“Others called friend,” David fills in, nodding at me and raising his glass.
“One called lover,” John says, his voice thick with emotion.
“Some called boss,” Catherine adds. We laugh then.
“And three will forever call Grandmother,” Jay finishes.
My eyes land on Trevor and Emma, then move to Austin.
“To Elizabeth,” I say, “the remarkable woman who touched each of our lives so profoundly.”
We’re clinking glasses when the doorbell rings. Trevor leaps from his booster seat and races Rudy to the foyer.
“Tell whoever it is we’re eating,” Joad calls.
“That’s right,” Catherine says, gazing down at the sleeping bundle in her arms. “Little Austin doesn’t want to be disturbed during the dinner hour.”
We’re passing dishes when Trevor returns to the table. I add salad to Zoë’s plate and glance at my nephew. “Who was it, honey?”
“Dr. Someone,” Trevor says. “I told him go away.”
“Dr. Moyer?” Jay asks.
“Uh-huh,” Trevor says, tearing into a breadstick.
Jay cranes his neck and peers out the rain-soaked window. “Well, what do you know, Herbert’s here!” He bolts from the table, nearly upending his chair, then pauses and turns to me. “Did you invite him?”
“No,” I say, pushing back my chair and tossing aside my napkin. “But we’ve got plenty of food. You sit down, Jay. I’ll invite him in.”
During the twenty seconds it takes me to reach the front door, my mind skips and trips and stumbles over itself. My God, Herbert’s back, on what could have been our wedding day. Is this a sign from Mother? Perhaps she didn’t like the idea of Austin and me moving through life as a twosome. She wants me to give him another chance. And maybe this time she’ll make sure the magic catches.
A gust of wind knocks the breath from me when I open the door. From the back courtyard, I hear the clashing of Mother’s wind chimes. Craning my neck, I peer out at an empty porch. My hair flies in every direction and I harness it in my fist. Where did he go? Slashing rain stings my face like little zaps of electricity and I squint into the downpour. Finally, I edge back into the house. Just as I go to close the door, I see him. He’s crossing the street under a big, black umbrella.
“Herbert!”
He wheels around. He’s wearing his Burberry coat, clutching a bouquet of wildflowers. My hand flies to my mouth and I step outside, into the fury of the tempest. Through the pelting downpour, I see his beautiful smile.
Without wasting a second, I race down the porch steps. The rain drowns my silk blouse, but I don’t care.
He runs toward me, laughing. When we meet, he lifts his umbrella to shelter me, pulling me in so close I can see a fresh knick from shaving on his chin.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
Garrett Taylor smiles and holds out the weatherworn flowers to me. “I canceled my plans. I didn’t postpone them. I didn’t take a rain check. I canceled them. Permanently.”
My heart dances and I bury my nose in a bright orange poppy. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yes. I did.” He gazes down at me and gently tucks a lock of wet hair behind my ear. “I refuse to let another meeting pass us by. I couldn’t wait one more day, or one more hour or minute, without telling you that I’ve missed you, the funny teacher I laughed with and got to know on the telephone. I need to tell you now, while I have the chance, that I had a huge crush on that beautiful girl I saw on the El, and at the apartment building, and on the jogging path.”
He smiles and grazes his thumb across my cheek. “So you see, when I met you today, and the two of you merged, I had to come here tonight.” His voice is husky, and he locks his gaze on mine. “Because I couldn’t bear the thought of one day waking up, and finding that my train had pulled out of the station, and the woman of my dreams was left standing on the platform, waving good-bye.”
I step into his arms and it feels like I’m returning to a place I’ve been missing my whole life. “It was you I was hoping to catch,” I whisper against his chest. “Not that train.”
He draws back and lifts my chin with his index finger, then lowers his head and kisses me, long and slow and teasingly delicious.
“Consider me caught,” he says, smiling down at me.
With one hand clutching the flowers and the other holding Garrett’s, we climb the steps to my mom’s house huddled beneath his black umbrella.
As I go to close the door behind us, I look up at the sky. A crack of lightning cuts a swath through the murky heavens. If my mother were here, she’d pat my hand and tell me there would be another sky.
I’d tell her I like this one, storm clouds and all.
EPILOGUE
I stand at my dresser mirror, in the very room my mother once I stand at my dresser mirror, in the very room my mother once called hers. It’s different now, with pieces of my new life scattered about, but still it smells of her, and her memory greets me each time I enter. Funny how places become people, how this house and her old iron bed still pull me in and offer comfort when I need it. But unlike those forlorn days nearly two years ago, my need for comfort is rare now.
I fasten the clasp of my pearl necklace. From the nursery down the hall—my old bedroom—I hear my daughter screech with laughter. I smile and check my face one last time. Suddenly, in the mirror’s reflection, my life appears. I spin around and the gates of heaven swing open.
“Who’s got my big girl?” I ask Austin.
“Dada,” she says, looking delicious in her ruffled party dress and polka-dot headband.
Garrett kisses her cheek and points to me. “Look at Mommy’s pretty white dress. Isn’t she beautiful?”
She giggles and buries her face in his neck. Smart baby. I’d nuzzle that neck, too, clean-shaven and tan, set against a crisp white shirt and black suit.
He reaches out his hand to me. “Today’s the day. Are you nervous?”
“Not at all. Just excited.”
“Same here.” He bends down and his lips graze my ear. “Nobody deserves to be as happy as I am. Nobody.”
My body erupts in gooseflesh.
We’re nearly to the car when I realize I’ve forgotten the programs for the ceremony. While Garrett secures Austin into her car seat, I run back inside.
The house is quiet now, none of Austin’s prattle or Garrett’s hearty laughter. I find the pamphlets on the coffee table, just where I’d left them. As I turn to leave, I notice my mother’s photo. Her eyes twinkle, as if she’s pleased with what I’m about to do. And I think she would be.
“Wish me luck, Mom,” I whisper.
I lift a pink program from atop the stack and place it beside her picture.
SUNDAY, THE SEVENTH OF AUGUST
ONE O’CLOCK IN THE AFTERNOON
RIBBON CUTTING CEREMONY
SANQUITA HOUSE
749 ULYSSES AVENUE
CHICAGO’S NEWEST SHELTER FOR WOMEN
WITH CHILDREN
I close the door behind me and dash to the car, where my fortune awaits—the heart-stopping, I’d die for you loves of my life, my husband and our baby girl.
For my parents, Frank and Joan Nelson
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Never before have the words “thank you” felt so inadequate. But until someone coins a better phrase, the simple platitude must suffice.
Thank you to my extraordinary agent, Jenny Bent, for taking a chance on an unknown writer from the Midwest and making her dreams come true. My praise to Nicole Steen for keeping track of the business side of things. Many thanks to Carrie Hannigan and Andrea Barzvi, who also believed in The Life List. A huge debt of gratitude to Brandy Rivers of The Gersh Agency, along with a multitude of foreign rights agents and editors, for taking this novel to places I never imagined.
My deepest appreciation and admiration to my fantastic editor, Shauna Summers, her uber-efficient assistant, Sarah Murphy, and the entire team at t
he Random House Publishing Group. Their expertise is surpassed only by their kindess.
Special thanks to my first reader, my dear mother, who left me such an enthusiastic voice mail after reading the book that I refused to erase it for six months. My eternal gratitude to my dad, whose unwavering pride and steadfast belief gave me the courage to persevere. To my early and most avid reader, my aunt Jackie Moyer, for her top-notch feedback and advice.
Friedrich Nietzsche once said, “A good writer possesses not only his own spirit but also the spirit of his friends.” This book embodies the spirit of my friends, and I’m especially grateful to those who offered to read my manuscript long before I was an “author.” To my wonderful friend and fellow writer, Amy Bailey-Olle, who always knew the exact word or phrase to make the story better. To my fabulous friends Sherri Bryans Baker and Cindy Weatherby Tousignaut, for making me feel like I might actually have something with this book. To my dear friend and the wildly talented author, Kelly O’Connor McNees, for her generous feedback, guidance, and inspiration along this wonderful journey. To the very special Pat Coscia, whose enthusiasm was unparalleled. To Lee Vernasco, at ninety-two my oldest reader—and the most spirited. What an inspiration you are! To the lovely Nancy Schertzing, for offering up her bright and beautiful daughters as readers. Claire and Catherine, your editorial notes were some of the best I received. Thank you.
A shout-out to the gals at Salon Meridian: Joni, Carleana, and Megan in particular, for passing around the manuscript and making me feel like a writer. To Michelle Burnett, for telling Bill she had to rush home from work to continue reading my story. Love that! To the magnificent Erin Brown, whose editorial service was the best investment I ever made. To the extraordinary writing instructors in my life, Linda Peckham and Dennis Hinrichsen, without whom there would be no novel. Thank you to my writer’s group, Lee Reeves and Steve Rall, whose talent far exceeds mine. And a wink to the heavens for our late member, Ed Noonan, who would have enjoyed this moment. Special thanks to Maureen Dillon and Kathy Marble, who patiently educated me on caring for a preemie and life in the NICU.
I offer my deepest gratitude to my wonderful husband, Bill. Your pride and love and support make my heart sing. This journey would mean nothing without you.
My humble thanks to the gods and goddesses, angels and saints for answering my prayers, and to each and every person who has ever shown interest in my writing. I’d list you here, but I’m afraid I’d leave someone out. You know who you are, and I love you for it. And I thank you, my dear reader, for allowing me into your life, whether for a day or a week or a month. I’m honored to share my words and world with you.
Finally, this book belongs to every girl and woman who sees the word “dream” and thinks verb, not noun.
The Life List
A NOVEL
Lori Nelson Spielman
A Reader’s Guide
A Conversation Between Lori Nelson Spielman and Meg Waite Clayton
Meg Waite Clayton is the nationally bestselling author of The Four Ms. Bradwells, The Wednesday Sisters, and The Language of Light, all national book club picks. Her latest novel, The Wednesday Daughters, is available now from Ballantine Books.
Meg Waite Clayton: Can you tell us a little about what sparked the idea for The Life List?
Lori Nelson Spielman: One day I came across an old cedar box, and tucked inside was the life list I’d written over thirty years ago. Many of the goals could be checked off. I’d made my high school cheerleading squad. I’d graduated from college and learned to ski and traveled to Europe. I had a good marriage … I even had a cat. But I didn’t live on a lake. I hadn’t designed my own home. I didn’t have two kids, or a horse, or a dog. As I read the list, I thought about how different my life would be if I’d fulfilled every goal my fourteen-year-old self longed for. I love stories where someone dies and leaves a message to their loved one, like P.S. I Love You by Cecelia Ahern or Message in a Bottle by Nicholas Sparks. So what if someone died, and left an old life list for their loved one to complete?
In the course of several days, my story evolved. First, I came up with riddles from a dying mother, offering her daughter cryptic clues to find her true self. But that was silly. Why the riddles? Why wouldn’t her mother just tell her daughter what she wanted her to accomplish? And it was crucial that the mother didn’t appear heavy-handed or controlling. The story could only work if it was clear that the mother’s intentions came from a loving heart. I also knew the story risked being predictable. I imagined readers rolling their eyes, sure that in the end, Brett would be married to the love of her life and have a baby and a dog and a horse. I didn’t want Brett to accomplish her goals easily, or in a conventional way the reader might expect. I wanted some goals to lead to others, in a circuitous, serendipitous way.
MWC: Was writing a novel on your life list?
LNS: I wish I could say yes. But like Brett’s, my goals were very humble. As a child and teen, the idea of becoming a writer never once occurred to me. In my middle-class neighborhood in my middle-class town, I’d never met a single novelist. Novelists lived in New York City, or in glass-walled houses overlooking the Pacific. As I headed off to college, my mother—who naturally assumed that her daughter who loved dolls and babies would eventually have a house full of children—suggested two career choices. “A teacher or a nurse,” she said. “Both are good jobs for a mother.” I got really crazy and chose to become a speech pathologist! In my coursework, I opted to get my teaching certification as well. And though I enjoyed the profession of speech and language pathology, it never fully satisfied my creative yen.
MWC: How did your passion for writing develop?
LNS: I’m convinced that my love for storytelling spawned from my early days of playing Barbies. As a child, the only thing I loved more than my Weekly Readers and Encyclopedia Brown books were my Barbie dolls. My sister, Natalie, and our friends—usually Cathy or Michelle—would sit on our bedroom floor with our chosen dolls, creating plot and character and dialogue. Though we weren’t aware of it then, we were storytelling. Each play session was wrought with conflict and drama. We chose different settings—sometimes a beach, other times an amusement park or fancy department store. And when the pace slowed or the plot unraveled, we’d pack up our plastic cases and call it a day, only to return the following day with a fresh story to enact.
Eventually I outgrew Barbies, but I still longed to tell stories. While babysitting, I made up tales about a group of kids and their babysitters from hell. Before long, the stories became known as The Janet, Edgar, and Alice Stories, loosely based on a wacky babysitter I’d had as a child. The kids couldn’t get enough of them. I was forced to make up stories on the spot, which was a terrific exercise.
Throughout my school years, English was my favorite subject. I loved reading, writing, and poetry. It was in Mr. Chapman’s creative writing class that I got my first dose of critical acclaim. It was a short story about a young woman’s devastating breakup with her cheating scum of a fiancé and her budding rebound romance with Mr. Perfect—all of which took place within a span of two days! (What can I say? I liked fast-paced stories, even then.) Across the front of the paper, Mr. Chapman wrote “Adequate handling of dialogue.” That was it. But his lack of enthusiasm didn’t faze me because my girlfriends—the people who really mattered—loved the predictable, clichéd story. Carole read it first, then passed it to Sherri, who passed it to Linda and Cindy. It circulated between classes faster than a chemistry quiz cheat sheet. I was intoxicated.
MWC: Did you have a favorite character in The Life List? Were any of them particularly hard to write?
LNS: I loved Brett, and what surprised me was that I loved writing Brad, too. I’d once written a manuscript with a male protagonist, and never really connected with his voice. Brad was much more accessible to me, and felt completely authentic. But as much as I loved Brett and Brad, I loved writing Elizabeth even more. It seems strange, since Elizabeth has already died when the book begin
s and we never actually meet her. But I felt such affection for this woman. She came to me so vividly; all I had to do was “listen” to her and type her words. It was tricky writing Garrett because I needed the reader to believe, as Brett did, that he was sixty-something—but still cool enough that Brett could fall for him. I’d say Andrew was the hardest to write because I had a tendency to go overboard with awfulness. During rewrites I made him less of a jerk, believe it or not. I worried that readers would have had a hard time figuring out why Brett would spend four hours with the guy, let alone four years.
MWC: I loved the relationship between Brad and Brett, and found myself longing for them to connect. Can you talk a little about why you took them in a different direction?
LNS: I was tempted! But as I mentioned, the story risked predictability. Though I loved Brad and thought he and Brett would be a great fit, it was just too easy. And as we all know, love is never easy! In the original draft, Brad was gay. Brett didn’t realize it until she showed up on his doorstep New Year’s Eve. In a bold attempt at bravery, she confessed her love to him. He hugged her, in that brotherly way she mistakenly thought might be something more. Then the front door swung open and a man appeared—clearly Brad’s partner. Humiliated, Brett dashed from the house, similar to the scene in the final draft. But my agent thought this was too much of a shock. The two had grown so close over the months, so why wouldn’t Brett have known he was gay? And she was right.
MWC: What other changes did you make along the way?
LNS: While Brad was gay in the first draft, Carrie was straight. Problem was, I never had a truly convincing reason for Brett and Carrie’s falling out. Once I made Brad straight (yes, I actually possess that power!), I decided Carrie would be gay, providing a reason for the teenage Brett to have ended their friendship—and later realize how wrong she’d been. Another difference was that the original manuscript opened with Brett finding her mother’s medical marijuana rather than the champagne. Her mother attached a note to it, just as she did with the champagne. Brett was high rather than tipsy when Catherine found her. But as my brilliant agent pointed out, getting high seemed inconsistent with Brett’s character. The big challenge was to come up with a poignant funeral luncheon scene where Brett still receives a message from her mother and ends up doing something foolish. I really struggled with the champagne. I mean, who hides a bottle of champagne in their bedroom? In the end, I hope it seemed plausible.
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