A Perfect Day

by Richard Paul Evans

  “Mind if I sit here?”

  I looked up. “Sorry, I’m expecting someone.”

  The man again glanced around the room then pulled the chair out with his foot and sat down anyway. I looked at him. “I said I’m waiting for someone.”

  He said coolly, “I’ll leave when he comes.”

  I reminded myself that this was New York and went back to my paper. The man leaned forward slightly. “Are you who I think you are?”

  I tilted my newspaper down until I could see him. “That depends a good deal upon who you think I am.”

  “The author of that new book everyone’s talking about.”

  “I’m Robert Harlan.”

  “Cool. Hey, congratulations. I read your book just last week. You must be really proud, your first novel and it’s a blockbuster best-seller.”

  I tried to act unaffected but found myself instinctively adopting the tone of voice I used with the press. “I’m one of the lucky ones. Thank you.”

  “I’m sure you get sick of people asking you this, but is your book really based on your wife’s last few months with her father?”

  “Yes.”

  The man looked pleased with the confirmation and sat back in his chair. He took a sip of his drink then looked at me thoughtfully. “I’m a little puzzled why you left a part of that out.”

  I thought his comment amusing. “Exactly what part would that be?”

  His brow furrowed. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but when your wife’s father was dying you promised him that you would never leave her. But it’s not in the book.”

  I looked at him. “How did you know that?”

  “Not that the book needed it. Look how well it’s doing. In fact maybe it’s better this way since you have, in fact, left her. It might be kind of embarrassing. Anyway who’s to say that deathbed promises count?” His voice lowered. “But then again you haven’t done that well on the other side of life either. Like the promise you made to little Carson the day she was born. You told yourself that you’d never leave her. Not the way your mother left you—both your mothers for that matter.”

  I set down my paper. “Who are you?”

  He smiled innocently. “Just another fan, Robert.”

  I wasn’t sure how to respond. There was no way he could have known these things. Allyson didn’t even know them. I nervously glanced down at my watch, wondering where Darren was.

  “He’s not coming.”

  I looked up. “Excuse me.”

  “He’s not coming.”

  “Who’s not coming?”

  “The guy you’re waiting for. Your new agent Darren Scott—a man so big he needs two first names. Mr. Big Shot went to the wrong Starbucks. You’ll still have plenty of time to hear him name-drop over dinner tonight.”

  This little man was getting to me. It was like watching a magician play a card trick an inch from your nose that you can’t figure out. Only he was playing with my life. I reacted angrily. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but I don’t have time for your little game.”

  The stranger leaned back and raised both hands as if in surrender. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’ll just go back to my reading.” He buried his nose in his magazine. I went back to my paper, though only superficially, as I found myself rereading the same article. After a minute the man said casually, “By the way, you’re right. You don’t have much time.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just that when it’s your time it’s your time.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “That pain in your chest you’ve been complaining about, the one Dr. Frank said was reflux? Well everyone’s going to be scratching their heads over that one. Of course you could have another physical but don’t bother. They won’t find anything. Like I said, when it’s your time it’s your time.”

  As I looked at him, my cell phone rang. I glanced down at the caller ID, then lifted the phone to my ear. “Hello.”

  Darren’s voice boomed. “Where are you?”

  “At Starbucks. Where are you?”

  “Which Starbucks?”

  “The one on Union Square,” I said.

  “You said to meet you at the Starbucks on Sixth and Twenty-second.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “I have the e-mail in my pocket.”

  “I didn’t even know there was a Starbucks on Twenty-second. I meant this one.”

  “Well, I’m not a mind reader. Should I come down or do you want to come here?”

  I looked down at my watch. “We don’t have time. I’ve got a meeting with my publisher in a half hour. I’ll just catch up with you tonight at dinner.”

  “Let’s make sure we’re on the same page,” Darren said. “The NoHo Star, on Lafayette and Bleecker.”

  “Right. There’s only one. Eight o’clock.”

  “See you then.”

  I slid the phone back into my coat pocket. The stranger was again reading his magazine but wore a smug grin. I eyed him for a moment. “Who are you really?”

  He set down his magazine. “Who I am is unimportant. Who you are or, more significantly, who you’ve become, is the real matter at hand.” He looked at me intensely. “May I call you Bob?”

  Before I could voice my objection, he said, “You’re an important guy, Bob, so as you’re so fond of saying, I’ll just cut to the chase. You seem pretty caught up in this whirlwind of success. You’ve broken some promises, big promises, and you don’t have much time to make up for it.”

  I blinked slowly. “What you just said. What do you mean by ‘not much time’?”

  “Don’t be obtuse, Bob. The bell has rung, pencils up, please turn your test over. And frankly you better hope they’re grading on a curve, because you haven’t been doing too well of late. Your father-in-law isn’t the only one you broke a promise to. Remember your wedding day, when the preacher said ‘until death do you part’? You went one up and said, not until death, but forever. Remember that? Now Mrs. Forever is nursing a broken heart and wondering if she’ll ever see you again.” His voice slowed. “You have until New Year’s to pack your bags.”

  The stranger abruptly stood, pushing his chair back with the motion. “You know, Bob, humans are funny. They all believe that death is some kind of an accident, something that wasn’t really supposed to happen.” His eyes took on darkness as he spoke. “Wake up, Bob. Death is everyone’s destination. Even bestselling authors’.”

  His expression lightened. “By the way, your three o’clock meeting with your publisher has been postponed until Monday morning.”

  He dropped his magazine on the table. “You should look at this. There’s a great article on Chihuly. Man, I love Chihuly,” he said. He walked toward the door, stopped to hold it open for a woman, then walked out, disappearing in the crowds that flooded the sidewalk. My mind spun like a roulette wheel. Just then my cell phone rang. I slowly answered it.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Robert? This is Heather.”

  “Hi.”

  “Sandra and some of the salespeople got hung up in another meeting, so the three o’clock meeting has been postponed. Would Monday morning at ten be okay?”

  I couldn’t believe this. I didn’t answer.

  “Are you there?”

  “Sorry. The phone was just cutting out. Monday’s fine.”

  “I already called Camille. So you don’t need to tell her.”

  “Thanks. Have a good weekend.”

  “You too.”

  Things were getting more surreal by the moment. I took out my planner and wrote in the meeting. Then I began counting days to January first. According to the stranger I had exactly forty days left to live.

  Chapter 43

  I got off the subway at Bleecker and walked up the stairway to the NoHo Star restaurant. Darren was already seated near the back of the restaurant, looking at a menu. He was dressed in a black Armani suit with a narrow, gold tie.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I
said, sitting down. “I’m still figuring out the subways.”

  “I’m glad you came,” he said. “After this afternoon I thought you might just be pulling my chain.”

  “No. Honest mistake.”

  Darren reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a folded sheet of paper. “Here.”

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s your email asking me to meet you at the Starbucks on Twenty-second.”

  I looked at the paper. It did say Twenty-second. “I’m losing my mind,” I said. “This day has been surreal.”

  “How so?”

  I considered whether or not I should tell him. From what I knew of Darren he wasn’t exactly the type who went in for angels or psychics. I was sure he’d think I was crazy. Still this thing was bothering me and I had to tell someone.

  “While I was waiting for you at the Starbucks, this guy sat down at my table. He recognized me and started asking the usual questions. But then he started telling me things about myself. Things he couldn’t possibly have known.”

  Darren gazed at me with a look of concern. “What kind of things?”

  Just then a waitress walked up to our table. “Are you gentlemen ready to order or do you still need a minute?”

  I looked up from Darren’s gaze. “I know what I want. How about you?”

  “I’ll have the salmon and a glass of Chardonnay,” Darren said.

  “And for you, sir?”

  “I’ll have the Mexican salad. And a homemade ginger ale.”

  “Very good. I’ll get your drinks.” She walked off.

  “He knew what kind of things?”

  “Personal things. Intimate details about my past. About my marriage.”

  His countenance turned grave. “That’s frightening. This is the dark side of celebrity. There are crazy people out there who get obsessed with celebrities and learn everything they can about them. It might seem harmless, but stalkers are a very real danger.”

  “He didn’t seem like a stalker. The thing is, the stuff he knew isn’t anything he could have researched. I mean he knew things not even my wife knows.”

  “Like what?”

  “He knew that you were at the other Starbucks waiting for me.”

  The waitress returned to our table with our drinks. “Here you are, one Chardonnay, one ginger ale. I’ll be back with your meals shortly.”

  “Take my advice. If you see him again, notify the police.”

  I pulled the paper off my straw and rolled it into a ball while I thought. “So what would you do if you found out that you only had forty days to live?”

  He laughed. “Now, there’s a question. I suppose I’d eat, drink and be merry. And run up a credit card bill to match the national debt.” Suddenly his expression turned grave. “Wait, this stalker you met didn’t tell you that you had just forty days to live?”

  “No. Of course not. It’s just . . .” I looked at Darren then stopped myself. “It’s just an idea I had for a book.”

  He nodded. “Good. Glad you’re thinking about it. That reminds me of a joke. A writer died, and upon arriving at the pearly gates St. Peter gave him the choice of going to heaven or hell. He decided to check out each place first. They first went to hell. There he saw hundreds of writers chained to their desks in a steaming sweatshop. As they worked, a demon whipped and yelled at them. ‘This is horrible, ’ the writer said. ‘I want to see heaven.’

  “So St. Peter took him to heaven. There he also saw hundreds of writers chained to their desks in a steaming sweatshop. There an angel whipped them.

  “ ‘Wait a minute,’ said the writer. ‘This is just as bad as hell.’

  “ ‘No it’s not,’ replied St. Peter. ‘Here, your work gets published.’ ”

  Darren finished the joke with a satisfied grin, and I obligingly chuckled. Then Darren opened the leather portfolio that was on the chair next to him. “I brought my contract.” He set a small stack of paper on the table. The contract was nearly as long as the one I had signed with my publisher. I started to look it over but stopped at the beginning of the third page. “This will take me a while.”

  The waitress returned with our meals. “There you gentlemen are. Can I get you anything else?”

  “Just our check,” Darren said. She set it on the table. The sound of the subway rumbled below us like an earthquake. Darren looked at me intensely. “It’s just a standard agency contract. If you want, you can just sign it now and then read it on your next flight.”

  I stared at the stack. “I’d rather read it before I sign it.”

  “It’s not a big deal,” he said. He changed the subject. “So you said that you and your wife are separated.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you still talking?”

  “Not since I left Utah. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  “Well, be smart about it. Maybe the best thing to do is to sign the contract after the divorce is final. She’s already going to get a chunk of the stuff you have with Bagley. This way she can’t claim any ownership of future royalties.”

  “I didn’t say we’re getting a divorce.”

  “No one intends to get a divorce,” he said. “At least not at first. I better give you this.” He reached into his pocket and brought out one of his own business cards. He wrote a phone number on the back of it then set it in front of me. “Benson is one of the best divorce lawyers in the country. When you’re ready, give him a call. Tell him you’re a client of mine. He’ll take care of you.”

  Darren went back to eating. I had lost my appetite. I picked at my salad for a while then said, “I’m not feeling too good. I think I’ll head on back to my hotel.” I reached for our dinner check, but Darren put his hand on it. “I’ve got it.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You fly back to Salt Lake City tomorrow?”

  “No, I’ve decided to stay in New York until next Wednesday.”

  “I’m shuttling up to D.C. for the weekend, but I’ll be back Sunday night. Let’s get together for lunch on Monday.”

  “Sure. I’ll see you then.” I turned to go.

  “Rob.”

  I turned back. He was holding the card with his attorney’s number. “You forgot this.”

  I took it from him. “I’ll give you a call.”

  “See you Monday.”

  I took a cab back to my hotel.

  Chapter 44

  Monday morning I hit the snooze button on my alarm clock but then got up anyway. It had been a restless night. A restless weekend for that matter. Three days after meeting the stranger I was more agitated than ever. My dinner with Darren hadn’t helped matters. His contract still sat unread on the desk in my hotel room. I didn’t know when I would get to it.

  I turned on the shower then went to my computer to check my e-mail. When the screen came up, it suddenly went dark and there appeared a red flashing number 37 that took up my entire screen. I had never seen anything like it. I tried pushing keys but nothing happened. I restarted my computer, but when it booted up the number was still there. Forgetting the time difference, I called my brother Marshall, the software designer. He answered on the fourth ring.

  “Marshall, this is Rob.”

  “What time is it?” he asked groggily.

  “Sorry. I forgot it’s still early there. Should I call back?”

  “No, I’m awake now. Where are you?”

  “New York.”

  “So what’s up? Besides us.”

  “I need your expertise. When I turned on my laptop this morning, there was a flashing number.”

  “What kind of number? Like an error code?”

  “No, it was a large, red, flashing number thirty-seven. It took up my entire screen and froze my computer.”

  “Just the number thirty-seven?”

  “Exactly.”

  “What else is on your desktop?”

  “I’ll check.” I looked at my computer. The number was gone.

  “That’s strange. It just disappeared
. Now my e-mail is up.”

  “What kind of computer do you have, a PC or Mac?”

  “A PC. Do you know of any viruses that do this?”

  “Not that I’ve heard of. But that doesn’t mean anything. There’s a new one born every minute. You have virus protection, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s your laptop doing now?”

  “As far as I can tell everything’s back to normal.”

  When something vexed my brother, it was difficult for him to let it go. “I’ll send an e-mail out over the Web and see if anyone else is reporting this. It’s not a function of your Windows calendar is it? Some kind of an automatic reminder.”

  “A reminder of what?”

  “That there’s thirty-seven days left in the year.”

  My heart froze. “Could be. Thanks, Marshall. Sorry to wake you.”

  “No problem. Things going well out there?”

  “The book is doing well.”

  “And you?”

  “Ask me in a few months.”

  He laughed. “Love you, man. We’re proud of you. Call if there’s anything else I can do.”

  Chapter 45

  I arrived at the Arcadia meeting shortly before ten. I cut my arrival as close to the appointed time as possible, as I was uncomfortable with seeing Camille and I didn’t want there to be much time to languish in awkwardness. I was led up to the conference room on the fourth floor. I was the last to arrive. Camille was already seated, as were Sandra, Heather and several others from the Arcadia sales force whom I had yet to meet. Camille looked up at me as I entered. She showed no emotion, positive or negative, but motioned for me to sit by her.

  The meeting went well. The purpose of it was to discuss how to parlay my recent success into a chain of bestsellers. Someone suggested that my next book be a sequel to A Perfect Day. I didn’t feel comfortable with this, but I told them that I’d think about it. In truth the meeting was as much a back-slapping session as anything else. The success of my book had far exceeded everyone’s expectations.

  The meeting ended an hour later. I thanked everyone before leaving and we exchanged holiday wishes. Camille stood next to me until it was just the two of us. On our way out of the room I said to Camille, “I’m sorry about the other day.”