I believe in you, Mr. Smith. Don’t ever let anyone cause you to give up your dream of being a writer. Fuck ‘em.
I found myself weeping for days after reading that note. It turned out I was missing Dr. Samantha Fleming after all.
…
Sidebottom had finally turned away from the dark side of life.
After Glory and I had finished moving her worldly belongings over to my place, we took a thirty-mile trek over to Clermont, Florida, to visit a honky-tonk bar. It was a much different crowd than the kind we normally encountered on Dusty Pond Boulevard. The folks were much more laid back, infinitely more genuine, friendlier, and warmer than the Dusty Pond phonies. They were also very welcoming and kind to strangers like me and Glory. After we got a couple of beers under our belts, we were singing and dancing to the band’s rendition of “Like a Rolling Stone” along with the rest of the locals.
And the song was being performed by none other than . . .
Wally Sidebottom and the Bottom Feeders, the best damned folk and bluegrass band south of the Mason Dixon.
And let me tell you: Wally Sidebottom could flat out tear it up on the guitar. When I gave that guitar to Sidebottom, I knew what I was doing. I was tapping into his family gene pool, so to speak.
Music was indeed in Wally’s blood. During the sixties and seventies his grandmother had been in a traveling folk and bluegrass band up in Kentucky. She had mastered no less than twenty instruments, including drums, bass fiddle, violin, piano, xylophone, and several different woodwind instruments. In later years she was renowned throughout the south for being an outstanding fingerstyle guitarist. She had toured as a solo act for nearly thirty years before actually dying onstage during a legendary performance.
That talent had been passed down to Wally’s father, who was the organist for his Baptist church in Virginia. Mr. Sidebottom was also known to be a hell of a harmonica player.
Wally himself had grown up playing classical guitar, not giving it up until he had left home to flounder for many years before finally obtaining his college degree.
After the song was over, Wally warmed my heart with this speech:
“Thank you, thank you, thank you, folks. Listen up for a quick second. . . . All righty then. I have a couple of close friends in this audience I wish to thank before moving on. First—and I beg the pardon of all the lovely ladies in this dive—in attendance tonight is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known. Glory Nolan, get your hot ass off that chair and show ‘em what you got. . . . Yeah, let me hear it for the lovely lady. . . . Okay, okay, okay, let’s don’t embarrass the poor thing.
“Next, let’s talk about the bum who brought her over here tonight. Well, his name is Bethel Smith. He didn’t get to liking his first name until the lovely Glory there talked him back into using it again. But let me tell you all something else about him. I’ve known him for over ten years. Of all the people I’ve known in my life, aside from my daddy, Mr. Bethel Smith is the only man who truly cared about my soul, about what was inside of me. He turned me away from the evil trade of pickup artistry I was involved in. Well, that’s neither here nor there now, because thanks to Bethel I have a new woman in my life. I also don’t have to paint my fingernails funny colors anymore. Yes, I owe this man everything, folks.
“You see, that magnificent bastard with the lovely lady on his arm—even when he was deeply disappointed and madder than hell at me—brought a guitar over to my house one day and presented it to me as a gift. Well, folks, that gift did for me what it did for my friend Bethel. It gave purpose and meaning to my life. It’s that simple. I want everyone to give my friend a big round of applause.”
And they did. Those beautiful hillbillies gave me a round of applause that had my eyes welling up with tears yet again. To those close to me I was becoming known as a real crier. But it made Glory cry, too. She put her arms around me and told me she loved me more than anything. I told her I felt the same way.
“Okay,” Wally then said into the microphone. “Bethel, get up here and bring your woman with you. I’ve got some earplugs for her to protect her from the killer bass we’re about to lay down. Ah, see, Glory is looking surprised. Bethel didn’t tell her what we’re about to play for her. Bethel, the microphone is yours. Introduce the next tune while we quickly hook up the higher-powered gear.”
With Glory by my side, I strapped on my guitar and stepped up to the microphone, hoping to God I wasn’t as visibly nervous as I felt.
“We’re going to crank it up now,” I announced. “Just one hard rocker, but not too hard. It’s a song that means a lot to me and my girl. I’ve worked in secret with Wally on this number for the past four months, so I think we’ll do a good job on it. We’ll see. Y’all be the judge.”
It might have shocked a few of the locals a bit, but the band and I began playing a rousing yet passionate rendition of an old Soundgarden tune. We performed “Blow Up The Outside World,” the most beautiful hard rock love song written in the history of mankind. Glory had politely refused the earplugs, and she swayed in rhythm as we damn near blew the top off of that hillbilly heaven. I believe I acquitted myself quite well. And judging by Glory’s tears and the way she kissed me after it was over . . . well, that was all I needed to know that I’d pulled it off.
Together, Glory and I were going to blow it all up.
We didn’t need the outside world anymore.
We were now safely within the confines of our own special bubble.
40
DOC SALTERS HAD repeatedly offered to send me additional photographs of my daughter Miranda, but I had continually insisted that he not. I told him that when I saw her again I wanted it to be just like having a baby all over again. When Miranda walks through the door of this bookstore, I want to have no preconceived notions of what she looks like. I will accept her no matter what. The love between a father and his daughter, after all, is unconditional.
As I continue to gaze at this photograph of Miranda, I’m wondering if her mother had the same adorable blue eyes as her baby. For the life of me I just can’t remember what color Miranda’s mother’s eyes were. I’ve made a point of looking for pictures of Tamara Linhart. I want to learn everything about her that I can. If my meeting with Miranda goes well, I’m going to drive over to Kingston and ask around about Tamara. She graduated from Roane County High School over there, and Kingston isn’t a transient city like Orlando, so I’m sure I’ll be able to find plenty of people who knew her. I really hope I do.
So what finally brought me here to Knoxville, Tennessee, in late February?
Well, about a month ago I was saddened to hear that Mrs. Salters had passed away. And it just breaks my heart to see what Doc Salters is going through. I can tell he really loved his wife. If ever a man carries his broken heart on his sleeve, it’s good old Doc Salters.
But I’m afraid the story gets sadder.
Doc has informed me that he has a severe case of glaucoma. He will soon be completely blind. He also says his blood pressure is dangerously high and that he experiences multiple recurrences of tachycardia. His heart is beating too fast. Doc says he isn’t long for this world.
Hence his desire to have me here, to have me in Miranda’s life.
It’s going to be tough for Miranda. She’s going to need a lot of help with managing her grief. She’ll also need counseling to help her accept and adapt to the major changes that are coming in her life. I take comfort in my belief that she’ll have it a bit easier than I did after I lost my parents. When all that happened, I received no love or understanding at all. I just became a shuttlecock in the state of Oklahoma’s bureaucratic badminton game. As soon as one set of foster parents had had their fill of me, I was passed on to the next, and the next, and the next. . . .
Well, let me make something perfectly clear right now. Though Miranda hasn’t yet walked through the door I’m facing, I already love her more than anything. I love her just as much as I love Glory.
And speaking of my dear
Glory . . .
If Miranda chooses to accept me as her father and legal guardian, she will enjoy the presence of a strong female figure in our new home, someone she can eventually call “Mom,” if she wants. That’s because two weeks ago I proposed marriage to Glory Nolan. I took her back to our favorite fondue place and made the proposal before the dessert arrived. After she said yes, that she would marry me, the servers brought out several bottles of fine champagne. I waited until every patron in the restaurant had been poured a glass before I offered a toast to my fiancée:
“This is to the woman who inspires me every day to be a better man. She brought warmth into my heart after it had long turned cold and empty. Her love has given me new life. Instead of waking up each morning fearing what the daylight will bring, I now welcome the challenge of each new day with eagerness and optimism. This lovely lady has made me appreciate the beauty of the world. I love you more than life itself, Glory Nolan. You are truly an angel sent to me from Heaven above.”
As everyone cheered hear-hear and clanked their glasses, tears of joy cascaded from Glory’s brilliant baby blues. Her eyes told me all I needed to know. . . .
When I informed Glory that I was coming up here to meet my daughter, I asked her to pack her most precious belongings and bare essentials. I told her everything else would be taken care of when she got here. Where we end up living depends on how things go today. If Miranda takes a liking to me and Glory, I plan on making a down payment on a cozy little house in Kingston. If not, we’ll remain in Tennessee and rent a house in the Knoxville suburb of Farragut. Yes, we had just moved everything into my place in Orlando, but the idea of living in East Tennessee really turned Glory on. I don’t think she would lie to me. She said she wanted out of Orlando just as much as I did, and that the thing she looked most forward to about living in Tennessee was witnessing the change of seasons.
I’m glancing around now at this abandoned old bookstore. I just had the lights turned on this morning. There are rows and rows of dusty shelves and battered bookcases. The counter in the café needs to be refinished, and none of the coffee makers are worth a damn. We will have a lot of expenses associated with getting this place up and running, but we have a lot of money to help us do that. Also, working with Vernon, I am already close to having a Web presence set up. Vernon’s a wizard with matters related to e-commerce. We’ll be processing credit cards and shipping out orders in no time. Between Vernon and Sidebottom, we’ll have two of the best when it comes to running an online store. Yes, with competition from electronic books it’s going to be tough. But rest assured that we have a plan to compete in that market. It’s a secret, so that’s all I can say.
Trust me. We’ll be okay.
But Glory doesn’t yet know that she is soon to be the owner of this dilapidated joint. I know she likes a challenge, though, and this will definitely qualify as one. She should be here any—
The door is opening.
Oh, what a sight for sore eyes. It is the love of my life, the beautiful woman soon to be my wife. Glory is adorable in her brown winter coat and the cream-colored muffler wrapped about her neck.
Glory’s jaw is dropped at the moment. Apparently before she walked in she saw the banner I had placed above the awning: “G&B Smith Books.”
“It’s just a starter sign, baby,” I say as I stand and walk toward her. “The name is just a trial balloon. We can name this joint whatever you’d like.”
“Oh my God,” she says. “Is this what I think . . . ?”
“Yes, baby, it is.” I put my arms around her and she embraces me.
“Bethel, Bethel, Bethel,” she says. She pulls back and eyes me intently. “Where’d you get the money for this? Did you use your inheritance?”
“Don’t worry,” I say. “The financing is legit, and has the easiest and loosest terms of repayment in the history of mankind. There’s no pressure there. You already have a bachelor’s degree in business plus experience with running operations. Combine that with your vast knowledge of literature, and you’re all set to make some magic happen in this place. This store already has a website—it will be up as soon as you approve one of the many designs we’ve whipped up. I also have already lined up suppliers and wholesalers.” I point back to the café. “And we’re going to brew the best coffee and lattes in town. The equipment costs aren’t that bad.”
“My darling Bethel,” she says as she whirls about on her heels. “Yes, it may look like a dump now, but I can envision what it will become after we put our heads together.” She stops spinning and faces me. God Almighty, look at those eyes of hers. Her smile alone would make me give up everything. Glory’s bright red hair, styled in elegant tresses, flows behind her with a cinematic flair. Witnessing her joy is worth the whole universe to me. “This is our store, Bethel, just yours and mine. This will be our life’s work.”
“Well, at first I might have to do a little side work to keep some coin rolling in,” I say. “But don’t worry. Vernon already has some contracts lined up for me. I’m going to help him hire some folks and set up operations here. In exchange for that the e-commerce site will be run and maintained, free of charge. Low overhead, baby, that’s what it’s all about.”
Glory whirls around again. She’s like a strawberry tornado, she’s spinning so fast. She has to be dizzy by now. I reach out and stop her momentum, before she drills a hole into the floor.
“Baby,” I say, “how about a June wedding? It gives us less than four months to plan, but Vernon’s girlfriend used to be a wedding planner. She’s offered to help us out. What do you think?”
She grabs hold of me and gives me the biggest, wettest, most wonderful kiss.
“I really do love you, Bethel Smith. Not just for this, but for everything you do for me. You make every moment a thrill.”
“You do the same for me, baby. You do the same for me.”
“Remember, Bethel,” she says, “remember that every day we must remind each other of why we’re together. Not one darned day can pass without it being said, or I will knock you over the head with pots and pans.”
And now my thoughts return to the impending meeting with Miranda.
“I think all the more of you now that you’re marrying me,” I say, “given this enormous challenge I’m about to face with raising a daughter. Hell, that we’re both about to face.”
Glory just smiles, though. She has no doubts about how all of it will go.
My cell phone vibrates in my pocket. “Hold on for a sec, baby. This number has been trying to call me all day, but they don’t leave a message.”
“Mr. Bethel Smith?” a female voice inquires.
“Yes, this is he. May I ask who’s calling?”
Within sixty seconds I am both surprised and shocked. I answer yes to her every question. I’m completely blown away by what I’m hearing. After my final affirmation I want to ask her a question of my own, but I decide against it, already thinking I know how all this came to pass.
“I look forward to working with you, Ms. Sharkey. Thank you so much.” I place the phone back in my pocket and look at Glory.
“It seems my manuscript has made it into the hands of an agent in New York City,” I say to her. “She says I wrote one hell of a query letter. And that’s kind of funny, because I thought we were about to execute another draft before querying.”
“Oh my God!” Glory is excited. She is jumping up and down. “What did she say the next step was?”
“She said I need to make time in my schedule to work on rewrites,” I answer. “Apparently there are some minor flaws in grammar and the overall structure of the story. Hell, what do I know about writing? I just said yes. I’ll work with an editor and make any changes that are required. She said she’d already discussed this with a publisher that really liked the idea of my story.”
Glory suddenly has this proud look on her face. But she knows she has some explaining to do.
She says, “We’ve worked on several drafts already. When you sa
id it needed another revision, even though I told you it wasn’t required until after you got an agent, you were so stubborn with me. You’re too much of a perfectionist. So I wrote the query letter for you. Please don’t get mad at me. I don’t like the way you’re furrowing your brow right now.”
“Stop, baby,” I say as I draw her again into my arms. “Don’t say another word. You just made a dream come true for me. I want you to know that.”
We hear a car pulling up in the parking lot.
I look at Glory and smile.
“You want to know something?” I say to Glory. “I lost my home the day my mother died. I always thought of home as a place, because when I lost my parents they took me from the place I called home. But home isn’t where you hang your hat. Home is a feeling, a feeling that one person gives another.”
I hear a car door swinging open . . . and now I hear it shut.
“Last night it came to me,” I say to Glory. “It came to me in a dream.”
“What came to you?” Glory asks.
“The meadow,” I answer, “in all its glorious and peaceful splendor. It beckoned me to leave this realm and to enter the realm of the meadow itself. The pull it was exerting on my soul was profoundly strong. It was as if it were trying to suck me in. I’ve been to that meadow before, Glory. Its appeal is beyond my ability to express. And I wanted to go there. I’ve wanted to return to my meadow since I first discovered it. But now . . .”
The front door slowly creaks open. It’s Dr. Salters.
“Bethel,” he says. “First, don’t worry. I had a friend drive us here. I’m almost blind as a crazy damn bat. Anyway, I have Miranda in the car. I think she’s ready for this now. Before I bring her inside, I have to ask: Are you ready?”
I look at Glory.
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