Oprah Winfrey names "The River Is Waiting" newest book club pick: Read a free excerpt
It's the story of Corby Ledbetter, a young and struggling stay-at-home dad to twin toddlers. He causes a tragedy that tears his family apart. The book tracks Ledbetter's journey through prison, where witnesses acts of brutality and kindness and how he hopes forgiveness may eventually be possible.
Read a free excerpt from "The River Is Waiting" by Wally Lamb.
Free excerpt from "The River Is Waiting"
The following morning, I was still asleep when my phone rang. I squinted at the time: seven fifteen. Who the f---…?
"Yeah?"
"Good morning," Emily said. "Thanks again for last night. Hey, would you like to go out for breakfast? I was thinking the Aero Diner on Route Two in half an hour?"
I said yes, swung my legs out of bed, and headed for the shower. After toweling off, I looked at my naked self in the mirror. Long eyelashes? Check. Broad shoulders? Nah. Average, maybe. Nothing special. But because the work I was doing that summer was physical, my stomach looked cut and my biceps were bigger. Still, I had a T-shirt tan—not cool. And an overbite, as the hygienist always reminded me when I got my teeth cleaned. And in my opinion, my frame was still on the scrawny side. It was a draw, I figured, and slipped on some clean boxers. What counted was that Emily liked what she saw. I glanced again at the clock. I had fifteen minutes to get to that diner on Route Two and there'd probably be beach traffic. There was no time to shave, so I hoped she liked the scruffy look.
Apparently, she did. We got together almost every night for the rest of that dwindling summer. Went to the beach half a dozen times. Made love whenever the opportunity let us, given that we were both staying with our moms.
Emily's mom was iffy about me from the beginning, and she wasn't exactly reassured when she found a couple of the nude sketches I'd done of Emily. "He could post these on the internet," she warned her daughter. "How many schools would hire you to teach if these went public?"
Emily's theory was that Betsy would come around once she got to know me better, so I went over there for dinner one rainy Sunday in the middle of August. Emily made a lasagna and Betsy contributed a green salad with nothing in it besides arugula, oil, and lemon juice. Hope she hasn't tired herself out making it, I thought. To impress her, I had splurged on a thirty-dollar bottle of red wine and purposely left the price tag on, but I could have saved my money. Betsy barely touched her lips to her glass. After I'd finished a second helping of lasagna, Emily said she'd made a blueberry pie for dessert. When she stood and started clearing the plates, I got up to help her. Betsy insisted I sit back down because I was their guest.
With Em in the kitchen, that left the two of us. After an awkward several seconds, I said, "So your daughter says you write poetry."
"Oh, here and there," she said. "I'm much more of a reader than a writer."
"Yeah? What's your favorite book?"
"Oh goodness, I have so many. I've been rereading Jane Eyre. That's one of my favorites. Masterpiece Theatre has been running a marvelous series based on the book. I don't suppose you've seen it."
"No, but my mother's been watching it," I told her. Which was a lie.
For Mom, must-see TV on Sunday nights was Desperate Housewives. "So tell me," she said. "Is art something you're hoping to make your living doing?"
"Maybe," I said. "I'm not really into planning my future at this point.
I guess I'm more of a live-for-today kind of person."
"Aha. Then you're the grasshopper, not the ant." When I shrugged, she said, "Aesop's Fables. You're very young, aren't you?"
As in immature and stupid, I figured. I poured myself more wine. A thirty-buck bottle of cabernet? Someone had better drink it. I felt like letting her know that my high school girlfriend's parents had been crazy about me; her dad had even taken me fishing. Where the hell was Emily? Reaching for my glass, I knocked it over, spilling wine on their white tablecloth. Ignoring my apology, Betsy jumped up, rushed to the kitchen, and came back armed with paper towels, a dishcloth, and a bottle of club soda. Blotting, pouring, and scrubbing, she let me know that the tablecloth, a gift from her favorite aunt, would be ruined if the stain was allowed to set. "Again, I'm very, very sorry," I said. Instead of acknowledging my apology, she continued to scrub aggressively.
When Emily returned with the pie, she apologized that it was so juicy. She'd forgotten the cornstarch. Aware that blueberries stained, I ate my piece super carefully. As soon as I had my last bite, I stood and said I had to go. "Already?" Emily said. I made up a bullshit excuse about having to feed a neighbor's dog.
At the front door, I whispered to Emily that I was pretty sure I'd flunked the audition. "Good thing you're not dating her then," she quipped. "And don't worry about the stupid tablecloth. Big deal." When I kissed her, she kissed me back.
It was pouring by then and the ground was saturated. Backing up, I accidentally veered off their driveway and onto the lawn. Made a little bit of a rut, which by morning might not even be noticeable. And if it was, Betsy would have to just f---ing get over it. You're very young, aren't you? What a b----.
At the end of August, Emily and I promised each other we'd call and write as often as our upcoming semesters allowed. I'd fly out there for the four-day Thanksgiving break and she'd spend the month between semesters back at her mother's. So at the end of our Mistick Village summer, we returned to our schools on opposite coasts.
Excerpted from The River is Waiting: A Novel by Wally Lamb. Copyright © 2025 by Wally Lamb. Reprinted by permission of Marysue Rucci Books, an imprint of Simon & Schuster, LLC.
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