A Perfect Day (24 page)

“Thanks. We’re just finishing up.”

 

The church parking lot was completely full, and I ended up letting them off near the front of the church and parking the car a couple blocks down the street. They waited for me at the door. As I caught up with them, Carson took my hand and Allyson took her other hand. We looked like a family again. In the words of Anne, my Alabama escort, it felt
just wonderful
.

Pastor Tim’s sermon was about Christmas, of course, but focused on the angels of Christmas: the angel Gabriel of the Annunciation, bringing word to Mary of the Holy infant. The angels who appeared to the shepherds bringing
tidings of great joy
.

I had always thought of angels as mystical beings. Kind of like unicorns. My encounters with Michael had changed all that. I could envision the angels gathered together before the shepherds—a small mob of people just like us. No wonder the shepherds were afraid.

 

On the drive home Allyson said, “Pastor Tim always gives a nice Advent sermon. I had never thought of angels quite that way.”

Carson asked, “Daddy, have you ever seen an angel?”

I looked over. “Your mother.”

“Mommy’s not an angel.”

“That’s for sure,” Allyson said.

“Don’t be too sure,” I said. “The thing is angels don’t have wings. They look like us. That’s how they walk among us.”

“They walk around us?” Carson asked.

“They’re closer than you think.”

Allyson turned quiet on the ride home. After Carson ran into the house, she turned to me. “Are you staying for dinner?”

“I’d like to. But I have a flight back to New York tonight.
Good Morning America
has a special last-minute Christmas shopping show. They’re featuring my book.”

“Do you realize that’s the first time you’ve mentioned your book since you’ve been back?”

“I guess I figured that you had had enough of it. Or maybe I have.”

She looked solemn. “So is this good-bye?”

“Not if you’ll let me back. This is just an in-and-out thing. I fly back to Utah tomorrow night. I’ll be here Tuesday morning, if that’s all right. Christmas Eve.”

“It’s all right,” she said softly.

“If it’s okay with you, I’d like to plan the day.”

“That will be nice. Carson will be disappointed that you’re leaving,” she said. From the tone of her voice I wondered if perhaps she spoke of herself as well.

“I’ll say good-bye to her before I go.”

“What time are you on TV? I’m sure Carson would like to watch.”

“I don’t know. I’ll be there by six, but I probably won’t be on until nine or so. You know how these things go.”

“Yes, I do.”

“I’ll see you Tuesday.”

She looked at me kindly. “Bye, honey.”

It was clearly a slip, but I was glad for it. “See you, Al.”

I went off to say good-bye to Carson. Another barrier had fallen.

MONDAY, DECEMBER 23. NINE DAYS UNTIL NEW YEAR’S.

N
ancy called Allyson around eight-thirty the next morning. “Hey, they just said Rob’s going to be on after the next commercial break. Utah man strikes publishing gold,” she said, mimicking the anchor.

“We know. We’re watching.”

Both Allyson and Carson were sitting on the bed looking at the television. Just then the program’s lead-in music started and Carson shouted, “There’s Daddy! He’s on TV!”

“You heard that,” Allyson said. “I’ll call you back.”

In New York I was seated across from Diane Sawyer. As the camera pushed in, she began to speak.

“A year ago Robert Mason Harlan was installing sprinklers. But in his spare time he began writing a book about his wife’s last days with her dying father. Today that novel, titled
A Perfect Day
, is the bestselling book in America. Welcome to the show, Robert.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m intrigued by the title of your book. There was a Roger Whittaker song back in the early sixties called ‘A Perfect Day.’ Is there any connection?”

“No. I didn’t know of that song until one of my readers sent me a CD of it. Actually, my wife is responsible for the title. Like you said, the story is based on her and her father. While she was away for college, he brought her home for just one last perfect day. At the end of the day he told her that he was dying.”

Sawyer nodded. “A friend of mine read your book. She said it was a five-hankie read. How does your wife feel about it?”

“Allyson was the first to read it. She liked the book. But she doesn’t care much for the public life or how this has affected our family.”

“I imagine that your sudden success has been a little overwhelming.”

I hesitated. “It has. In ways I wasn’t ready for. Frankly, if I had it to do over again . . . I wouldn’t.”

Sawyer looked surprised. “There are probably several thousand aspiring authors watching us right now who would give anything to be in your shoes.”

“I’m sure there are. And I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. My readers have been great, so have my publisher and agent. But success can be a trap. Maybe someone else could have handled success better. But I lost sight of the big picture. My book is a bestseller for a little while, at least until the next big thing bumps me off, but I will always be a husband. And I will always be a father. If I give up those things for a temporary seat in the musical chairs of fame, then I’m a fool.”

Sawyer said, “I almost hate to ask you this, but are you working on another book?”

“I’m under contract for another book,” I answered vaguely.

Sawyer turned back toward the camera. “The book is
A Perfect Day
and it’s the number one book in America. It’s a
GMA
Christmas pick, so pick up a copy. Thank you, Robert, for being on our show.”

“It’s my pleasure.”

 

Back in Salt Lake City Allyson began to cry.

I
left the ABC studio on Columbus and took a cab downtown to Tiffany’s. The store was impossibly crowded with last-minute Christmas shoppers, and I waited nearly a half hour just to pay for my selections. I purchased two gifts: one for Allyson, the other for Camille.

Leaving the store, I hailed a cab and directed it to Camille’s condominium in Tribeca. I didn’t know if she’d be there. But I had to try.

I had never been to her home. It was a nondescript ten-story building with a dark brown tile facade. I found her name on the building directory then dialed her number on the voice box. She answered.

“Hello.”

“Hi, Camille. It’s Rob.” No response. “Robert Harlan,” I added.

“Sorry, Rob. I didn’t recognize your voice. I’m on the seventh floor. 7F.” There was a sharp buzz and the front door unlocked. I went inside and took the elevator up. Camille’s loft was at the end of a long corridor. She was standing outside her door waiting for me.

“Your interview this morning was a little surprising.” Her mouth rose in a half smile. “I’m sure I’ll hear from Sandra before the day’s out.”

“Sorry about that.” I reached into my bag and brought out a small box wrapped in blue paper. “I brought you something.”

“What’s this?”

“An early Christmas present. Or a late Hanukkah present. You decide.”

“Thank you. I was just making lunch. Would you like something to eat?”

“Thanks. But I’ve got a few more errands to run. I’m flying back to Utah this afternoon.” I looked down for a moment. “I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am about everything. I’m not proud of how I’ve handled things.”

She looked at me, her expression a blend of sympathy and surprise. “Things happen.”

“Some things shouldn’t,” I replied.

She looked down at the box. “Should I open this now?”

“Sure.”

She peeled back the paper then lifted out a black velvet jewelry box. She opened it. Inside was a pair of pink sapphire earrings with platinum stems. She gasped.

“They’re beautiful, Rob. I love pink sapphires.”

“I know. You told me once.” She looked at them again and smiled.

“You didn’t need to do this.”

“Yes, I did.” I smiled sadly. “I suppose it’s a moot point, but I never signed with Darren.”

She looked up at me. “What do you mean it’s a moot point?”

For the first time I considered telling someone else my secret. But I didn’t. There was no point in it. She’d find out soon enough anyway. “I’ll explain it to you later,” I said. “On New Year’s.” I leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “Take care of yourself, Camille. Merry Christmas.” I started to turn then stopped. “You don’t know where there’s a stationery shop around here, do you?”

“There’s one in SoHo. Just a few blocks north. What do you need?”

“Just a little Christmas present I forgot.” My eyes watered as I realized it would be the last time I’d see her. “Thanks for everything.”

She stepped forward and hugged me. “Welcome back, Rob. Merry Christmas and a happy New Year.”

“Ditto,” I replied and walked to the elevator.

I
arrived back in Salt Lake City a little after five p.m. The airport was crowded with last-minute travelers headed home for Christmas. On my walk through the terminal I witnessed at least a dozen reunions—lovers reunited, students coming home to their families, things like that. It simultaneously warmed and pained me.

More than a few people recognized me from my
Good Morning America
appearance. Some just stared at me or pointed, while others actually said something. I thanked them for watching and wished them a merry Christmas.

I picked up my luggage, one suitcase and two boxes of my book that I had requested from Heather. I carted them out to my car.

Tonight I only wanted to be with Allyson and Carson. But I had other errands to run. I knew it would probably be my last chance to try to set things right. My first stop was Chuck’s.

It was dark as I arrived, the sky fading from amethyst to the aubergine of late twilight. It had been nearly three years since I’d been to the house. It looked smaller than I remembered. Smaller and older. But even in the growing shadows I could see that the yard was pristine and orderly, as if even the shrubbery bent to Chuck’s arduous will.
Everything in its place,
he always said. The house was dark as a mausoleum. It looked like no one was home, but I knew Chuck was. Chuck didn’t go places at night.

I took a copy of my book from the car then walked up to the darkened porch. I pushed the doorbell. There was no response, so I knocked on the glass pane of the outer door. After a moment there were footsteps. Then the front porch light came on, followed by the sliding and clicking of locks. The door opened. Chuck stood in the threshold.

My memory of Chuck had not cheated him of years. He looked as old as I remembered. Maybe older. He wore a light blue cardigan and slacks. He’d do his yard work in slacks. And black socks. Every pair he owned was black.

For a minute he just stared at me, his dark eyes leveled on me like a gun turret. Then he said, “Look what the cat drug up.”

“May I come in?”

He glanced down at the book I held in my hand. “Your life,” he drawled. He unlocked the screen door and turned away from me. I stepped in behind him. The entryway was covered in avocado-hued shag carpet. The inside of the house hadn’t changed much except to grow older. There was a peculiar new smell—like a nursing home. Chuck turned his back on me and shuffled to the ancient rust-colored couch in the family room. I followed him in.

“I came to wish you a merry Christmas,” I said.

He slid between the couch and the oak coffee table that paralleled it. An amused scowl crossed his face as he fell back into the sofa, his thin legs spread apart. He put his hands on his knees. “So the spirit of the season’s gotten into you? Thought you’d pay your old man a visit.”

“Something like that.”

“Whole thing’s a sham. You know what the spirit of Christmas is? It’s guilt.”

“Maybe,” I said beneath my breath.

“What?”

“I said
maybe
.”

Silence.

He picked up a newspaper from the table and looked at it. He spoke without looking up. “I heard you and Stan were working together.”

“We were for a while.”

“Didn’t work out, huh?”

“It worked out fine. I just got involved with something else.” I looked around. The sink was filled with dishes, and an ironing board was out, lined with empty hangers. There were newspapers everywhere. Stacks of them. “So what have you been up to?” I asked.

He put down the paper. “Now, why would you ask that? We both know you don’t give a hill of beans.”

I took a deep breath, my eyes locked on his. “I know this is difficult. So I’ll speak my piece and go.”

“You do that, sonny.”

“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately. About us. We’ve never got along. My entire life I’ve blamed you for Mom leaving. I felt like you ran her off with your . . .
rigidity
. And, I suspect, some part of you blames me for Irene dying. We couldn’t have gotten off to a worse start in life.”

My father just looked at me from beneath the shadow of his caterpillar brows.

“I suppose I’ve always thought of you as just a mean, old man. So when I was old enough to have my own family, I swore that I would never be like you.”

His eyes narrowed. “Glad to get this off your chest, boy?”

I raised my hand. “Bear with me.” A lump suddenly rose in my throat. “But what I’ve learned is that I should have been more like you. The difference between you and me is that you never left your post. I don’t know why you had children. Duty, maybe. Maybe it was only because Irene wanted them. Then life just dumped us all in your lap. But no matter, you didn’t leave . . .” I looked down. “. . . Unlike me. When things got good, I moved on. I left the woman I love and my daughter high and dry.” I smiled darkly. “And I thought
you
were bad.”