“Daddy?”
“No. I call him that. But his name is Carson. That’s why we named you Carson.”
This made her smile. “Where is your daddy?” “He went to heaven.”
“Can he come see us?”
“I don’t know. But we can’t see him.”
“How come?”
“It’s just that way.”
“Is heaven like book tour?”
Allyson was surprised that Carson knew what a book tour was. Obviously she had been listening in to adult conversations. “I don’t think so. How come?”
“Because we can’t see Daddy either.”
“No. But Daddy will be coming home soon.”
“Will he be home in one hundred days?”
Allyson smiled. “He’ll be home a lot sooner than that. Do you miss him?”
She nodded. “Sometimes when I think about Daddy I feel sad. Do you miss your daddy too?”
Allyson turned to her and smiled, but her eyes moistened. “Every day, sweetheart. Every day.”
Chapter 23
It was the third day of my second week on book tour, and if I had had illusions of the limousine and champagne lifestyle, they were mostly gone by now, replaced by fatigue and loneliness and the reality of the road. It was Wednesday night. It was two hours before my book signing and I was eating dinner with my escort, a pleasant man named Dick Brown, on the plaza in Kansas City, when Camille called me on my cell. “How are you doing?”
“I want to go home.”
“I know. How was your book signing yesterday?”
“Good. There were a couple dozen people there.”
“And they had the right book?”
“Oh, yeah. Someone got the message, because it was the first thing they said to me when I arrived.”
“Good. My tantrum was efficacious. Well, this should help lift your spirits. We just got news on the New York Times bestseller list.” She paused. “I feel like there should be a drum roll or something. Here it goes. A Perfect Day just hit the list at number fifteen. You are now and forevermore a New York Times bestselling author.”
“Yeah, baby!” I shouted.
“I’ll e-mail the list to you. Where are you headed now?”
“I have a book signing at Rainy Day Books.”
“Oh, one of the classic independents. By the way, Allyson says to remind you that you have a wife.”
“You talked to her today?”
“I talk to her almost every day.”
“About what?”
“Mostly you.”
“Great. I’ll call her right now and share the good news.”
“Talk to you later.”
Camille hung up and I dialed home. “Hey, Al.”
“Hi, honey.”
“I have some good news. We just hit the New York Times bestseller list. Number fifteen.”
She squealed. “Congratulations. Does that mean you can come home now?”
I laughed. “It doesn’t quite work that way.”
“I can hope. Here, someone wants to talk to you.”
I could hear the phone being fumbled, dropped, then breathed into.
“Daddy?”
“Hi, sister.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m in Kansas.”
“Where’s Kansas?”
“Far away.”
“Are you coming home?”
“Soon, honey.”
“It’s my violin show tomorrow. I wish you were here to take me.”
Her words lodged in my chest.
“So do I, honey. With all my heart.”
“Do you want to talk to Mommy?”
“Yes.” When Allyson was back on the phone, I said, “That hurt.”
“I know. She’s very sad that you’re missing her recital. She’s been missing you a lot lately. A few days ago she asked me if book tour was like heaven.”
“Not hardly. Why would she ask that?”
“She said because my daddy was in heaven and I never get to see him either.”
I groaned. “That really hurts.”
“I told her that you’d be home soon. At least that’s what I keep telling myself. She’s not the only girl who’s missing you. So by the way, when are you coming home?”
Allyson knew perfectly well, as she had it marked in big letters on our refrigerator. She was just twisting the blade. “You’re not making this easier.”
“You’re onto me.”
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Let me know how the recital goes.”
“I will. I’ll e-mail you some pictures. And congratulations on the list. I’m proud of you. Have a good night.”
“Good night, Al.”
Chapter 24
Over the next week I could feel the change in the seasons. I bought a light jacket and wore it every night. Allyson said that the leaves in the Wasatch Mountains had all changed. It made me homesick. Autumn is my favorite time of the year in Salt Lake, when the nights turn chill and there’s a bite in the morning air. I never feel so alive as I do in autumn.
I could also feel changes in myself. Already I felt like a veteran of the road. I was no longer nervous doing radio and television interviews, and I was no longer surprised to find people at my book signings; rather I expected them. Air travel had lost its mystique, and the hub terminals had become all too familiar. But the biggest change I experienced was the deepest and most complex. Instead of missing my family more with time, as I’d expected, I found that I missed them less as I grew accustomed to a different world. I realized that going home would require its own adjustment.
Momentum for my book was growing. While the most obvious signs of progress were the increasing numbers of people at my book signings, there were more subtle indications as well. After I hit the bestseller lists, the bookstore managers and employees began asking to have books signed for them. My biggest signing of the week was in Oregon when I signed at Powell’s, an enormous independent in downtown Portland.
There were nearly fifty people waiting for me when I arrived. And there was family. Allyson had made a call to her aunt Denise, and she and a handful of her friends had driven more than four hours from Medford. While Allyson visited her aunt at least once a year, it had been a few years since I had seen her, and I was surprised at how much she had aged. She didn’t look like she felt too good, and she was unable to stand in line. Of course she didn’t have to. I went to her and we embraced. Her friends, two gray-haired ladies probably a few years younger than her, stood to each side staring at me in awe like I was Cary Grant.
“Thanks for coming, Denise. That’s a long drive to make.”
Her eyes were still dark and clear, and they sparkled as she spoke. “That’s what family does. We’re proud of you, Robert.”
I took her hand in mine. Her skin was smooth and warm. “How have you been?” I asked.
“Same old. Every day a step closer to the grave-yard.” A wry smile lit her lips. “Old age ain’t for sissies.”
“Don’t talk that way. You’re not old,” I said.
“Oh yes, I am, and proud of it. So how are my girls?”
“They’re doing all right. Carson had her first violin recital last week.”
“Yes. Allyson sent me pictures. She’s growing like a weed. How is my darling Allyson doing with you being gone?”
“It’s hard on her.”
“And you?”
“It’s hard on me too. It’s lonely.”
“How’s your health?”
I felt as if I should be asking her. “I’m tired, but holding up.”
“Well, don’t overdo it.” Her warm smile turned suddenly solemn. “We are all just so proud of you. But you be careful out there, Robert. There are a lot of Jezebels in this world. That family of yours is the most precious thing you have.”
“That’s for sure.”
“That Allyson is one in a million. When she called, we talked about her coming out in the next few weeks. You don’t mind, do you?
You know I can’t go too long without seeing my girl.”
“Of course I don’t mind.”
Denise looked around. “Well, I’ve taken too much of your time. Your fans are getting restless. We better go before we cause a riot.”
She introduced me to her friends and I shook their hands, though they also asked for hugs, which I obliged. Then I signed all their books. We took a snapshot with the four of us and hugged again. Then Denise said, “We brought you these.” She handed me a paper plate covered in foil. “Believe it or not they’re still warm—my chocolate chip and pecan cookies. I know how you love them.”
“You’re an angel,” I said.
“Almost,” she replied. “You take care and we’ll see you again soon.”
“You drive carefully, now.”
“We will. Tell my Ally I’ll be waiting to see her.”
I went back to my table. As Denise hobbled off, I looked at her once more, and I had the sudden thought that I might never see her again. I quickly pushed the thought from my mind and started signing books.
Chapter 25
I found my anticipation of Wednesday afternoon growing, the day I received the first news from the lists. Camille caught me on my cell phone just minutes after I had arrived in Boise, Idaho. I was still in the airport terminal and was following my escort to baggage claim.
“A Perfect Day climbed to number seven. You are cooking with gas, man.”
“I’m working out here.”
“It shows. You’re in Idaho today?”
“Yep. My own private Idaho. Hold on, here’s my bag.”
I pulled my suitcase from the carousel then put the phone back to my ear.
“Where were we?” I asked.
“Idaho. Eat a potato for me.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Idaho is the spud capitol of the America. You didn’t know that?”
“Nope. Didn’t know that.”
“Man, I’m buying you an almanac. Go sign, or whatever it is that you do.”
My escort took me directly to my hotel. It wasn’t the Ritz Carlton, or even a Marriott, but it was convenient to the bookstore where I would be signing and it had a gym and a hot tub and the bed was good. Before my signing, I ate dinner at a nearby Applebee’s with my escort, an elderly woman with hair a peculiar shade of lavender.
“Do you do much of this?” I asked.
“Every few months or so. We don’t get that many national authors through Boise. The local ones don’t need me.”
“How’s this bookstore I’m signing at?”
“You’ll like it. It’s a Borders superstore.”
We finished eating, and as we pulled into the bookstore parking lot, my escort said, “The lot’s full. That’s a good sign.”
I put on my jacket and we walked inside. Near the front of the store there was a small table draped with a crimson cloth and a neat stack of A Perfect Day. On an easel next to the table was a poster featuring my photograph and a picture of the book, under which were the words Book Signing Today. 7-9.
I groaned when I saw the table with no one around. Just when I thought I was establishing myself, another “no show.” The store manager, a tall, gaunt man with a shaved head and a goatee, greeted us as we walked in. “Mr. Harlan, it’s such a pleasure having you in our store. Your book has been just flying off the shelf.”
“Thanks.”
“My name is Troy. I’m the store manager. Before we begin, can I get you a drink? Perhaps an Italian soda from the café?”
Begin what? I thought. “Sure. An Italian soda sounds great. Cherry.”
“I’ll be right back with that.”
When he returned, I took the drink then sat down at the table. After about five minutes Troy said, “There’s no rush, but let me know when you’re ready to start.”
I looked at him. “I thought we had started already.”
“I’m sorry, I thought you were going to speak.”
“If someone comes, I’ll be happy to say something.”
He suddenly understood. “We’ve been sending people to the other side of the store.”
“There are people waiting for me?”
He laughed. “Of course. People have been waiting for more than an hour.”
“Let’s go.”
I followed him to the back of the store. I’ll never forget what I saw. There was a broad, open area for readings, and additional bookshelves had been moved to accommodate more than a hundred chairs, all of which were filled. Just as many people were standing against the walls or between bookshelves. I heard an audible rise of excitement as I entered the area. It was a far cry from just two and a half weeks earlier when the only books I sold were to my escort. As I walked up to the podium, the crowd burst into applause. It was my first real taste of celebrity, and it was truly sweet. I guess I should have seen the danger that posed for a man who had struggled his whole life with self-doubt, but I was just too busy enjoying the moment.
I spoke for just a few minutes then sat down to sign a mountain of books. It took me nearly four hours to sign them all. I loved every minute of it. It was a night to remember. I couldn’t wait to write about it in my diary.
At the end of the evening, as I walked out to the car, I suddenly felt a sharp pain rise up my stomach toward my chest. My heart began to flutter. I stopped walking and raised my hand to my chest. My escort took my arm. “What’s wrong?”
The pain subsided almost as quickly as it had come. “I don’t know what that was.”
She looked concerned. “You look pale. We’re not far from a hospital. I’ll take you to Emergency.”
“I’m okay. It’s probably just something I ate.”
“I insist.”
I spent the next hour being poked and prodded by an Asian doctor named Frank. Dr. Frank couldn’t find anything other than indigestion. He diagnosed the pain as probable reflux. By midnight I was back at my hotel. As I climbed into bed, I thought about Chuck. He had suffered a heart attack at the age of forty. I had little desire to imitate any part of his life, but especially in this realm. Especially in matters of the heart.
Chapter 26
During the last week of my book tour I inexplicably found myself growing more anxious about returning home. I thought I could sense it in Allyson as well. Our phone conversations were shorter and there was less longing. I’ve heard it said that absence makes the heart grow fungus. It might be true.
But my feelings of anxiety all vanished the moment the pilot announced our descent into the Salt Lake valley. I was home again. I couldn’t wait to see my girls.
Allyson and Carson were waiting for me right outside the Jetway. Carson held a hand-drawn poster-board sign that read Welcome Home, Daddy surrounded by stars and scribbled balloons.
Carson clapped when she saw me, dropped the poster and ran to me. I squatted down and lifted her in my arms, kissing her face a dozen or so times while she laughed. “I missed you, Daddy.”
“I’ve missed you too, sister.”
I carried her to Allyson.
“Hail, the conquering hero,” she said, opening her arms.
I set Carson down and put both arms around Allyson and we kissed long and passionately. When we finally parted, she said, “You look great.”
I smiled wide. “So do you. It feels good to have you in my arms again.”
“I can’t believe how much I’ve missed you,” she said. “Take me home, cowboy.”
Just then Allyson glanced away from me. Her smile changed. A woman stood a few feet away staring. “May I help you?” Allyson asked.
The woman looked directly at me. “Excuse me, I’m sorry to bother you, but could I have your autograph?”
I forced a smile. “Sure.” I fished through my pockets for a pen then signed the woman’s airplane ticket.
“Thanks,” she said as she ran off down the terminal.
On the drive from the airport Allyson said, “Yesterday I got a call from a writer from Cosmopolitan magaz
ine. She was doing a story on the wives of romance writers. It wasn’t pleasant. She asked me all sorts of personal questions. Now they want to come out and take pictures of our house.”
“When are they coming?”
“They’re not. I told them I’d have to think about it.”
“What’s there to think about? It’s great publicity.”
“I don’t need publicity. It’s none of their business what our home looks like. I share enough of you with the world.” She exhaled and I realized how put off she felt by the attention. She continued in a weaker voice, looking out the window. “And to top it off, the writer said you’re the only author she’s contacted who is still married to his first wife. How is that supposed to make me feel?”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“I’m not trying to ruin anything. I just don’t see what our house has to do with your book.”
“It’s publicity, Allyson. It’s what drives book sales. There are hundreds of books out there just as good as mine that never get a chance to be seen.” She was still frowning, and it bothered me that she didn’t seem to care. “Let’s talk about something else,” I finally said.
“I have the next few days all planned out,” Allyson said. “I’ll start with tomorrow. We’ll take Carson to Jungle Jim’s. Then we’re going to dinner tomorrow night with Nancy and her new boyfriend.”
“Another one, huh?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“What time are we having dinner?”
“Our dinner reservations are for seven.”
I grimaced. “I have a book signing tomorrow night at seven.”
Allyson looked like I had slapped her. “A book signing?”
“I thought you knew.”
“How would I know that? I thought that you were really home.”
“I am really home.”
“Not if you’re still on the book tour. Rob, you’ve been gone a whole month. When do we get you?”
“Honey, I just have a few things. We can go out after the signing. Around nine.”
Allyson shook her head. “Whatever.”
“Don’t be angry, Al. Every profession has its busy seasons. Think of it this way: if I were a farmer, this would be harvest time.”
A Perfect Day Page 9