A Perfect Day

by Richard Paul Evans

  I am closest to Stan. More than anyone else, Stan understands my feelings about Chuck. Stan hasn’t spoken to him for even more time than I, five years and counting, the likelihood of a reunion growing fainter with each passing year.

  Stan had started the Harlan Sprinkler Company as a summer enterprise to earn money for college. The company grew faster than he had expected and he never went back to school. Even though Stan’s abandoning his quest for a degree made Chuck mad, Stan didn’t care. In fact he seemed to relish disappointing him. And in proving him wrong. Stan’s success was indisputable. He had a nice home on the east side, a sports car, a boat, season tickets for the Utah Jazz basketball team and he spent most of his winter skiing when work was scarce. He had a secretary and ran a crew of twelve men. I was the thirteenth.

  By this time I had pretty much given up on my book. Of the manuscripts I had sent out, nearly twenty rejections had come back. The remaining five agents didn’t even bother to respond. Still my book was being read. Nancy had read it and raved about it. She called Allyson the night she finished it, full of tears and praise. She had shared it with a few other friends at work and they shared it until it had been passed around the entire credit department at R. C. Willey. I wondered how they could love the book so much while the agents rejected it. I figured that the agents knew better than I. And that I better just get used to a life doing something else besides writing.

  I spent the first weeks at my new job digging troughs for sprinkling systems and laying sod. I still had the soft hands of a radio salesman and I came home each evening with fresh cuts and blisters. Manual labor gives one time to think. In my case, too much time. When I signed on with Stan, it was under the guise of temporary employment, but I wondered if I, like Stan, would spend my life there.

  One night during my second week of work I arrived home with my clothes and body caked with mud as black as tar. I suppose that I looked pretty pathetic, and I could tell that Allyson wasn’t sure if she should laugh or cry. Her nose wrinkled as I entered the house. “What have you been doing?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  I had already kicked my shoes off outside, and I pulled off my shirt and dropped it to the ground by my feet. “Just burn it.”

  “You look like you fell into a swamp.”

  “Worse. We had to dig out a septic tank. I’m going downstairs to shower then to hang myself.”

  Allyson walked over and put her arms around me.

  “Careful,” I said. “This stink is contagious.”

  “I don’t care. Thank you for working so hard for us.” We kissed then she stepped back. “Dinner ’s almost ready so don’t be too long.”

  As Allyson was setting the table, the phone rang. The caller ID showed an out-of-area call. The woman on the phone asked for Mr. Robert Harlan, and Allyson cloaked her voice with the formality she reserved for phone solicitors. “He’s busy right now. May I take a message?”

  “Yes, my name is Camille Bailey. I’m a literary agent for Argent Literistic. Mr. Harlan sent us a manuscript to review and I’d like to speak with him about it. May I leave my phone number?”

  “I’ll get him.”

  She called for me. “Robert, telephone.”

  I was still dressing and I shouted back, “Take a message.”

  Her voice lowered. “Rob, It’s a book agent.”

  I came to the bottom of the stairway with a towel wrapped around my waist. “On the phone?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  I answered the phone in my den. Allyson hung up the phone upstairs then came down next to me.

  “Mr. Harlan, my name is Camille Bailey, I’m a literary agent with Argent Literistic in New York. You sent our firm a copy of your manuscript A Perfect Day. May I call you Robert?”

  “Of course.”

  “Thank you. Is A Perfect Day your first work, Robert?”

  “Yes,” I replied. “Does it seem like it?”

  She laughed. “Your book is lovely. I read it last night and I was crying so hard near the end that my roommate thought I had had a death in the family. Your story was so connecting that I felt like I had.”

  “Thank you.”

  “No—thank you. I think you have a real winner here and I think I can sell this. I would like to represent your book, assuming of course that you haven’t signed with someone else.”

  My heart raced. “No, I haven’t.”

  “Have you sent it to anyone else?”

  “I sent it to a few other agents.” I hesitated with the truth. “Well, actually twenty-five, but they’ve all sent me rejection letters.”

  She was undaunted. “Well, they obviously didn’t read it.”

  Allyson looked at me, wanting to know what was being said. I smiled and gave her a thumbs-up.

  “I have friends at a few of the movie studios. I’d like to take this to them before we approach the publishers. A film deal drives the price up considerably.”

  “You mean a movie?”

  Allyson’s eyebrows rose.

  “Possibly. I think A Perfect Day would make a terrific feature. At the least it will drive a strong deal with one of the networks for a Sunday-night special.”

  “I feel like I’m dreaming. What do you think my book could go for?”

  “It’s best not to speculate. There’s such a broad range of possibility. First novels usually don’t sell for that much, but I think this is a special book. We’ll just have to see how excited the publishers get. But I don’t think we’ll be disappointed.”

  Her casual optimism filled me as well. For the first time in a long time I felt bright with hope. “You really think it will sell?”

  “I’ve been doing this for a long time. I know a winner when I see it. But before I send the book out I’d like to meet with you in person. Coincidentally I was already planning a trip to Utah next week. Do you have a free day?”

  “For you, any day is free.”

  She laughed. “Good. How about Tuesday?”

  “Tuesday works. What are you doing in Utah?”

  “I have an author in Park City I’m meeting with on Wednesday. So I’ll just come out a day earlier. I’ll have my assistant call and let you know what time I’ll be in.”

  “I look forward to meeting you.”

  “Likewise. Again, Robert, congratulations on a beautiful novel.”

  “Thanks for calling.”

  As she hung up, I erupted, punching the air. “Yeah, baby!”

  “What did she say?” Allyson asked excitedly.

  “She loved the book. She’s sure it will sell.”

  “This is so exciting. I’m so proud of you!”

  I felt like I had just won the lottery. “Did I sound like a real idiot?”

  Allyson laughed. “No. Just real.”

  Chapter 15

  By the age of thirty-seven, Camille Bailey had lived two professional lives, both of them in the book industry. The first was in her hometown of Chicago, where for six years she worked as a book editor for Northwestern University Press. At the age of thirty she decided to make a career leap and left the second city for America’s first, landing in New York as an assistant agent at a small uptown literary agency. She was employed at the firm for only six months when she was offered a job as an agent at Argent Literistic. I would learn that she had all the qualities that make for a good agent—or poker player, as they are the same. She could be intense and immutable but in the same hour warm and seemingly vulnerable, as if the agent persona was one she wore like a flak jacket to take off when she wasn’t doing battle.

  She was not married—except to her work. She had a full-grown chocolate Labrador named Barkley that she treated like a child and a condo in TriBeCa not far from where John Kennedy Jr. once lived.

  Camille arrived in Salt Lake City the following Tuesday afternoon. I met her at the airport, standing outside the Jetway holding a piece of paper with her name written on it in black Magic Marker. She looked at the paper then up at me and smi
led. “Hi, Robert.”

  “You’re Camille?”

  “I am. It’s so nice to meet you.”

  I had anticipated a brusque, curt, big-city Manhattanite attired in black. Camille was anything but. She had a warm, homey look to her, more fitted to Des Moines than New York City.

  She had booked a room in downtown Salt Lake City at the Hotel Monaco, about twenty minutes from our home. I drove her to her hotel. She checked in then we sat in the hotel’s café and got acquainted, discussing the book and the book industry over glasses of Coke.

  I asked, “Do I sign a contract with you or just the publisher?”

  “Most agents have contracts, but I don’t. I decided early on in my career that if someone doesn’t want to work with me I really don’t want to work with them either.”

  “Has it ever been a problem?”

  “Not so far. Of course once we sell the book you’ll have to sign a contract with the publisher.”

  Her casual confidence in my book was incredibly delicious. I had been starved for respect, and this woman had brought me an entire buffet. After about an hour we left the café and I took Camille home to meet Allyson. Even though Allyson was a small-town girl with a dislike for big cities, her feelings did not extend to their people. She liked Camille immediately, and vice versa was evident as well.

  Allyson introduced Camille to Carson, who felt suddenly bashful and sat on the opposite side of the room eyeing Camille suspiciously. For twenty minutes she said nothing, until there was a sudden lull in the conversation and Carson blurted out, “I can play the violin.”

  Camille smiled. “I would like to hear that,” she said.

  A smile broke across Carson’s face and she ran to her room to fetch her instrument.

  “You don’t know what you’re in for,” Allyson said.

  “How long has she been playing?”

  “About a year. She’s in the Suzuki program.”

  “That takes a lot of parental involvement, doesn’t it?” Camille asked.

  “It sure does,” Allyson replied.

  Carson returned holding a miniature violin and bow. She curtsied to Camille then ran the bow over the strings in an excited version of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” Camille applauded when she finished.

  “I can play on my head,” Carson announced, and immediately set to rearranging her body until her feet were almost where her head had been. She played “Twinkle” again, and there was little difference in the quality.

  Camille laughed for a full minute.

  Nancy had volunteered to watch Carson while we went out, which was not altogether altruistic as Nancy was just as excited to meet a real book agent as I was. After introductions and Nancy’s gushings, we left Nancy and Carson behind and drove to a quaint Italian restaurant near our home for dinner.

  Camille perused the menu. “I can’t decide. Everything looks good.”

  “This restaurant is owned by a cute little Italian couple,” Allyson said. “We’ve been coming here for years.”

  “I love Italian food. In fact I love everything Italian. The food, the clothes, the men. Not to mention the shoes. I visit Italy every year.”

  “I’ve always wanted to go to Italy,” Allyson said.

  “We’ll have to go together sometime. You haven’t lived until you’ve celebrated New Year’s Eve at Piazza del Popolo in Rome. What a circus.” She winked at me. “We’ll leave Robert home to babysit.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  Only after we had begun to eat did the conversation turn to the book.

  “So when do you plan to send the book to publishers?” I asked.

  Camille set down her fork. “The truth is, I already have. After our last conversation I had a change of heart and sent it to an editor friend over at Arcadia Publishing.”

  “Did they like it?”

  She smiled. “You’re ruining my surprise. She loved the story.”

  “Is she serious about it?”

  “As a heart attack. She was going back to her boss to discuss an offer. I expect to have something when I get back on Thursday.”

  “This is exciting,” I said.

  Allyson beamed. “So you’ll be in Utah for two days?”

  “Yes. I have a meeting tomorrow in Park City.”

  “That’s what you said,” I interjected. “Another author. Would we know his name?”

  “You might. It’s Stanford Hillenbrand. The funny thing is he’s actually a mortician. He’s written a handful of books, but none of them have been very big sellers. But he’s a great writer. He won the Mountains and Plains Book Award two years ago and was also nominated for the National Book Award. He’s a bit eccentric, but I think you’d like him. I’ll get you two together sometime.”

  “I’d like that,” I said. I liked the idea of camaraderie with another author. I felt like I had just been welcomed into an exclusive club.

  After dinner, dessert and coffee, we dropped Allyson off at home then I took Camille to her hotel. As we neared the hotel she said to me, “Allyson’s very sweet. I’d like to get to know her better.”

  “She’s definitely my better half. She made my book possible, you know. Besides the fact that it’s really her story, she took a job so that I could finish the book.”

  “That’s remarkable. Where did you meet?”

  “At the University of Utah. I met her in an English class.”

  “How did she end up in Salt Lake?”

  “Initially she came out on a scholarship. But she really just wanted to ski. She’s from a very small town in southern Oregon.”

  “I know.”

  “She told you?”

  She looked at me. “I read the book.”

  I laughed. “Of course.” I pulled my car up to the hotel’s front doors and shifted into park. Camille leaned against the door but did not move to open it. “How close were you to Allyson’s father?”

  “Not very. I’ve only met him twice. The second time was when he was dying.”

  “It’s amazing that you were able to capture him so vividly in your writing. I feel like I know him. He sounds like a saint.”

  “A saint with a shotgun. He was a gruff old guy. But boy did he have a soft spot for Allyson. Even when his body was wracked with cancer, he wouldn’t leave her. He hung on for days after he should have been gone. The man just wouldn’t die.” I felt sad as I thought of it. “You know, I’ve never told anyone this before—not even Ally. But when we were sitting next to his bed waiting for him to die, I realized that he wouldn’t go because he didn’t have anyone to take care of his girl. When Allyson left the room, I told him that I loved his daughter and I promised him that I would never leave her. He waited until Allyson came back into the room; he looked up at her and he died.”

  “That’s really moving.”

  “It’s something I’ll never forget. Allyson’s the way she is because of his love for her. She’s the only person I’ve ever known who loves without an agenda. I’m probably the luckiest man on the planet to have found someone like her.”

  Camille smiled thoughtfully. “You’re a lucky man to realize it. I’ll let you go.” She unlatched her door then turned back and extended her hand. “It’s been a pleasure, Robert. You are just as genuine as your book.”

  “We’ve had a good time. I know it probably seems dumb to you, but it’s a big deal for us having you here. A real book agent.”

  “It’s a big deal for me too. I’ll talk to you Thursday.”

  Chapter 16

  I took Thursday afternoon off to wait for Camille’s call. It was nearly five—seven New York time—when it came. “Is Allyson with you?” Camille asked.

  “I can get her.”

  “You’ll want to hear this together.”

  Allyson was upstairs starting dinner when I called for her to get on the phone. She came downstairs and I put the phone on speaker. “We’re both here.”

  “Hi, Camille,” Allyson said.

  “Hi, Ally. I’ve got some
good news for the Harlan family. Arcadia Publishing has just agreed to publish A Perfect Day.”

  We erupted in celebration. I yelled; Allyson clapped. Even Carson was screaming, though she didn’t know why. I couldn’t imagine being happier if I had just won the Super Bowl. In fact all that was missing was someone pouring an ice cooler of Gatorade over my head.

  All the pain and self-doubt of the last few months were swept away in this moment. I had read about successful authors boasting about their rejection letters, even framing them. Now I understood why. I was now glad for all the rejections, as they made this moment of triumph that much sweeter—like one of those lemon candies that are bitter on the outside and sweet in the middle.

  After we had settled down some, Camille continued. “Arcadia would also like to purchase the rights to Robert’s next book. Seems someone over there thinks Robert has talent.”

  “This just keeps getting better,” I said. Though the truth is I would have given my book away just to see it on a bookstore shelf, I wondered how much they had offered for it and if it would be enough to quit my day job.

  “So let’s talk money,” I said crassly. “How much?”

  “A hundred and twenty-five thousand. Not bad for a first novel.”

  I was breathless. “Not bad? Do you have any idea how many sprinklers that is?”

  “I’m so proud of you, Rob,” Allyson said. “Thank you, Camille.”

  “Thank yourselves. You deserve it. Now go out to dinner and celebrate.”

  “We will,” I said.

  “I started making a casserole,” Allyson said.

  “It will keep,” I said. “Let’s go out.”

  “Then I better get upstairs. Bye, Camille.”