A Perfect Day

by Richard Paul Evans

  “I know, honey. But now is the time when it will really pay off.”

  “It did pay off. You hit number one. What more do you want?”

  “As much as I can get. Stopping now would be like running a marathon and quitting on the last mile.”

  “But your book is already number one. There’s no place else to go.”

  “Arcadia thinks I can double my sales.”

  She stood and walked away from the table. “I can’t believe this. You told me that we’d go home and have a nice, calm holiday. You told me that I could go see Aunt Denise this week.”

  “I also told you that I’m not in control of my life right now.”

  “Then don’t promise things that you can’t deliver.” She went to the bathroom and locked the door behind her.

  I walked to the door. “Come on, Ally. It comes with the territory. It’s just our life.”

  “It’s not our life, it’s your life. This has nothing to do with me or Carson.”

  “Well, it should. You should be excited about this. Any other wife would be.”

  She opened the door. “Any other wife? Are you talking about someone in particular?”

  “No,” I said angrily. “But the women I meet at my signings certainly would.”

  “Then I guess you’d be better off with one of them, wouldn’t you?” She shut the door again.

  I groaned. “You’re driving me crazy.” I grabbed some clothes from my suitcase and headed for the door. “I’m going to the gym.”

  Chapter 32

  The universal weight set was cathartic. I couldn’t remember the last time I had lifted so much weight. When I returned, Allyson was lying on the bed staring at the ceiling. She had changed her clothes, and her suitcase was packed and sitting next to the door. She didn’t speak to me. I went in and showered and dressed. When I came out, she said, “Camille will be here in twenty minutes. You don’t have to go to the airport with me.”

  I sat down on the bed next to her. “Are we going to make up before you go?”

  “I’m too tired to do it again.”

  I stood. “I’m going with you to the airport.” I left the room alone. I took our luggage downstairs and waited in the lobby. It was raining outside and the air felt damp. Camille arrived about the same time Allyson came down. I put Allyson’s bag in the trunk then climbed in the back of Camille’s car. Camille immediately sensed the tension between us, and on the way there she and Allyson spoke casually to defuse the awkwardness. I sat in the back quietly.

  When we arrived at the airport, I checked Allyson’s bag at the curb then walked with her into the terminal. We stopped outside of Security. “When will I see you again?” she asked. Her voice had softened.

  “I’m afraid to say.”

  “When can I see Aunt Denise?”

  “You can go now.”

  “Who would watch Carson?”

  “How about Nancy?”

  “Nancy works during the day. Besides she’s been watching her the last two days already.”

  “Why don’t you take Carson with you?”

  “She has too much going on at school right now.”

  “Then we’ll just have to wait.”

  “I hope she can,” Allyson said. “She’s been really sick this last week.”

  I frowned. “I’m really sorry, Al. I don’t mean to keep letting you down.”

  She looked down for a moment then up into my eyes. “I know. It’s just hard.” We kissed. Then I waited until she had passed through Security. She smiled at me from the other side of the screening and blew me a kiss. But there was sadness behind it. There was distance between us that I had never felt before. I walked back to the car and slid into the front seat next to Camille. She pulled away from the curb.

  “Want to talk about it?” she asked.

  “Not really.”

  “Don’t worry. She’ll get used to it.”

  I looked over at Camille. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  Chapter 33

  I left New York at eight a.m. the next morning and changed planes at the Delta hub in Salt Lake City. I only had an hour between flights, and I didn’t really feel like I was home. Just another airport. My flight landed at John Wayne International shortly before noon. I felt dizzy. When I left New York, there had been freezing rain and turbulence, and the first half hour of the flight made me airsick. I had my laptop with me and finally caught up on my diary. I vowed not to get behind again.

  It was warm when I got off the plane. I was overdressed for Southern California. I claimed my suitcase and walked out to the curb, where a gray stretch limousine was waiting for me. The chauffeur was wearing a uniform. He recognized me and walked out to get my bag. “Are you Mr. Harlan, sir?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, sir. I’m Barry, your driver.”

  As we pulled away from the curb, he asked, “Have you done Roundtable before?”

  “No. This is my first time.”

  “They hold their meeting at the Balboa Beach Yacht Club. You’ll enjoy yourself. Nice folks.”

  I didn’t respond. I still felt a little airsick from the ride, and I lay down across the seat and shut my eyes. A half hour later the limousine let me off in front of the yacht club. I had arrived ten minutes after the event was to begin, and while a few guests were still at the registration table, most of the people were already seated for lunch. A woman stopped me at the door.

  “Excuse me, sir. Do you have a ticket?”

  “No.” Just then a woman with striking red hair and Gucci-framed eyeglasses stepped up to me.

  “It’s okay, Janice, Mr. Harlan is one of our celebrities.” She smiled warmly. “You’re so young to be so successful.”

  “I guess luck can strike at any age.”

  “And humble too. A rare virtue in these parts. I’m Margaret Burke. I run Roundtable. Thanks for coming at the last minute. I know you were cutting it close with your flight.”

  “It wasn’t too bad. My flight was a little late. New York wasn’t quite as balmy as it is here.”

  “It never is. We’ve already started serving lunch. We have a seat reserved for you up front with our other celebrities, if you’ll follow me.”

  We walked into the dining room. The room was spacious and crowded. There were several hundred attendees, mostly women, all elegantly dressed. Margaret led me over to my table. I was seated directly across from Bob Hope, his publicist and his wife, Dolores. At the table next to us was Senator Bob Dole and several of his aides.

  Margaret introduced me to the Hopes. Dolores smiled pleasantly, while Mr. Hope only looked up when Dolores told him to. I wasn’t offended. I couldn’t help but wonder how many thousands of times this had taken place for them and how old it must get. We shook hands. “Pleased to meet you,” I said.

  Mr. Hope replied, “Do you know whose place you took on the program?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Raquel Welch. So I won’t say that I’m pleased you’re here.”

  I chuckled. “My father is a very big fan of yours. You performed for his outfit during World War Two.”

  “Then your father has my admiration. You give him my best.”

  “I will, sir.”

  I wondered what Chuck would think to see me here at the same table as one of his greatest heroes. It was one of his dreams to meet Bob Hope. Chuck hated celebrities—he considered them un-American leftist ingrates—but Bob Hope, Jimmy Stewart and John Wayne were exceptions. I remember at a young age sitting in my room and hearing “Thanks for the Memories” from the Bob Hope television special and Hope’s voice followed by Chuck’s laughter. These were magical moments in our home. Chuck didn’t often laugh. It was as if Mr. Hope had some strange authority to grant Chuck permission to chuckle: I think he felt that laughing at Hope was a patriotic duty of sorts.

  Margaret introduced the speakers, pointing out that we were all “Bobs.” I was the first on the program, which was fine with me. I had littl
e desire to follow Hope or Dole. I spoke about my book, and to my surprise, the emotion in the room ran strong. It was a generous audience and I noticed a few of the women taking Kleenex from their handbags. Our time was limited to fifteen minutes apiece, but I only took ten. Even though I had the number one book in the country, I was still relatively unknown and I had few delusions that anyone in the audience had come for me, especially since I had been invited only a few days previously.

  When we had finished speaking, we stayed at the head table and the members of the club lined up in front of us to have their books signed. At the end of my line was one of the few men in the audience. He was what Allyson would call a natty dresser. He wore a dark, pin-striped suit with a bright red power tie. He was tall, maybe six-two with the large shoulders of a linebacker. He exuded confidence, a sort of inevitability that comes to those who become accustomed to getting what they want. He wore a broad, likable smile as he stepped up to me.

  “Mr. Harlan, you handle yourself well with the ladies. You had them all in tears.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I have the same effect on women but for different reasons.” He extended his massive hand. “Darren Scott, the Summit Agency.”

  “It’s a pleasure.”

  “I have two copies of your book, one for Vanessa, the other for Julia.”

  I signed the books then handed them back to him. “Thank you,” he said. “Your book is going to translate well to the big screen. You haven’t sold the film rights yet, have you?”

  “Actually I have.”

  He shook his head and frowned. “Scooped again. Who’s the lucky studio? Warner? Paramount?”

  “Actually we sold it to television.”

  He looked stricken. “Oh, don’t tell me that. Anything but that.”

  I felt foolish. “Why?”

  “You need an agent, my friend.”

  “I have an agent. Camille Bailey of Argent Literistic.”

  “And she advised you to settle for television?”

  I felt embarrassed to be a party to such apparent incompetence. “None of the studios were interested.”

  “They’re always interested in making money. You just need to know how to play them. With your book the key would be to attach the script to a big name, a Julia Roberts or Sandra Bullock. I could have done that for you with one arm behind my back.”

  Suddenly I felt sick inside.

  “Who did you say your agent is?”

  “Camille Bailey.”

  His brow furrowed. “Camille Bailey. Haven’t heard of her. And I know everybody who is anybody.” He handed me a card. “How long are you in town?”

  “I fly out of LAX Thursday afternoon, but I’m staying in Beverly Hills until then.”

  “I live in Beverly Hills. Do you have a dinner engagement for tonight?”

  “Just room service.”

  “Why don’t we go out to dinner?”

  “Sounds nice.”

  “Good. You’re staying where?”

  “At the Beverly Wilshire.”

  “I know the number. I’ll call and let you know where and when.”

  As he walked away, I felt as if I’d just been invited to a whole new world. And Darren Scott knew the way.

  Chapter 34

  I arrived at the Beverly Wilshire shortly before five. There was a message waiting for me from Darren Scott. Our reservation was at seven-thirty at Le Dolce, a haute Italian restaurant within walking distance from the Wilshire. Darren assured me that I wouldn’t be disappointed as the restaurant catered to a celebrity clientele.

  I connected my computer to the Internet and pulled up my e-mail. I answered a few letters then caught up in my diary. I still had time, so I began searching the Internet for homes. I found a Salt Lake real estate service specializing in luxury homes and began looking through their listings.

  I found exactly what I was looking for—a six-bedroom home on the east bench of the valley. It had a dark brick exterior with a gabled roof and a turret topped with a finial. It had all the creature comforts a human could hope for, including a home theater system with a large-screen television, theater chairs and surround sound audio. It had two kitchens (one for entertaining), a sauna, a steam room, a Jacuzzi tub in the master, hand-carved stair rails and walk-in closets in every bedroom. Closets are a big deal with Allyson. For years I kidded her that our home has walk-in closets, you just can’t go that far once you’re inside.

  Judging from the picture on the Web site, the yard was lushly landscaped, with cobblestone walks and statuary. There was a swimming pool and a tennis court in the backyard, and the front yard overlooked the Salt Lake Valley. The home was situated at the end of a private drive, with an electric gate. The only thing missing was a price. I scrawled the agent’s name and number then called.

  “This is Chris.”

  “My name is Robert Harlan. I’m on the Internet right now and looking at a home you represent on Fairfax Court.”

  “Oh yes, the Stringham mansion. That is a beautiful home. We just listed it yesterday.”

  “How much are they asking?”

  “Frankly not enough. Only seven and a half. They’re practically giving it away.”

  The idea of three-quarters of a million dollars being a “giveaway” seemed ridiculous. But from what I could see it looked like it was worth it.

  “Would it be possible to see it?”

  “I’m available this afternoon if that’s convenient for you.”

  “Actually it’s not. I’m calling from Beverly Hills.”

  This seemed to please him. “Oh yes, many of our clients are from Beverly Hills. Are you relocating to Utah?”

  “No, I’m from Utah. I’m just here today on business.”

  “Would you mind if I asked what business you’re in?”

  “I’m an author.”

  “Of course,” he said, his voice slightly animating. “I had wondered if you were the Robert Harlan, but I didn’t want to say anything. I haven’t read your book yet, but my wife has. She loved it. She’ll be thrilled to know we spoke. Now, what day would be most convenient for you, Mr. Harlan?”

  “I’m flying home next Sunday around four.”

  “I would be happy to pick you up from the airport.”

  “Thank you, but my wife will be there. But we could come directly from the airport.”

  “Excellent. Let me give you the directions.”

  Chris spelled out the way to the home and we hung up. I looked at the house again. It was much more house than we needed. I suppose that it wasn’t really a house I was looking for. Maybe it was vindication. Or, perhaps, proof positive that Chuck Harlan’s son was not a failure. With a home like that not even Chuck himself could dispute it. I couldn’t wait to see the house. I couldn’t wait to see Allyson’s face when she saw it.

  Chapter 35

  The walk from the hotel took longer than I had expected and I arrived at the restaurant five minutes late. The restaurant’s lobby was dark and lit by flickering sconces that were mounted on the walls next to oak trellises wrapped with grape vines. There was Italian opera music softly playing. I approached the maître d’. He was an older Italian man, good-looking, bald with a goatee. Next to him stood a young, dramatic-looking blond woman, model slender and wearing a silk periwinkle gown that almost matched her lipstick. The maître d’ glanced toward me then went back to his reservation book. After I had stood in front of his table for about a minute, he looked up at me. “May I help you?”

  “I have a seven-thirty reservation.”

  “Your name please?”

  “It’s Robert Harlan. I’m with Darren Scott.”

  His expression changed at the mention of Darren’s name. “Of course. Mr. Scott is already seated.” He turned to the woman. “Jeanette, please escort Mr. Harlan to Mr. Scott’s table.”

  “Certainly.” She smiled at me. “Follow me, please.”

  Darren Scott was seated at what must have been the most desirable table in
the restaurant, a secluded corner table overlooking the lake. He stood as I approached.

  “Robert. Thanks for making time to join me. I know how tight these book tours are. You practically have to schedule a potty break.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Have you been to Le Dolce before?”

  “No. I’ve never been to Beverly Hills before.”

  “It’s not easy getting reservations here unless you know someone.”

  “And you know someone?”

  He smiled broadly. “I know everyone. But that’s my business.” He gestured to my chair. “Have a seat.”

  A waiter immediately appeared at our table. “Buona sera, Mr. Scott.”

  “Good evening, Enrico.”

  He poured water into our crystal goblets, put my napkin in my lap and presented us menus. He handed the leather wine list to Darren. After he left, Darren said, “Your book is just amazing. I read A Perfect Day a week ago on a flight to New York. I’m not exactly the sentimental type, but it’s one of those books that you wish you were alone when you read it so you could bawl your eyes out. You really have talent.”

  I smiled. “Thanks.”

  Another waiter approached us. “Good evening, Mr. Scott. Have you gentlemen had time to decide on your meals?”

  I nodded and Scott gestured for me to order first. “I’ll have the Pasta Florentine with white truffle oil.”

  Darren nodded as if impressed with my selection.

  “And for you, Mr. Scott?”

  “I’ll have the same.”

  The waiter walked away.

  “I’ll order anything Florentine,” he said. “We filmed the sequel to Silence of the Lambs in Florence. I left addicted to Chianti and white truffles and five pounds heavier.” He took a drink of wine. “So tell me, how’s Arcadia treating you?”

  “They’ve been great.”

  “The author has the luxury of being friends with the publisher. It’s a different world for an agent. Do you know what’s the difference between a terrorist and a publisher?”

  “No.”

  “You can negotiate with the terrorist,” he said, a grin crossing his face. “So how about your agent. Camille Bagley?”