spurted out of me, like a shower of sparks. And suddenly every single person in that room was staring at me, with the angry red lines bisecting my face and the inappropriate laughter fizzing out of my mouth.

He was kneeling next to the couch and he had a damp washcloth in his hand, which he was pressing right against my scar. Immediately, I curled away from him, covering the left side of my face with my hand.

I know who had their appendix out and who had surgery for a double hernia. The person may have a scar, but it also means they have a story. His palm was warm against my skin. I had never been beautiful, not before everything happened, and certainly not after. I shook my head, clearing it.

I suggested that we take a fifteen-minute break before we start up again. My sisters hate me. So this. Besides, I bet your mother would much rather know you were celebrating her life with a laugh than know she had you in tears.

I shook my head. In case Naomi Campbell becomes a client. A week after the funeral, he called me to see how I was doing. I was so touched by his concern that I baked him a quick babka and took it to the funeral home one day on my way home from work. He asked me if I had time for coffee. You should know that even that day, he was wearing his wedding ring. In other words, I knew what I was getting into. My only defense is that I never expected to be adored by a man, not after what had happened to me, and yet here was Adam—attractive and successful—doing just that.

I had resigned myself to living alone, working alone, being alone for the rest of my life. Even if I had found someone who professed not to care about the weird puckering on the left side of my face, how would I ever know if he loved me, or pitied me?

They looked so similar, and I had never been very good at reading people. The relationship between Adam and me was secretive, kept behind closed doors. In other words, it was squarely in my comfort zone. I sometimes think that because he spends so much time with the dead, he is the only person who really appreciates the marvel of a living body. When we make love, he lingers over the pulse of my carotid, at my wrist, behind my knees—the spots where my blood beats.

On the days when Adam comes to my place, I sacrifice an hour or two of sleep in order to be with him. I consider this for a moment. It could just be blissfully ignorant. When he talks about them, his voice sounds different. It sounds the way I hope it sounds when he talks about me. We could disappear for twenty-four glorious hours, instead of hiding in my bedroom with the shades drawn against the sunlight and his car—with its new bumper sticker—parked around the corner at a Chinese restaurant.

Once Shannon came into the bakery. I saw her through the open window between the kitchen and the shop. I was certain she had come to ream me out, but she just bought some pumpernickel rolls and left. Afterward, Mary found me sitting on the floor of the kitchen, weak with relief. When I told her about Adam, she asked me one question: Do you love him?

Yes, I told her. You love that he needs to hide as much as you do. I want to squirrel away with him behind the closed doors of a luxury hotel in the White Mountains, or in a cottage in Montana. For forty-nine dollars we could get to Kansas City. My heart starts to beat erratically.

If I walk around holding the hand of a handsome man who obviously wants to be with me, does that make me normal, by association? We went to the same high school, but ten years apart. We both wound up back in our hometown. We work alone, at odd hours, doing jobs most ordinary people would never consider for a career.

Adam rolls onto his back. He taught German. I think Bryan was six or seven at the time. I remember thinking that the guy must have been pushing ninety even back then, and that the rec department was off its rocker, but it turned out he was pretty damn spry.

Adam folds his arms around me. He was a nice guy. He knew the game backward and forward and he never made a bad call. I went to Hebrew school because my sisters did, but when the time came to be bat mitzvahed, I begged to drop out.

I used to sit at Friday night services listening to the cantor sing in Hebrew and wonder why Jewish music was full of minor chords. My parents did, however, fast on Yom Kippur and refused to have a Christmas tree.

To me, it seemed they were following an abridged version of Judaism, so who were they to tell me how and what to believe? I said this to my parents when I was lobbying to not have a bat mitzvah. My father got very quiet.

Then he sent me to my room without supper, which was truly shocking because in our household, we were encouraged to state our opinions, no matter how controversial. It was my mother who sneaked upstairs with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for me. I have a problem going to Hebrew school. She had been born in Poland and still had an accent that made it sound like she was always singing.

And yes, Grandma Minka wore sweaters, even when it was ninety degrees out, but she also wore too much blush and leopard prints. How had I made it to age twelve without knowing this? Why would my parents have hidden this information from me? It was hard to imagine the textbook pictures of living skeletons matching the plump woman who always smelled like lilacs, who never missed her weekly hair appointment, who kept brightly colored canes in every room of her condo so that she always had easy access to one.

She was not part of history.

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