A Perfect Day (18 page)

“In so many ways. Look at that house you want. You’re willing to get rid of our home and memories just like that?”

“This was never our home. It’s my father’s.”

“It’s his house, but it’s
our
home. It’s where all our memories are.”

“And they’re all painful. You’re getting all sentimental with this, but the bottom line is I was living a life of quiet desperation.”

“All painful? What a horrible thing to say.” She rolled over. “Is it really that much better than us?”

“Is what better?”

“Your new world.”

I erupted. “Have you considered that you might be the problem? You’re the one turning every good thing bad. This little shell you live in was killing me. Finally I’m happy. Finally Robert’s getting a little something his way besides a kick in the teeth. Have you considered that? Or does my happiness even matter to you?”

“Of course your happiness matters to me.”

“No, I don’t think it does. I think you’re jealous of what’s happening to me.”

Her mouth gaped open. “I don’t want what’s happening to you. I couldn’t give a damn about a bestseller list or what some women’s magazine thinks about me. But that’s all you think about now. Maybe I am jealous that I have to take a backseat to every reporter or to every woman who loves your book. But you’re not the only one whose life has changed, Rob. And whether you believe it or not, it’s not for the better.”

“So would you go back to how things were? Me out there digging ditches.”

“I never wanted you to work for Stan.”

“Like I had a choice. Come on, honestly. Would you go back?”

The question hung in the air between us sharp and threatening as a blade. There was no sound but her occasional sniffing and my heavy breathing. Then she answered softly, “In a heartbeat, Rob.”

I pulled the covers off and got out of bed. “Then I guess that’s the difference between us. Because I’ll never go back to that miserable life. And if you don’t like who I’ve become, then this isn’t going to work. Because this is who I am and I’m not going back.”

I went to the dresser and began taking out clothes. As I dressed, Allyson asked, “What are you doing?”

“I think we need some time to think about where we’re going.” I turned to look at her. “I think we need a separation.”

“A separation? That’s the whole problem, Rob. We’re already too separated. We’re a whole world apart and there are a million of your readers between us.” She started crying. “Just come back to bed.”

I went to the closet and gathered more clothes. When I turned around, Allyson was standing next to the bed, her cheeks wet. “Where are you going?”

“To a hotel. I feel more at home there.”

Her eyes widened with desperation. “I’m sorry, Rob. Please don’t leave us. Please don’t break up this family.”

I stopped at the doorway. “We already left each other, Ally. It just took me a while to see it.”

She began to shake, and her hurt turned to anger. “I wish you had never written that damn book.”

“I know. And that’s the problem.”

“I feel sorry for you, Rob, if you think you can replace us with them. They don’t love you. They can’t love you because they don’t really know you. You’re as much a figment of their imaginations as the characters in your book.”

For a moment I stood silently in the doorway. For a moment neither of us spoke. Allyson had raised a hand to her mouth, and even though the room was dark, I could see that she was trembling. A part of me screamed to repent of my anger—to do whatever it took to hold us together. But another voice, a weary and angry voice, spoke instead. “It’s too much, Ally. The current is too strong. I just can’t hold on anymore. I’ve been thinking about this for some time. I’m just going to move out. It will be easier that way. For both of us. I’ll come back tomorrow for my things.”

I walked out of the room. As I shut the front door, I could hear her sobbing, but still I walked. For the first time I knew there was no turning back.

ONE WEEK LATER.

A
storm rolled into the valley and stalled. The snow fell softly, enveloping our Tudor in a peaceful icing of white. Allyson held a cup of herbal tea up to her chin, a thin wisp of steam rising from it. Across from her Nancy looked out the living room’s picture window. It was a quiet moment for both of them, the snow erasing the color from the landscape.

“I love November snow,” Nancy said.

“More than February snow?”

“Much more.” Nancy glanced around the room. “So when are you getting your Christmas tree?”

“I don’t know. I just keep waiting.”

“For Robert?”

Allyson nodded.

“I saw him on television the other day,” Nancy said. “I think it was C-SPAN.”

“Then you’ve seen as much of him as I have.”

“What do you hear from him?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

Nancy frowned. “How’s Carson handling it?”

“She’s confused. Sometimes she’s angry and she doesn’t know why. When I told her that her daddy wouldn’t be home for a while, she curled up in a ball on the couch. I asked her if she wanted to talk about it. She didn’t.”

“How do you cope?”

“Not very well.” She sighed. “I just can’t believe he could really have changed that much. His life has always been Carson and me. I keep waiting for the return of the real Robert. But all I get is Robert Mason Harlan. It’s like his body has been taken over by this famous author.”

“Success does that to people.”

“I wouldn’t call losing your family success.” Nancy shook her head. “No, it’s not.”

Allyson exhaled and forced a smile. “He’ll be back. I mean, who could walk out on me? I’m a good wife. I keep a good home.” Her eyes began to moisten. “I’ve gained a few pounds, but I’m still pretty, aren’t I? I still get looks.”

“You’re beautiful, Ally.”

“Just because there are a million women who want him, why should I worry?” She stared at her cup. Her voice fell. “If I hear one more of them tell me how lucky I am to be married to Mr. Romantic, I’m going to slap someone.”

“You’re a wonderful wife and mother. Rob’s lucky to have you. This isn’t your problem. It’s his.”

“It feels like my problem. It’s just so incomprehensible to me. My father stayed true to my mother even after she died. Divorce just was never an option.”

“No one’s talking about divorce, Al.”

“Not yet anyway.” She wiped her eyes. “It’s the unknowing that’s driving me crazy. Not knowing what he’s going to do or how long it’s going to last. Where’s that crystal ball when you need it?”

Nancy looked down at her teacup. “Well, I could read your tea leaves. My mother’s aunt taught me how. She used to come over for tea and afterwards she’d read everyone’s tea leaves. She was brutal. She’d tell them that their husbands were cheating on them or going to die in some horrible accident. It was always some great evil that was going to befall them. She’d leave all these women freaked out of their gourds. But they’d never miss a tea.”

“Was she ever right?”

“You would think in ten years that the odds would make at least one of her predictions true, but no. Nothing ever did. Though one of the ladies kicked her husband out of the house for a week, until he could convince her that he really was going to his Kiwanis meetings.”

“I’d be happy just to see the past clearly. I don’t even know where we went wrong. Everything made sense at the time. Now nothing does.”

“I know that feeling.”

Allyson took a long drink of her tea and let it warm her. “Was it really just me? Did I drive him away? Was I too demanding?”

“No, Ally. It’s just a bad stretch. He’ll be back.”

“I’m just afraid that the longer he’s gone the less likely it is that he’ll return. He never meant to cut off his father, but it’s been more than two years since they spoke.”

“He’ll be back.” Nancy forced a smile. “Who could leave a gorgeous babe like you?”

Allyson looked up sadly. “What do I do in the meantime, Nancy?”

Nancy reached across the table and took Allyson’s hand. “I wish I knew what to tell you, honey. I really do.”

THE NEXT DAY.

T
he elevator at Argent Literistic opened directly into the agency. Camille was walking toward the elevator when the receptionist stopped her.

“Camille, there’s a call for you. Should I tell her you’ve already gone for the day?”

Camille looked at her watch. “Who is it?”

“Allyson Harlan.”

“I’ll take it.” She walked back to her office and lifted the phone as she leaned against her desk. “Ally, how are you?”

“Not very good. Do you have a minute?”

“For you I do. Are you all right?”

“No. I wanted to see if you’ve spoken with Rob lately.”

“No. He doesn’t call me anymore. We’ve only talked once since he fired me. What’s wrong?”

“He left me.”

Camille exhaled in exasperation. “Oh, no.” She sat down in her chair. Her voice lowered. “I’m so sorry, Allyson. I’m sorry for what I’ve brought on your family. You don’t deserve this.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I feel like it is. I feel like I’m responsible for creating this monster.”

“No. It’s not your doing. I just don’t understand how he can leave us.”

“Sometimes people lose themselves. It’s not the first time I’ve seen this.”

“But this is
my
husband. I have no idea what to tell Carson. I don’t even know what’s going on.”

“What have you told Carson so far?”

“That Daddy’s on book tour again.”

“That was probably wise for now.”

“I don’t even know where he is.”

“He’s in New York. He has a book signing then a meeting with Arcadia tomorrow.” Camille was silent for a moment as she explored a thought. Then she said, “Do you want him back?”

“I do.”

“Maybe there’s hope yet.”

W
hile I had grown used to New York’s night time bedlam and usually slept well, a car alarm had gone off below my hotel window around three in the morning and I was up for nearly an hour. I woke late and lay in bed thinking about Allyson. Six months ago the thought of us being separated was unthinkable. Today just going home seemed impossible. The thought of it left me feeling hollow.

I put my mind on the day ahead. It was busy. My stays in New York always were. I had a book signing, a meeting with Arcadia to discuss my next book, then dinner with Darren. Even though Darren was L.A.-based, he was truly bicoastal. He was in town for a movie premiere, and we had arranged to hook up. He was bringing a contract.

This reminded me that Camille would be at my meeting with Arcadia. The two-book contract I had signed with Arcadia had been through Argent Literistic, so I’d still be working with Camille for at least another year. I wasn’t looking forward to seeing her in person.

I rolled over and turned on my cell phone to check for messages, but I’d forgotten to charge it. I plugged it into its charger then went to my computer to check my e-mail. I had an e-mail from Heather and one from Darren. I opened Heather’s first.

I looked over at the clock on the nightstand. It was already a quarter of nine. I typed back,

I opened Darren’s email.

I disconnected, wrote in my diary, then got dressed for the day.

 

The crowd at my book signing was even larger than anticipated. The manager guessed that nearly five hundred people were crowded into the mezzanine level of the store. While I signed, store personnel walked through the line reminding customers that I would not be personalizing books, and the crowd was moved past the table with the efficiency of an assembly line, with someone on my left opening the books and someone on my right pulling the signed book away from me and returning it to the customer.

After ninety minutes the line didn’t seem to have diminished much, and eventually one of the workers closed off the stanchion, sending customers away. When I finished, I went to the back of the store, where there were another two hundred books that had been called in. Heather stayed with me through it all, and after we were done she walked outside with me. We stopped outside the store while I put on my coat. The sidewalk was crowded with holiday traffic. “That was a good signing. Your readers love you.”

“It was big,” I said rubbing my wrist. “You wouldn’t have any Tylenol in that bag, would you?”

“No. Do you have a headache?”

“A wrist ache.”

“All that signing is going to give you carpal tunnel. I can find you some.”

“Don’t worry about it. There’s a drugstore on the corner.”

“I’ve heard some authors say that those magnetic bracelets help. I’ll send you one.” She reached into her bag. “I picked this up for you.” She took out a copy of the day’s
Wall Street Journal
and handed it to me. “Your mention is on the front page,” she said, pointing it out. “Right there.”