It's You

PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF JANE PORTER

The Good Wife

“Believable, insightful, and marked by witty dialogue. A novel that may inspire readers to examine their own family relationships.”

—
Kirkus Reviews

“The final book of the Brennan Sisters trilogy is the best one yet! . . . This tight-knit clan will make readers laugh and cry as they work their way through life’s curveballs. Porter’s beautifully written novel is sure to please.”

—
RT Book Reviews
(4½ stars, Top Pick)

The Good Daughter

“An extraordinary story . . . Intense and sensitive . . . With these realistic, riveting characters . . . and narrative that’s vibrant, raw, poetic, and passionate, author Jane Porter relays a love story that’s equal parts charming, touching, and disturbing.”

—
USA Today

“A strong story and a compelling emotional punch . . . Filled with tension and compassion. Porter pulls the reader into the very heart of this close-knit family, examining intense feelings and life-altering decisions without backing away. The characters are larger than life.”

—
RT Book Reviews

“Engaging.”

—
Kirkus Reviews

“
The Good Daughter
. . . is not for the faint of heart.”

—Bookreporter.com

The Good Woman

“Porter does an excellent job of capturing the not-always-smooth bond between sisters . . . and the dynamics of guilt, silence, and strength in a large Irish Catholic family . . . It is an honest story of a woman making her first real mistake.”

—
Booklist

“Porter writes with honesty, warmth, and compassion about the uncomfortable issues that may arise in one’s life. Anticipate a good series as each sister explores different paths and different outcomes that are challenging and real.”

—
Library Journal

“[Porter’s] characters are compelling individuals who quickly grab your heart . . . This beautifully written story sends readers on an emotional roller-coaster ride that twists and turns right to the end.”

—
RT Book Reviews

She’s Gone Country

“I’ve always been a big fan of Jane Porter’s. She understands the passion of grown-up love and the dark humor of mothering teenagers. What a smart, satisfying novel
She’s Gone Country
is.”

—Robyn Carr,
New York Times
bestselling author of the Virgin River novels

“A celebration of a woman’s indomitable spirit. Suddenly single, juggling motherhood and a journey home, Shey embodies every woman’s hopes and dreams. Once again, Jane Porter has written her way into this reader’s heart.”

—Susan Wiggs, #1
New York Times
bestselling author of the Bella Vista Chronicles novels “Richly rewarding.”

—
Chicago Tribune

“Strongly plotted, with a heroine who is vulnerable yet resilient . . . engaging.”

—
The Seattle Times

Easy on the Eyes

“An irresistible mix of glamour and genuine heart . . .
Easy on the Eyes
sparkles!”

—Beth Kendrick, author of
New Uses for Old Boyfriends

“A smart, sophisticated, fun read with characters you’ll fall in love with. Another winning novel by Jane Porter.”

—Mia King, national bestselling author of
Table Manners

Mrs. Perfect

“With great warmth and wisdom, in
Mrs. Perfect
Jane Porter creates a richly emotional story about a realistically flawed and wonderfully human hero who only discovers what is important in life when she learns to let go of her quest for perfection.”

—
Chicago Tribune

“Porter’s authentic character studies and meditations on what really matters make
Mrs. Perfect
a perfect summer novel.”

—
USA Today

“The witty first-person narration keeps things lively in Porter’s latest. Taylor’s neurotic fussiness provides both vicarious thrills and laughs before Taylor moves on to self-awareness and a new kind of empowerment . . . a feel-good read.”

—
Kirkus Reviews

Flirting with Forty

Basis for the Lifetime Original Movie

“A terrific read! A wonderful, life-and love-affirming story for women of all ages.”

—Jayne Ann Krentz,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Trust No One

“Fits the bill as a calorie-free accompaniment for a poolside daiquiri.”

—
Publishers Weekly

Odd Mom Out

“Jane Porter must know firsthand how it feels to not fit in. She nails it poignantly and perfectly in
Odd Mom Out
. This mommy-lit title is far from fluff . . . Sensitive characters and a protagonist who doesn’t cave to the in-crowd gives this novel its heft.”

—
USA Today

“[Porter’s] musings on balancing work, life, and love ring true.”

—
Entertainment Weekly

“The draining pace of Marta’s life comes across convincingly, and Porter’s got a knack for getting into the heads of the preteen set; Eva’s worries are right on the mark. A poignant critique of mommy cliques and the plight of single parents.”

—
Kirkus Reviews

Berkley Books by Jane Porter

THE GOOD WOMAN

THE GOOD DAUGHTER

THE GOOD WIFE

IT’S YOU

An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

This book is an original publication of Penguin Random House LLC.

Copyright © 2015 by Jane Porter.

“Readers Guide” copyright © 2015 by Penguin Random House LLC.

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

BERKLEY® and the “B” design are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

For more information, visit penguin.com.

Porter, Jane, 1964–

It’s you / Jane Porter.—Berkley trade paperback edition.

pages ; cm

ISBN 978-0-425-27715-7 (softcover)

1. Loss (Psychology)—Fiction. 2. Life change events—Fiction. 3. Self-realization in women—Fiction. 4. Self-actualization (Psychology) in women—Fiction. I. Title. II. Title: It is you.

PS3616.O78I87 2016

813'.6—dc23

2015001531

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley trade paperback edition / June 2015

Cover photos: “Woman Swinging” by Brooke Pennington / Getty Images; “Vintage background of old photos with keys on a table” by Neirfy / Shutterstock Images; “Beautiful vineyard landscape” by Mythja / Shutterstock Images; “Vintage Wallpaper” by Irtsya / Shutterstock Images.

Cover design by Rita Frangie.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

It’s You
is dedicated to my family who came before me: the Gansneders, Mullendores, Platzs, Schneiders, Riedls, Wertzs, Venemanns, Brotts, and Cutsingers.

To my late father, who took us to live in Nuremberg for a year so we could see the world.

To my mother, who made sure we understood that it is important to know where you come from, so you know where you want to go.

To my sister and brothers, who journeyed with me.

To my husband and sons, whom I love dearly.

To all who live, hope, and dream.

Let us not just remember. Let us do better.

Courage. Unity. Love.

Peace.

Thank you to the wonderful, generous German editor Iris Paepke, who had a conversation with me in Berlin on May 23, 2014, at the CORA/MIRA Taschenbuch dinner that stayed with me, giving life to the Berlin in this story . . . and who then, months later, took the time to read the manuscript and give me feedback. I am deeply indebted to you. Thank you.

Thank you to the founders and organizers of the LoveLetter Convention, Kris Alice Hohls and Katrin Grassmann, for inviting me to join you in Berlin and making me fall in love with Germany and Berlin all over again. Also huge thanks and hugs to Meghan Farrell for attending the conference with me and making it so fun.

Talia Seehoff, thank you from the bottom of my heart for reading this story in chunks and giving me feedback and encouragement. I never forgot how my story is also tied to “your story.” Thank you for keeping it real.

Thank you to my agent, Holly Root, for believing in me and supporting me, and a huge thank-you to my brilliant editor, Cindy Hwang, for understanding what I was trying to do with Ali’s and Edie’s stories and helping me get there.

Lastly, thank you to my family for loving me even when I’m a mad, creative disaster. You keep me sane.

Ali

F
or over a year following Andrew’s death I showed up and performed and executed perfectly.

I handled that horrible year and the next few months so well that I’d begun to think the worst was behind me.

And then I got the note.

I’d left the office on my lunch, dashing to the Nordstrom at the Scottsdale Fashion Square for a pair of shoes for Dad. He has a birthday coming up in late June and I’m hoping to see him Memorial Day weekend. I’d meant to go north for Easter but Dr. Morris took time off and I was needed. Dad was fine with it but I think he’d appreciate a new pair of Clarks, even if he doesn’t do as much walking in his retirement home.

I’d zipped into the shopping mall, made the purchase, and was hurrying back to my car, pleased that I’d still have time for a quick bite of lunch at the office before my first afternoon appointment, when I noticed the scrap of paper on my windshield, pinned to the glass by the windshield wiper. I tugged on the paper, sliding it free and reading the blue scrawl.

Dumbfounded, I set the paper shopping bag at my feet and flipped the note over. The back was blank and I read the scribble of blue ink again.

“Asshole” had been underlined.

The
A
was huge. The two
s
’s looked almost like
z
’s.

For a moment I thought it was a joke, or a mistake. And then I was hit by a wave of nausea.

It wasn’t a joke.

It was just a mean note.

Sickened, I crumpled it up and shoved it into my purse. I don’t know why I put it in my purse but I was suddenly and deeply ashamed.

My car was on the white line, on the passenger side. Normally I park exactly between the painted lines, but when I pulled in the car on my left was a little bit over, and so I parked and dashed into the store.

Driving back to the office, I mentally reviewed my parking job. I was
on
the line. I probably was parked too close to the car on my right. But I wasn’t
over
the line. And the car on my left was crowding me. My car isn’t a big car. It’s not as if I drive a big SUV. I slid out of my driver side without dinging the car next to me.

Maybe I shouldn’t have parked there.

Maybe I should have kept looking for a spot.

I’m still obsessing—rationalizing—my choices as I reach the office. I can’t let it go. I don’t know why I have to defend myself.
The person who wrote the note was rude. It was a rude note by a rude person.
Let it go.

I try.

I try as I park—carefully.

I try as I enter the modern marble and glass building with the tinted windows and open the door to Morris Dental & Associates, catching a whiff of the distinctive smell unique to dentist offices. The odor wafts from the back. It’s a mix of chemicals. Formo-creasol. Cresatin. Eugenol. Acrylic Monomer.

Oh, and teeth.

The office is cold, chilled to sixty-seven degrees, the temperature Dr. Morris prefers for his own comfort. He doesn’t like being warm when he works. His hands are steadier, his concentration better, when it’s cool, and it is his office.

Normally I don’t smell the chemicals but I do now. Maybe it’s the shock of the note, a shock I can’t shake.

I’m still unsettled as I open my yogurt in the staff room. But I can’t take a bite. Instead I hold my yogurt and spoon and stand at the window staring out at the taupe and gold Camelback Mountain.

Learn to park. Asshole.

“Dr. McAdams, you’ve a patient in exam room three,” Natalie, one of the practice’s two dental assistants, announces from the staff room door.

I thank her and put the yogurt back into the refrigerator. My legs feel funny as I walk. Like I’m walking in wet cement. If Andrew were here right now he’d make a joke and tease me about being an asshole and my horrible driving skills, and I’d laugh and it’d be okay. But he’s not here because he’d rather be dead. He’s not here— I enter the sunlit exam room holding my breath, keeping the pain bottled inside as I glance at the chart on the counter. Leah
Saunders. I quickly wash my hands, and face her, forcing a smile. “I’m Dr. McAdams. How are you today, Leah?”

“Not good.”

“No?”

“I was just telling your dental hygienist that I hate the smell of dentist offices.” Leah is immaculately dressed and groomed, the blue paper bib covering an ivory silk top that only accents her fit frame. Her dark blonde hair, carefully highlighted and blown out, frames a face that is smooth for her age. I know by her chart that she’s early forties but she appears years younger. “The smell makes me sick,” she adds.

I give her a quick, reassuring nod. “I hear that a lot.” The smell doesn’t bother me. It never has. Andrew never liked it, but for him, it was the smell of his childhood. He grew up visiting his dad at the office, working here in the summers.

“I’ve never understood my fear. It seems so irrational. It’s not like I’m going to die here—” She breaks off, laughs nervously, her fingers twisting in her necklace. “Right?”

“Nope. No dying. No suffering. It’s going to be okay.” I roll closer to her side on my stool.

“That’s what my husband says. He doesn’t understand my fear. He doesn’t know why I make such a big deal out of it. I tried to explain that it’s the smell that makes me nervous. The moment I open the door to the office it hits me—and I want to run.”

“But you’re here.”

“Only because my tooth hurts so much. The pain just keeps getting worse, and it’s not going away anymore, not even with Advil.”

“Which side?”

“Here.” She touches her upper right jaw. “It aches all the time now.”

“Let me take a look.”

Her eyes meet mine, the hazel irises bright. She’s terrified.

I touch her arm. “It’s going to be all right.”

“I don’t know why I’m so scared.”

“There is nothing to be afraid of. I’m not going to hurt you. I promise.”

“But what if the tooth has to come out? What if I need a root canal—”

“Root canals get a bad rap. They don’t usually hurt any more than when you have a filling replaced.”

“I don’t like those, either.”

“The good news is that we can fix this. Whatever the issue, we’ll get it sorted out, and you won’t have to live with more pain. The worst pain is always before you come in.” I hold her gaze, firm, confident. Dentistry isn’t torture. We help people. We don’t make it worse.

Fortunately, it doesn’t look as if Leah needs a root canal yet. She’s come in time. Natalie returns to assist with the procedure.

I’m just wrapping up with Leah when Helene from the front desk appears in the doorway, letting me know I have someone on the phone holding.

“Can you take a message?” I ask, checking my annoyance at the interruption. Leah is the last person I want to feel rushed.

Helene grimaces. “Apparently it’s an emergency.” She drops her voice. “Your dad.”

He’s all I have left. Mom’s gone. Andrew’s gone. He’s it. I apologize and excuse myself, taking the call in the staff room. “Dad?”

“I’m fine,” he answers brusquely, his voice unsteady with the Parkinson’s quaver. “Took a little fall but nothing too serious.”

“You wouldn’t call if it weren’t serious,” I retort. My dad and I aren’t very close. My mom and I were. My mom and I were thick as thieves. I got into dentistry to impress my dad. It didn’t work.

“It’s not serious,” he repeats, even as I hear voices in the background. Two women talking. He’s not alone. “Just a little fall, but they wanted me to let you know. A broken wrist and a couple scrapes, nothing much.”

“Oh, Dad.”

“It happens.”

“I’ll come up.”

“No need—”

“I want to.”

“There’s nothing you can do.”

“You’re my dad.”

“Doesn’t make sense to lose work time.”

“It doesn’t make sense to lose you.”

“I’ll be here when you have vacation time—”

“I’d like to take that vacation time now.”

He says nothing but the silence is tense. I hold my breath, battling my frustration, bottling the confusion. He doesn’t want me. I don’t understand it. It was easier when Mom was alive. She was our buffer. She made us a family. “You’re important to me,” I say quietly. “I want to come see you. I need to come see you. Please.”

The silence stretches again.

“Fine,” he says, exasperation in his voice.

I tell myself not to be hurt. There’s no point in being sensitive. This is Dad. It’s how he’s always been. It’s how he’ll always be. “I’ll fly up tonight, and if I take tomorrow off, that will give us a three-day weekend.”

“Your front office will have to reschedule.”

“It happens when there’s an emergency.”

“Alison, I don’t want a fuss.”

“That’s good, Dad, because I don’t fuss. That’s not my style.” My tone is brisk. I mastered professional crispness long before I graduated from dental school. It was the only way to survive life
with my father. Now I’m grateful for the training. Grateful I’m not easily crushed.

He sighs. “No. It’s not your style. I’ll give you that.”

High praise indeed. “I need to book a flight, Dad, and I’m not sure when I’ll land, but I imagine it’ll be late, so plan on seeing me tomorrow. If not for breakfast, then by lunch.”

“Don’t rush. Tomorrow morning is duplicate bridge.”

“How will you hold the cards?”

“I’ll manage.”

I’m sure he will. Dad is remarkably resourceful. “Do I need to talk to a nurse? Is there someone with you waiting to speak to me?”

“No. I think I’ve handled it just fine.”

“Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“You know where to find me.”

I need a second to compose myself after the call. I use the time to make a list of all the things I need to do. Clear my schedule. Book a flight. Get a rental car or shuttle to the house. Maybe I should drive. Twelve hours driving. Too long. Book a flight. Get a car. Make sure I pack Dad’s new shoes.

In the next exam room I see the mother in the corner first, and then the little boy in the exam chair, blue paper bib around his neck. His eyes are huge. His lower lip is trembling. He’s afraid.

“I’m Dr. Alison McAdams,” I say, introducing myself before washing my hands at the sink. “But most of my patients call me Dr. Ali.”

The boy says nothing. The mother gives me a grim smile. Maybe she had to take time off work, or maybe she has children at home, or maybe she’s not a fan of dentists.

I dry my hands on a paper towel and sit down on my stool and roll towards the child. “What’s your name?” I ask.

He glances at his mom, brown eyes huge.

“Tell her,” the mother says.

“Brett,” he whispers.

“James,” his mother adds. “That’s our last name. We’ve been patients of Dr. Morris for years.”

I register the mother’s comment. That means she knows me. Or she knows about Andrew and me. Or just knows about Andrew.

“Brett James,” I repeat, forcing myself to focus. He’s little. Can’t be much older than five. “That’s a nice name. And how old are you?”

“Five.”

“And that’s a good age.”

He just looks at me. I keep smiling at him even though I suddenly want to cry and I never cry at work. Never. Ever.

“So what are we doing today?” I ask, even though I already know. I glanced at the chart on the counter even as I was washing my hands.