A Perfect Day (20 page)

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.

M
onday 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.”

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.”

She looked at me like a hurt friend. “So am I. But we still have a year to work together so we might as well keep things civil.” She looked down at her watch then said, “I’ve got a lunch meeting to go to. You headed back to Utah tonight?”

“Not until Wednesday. Are you leaving town?”

“I’m headed home to Chicago. Have a good Thanksgiving.”

“Thanks. You too.”

She walked away. As I watched her go, I tried to hold back the flood of sadness and guilt with Darren’s words, reminding myself that
it’s just business
. The truth is I felt slimy.

Just then Heather walked up and handed me a folder. “Here’s an update of your media. I’m headed out of town, but you can always reach me on my cell. I checked your flight for Wednesday, and I was able to get you upgraded to first class after all.”

“That’s good news. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Be sure to check in early. The airport’s going to be crazy and if you miss your flight you might not make it home. Do you need me to arrange for a car?”

“No, I’ll just grab a taxi.”

“Then I’ll run. Have a safe trip home. Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Thanks. Take care.”

As I walked from the office, the receptionist stopped me. “Excuse me, Mr. Harlan. I have a message for you.” She handed me a slip of paper with nothing on it but an address and time. “A gentleman just called and asked if you’d meet him for coffee.”

I looked at the note.
Starbucks on Greenwich. Noon.

“There’s no name here.”

“I’m sorry, but he wouldn’t leave one. He just said you’d know who it was. I figured since he knew you were here he must know you.”

“I already have a lunch engagement.”

“Yes, he knew that too. He said that I should say . . .” She lifted a paper. “He was rather particular. He made me write this down. He said, ‘Considering your new paradigm, Bob, your lunch today is relatively inconsequential.’ ”

I glanced at my watch. It was ten to twelve. “All right. Thanks.”

On the way out I called Darren and cancelled our lunch.

I
arrived at the Starbucks and found the stranger sitting in the back of the café reading the
New York Times
. Almost immediately he turned to look at me. I got coffee and a scone, then sat down across from him. He looked pleased to see me. Almost cheerful. I’m sure I looked otherwise.

“Hey, Bob.”

“For the record, I hate being called Bob.”

“I know. Sorry. It just has a nice ring to it.”

I rubbed my forehead. “So what do I call you?”

“Michael.”

“That’s pretty unoriginal.”

“I guess. I didn’t choose it.”

“Tell me something. Why is it that we meet at Starbucks?”

“I thought you liked Starbucks.”

“It seems like there are more appropriate places.”

“Such as?”

“Such as a church or synagogue or something.”

Michael nodded as he considered my query. “Two reasons. A. You don’t go to a church or synagogue.” He leaned back and lifted his drink. “And B. Churches don’t have vanilla crème Frappuccinos.”

I raked my hair back with my hand. “So what’s with the number on my computer screen?”

He smiled, “The countdown. Pretty clever, don’t you think? I thought it would help keep you focused.”

“What would be most helpful would be for you to just leave me alone.”

Michael rubbed his chin as if considering this. “No, I don’t think that would be helpful.”

“You’re just wasting your time. I don’t believe you.”

“Why? Because Darren Scott told you that I was a stalker?”

I wondered how he knew that, but I hid my surprise. “Are you?”

“I suppose in a cosmic sort of way. But I don’t believe that you don’t believe. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.”

“I don’t believe I’m going to die. I feel fine.”

Michael chuckled. “Famous last words. I know a man who actually put that on his headstone.
I feel fine. Really.
”

I didn’t find it amusing.

“Of course you don’t believe me,” he said. “All belief is a choice. If I were you, I wouldn’t want to believe me either.” He took a drink of his coffee. “I’ve seen it a thousand times. Everyone goes into denial at first. Ducks head for water; people head for denial.” He just stared at me, tapping his fingers on the table. Finally he said, “What proof would you have?”

“Perform a miracle.”

“You want a sign?” He looked around the crowded room. “Right here?”

“Why not?”

“What kind of miracle would make you believe?”

“I don’t know. Make something disappear.”

“Something disappear,” he repeated. “That’s a peculiar request.” He took a deep breath, closed his eyes then raised his hands to his temples. “Okay, here we go.” He reached over, took my scone and shoved half of it into his mouth in one bite. He chewed until he had pushed the rest of it in.

I looked at him dryly. “I’m real impressed.”

Michael continued to chew, speaking with his mouth full. “Not bad. Not bad at all. I’ll have to get one of those next time.”

“Glad you enjoyed it.”

He swallowed then wiped the white crumbs from the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “Listen, Bob, I’m a messenger, not a magician. I don’t part water, turn sticks to serpents, call fire down from heaven—any of the classic miracles. It’s not in my job description. I just know things.”

“Things?”

“For instance, I know that your publisher wants you to write a sequel to
A Perfect Day
, which, under the circumstances, you’re not real comfortable with. I know that you just got your flight home upgraded to first class and that your daughter is making her acting debut this afternoon in the first grade’s Thanksgiving program, which, sad to say, you won’t see.” He took a drink. “For starters.”

I just looked at him in astonishment.

His expression turned more serious. “Don’t believe me for my sake, Bob. My being here has nothing to do with me. It’s not like I’m here to earn wings. What a stupid notion: as if angels have wings. Actually, angel folklore is the height of nonsense, right up there with the Easter Bunny, but I digress. This is about you. You’re the one who’s ticking down. If you want to waste what little time you have left, go right ahead.” He stood, dropping two dollars on the table. “That’s for the scone. I’ll see you later.”

“When?”

“When you’re ready to stop wasting your time.”

As he walked away, a new emotion replaced the skepticism I had felt. Fear.

A
llyson sat on the third row of the Meadow Moor Elementary School auditorium, waiting for the Thanksgiving production to begin. The room bustled with parents happily visiting with each other or squatting near the front of the stage, positioning for optimum camera angles. The burgundy stage curtain was still down, and all that was visible on the stage was a lone microphone stand.

Allyson sat alone at the end of a row of chairs near the center of the auditorium. She held a video camera in her lap. Suddenly a rotund woman with silver hair crouched down next to her. She had a wide, animated face, an appropriate canvas for the bright makeup she wore.

“Excuse me, are you Mrs. Robert Mason Harlan?”

Her use of the three names was a dead giveaway to the woman’s intent. Allyson turned to look at her. “Yes, I am.”

The woman sat down in the row behind Allyson, leaning over the chair next to her. “I am such a fan of your husband.”

Allyson forced a smile. “I’m sure he’d like to hear that.”

“I cried all last night reading that book of his.

And it was my second time reading it.” She raised a hand to her breast. “How he can pull a woman’s heartstrings like that is beyond me. You are so lucky.”

“He can certainly bring out the emotion,” Allyson said. She looked forward, suppressing her true feelings. To her relief the school principal walked out to the microphone. Allyson said to the woman, “I think they’re about to start.”