The Storyteller by Jodi Picoult Read Free Book Online

stoned by your neighbors. You become an outcast.”
    “Your hands become edible,” I say. “Look, Mary, don’t go full-frontal nun on me. What I do with my free time is my own business. And you know I don’t believe in God.”
    She moves, blocking my path. “That doesn’t mean He doesn’t believe in you,” she says.
    My scar tingles. My left eye starts to tear, the way it did for months after the surgery. Back then it was as if I were sobbing for everything I would be losing in the future, even though I didn’t know it at the time. Maybe it is archaic and—ironically—biblical to believe that ugly is as ugly does, that a scar or a birthmark is the outward sign of an inner deficiency, but in my case, it also happens to be true. I did something awful; every time I catch a glance of my reflection I am reminded of it.Is it wrong for most women to sleep with a married man? Of course, but I am not most women. Maybe that’s why, even though the old me would never have fallen for Adam, the new me did just that. It’s not that I feel entitled, or that I deserve to be with someone else’s husband. It’s that I don’t believe I deserve anything better.
    I’m not a sociopath. I’m not proud of my relationship. But most of the time, I can make excuses for it. The fact that Mary has gotten under my skin today means that I am tired, or more vulnerable than I thought, or both.
    “What about that poor woman, Sage?”
    That poor woman is Adam’s wife. That poor woman has a man I love, and two wonderful kids, and a face that is smooth and scar-free. That poor woman has had everything she wants handed to her on a silver platter.
    I reach for a sharp knife and begin slicing the tops of the hot cross buns. “If you want to feel sorry for yourself,” Mary continues, “then do it in a way that isn’t going to destroy other people’s lives.”
    I point the tip of the knife at my scar. “Do you think I wanted this?” I ask. “Do you think I don’t wish every day of my life that I could have the same things everyone else does—a job that’s nine-to-five, and a stroll down the street without kids staring, and a man who thinks I’m beautiful?”
    “You could have all those things,” Mary says, folding me into her arms. “You’re the only one saying you can’t. You’re not a bad person, Sage.”
    I want to believe her. I want to believe her, so much. “Then I guess sometimes good people do bad things,” I say, and I pull away from her.
    In the bakery shop, I hear Josef Weber’s clipped accent, asking for me. I wipe my eyes on the hem of my apron and grab a loaf I’ve set aside and a small package; I leave Mary standing in the kitchen without me.
    “Hello!” I say brightly. Too brightly. Josef looks startled by my false good cheer. I thrust the small bag of homemade dog biscuits for Eva into his hands, as well as the loaf of bread. Rocco, who is not used to mefraternizing with the customers, pauses in the act of restacking clean mugs. “Wonders never cease / From the deepest, darkest bowels / The recluse arrives,” he says.
    “ Bowels is two syllables,” I snap, and I motion Josef toward an empty table. Any lingering hesitation I had about being the one to instigate a conversation with Josef has become a lesser of two evils: I’d much rather be here than be interrogated by Mary. “I saved you the best loaf of the night.”
    “A bâtard, ” Josef says.
    I am impressed; most people don’t know the French term for that shape. “Do you know why it’s called that?” I say, as I cut a few slices, trying hard not to think of Mary and her dream. “Because it’s not a boule, and it’s not a baguette. Literally, it’s a bastard.”
    “Who knew that even in the world of baking, there is a class structure?” Josef muses.
    I know it’s a good loaf. You can smell it, when an artisanal bread comes out of the oven: the earthy, dark scent, as if you are in the thick of the woods. I glance with pride at the