A Perfect Day (17 page)

After a minute I said, “I’ll think about it.”

W
hen I got back to the Wilshire, my phone’s message light was flashing. Allyson had left a voice message. Her voice was strained and I could tell that she had been crying, but all she said was to call as soon as possible. I frantically dialed home.

“Ally?”

“This is Nancy. Is that you, Rob?”

“Yes. What’s the matter?”

“You better speak with Allyson. She’s right here.” Allyson took the phone. “Rob?”

“What’s wrong, honey?”

“Aunt Denise died last night.”

Her words stunned me. “When did you find out?”

“This afternoon.” Allyson started to cry. “She was like a mother to me.”

I felt sick with guilt. Even though she didn’t say it, we both knew that had I not gone straight to California, Allyson would have been at her aunt’s side—she would have had one last chance to say everything she needed to. “When is the funeral?” I asked.

“Friday. When can you be there?”

“I don’t know.” I looked down at my watch. “It’s one o’clock in New York. I’ll call Heather in the morning and have her check on flights.”

We talked a few more minutes but my words were weak. I groaned as I hung up. Guilt continued to cascade over me.
It wasn’t my fault,
I told myself.
How could I have known she was going to die?
But my excuses rang hollow. Whether it was deliberate or not, I had stolen another precious part of Allyson’s life.

 

At six the next morning I called Heather to tell her of my plight. Aunt Denise’s funeral would be during my largest speaking event to date—a prestigious televised event with nearly four thousand book buyers in attendance. We both knew that it was the wrong event to miss, but Heather said nothing of it. She said she’d check flights to Portland and talk to the people at my speaking event then get back to me. The phone rang a half hour later.

“What did you find out?” I asked.

“Flights are no problem. One leaves from LAX to Portland every three hours and there’s availability on all of them. The problem is with your event.”

“What did they say?”

“Straight up, they freaked. They say they’ve spent thousands of dollars promoting you and your book and people are flying in from all over the country to hear you speak. They say if you pull out, you will, and I quote, cause irreparable damage to their conference and their credibility, costing them hundreds of thousands of dollars. They hinted that they will seek financial compensation.”

“You mean they’ll sue me.”

“Precisely. They also threatened to blackball you with their subscribers. Like I said, they freaked.”

“This day just keeps getting better.”

“They’re a pretty influential group, Rob. Their newsletter reaches more than one hundred thousand book buyers.”

“Is there someone else who could take my place?”

“I asked them. They said absolutely not. They said that the people coming to this event overwhelmingly signed up to hear you.”

“What am I going to do?”

“I don’t know. But the association wants to know within a half hour if you’re going to be there. They only have a few days to try to fill your spot.”

“I don’t have a choice, do I?”

“Not a good one.”

I hung up the phone; then I called Allyson. From her voice it was clear that she was deeply hurting. “Are you okay, honey?”

“I’m not doing too well. I fly out at three. What time will you be there?”

My stomach knotted. “I can’t come, Ally. I have to be in Sacramento for my speaking event.”

She didn’t say anything.

“Honey, they say that they’ll sue us if I don’t show up for their event. They’ll also blackball me with their subscribers.” I waited for a response, but she said nothing. It was excruciating. “I know you need me right now. I’m so sorry, honey.”

“Me too,” she said softly. Then she said, “I’ve got to go, Carson’s late for school.”

“Will you call me when you get there?” I asked.

“Sure.” She hung up. The distance between us now seemed insurmountable. My life had become a Rubik’s Cube, and twist it as I might, I had no idea how to make it work.

W
hile Allyson flew to Oregon, I flew in to Sacramento for my speaking event. In spite of the circumstances, the event went well. The audience gave me a two-minute-long standing ovation. Afterward I signed what felt like a thousand books. It was surreal. The hosts of the event were cordial and acted as if nothing had happened. I guess I did the same. I had returned to my hotel room when Camille called. “How did your speaking event go?”

“It went well.”

“Good. I heard about your dilemma. I’m glad it wasn’t my choice.”

“The whole thing was really awful. Still is.”

“Life hands us all kinds of pop quizzes, doesn’t it?” Her voice was oddly estranged. I wondered if she was upset at the choice I had made. “Listen,” she said, “I’ve been meaning to ask you about your dinner with Darren Scott?”

I was stunned. “How did you know about that?”

“The book world is a small, small world, Rob.”

I tried to downplay it. “Scott’s an interesting man.”

“He
is
an interesting man. So is Saddam Hussein. So how does Mr. Scott rate my performance?”

“Truthfully?”

“Of course.”

“He thinks that I lost at least a million dollars by selling the television rights.”

Camille seemed nonplussed. “He might be right. But anyone can say that after a book has hit the list. The TV deal helped get the bookstores and the press interested in the first place. If we hadn’t done the deal, you might not have ever hit the list.”

“You don’t think the book would have succeeded on its own merits?”

“I don’t know. And neither do you. Do you think I lost you a million dollars?”

“Like you said, who knows?” We were both quiet for a long time. Then I said, “Listen, Camille, I’ve decided to give Darren a try.”

There was a long pause. “You’re leaving me?” “Don’t make this personal, Camille.”

“I made it personal the day I decided to take a chance on you.”

“And you’ve been paid well for taking that chance.”

“It’s not about the money, Rob.”

“Come on, let’s be honest here. You’re an agent. It’s always about the money.”

“I can’t believe you’re talking like this. Tell me, did he wow you with his client list then tell you that he only works with the big names?”

“Yes.”

“Did you stop to consider that maybe it’s because he drops them at the first sign of trouble?”

“It’s the way the business works. Survival of the fittest. If I stopped selling books, how long would you be around?”

“Actually, Rob, I have a dozen authors who don’t sell. But I care about their writing so I keep going to bat for them.” She exhaled in exasperation. “Why am I having this conversation? I hope you get what you deserve.” She dropped the receiver.

I laid the phone back into its cradle. I felt bad for hurting her, but Darren Scott was still right. I mean, how would I feel about her when I was back installing sprinklers?

T
he United flight touched down in Salt Lake City on time Sunday afternoon. I walked out into the terminal wondering what kind of reunion Allyson and I would have. I had only spoken with her for a few minutes since the funeral. Just long enough to let her know when I’d be landing. Maybe it was a blessing that I would only be in Utah two days before I left again for New York. Honestly I was surprised that she had even agreed to pick me up.

She was waiting for me in the terminal. Alone. She looked worn and tired, her eyes red as if stained from days of crying. We hugged each other, but it was without feeling.

“How are you?” I asked.

She looked at me dully. “I’ve had better weeks.”

“How was the funeral?”

“Why? Want to write a book about it?”

I felt like I had just been slugged.

“I’m sorry, Ally, I . . .”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

We walked out to baggage claim without another word. We had driven several miles when Allyson said, “Camille called to share her condolences.”

“I bet you had an interesting talk.”

“So you really did fire her?”

“If that’s what she wants to call it.”

“She’s been really good to us.”

“We’ve been good to her.”

Allyson looked out the window and said nothing until I pulled off I-15 onto the Twenty-First South off-ramp. “Where are we going?”

“We have an appointment.”

“With whom?”

“It’s a surprise.”

Twenty minutes later we snaked up the tree-lined streets of the east bench until we reached the large, wrought-iron gate of the Stringham mansion. Chris, the real estate agent, was parked out front waiting for us. He climbed out of his car. He was very tall, blond, and even though it was late afternoon he wore Ray-Ban Aviator sunglasses, which he removed as he walked over to our car. I rolled down the window. “Mr. Harlan, it’s a pleasure, sir.” He looked past me. “Mrs. Harlan.”

Allyson just looked at me. “What’s going on?”

“This is the house I’m thinking of buying.”

Allyson looked out at the place. “You want something this big for the three of us?”

“Yeah.” I climbed out.

Chris sensed the tension between us and walked away. He pressed a code into a keypad, and the intricate wrought-iron gate opened. As we walked in, Allyson walked up behind me. “Do we really have to do this now?”

“I made an appointment. We’ll be here a half hour then we’ll go,” I said curtly.

The house was even more spectacular than its pictures. The foyer was tiled in rose-streaked marble. A beautiful crystal chandelier hung above. The walls were covered in fabric or stained wood and there was beveled and leaded stained glass in various windows throughout the house.

Chris did his best to point out the features he thought Allyson would be most interested in. She listened and responded politely but remained deep within herself. After we finished the tour, I thanked Chris and told him I’d get back to him in a few days. He handed me his card; then Allyson and I climbed back in our car and headed home.

We drove for a while before I said, “That was
pleasant
.”

“You really want to live there?” she asked incredulously.

I didn’t answer her. Twenty minutes later I pulled the car into the garage and hopped out, leaving my luggage in the back.

Inside the house there were stacks of books piled high on the counters and kitchen table. “What’s with this?” I asked.

“People just bring them over for you to sign them. Every time I leave, there’s a new stack of books on the front porch when I get back. I don’t even know most of these people.”

“Another argument for moving,” I said. I walked around them, lifting the morning’s paper that lay on the counter.

“Don’t forget your mail,” Allyson said.

I looked up. “What mail?”

Allyson pointed to six large cardboard boxes lined up against the wall. “Your publisher sent them.”

I walked over to the boxes. I crouched down and began lifting envelopes. “I didn’t know people really wrote to authors,” I said. “Have you ever written to an author?”

“You.”

For the next few minutes I rummaged through the letters while Allyson made dinner. The letters I read were mostly letters of gratitude from readers, sharing their own feelings about my book and their own fathers. One woman wrote that my book had changed her life. After she read it she decided to forgive her father and visit him. They were happily together again. She thanked me for the miracle. One woman wrote that her sister had recently died and her last request was to have my book read to her as she lay dying.

Allyson broke my reverie. “Were you going to ask where your daughter is?”

I looked up suddenly, drawn back into the moment. “I’m sorry. Is she home?”

“She’s with Nancy. She’s spending the night. Nancy thought we might need some time alone together.”

I looked at her. “Do we?”

She didn’t answer. She just looked at me with the dark, dull eyes of a complete stranger. I say dull, but the truth is her glare was sharp and it cut deeply. Deeper than I could understand. Suddenly I felt completely displaced. I didn’t belong here. The distance that had grown between us was a complicated maze of hurt and bickering. It was more than I could stand. Without another word I walked out to my car and drove away.

I
wasn’t driving anywhere but away from a seemingly impossible situation. I ended up downtown. I stopped at Hires Drive-in on Fourth South and ate dinner, then dropped into a Borders bookstore just a few blocks away. My book was centered on the Christmas gift table. It was a
Staff Pick
. I got myself a hot vanilla crème steamer from the café, picked up the latest book by Baldacci, then sat down and read. I knew the workers recognized me—I saw them talking and furtively pointing at me—but they never got the nerve to ask me to sign my books. I was glad. I wanted to be left alone. Only when they closed did I leave.

All the lights were off when I returned home. I undressed in darkness, brushed my teeth then climbed into our bed. Neither of us spoke to the other. I knew that Allyson wasn’t asleep. I could tell by her breathing. About a half hour later she started to cry. It was a soft whimper at first that rose into a sob. I reached over to touch her but she recoiled from me.

“Ally.”

When she could speak, she said, “I’m so tired of all this. I’m tired of hurting. I’m tired of fighting. I’m tired of being alone. You’ve changed, Rob.”

“How have I changed?”