PERFECT MATCH PDF

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Perfect Match JODI PICOULT ATRIA BOOKS New York London Toronto Sydney Singapore This book is a work of fiction. Names. I'm often asked how much of my books come from my own life, and given the nature of the issues I cover the answer is, thankfully, not much. Perfect Match was . Sai woke to the rousing first movement of Vivaldi's violin concerto in C minor, “Il Sospetto.” He lay still for a minute, letting the music wash over him like a gentle.


Perfect Match Pdf

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Download Read Online Free Now eBook Perfect Match By Jodi Picoult EPUB KINDLE PDF EBOOK. (c) - page 1 of 7 - Get Instant Access. Perfect Match (Jodi Picoult, ) explores the conflict between the professional and personal life of an assistant district attorney when she discovers that her. Perfect Match (Jodi Picoult). Read books online free without registration and downloading.

Nathaniel looks up at Patrick; and he nods. This, this he can do. Nathaniel lies on the lower bunk while I read him a book before bedtime. Suddenly, he jacknifes upright and fairly flies across the room, to the doorway where Caleb stands. He is lost in this moment. Seeing them together, I want to kick myself again.

How could I have ever believed that Caleb was at fault? The room is suddenly too small to hold all three of us. I back out of it, closing the door behind me. Downstairs, I wash the silverware that sits on the drying rack, already clean. I sit down on the living room couch; then, restless, stand up and arrange the cushions.

I turn, my arms crossed over my chest. Does that look too defensive? I settle them at my sides, instead. Coming out of the shadows, Caleb walks toward me. He stops two feet away, but there might as well be a universe between us. I know every line of his face.

The one that was carved the first year of our marriage, by laughing so often. The one that was born of worries the year he left the contracting the company, to go into business for himself.

The one that developed from focusing hard on Nathaniel as he took his first steps, said his first word. My throat closes tight as a vise, and all the apologies sit bitter in my stomach. We had been naive enough to believe that we were invincible; that we could run blind through the hairpin turns of life at treacherous speeds and never crash. He did this to our baby. The action arrests me; it is not what I have been expecting.

But then I grab him by the collar of his shirt and kiss him back. I kiss him from the bottom of my soul, I kiss him until he can taste the copper edge of sorrow. We undress each other with brutality, ripping fabric and popping buttons that roll under the couch like secrets. This is the anger overflowing: anger that this has happened to our son, that we cannot turn back time. For the first time in days I can get rid of the rage, I pour it into Caleb, only to realize that he is doing the same to me.

We scratch, we bite, but then Caleb lays me down with the softest touch. Our eyes lock when he moves inside me, neither one of us would dare to blink. My body remembers: this is what it is to be filled by love, instead of despair. I close my eyes, and this time, these tears are a relief.

Finally, someone knows exactly how I feel. I pull into the parking lot and get out of my car, avoiding the front walk to tiptoe, instead, around to the back of the building. The rectory is here, attached to the main body of the church.

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My sneakers leave prints in the frost, the trail of an invisible man. If I climb onto the ridge of a drainage well, I can see into the window. A cup of tea sits, the bag still draining, on a side table.

A book — Tom Clancy — is cracked open on the couch. All of these people believed him, too; I have not been the only sucker. But as I stand there I remember the day before Nathaniel had stopped speaking, the last time we had all gone to Mass. I remember that the flavored coffee that morning was Hazelnut. That there were no powdered sugar donuts left, though Nathaniel had wanted one. I remember talking to a couple I had not seen in several months, and noticing that the other children were following Father Szyszynski downstairs for his weekly storytime.

He had been hiding behind me, clinging to my legs. I fairly pushed him into joining the others. I pushed him into it. I stand here on the drainage ditch for over an hour, until the priest comes into his living room.

He sits down on the couch and picks up his tea and he reads. Caleb examines one. Remember when I talked to you the other day? Patrick pats the cushion beside him, and Nathaniel immediately climbs up. Caleb and I sit on either side of them, in two overstuffed chairs. How formal we look, I think. He looks at me, and then at Caleb — a silent warning that now, this is his show.

Even though there is. He is sitting on his hands. Nathaniel nods.

One hand creeps out from beneath a thigh. I want him to be able to do this, oh, I want it so badly it aches, so that this case will be set into motion. And just as badly, for the same reasons, I want Nathaniel to fail. His hand floats over each card in succession, a dragonfly hovering over a stream. With my eyes, I try to will him back.

Do you see the person who hurt you? He hesitates there, then begins to move the other cards. We all wait, wondering what he is trying to tell us. But he slides one photo up, and another, until he has two columns. He connects them with a diagonal. All this deliberation, and it turns out he is only making the letter N. He buries his face on his bent knees and refuses to look at me. The mad in the room is all the colors of fire, and it presses down on him, so that Nathaniel has to make himself small enough to fit in the cracks of the cushions.

His pants smell like maple syrup and November. Nathaniel can remember when just waking up in the morning used to make them happy. He knows this is true: what happened happened because of him.

He wishes he could make them smile again. He wishes he had the answers. His mother throws up her hands and walks toward the fireplace, her back to everyone.

His father and Patrick are trying hard not to look at each other, their eyes bouncing like a Superball off everything in the tiny room. She turned the key and the engine groaned, whining and whining before it kicked to life. Nathaniel feels that same thing now, in his belly.

That kindling, that croak, the tiniest bubble rising up his windpipe. It chokes him; it makes his chest swell. The name that gets shoved out is feeble, thin as gruel, not nearly the thick and porous block that has absorbed all his words these past weeks. In fact, now that it sits on his tongue, bitter pill, it is hard to believe something this tiny has filled all the space inside him.

Nathaniel worries no one will hear him, since so many angry words are flying like kites in the room. And he speaks, he speaks.

Patrick feels the warm weight of Nathaniel on his left side. And no wonder; Patrick himself is ducking from the comments Caleb and Nina are winging at each other; Nathaniel has to be faring just as poorly.

He slides an arm around the child. A sound slips into his ear. Then he turns to interrupt Caleb and Nina. Father Glen, to the children like Nathaniel who cannot pronounce his last name — is otherwise occupied.

Patrick cannot remember the last time he went on a hunt for evidence wearing a coat and tie, but he wants to blend in with the crowd. He smiles at strangers while they all file into the church before 9 AM; and when they turn into the main nave of the church he walks in the opposite direction, down a staircase.

Still, he moves quietly through the hallway, reluctant to draw attention to himself. He passes a classroom where small children sit wriggling like fish at even smaller tables and chairs. If he were a priest, where would he stash the Goodwill Box? Nina has told him about the Sunday Nathaniel came home with a different pair of underwear on beneath his clothes.

It might mean nothing. But then again, it might. The Goodwill Box is not next to the water fountain or the restrooms. Patrick continues, thinking on his feet. She leads Patrick into the classroom, where fifteen tiny faces turn to assess him, and hands him a big blue Rubbermaid box.

He is knee deep in old clothing. He counts seven pairs of underwear — three of which are pink, with little Barbie faces on them. Lining the remaining four up on the floor, he takes a cell phone from his pocket and dials Nina.

Where are you? Does anything sound familiar? These were boxers. They had baseball mitts on them. There are a thousand ways to explain away that kind of evidence; he has most likely heard them all.

He bends down to fork all the spilled clothing back into the bin, and notices something bright in an alcove behind the boiler.

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Working his big body into a pretzel, he stretches out a hand — but cannot grab it. The room is suddenly too small to hold all three of us. I back out of it, closing the door behind me. Downstairs, I wash the silverware that sits on the drying rack, already clean. I sit down on the living room couch; then, restless, stand up and arrange the cushions. I turn, my arms crossed over my chest.

Does that look too defensive? I settle them at my sides, instead. His face gives nothing away. Coming out of the shadows, Caleb walks toward me. He stops two feet away, but there might as well be a universe between us. I know every line of his face. The one that was carved the first year of our marriage, by laughing so often.

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The one that was born of worries the year he left the contracting the company, to go into business for himself. The one that developed from focusing hard on Nathaniel as he took his first steps, said his first word.

My throat closes tight as a vise, and all the apologies sit bitter in my stomach. We had been naive enough to believe that we were invincible; that we could run blind through the hairpin turns of life at treacherous speeds and never crash. He did this to our baby. He cuts me off with a kiss. The action arrests me; it is not what I have been expecting.

But then I grab him by the collar of his shirt and kiss him back. I kiss him from the bottom of my soul, I kiss him until he can taste the copper edge of sorrow. We undress each other with brutality, ripping fabric and popping buttons that roll under the couch like secrets. This is the anger overflowing: For the first time in days I can get rid of the rage, I pour it into Caleb, only to realize that he is doing the same to me. We scratch, we bite, but then Caleb lays me down with the softest touch.

Our eyes lock when he moves inside me, neither one of us would dare to blink. My body remembers: I close my eyes, and this time, these tears are a relief. Finally, someone knows exactly how I feel.

I pull into the parking lot and get out of my car, avoiding the front walk to tiptoe, instead, around to the back of the building. The rectory is here, attached to the main body of the church. My sneakers leave prints in the frost, the trail of an invisible man.

If I climb onto the ridge of a drainage well, I can see into the window. A cup of tea sits, the bag still draining, on a side table. A book — Tom Clancy — is cracked open on the couch. All of these people believed him, too; I have not been the only sucker. But as I stand there I remember the day before Nathaniel had stopped speaking, the last time we had all gone to Mass.

I remember that the flavored coffee that morning was Hazelnut. That there were no powdered sugar donuts left, though Nathaniel had wanted one. I remember talking to a couple I had not seen in several months, and noticing that the other children were following Father Szyszynski downstairs for his weekly storytime.

He had been hiding behind me, clinging to my legs. I fairly pushed him into joining the others. I stand here on the drainage ditch for over an hour, until the priest comes into his living room. He sits down on the couch and picks up his tea and he reads. Caleb examines one. Nathaniel and I come into the room, holding hands. Patrick gets to his feet.

Remember when I talked to you the other day? Patrick pats the cushion beside him, and Nathaniel immediately climbs up. Caleb and I sit on either side of them, in two overstuffed chairs. How formal we look, I think. He looks at me, and then at Caleb — a silent warning that now, this is his show. He is sitting on his hands.

Nathaniel nods. One hand creeps out from beneath a thigh.

I want him to be able to do this, oh, I want it so badly it aches, so that this case will be set into motion. And just as badly, for the same reasons, I want Nathaniel to fail. His hand floats over each card in succession, a dragonfly hovering over a stream.

With my eyes, I try to will him back. He hesitates there, then begins to move the other cards. We all wait, wondering what he is trying to tell us. But he slides one photo up, and another, until he has two columns. He connects them with a diagonal. All this deliberation, and it turns out he is only making the letter N. He buries his face on his bent knees and refuses to look at me. Ill at ease, Patrick begins to stuff the pictures back into the envelope.

The mad in the room is all the colors of fire, and it presses down on him, so that Nathaniel has to make himself small enough to fit in the cracks of the cushions.

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His pants smell like maple syrup and November. Nathaniel can remember when just waking up in the morning used to make them happy. He knows this is true: He wishes he could make them smile again. He wishes he had the answers. His mother throws up her hands and walks toward the fireplace, her back to everyone.

His father and Patrick are trying hard not to look at each other, their eyes bouncing like a Superball off everything in the tiny room.

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She turned the key and the engine groaned, whining and whining before it kicked to life. Nathaniel feels that same thing now, in his belly. That kindling, that croak, the tiniest bubble rising up his windpipe. It chokes him; it makes his chest swell. The name that gets shoved out is feeble, thin as gruel, not nearly the thick and porous block that has absorbed all his words these past weeks. In fact, now that it sits on his tongue, bitter pill, it is hard to believe something this tiny has filled all the space inside him.

Nathaniel worries no one will hear him, since so many angry words are flying like kites in the room. And he speaks, he speaks. Patrick feels the warm weight of Nathaniel on his left side.

And no wonder; Patrick himself is ducking from the comments Caleb and Nina are winging at each other; Nathaniel has to be faring just as poorly.

He slides an arm around the child. A sound slips into his ear. Then he turns to interrupt Caleb and Nina. The logical time to search the church is during Mass, when Father Szyszynski — a. Father Glen, to the children like Nathaniel who cannot pronounce his last name — is otherwise occupied. Patrick cannot remember the last time he went on a hunt for evidence wearing a coat and tie, but he wants to blend in with the crowd.

He smiles at strangers while they all file into the church before 9 AM; and when they turn into the main nave of the church he walks in the opposite direction, down a staircase.

Still, he moves quietly through the hallway, reluctant to draw attention to himself. He passes a classroom where small children sit wriggling like fish at even smaller tables and chairs.

If he were a priest, where would he stash the Goodwill Box? Nina has told him about the Sunday Nathaniel came home with a different pair of underwear on beneath his clothes. It might mean nothing. But then again, it might. The Goodwill Box is not next to the water fountain or the restrooms.

The Sunday school teacher, a woman who has the look of a mother about her, stands a few feet behind Patrick. He tries to summon all his charm, but this is a woman who is probably used to white lies, to hands caught in the cookie jar.

Patrick continues, thinking on his feet. The teacher smiles in sympathy. She leads Patrick into the classroom, where fifteen tiny faces turn to assess him, and hands him a big blue Rubbermaid box. He is knee deep in old clothing. He counts seven pairs of underwear — three of which are pink, with little Barbie faces on them. Lining the remaining four up on the floor, he takes a cell phone from his pocket and dials Nina. Does anything sound familiar? There are a thousand ways to explain away that kind of evidence; he has most likely heard them all.

He bends down to fork all the spilled clothing back into the bin, and notices something bright in an alcove behind the boiler. Working his big body into a pretzel, he stretches out a hand — but cannot grab it.

Patrick looks around the custodial closet, finds a fireplace poker, and slides it behind the bulk of the boiler to the small hollow. He snags a corner of it — paper, maybe? He pulls a brown paper bag from his pocket. With his gloved fingers, he turns the underwear over in his hand.

On the left rear, slightly off center, there is a stiff stain. In the custodial closet, directly beneath the altar where Father Szyszynski is at that moment reading scripture aloud, Patrick bows his head and prays that in a situation as unfortunate as this one, there might be a shred of pure luck.

A memory: I am searching all over the house for my car keys, because I am already late to drop Nathaniel at school and go to work. Nathaniel is dressed in his coat and boots, waiting for me. Two hours later, Patrick enters St. This time, it is empty. Candles flicker, casting shadows; dust motes dance in the slices of light thrown by the stained glass windows. The door is wide open, the priest sits at his desk. For a moment, Patrick enjoys the feeling of voyeurism. In an effort to improve the revenues on slow Sunday nights, Tequila Mockingbird has established the Jimmy Buffet Key Largo Karaoke Night, an all— you— can— eat burgerfest paired with singing.

When Patrick and I walk into the bar, our senses are assaulted: The mirror had shown a permanent line between her eyebrows just this morning damn you, natural light! Medically speaking, the best time to have a kid is around twenty-two, twenty-four. All of a sudden, Honor felt ancient. She had a wrinkle between her eyes, and her eggs were aging! She shifted on the examination table. Her hip creaked. God, she was ancient! But it might be time to think about these things.

But yes, the chances of birth defects and infertility do start to increase about now. Same as telling you to eat right. So now she had high blood pressure, in addition to leathery skin and hardening ovaries. It was never good when a doctor said probably! I mean, not that you need a man. Small wonder that everything was taking on obstetrical overtones.

I just got done giving Phyllis Nebbins her monthly perm and blue rinse and I was this close to screaming. Like, do I really want to hear about her new hip? All those stories of screaming and colic and precious, precious angels. But Honor loved kids. Even teenagers. Well, she loved her seventeen-year-old niece, Abby, and she loved her nephew, Ned, who still had the mental age of fourteen, even though he was twenty-two now.

Her heart started thudding. Aging ovaries, shriveling uterus.

But what do you think? Honor adjusted her hairband. Besides, you have everything already. Why not Brogan, too? But like everyone, Honor had her issues. Spinsterhood, for example. Aging eggs, for another. Honor sighed, then saw her reflection in the mirror. There was that frown again. She was going to have to talk to Jeremy about his delivery. Still, if there was a sign from God, it was probably those words. Dana sighed, and Honor sensed her patience was coming to an end. That was a nice thought.

But yes. There was a ring in the window of the jewelry store on the green, and Honor had admitted—only to Dana—that if she ever did get engaged, that would be the ring she wanted. Just a simple, stunning, emerald-cut diamond set in platinum. Rock his world, pop the question, see what he says.

Talk to you soon. Honor sat another minute. She could call one of her sisters, but The sex part. Prudence, the oldest of the Holland clan, would be all for it, having recently become a sex kitten as some weird by-product of menopause or whatnot. Faith, the youngest of the three Holland sisters She and Honor had always scrapped a little, though things had been better since Faith had moved back from San Francisco the only Holland to live out of New York State in eight generations.

And then there was Jack, their brother. But he was a guy and hated nothing more than hearing stories that confirmed the suspicion that his sisters were indeed female and, worse still, had sex lives. That was fine.Nathaniel shakes his head and hands Patrick a card. Centillion has put us in little bubbles, where all we see and hear are echoes of ourselves, and we become ever more stuck in our existing beliefs and exaggerated in our inclinations.

The grapevines had been pruned, and snow blanketed the fields. He signed priest. But eventually, it will have poisoned the data so much that it will no longer be possible for Tilly to make creepy, controlling predictions about users. When I reach for him he fights me, smoothes a paper over my knee. Caleb and I sit on either side of them, in two overstuffed chairs. Otherwise, there is no chance of a conviction.