Get Free Read & Download Files Picture Perfect Jodi Picoult PDF. PICTURE PERFECT JODI PICOULT. Download: Picture Perfect Jodi Picoult. PICTURE. jodi picoult picture perfect pdf. Lone Wolf is a New York Times Bestselling novel by American author Jodi Picoult. The book was released on February Editorial Reviews. From Publishers Weekly. This politically correct Hollywood romance leaves Picture Perfect - Kindle edition by Jodi Picoult. Download it once.
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“Jodi Picoult is a more convincing argument for reincarnation than anything Shirley MacLaine has ever written: How could a yearold first novelist have so . Picture Perfect (Jodi Picoult, ) tells the story of renowned anthropologist, who is suffering from amnesia, and her abusive marriage to a Hollywood film star. Get Free Read & Download Files Jodi Picoult Picture Perfect PDF. JODI PICOULT PICTURE PERFECT. Download: Jodi Picoult Picture Perfect. JODI PICOULT.
A frightening pattern is taking shape— a cycle of hurt, denial, and promises, thinly veiled by glamour. At the apartment, when Alex made no move to get out of the car, John shrugged and ran up the walk to collect Mrs. When Cassie opened the front door, Aurora took a step back. He was naked, and this only embarrassed her more. While Cassie watched, tucked in the shadows, her mother would rail at Ben and ask just how temporary ten long years in the same godforsaken place could be. Then he bent at the knees and executed a perfect dive, slicing the water with his hands before his body followed like the silver slip of a knife. Following the lead of her colleagues, she had gone down one year to reopen a forgotten excavation site.
But all is not bliss for the newlyweds: Some rather prettily told Indian legends are added to the mix, but the total effect is wide of the mark. A positive pregnancy test triggers memories of abuse at the hand of her star husband, and Cassie turns to Will, who secrets her away in Pine Ridge with relatives for the remainder of her pregnancy term.
Not a necessary purchase, although large popular collections may consider.? Sandy Glover, West Linn P. How to download eBooks: Next post: The Apartment.
Previous post: Her best yet. And that is a rare moment, indeed, in modern fiction. From the very start, Picoult draws readers in. The research is convincing, the plotting taut, the scenes wonderfully vivid. Penguin Books Ltd. Penguin Books India Pvt. Penguin Books South Africa Pty.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content. Cover design by Monica Benalcazar. Text design by Tiffany Estreicher. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Purchase only authorized editions. Women anthropologists—Fiction. Marital conflict—Fiction. Married people—Fiction. Arlene Stevens, C. James Umlas; Dr. Richard Stone; and Victor A. He had a magical power—he could make himself invisible—which enabled him to walk around in the camps of his enemies and steal their secrets.
His home was a tent that stood beside the sea in a calm, calling breeze, and he lived there with his sister. But Strong Wind would have none of their silly, simpering smiles, their false boasts of being the perfect match. Many came to walk down the beach with his sister as the sun hissed into the sea, wishing to capture his heart.
So when her brother approached, she would turn to the current girl who peered over the horizon. Yes, yes, there he was. With the hide of a caribou. With a long, knotted stick. With a length of strong hemp. His sister would know the lies for what they were, simple guesses, and she knew that Strong Wind would not choose this girl whose footsteps mirrored hers in the wet sand.
In the village lived a mighty chief, a widower with three daughters. One was years younger than the others. Her older sisters, gnarled with their own jealousy, took advantage of her nature. They tried to detract from her beauty by leaving her clothes in rags, cutting off her shining ONG 4 Jodi Picoult black hair, burning the smooth skin of her cheeks and throat with glowing coals. They told their father the girl had done these things to herself.
Like the other maidens in the village, the two older sisters tried to see Strong Wind coming through the twilight. They stood on the beach with his sister, feeling the water run over their legs, and waited. She asked how he drew his sled, and, lying, they guessed rawhide. They hoped to see Strong Wind bent over his dinner, but they saw nothing at all. Strong Wind, knowing their deception, remained invisible.
She passed other maidens on the way to the beach, who laughed to see her go and labeled her a fool. He dances on the clouds and he walks with the moon on his shoulder. She took the girl home and bathed her, running her palms over the pitted skin until all the scars disappeared from her body. The next day Strong Wind married her, and she walked with him across the sky and looked down on her People.
Strong Wind resolved to punish them for the hurt they had caused his bride. He changed them into aspen trees and dug their roots deep into the earth. Since that day, Picture Perfect 5 the leaves of the aspen tremble in fear of the coming of Strong Wind. No matter how quietly he approaches, they shiver, because they cannot put out of their minds his great power, and his rage. She was lying on top of a grave, her head pressed close to the headstone, her arms crossed over her stomach.
She was almost as white as the seven faded granite markers that surrounded her. The groundskeeper took a deep breath, dropped his trowel, and crossed himself. He inched toward the body and leaned over, casting a shadow. The woman looked into the sky. She did not know where she was, but it was quiet; and since her head was pounding, she was grateful. Sitting up, she touched the gravestone and squinted as the letters dipped and blurred before her eyes. She pulled herself to her feet and balanced against the stone for support.
Then she leaned over and retched, clutching her stomach and blinking back tears at the pain shooting through her temples. She had taken three steps away from the church before she realized she did not know where she was supposed to go.
She put a hand to her forehead and felt the slip of her own blood. Her hand was trembling. She stepped back toward the graveyard and looked behind the headstones for a pocketbook, a knapsack, a clue. She moved to the gate again, planning to go to the closest police station and tell them what had happened. She would give her address and she would call. Who would she call? She stared at a bus sighing at the corner stop.
Maybe the priest would be back soon, she thought. Maybe someone would come by and offer to help her. Her head began to throb, a drumbeat that threatened to split her in two.
She sank to the ground and lay back against the gravestone again, pulling her jacket close to ward off the chill of the earth. She would wait. She opened her eyes, hoping for answers, but all she could see were clouds that covered the sky like a bruise.
He could feel it, beating like a hammer at the base of his throat, this claustrophobia born of the hissing asphalt under his tires and the condos pressed so close they left no room to breathe. He had never seen it. There had only been pictures, and accounts from his mother and his father. He thought of the statistics from the Bureau of Indian Affairs, which said that sixty-six percent of Indians who left the reservations returned, 8 Jodi Picoult unable to live in the cities.
Of course, he was not entirely Sioux. But he was not entirely white, either. He smelled it before he saw it. The wind carried him the salt from the waves. He parked the rusted secondhand pickup on the shoulder of the road and ran down the sloping dune. He did not stop running until his sneakers were submerged, until water stained the thighs of his jeans like tears.
A gull screamed. Where the hell was he? He peered at the map in the soft glow. I was here an hour ago. He blamed his faulty sense of direction on his wasicun blood. It was hours before his grandmother found him again, cold and curled beneath the burl of an oak. Wordlessly she pulled him by the hand in the direction of home. To them, to everyone who lived around him, he would always be iyeska, a mixed-blood.
He nodded when his white bosses described the Sioux as lazy alcoholics and when the words ran cold through his blood; he wrapped his indifference around him like a cloak. Well, he was white now. Shifting gears, Will eased the truck away from the curb and started down the street again. The opulence of Beverly Hills amazed him— the wrought-iron gates and the pink marble fountains, the lights that winked from great Palladian windows. There was a party going on at one of the houses.
Co-workers, he thought, as he stepped out of the pickup to ask directions. One was blond, and that was all Will had time to notice before the man slammed his head against the cab of his truck, pinning his arm behind him. What the hell business do you have in a neighborhood like this? The man released his wrist, and Will pushed away from the truck and faced him. I just got here; I start work tomorrow. Walking back to his truck, he stared at the people at the party on the hill, laughing and drinking like nothing at all had happened.
The moon slid behind a cloud as if it were embarrassed, and at that moment two truths struck Will: He did not like L. And he was not white. Somewhere to the east, a searchlight was cutting across the sky, and she wondered if some awards show was scheduled for that night—they were a dime a dozen in L.
She pulled herself to her feet and began to walk toward the gate. With each footstep, she spoke aloud a different female name, hoping that one might jar her memory. She sat at the curb, in front of the sign that listed the name of St. What would she possibly have been running from?
Shrugging, she dismissed the thought and peered into the distance. Across the street and down the block was a billboard for a movie. He was smiling at her. His grandparents, like many people on the reservation, believed strongly in the omens of birds. He braked. Behind him, a van swerved, its driver cursing through the open window. Will pulled over in front of a Catholic church and parked in a towaway zone. He got out of the truck and stepped onto the sidewalk, lifting his face to the sky.
She saw Will and started to walk a little faster, a smile breaking across her face. Stunned, Will stared 12 Jodi Picoult at her. She reached just as high as his shoulder and she had dried blood at the edge of her scalp. She came closer, until she stood just inches away, looking at the bruise above his eye.
He had never felt anything like it: Will caught her and settled her in the passenger seat of his truck. But her eyes blinked open and she smiled so easily that Will found himself smiling back. She swallowed and ran her hand over her hair, smoothing it away from her face.
He smiled hesitantly, waiting for her to fall back to reality. Will looked carefully at her clear eyes, at the clotted cut on her temple. Amnesia, he thought. What brought you to the church? He shifted slightly, wincing at the pain that shot over his eye.
He remembered the blond cop in Beverly Hills, and he wondered if they all would be like that come Monday. Her eyes narrowed. I live in Reseda. I start work tomorrow. Nobody else had come. Surely for someone who was not thinking with reason, but only with gut instinct, that had to count for something.
She nodded. He held out his hand.
Will thought about the song of the owl, and this gift that had literally dropped into his arms, and as he glanced at her he knew that in some way she was now his. She was supposed to be reciting the names of the months in reverse order, as per instructions of the emergency room doctor, but she kept jumping from November to September. As far as Will could tell, these stupid exercises had done nothing but make her more frazzled. He held up a pen, inches from her face. Hospitals made him nervous; they had ever since he was nine years old and had watched his father die in one.
Three days after Picture Perfect 15 the car accident, his mother already buried, Will had sat with his grandfather waiting for his father to regain consciousness.
There may be a few minutes surrounding the actual blow to the head that you never recall. It could be hours; it could be weeks. She glanced up at Will.
He had not noticed it himself. She shook her head. He turned the ignition and fastened his seat belt before he spoke. She wondered what she had said to make him so angry. For right now, at least, he was her only friend. Maybe everything will look different.
This woman he knew nothing about, this woman who knew nothing about him, was putting herself in his hands. It had completely shocked him: To Will, it seemed to contradict everything else he knew about the Sioux. After all, they did not understand ownership of the land. Yet they branded a wife as property, a husband as an owner. He watched Jane sleep.
In a way, he envied her. He would get some cold water and soak that. He brushed her hair away Picture Perfect 17 from her forehead and looked over her features. She had ordinary brown hair, a small nose, a stubborn chin. She was not the blond bombshell of his adolescent dreams, but she was pretty in a simple way.
Will walked to the door and turned off the light. He looked away so that she would not be able to see his face.
He was three, and he remembered the way his mother looked standing in front of the sheriff. She was tall and proud and even in the dim lighting she looked very, very pale.
Flying Horse is one of my employees. Lundt on the ranch. Will watched him grow smaller and smaller, the pistol at his hip winking each time he passed a window. Zachary stepped out of the corridor in the jail behind the sheriff. He did not touch his wife. At least she was lucky. A light came into her eyes.
She could do something in return; she could unpack for him. Her taste in decorating might not be like his—in fact, she had no idea what her own taste was like—but surely having the pots and pans in the cabinets and the towels in the linen closet would be a nice thing to come home to. There, in two boxes, carefully layered in newspaper, was a series of Native American relics.
She unwrapped beautiful quilled moccasins and a long Picture Perfect 19 tanned hide painted with the image of a hunt. There was an intricate quilt and a fan made of feathers and a circular beaded medallion. At the bottom of the box was a small leather pouch trimmed with beads and bright feathers, on which was drawn a running horse.
It was closed tight with a sinew thong, and although she tried, she could not open the bag to see its contents. She did not know what most of these objects were but she handled them as gently as she could, and she began to piece together more about Will. Will spent the day being introduced by the captain to other people in the LAPD, getting his badge and his assignment. When giggling secretaries asked about the bruise, he shrugged and said someone had gotten in his way. But she needs to be brought in for questioning.
Will nodded, and started toward the door. The goddamn shirt was choking him. He turned the corner of his block wondering if Jane had remembered her name. She met him at the door wearing one of his good white shirts, knotted at the waist, and a pair of his running shorts. Will shook his head and stepped over the threshold of his house. He stood perfectly still in the entrance, surveying the neatly stacked, empty boxes and the proof of his history hanging over the walls where anyone could see.
The fury came so quickly he forgot to hide it away. He whirled to pin his gaze on Jane and found her crouched against the wall, her hands overhead as if to ward off a blow. The anger ran out of him. He stood quietly, waiting for the rage to clear out of his vision. He did not say anything. He grabbed an empty carton and began tossing the items back inside. She had to do it carefully; she had to make it right. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, looking to change the subject.
Will smirked. The sun bled through the windows and cast Jane and Will into silhouette as they fell into an easy silence. Will picked at the pieces of the chicken, sucked the meat from the bones. Disappointed, Jane leaned back against a stack of boxes.
He smiled at Jane. In fact, she was the last person who pulled a wishbone with me. He pictured her hand and his own curled over the edges of the forked chicken bone, and he wondered if her wishes had ever come true. Will looked up. She settled them onto her plate and moved them around with her hands, seemingly unaware of what she was doing. She glanced up at him and smiled. So he left in the middle of the day, on this borrowed horse, and he set out sort of north-northwest without any idea where he was headed.
Picture Perfect 23 My father pulled her in front of him on the horse and wrapped an extra saddle blanket around them. But she wrote him letters all summer and they got married a year later. Nobody gets swept off their feet anymore. She picked up the near-empty serving platter and then dropped it, hearing its ring and the splatter of grease. The bones were carefully structured, in some cases even bound together at the joints. The wings were folded neatly against the rib cage; the powerful legs were bent as if running.
Physical anthropology. It had been such a tremendous part of her life, she was shocked even a blow to the head could make her forget it. She lightly touched the femur of the reconstructed chicken. She kept trying to explain her science to him.
That much he understood, but most of the other things she said sounded like a foreign language. And now, the following morning, while Will was working his way through a bowl of Cheerios, she was trying to explain the evolution of man. She was drawing lines across her napkin, labeling each branch with names. He pointed to a spot on the napkin. Will snorted. He picked up his hat, getting ready to leave.
He thought of her crouched over a site in the red sand ILL Picture Perfect 25 of a desert, doing what made her happy. Times with a small blurb requesting information about her, and Jane remembered discovering the hand.
After Will had left, Jane took herself to the local public library. It was a small branch library, but it did have a neat little section of textbooks on anthropology and archaeology. She found the most recent book, hunched over the polished table, and began to read. Familiar words jarred images in her mind. She saw herself in the British countryside, kneeling beside an open pit in which lay the tangled remains of an ancient Iron Age battle.
She could remember brushing earth from the bones; feeling for the pits on a sternum made by lances and arrowheads, or the cleanly severed vertebrae that cried decapitation. Hundreds of anthropologists had combed Tanzania looking for evidence of the stone-tool industry they thought primitive man had the level of intellect to conceive. Following the lead of her colleagues, she had gone down one year to reopen a forgotten excavation site. For fossilization to occur, skeletons had to remain undisturbed by animals and swirling waters and shifts of the earth, and if any pieces of a skeleton were lost, they tended to be the extremities.
She had found what everyone had been searching for. She had carefully labeled the chisel, the hundreds of digits of bone, had cleaned them and preserved them with a synthetic resin. Jane turned back to the book and read the caption beside the photograph of the hand.
Dated to over 2. Was that her last name? She skimmed through the index of the book, but there was no other reference to Barrett. Shaking slightly, she walked to the reference desk and waited for the librarian to look up from her computer. Jane grabbed the paper out of his hands and scanned the copy. That could just be the lead scientist who was excavating the site. He wondered what he would do when she left him to go back to her life.
Squinting up at the sun, he had opened the Tuesday Times and stared at the picture of the woman on page 3 until his cigar fell, unnoticed, from the corner of his mouth into the shallow end. He wiped his arm across his forehead, grimacing as a streak of makeup came off on the sleeve of the velvet doublet. Jennifer, his mousy little assistant, was standing with the portable phone next to a spare suit of armor. Is she all right? I called you right away. He hung up on his agent without saying goodbye and started barking instructions to Jennifer.
He called over her shoulder to his coproducer. She was already bent over the telephone making plane reservations, her hair falling around her like a curtain. When she looked up he held her gaze, and she saw something in his striking eyes that very few people ever had: She picked up the phone again and began to dial. What Alex Rivers needed, Alex Rivers would get. Will ran from the bathroom into the kitchen, wrapping a towel around his waist. I just got a call from the station. The feelings Jane brought out in him went deeper than a matter of a fateful coincidence.
He liked knowing that she tried Picture Perfect 29 to cover her freckles with baby powder. He liked the way she had of talking with her hands. He loved seeing her in his bed. He told himself that this was what was meant to be all along. She was sleeping on her side, her arm curled over her stomach. He leaned closer and shook her lightly, shocked to notice that the pillow and blanket no longer smelled like him, but like her. He made coffee while she was showering, in case she wanted something in her stomach before they left, but she wanted to go right away.
He sat beside her in the pickup and drove in silence, letting all the words he should have been saying clutter the space around him. Call if you get a chance.
If anything happens, well, you know where I am. Jane stared glassy-eyed at the freeway, her hands clenched in her lap. She did not speak until they turned into the parking lot of the police station. He had not expected this. Jane shrank back against the seat. Will guided Jane up the steps and into the main lobby of the station, feeling her warm breath make a circle against his collarbone.
Standing beside Captain Watkins was Alex Rivers. Alex goddamn Rivers. All these reporters, all these cameras had nothing to do with Jane at all. Jane was married to the number-one movie star in America. She was afraid to look up and face all those people, but something was keeping her on her feet and she needed to see what it was. One moment, Cassie saw him glossy and larger than life; in the next, he seemed to be nothing more than a man. She smelled the clean sandalwood of his shaving cream and the light starch of his shirt.
She closed her eyes and fell into the familiar. Herb called me in Scotland.
She looked up at him, at this man every woman in America dreamed about, and she took a step back. Alex frowned for a moment, Picture Perfect 31 and then pulled his wallet out of his back pocket. He handed her a laminated picture, a wedding photo. It was certainly him, and it was certainly her, and she looked happy and cherished and sure. She gave it back to Alex. He put away his wallet and held out his hand. She stared at it. Somewhere behind her, she heard a desk clerk snicker. The vertical line of worry between his brows smoothed, the thin line of his lips softened into a smile, and his eyes began to shine.
He lit up the room, and Cassie felt her breath catch. Me, she thought, he wants me. Alex Rivers let go of her hand and put his arm around her waist.
Alex nodded. She bubbled at the thought of that. Her hand. It was her hand, after all; and through some miracle of God Alex Rivers seemed to be in love with her, and— Will.
Thank you. He leaned forward to kiss her cheek. Cassie stuffed the paper into the pocket of her jacket and thanked 32 Jodi Picoult him again. She apparently led a storybook life. What would she possibly need? Alex was waiting patiently at the door of the station. She was frightened too, but that seemed secondary all of a sudden. Acting on instinct, she smiled up at Alex. Amazing—when he seemed to be calmer, she felt better too.
Alex glanced out at the swarming media. He held one hand in front of his eyes and pushed a path for them through the growing throng of paparazzi and cameramen. It had been built with ninety-two plate-glass windows, strategically located for eastern, western, and overhead exposure so that no matter where you were, the sun placed you center stage.
Alex stood in front of a wall of glass, beautifully backlit, running his thumb over the edge of an oval inlaid maple box. It was an odd feeling, seeing a stranger a few feet in front of you and knowing that you had shared his bowl of cereal, warmed your feet against his calves, traded him your whispers in a soft, mussed bed.
Cassie wished she could throw herself into the charade, but she could not. Alex was the actor, not her, and she was painfully aware of the shifting zone that moved with her, blue and magnetic, forcing a distance between them even when they touched. Alex sighed. Suddenly he stood up, bathed in sunlight, and Cassie lost track of her thoughts. She did not remember Alex, she did not feel comfortable around him, but she was fascinated by him.
The silver shine of his eyes, the proud line of his jaw, the muscles corded in his neck, all called to her. Alex had just shrugged. The last thing it was was little. He turned to her, the telephone forgotten, his eyes locked onto her own. He cupped his hand over the receiver again and moved closer, until they were separated by the space of a breath.
Cassie did not close her eyes as Alex kissed her. Her hand fell away from his arm to hang at her side, and she tasted faint traces of coffee and vanilla. But before that could happen, Alex gestured helplessly at the phone. I left Macbeth mid-scene, you know, to get you.
Poor Herb has to clean up the mess I made. She wondered if she should change her clothes before Herb arrived. She wondered who Herb was.
She started toward the master bedroom, where Alex had showed her, earlier, a closet full of silks and rainbow cottons that belonged to her. She reached the arched hallway Alex had pulled her through before.
Torn between fear and something that resembles love, Cassie wrestles with questions she never dreamed she would face: How can she leave? Then again, how can she stay? As Picture Perfect begins, it is daybreak in downtown L.
A woman suffering from amnesia is taken in by an officer new to the L. Days later, when her husband comes to claim her at the police station, no one is more stunned than Cassie Barrett to learn that not only is she a renowned anthropologist, but she is married to Hollywood's leading man, Alex Rivers. The publisher Putnam , ; paperback edition published by Berkley Books a division of Putnam , Book 3.
As Alex helps Cassie become reaccustomed to her fairy-tale existence, fragments of memory return: Yet as Cassie settles into her glamour-filled life, uneasiness nags at her. She senses there is something troubling and wild that would alter the picture of her perfect marriage.
When she finds a positive pregnancy test in her bathroom, she is flooded with dark memories. Trying to piece together her past, she runs to the other person she trusts to keep her hidden-- Will Flying Horse, the policeman who had initially harbored her.
Out of loyalty he cannot fully understand, Will spirits Cassie away to stay with his parents on the reservation where he grew up-- and to which he never wanted to return-- for the duration of her pregancy.
Safe in South Dakota, Cassie contemplates her future. She weighs the ominous pattern of her marriage against her compassion for her husband.