A Perfect Day

  “Bye, honey.” As Allyson started upstairs, Camille asked, “Are you still there, Rob?”

  “Still here.”

  “Take me off the speaker. I need to talk with you in private.”

  “Carson, would you go up with Mommy?”

  “Okay.”

  I lifted the headset. “Go ahead.”

  “I talked with Sandra this afternoon. She’s your new publisher. They want to release your book the second week of October. They’re planning on a fairly extensive book tour. Are you okay with that?”

  “What do you mean by extensive?”

  “You could be on the road for as long as four weeks.”

  I was so giddy they could have asked me to sell the book door-to-door and I would have agreed. “Whatever it takes.”

  “In the next week or so you’ll be hearing from a woman named Heather Welch. She’s in charge of publicity over at Arcadia. She’ll be planning your book tour.”

  “Okay. Anything else?”

  “Actually there’s something I want to get off my chest.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ve been thinking a lot about you and Allyson. I’m a little worried.”

  “About us?”

  “I know this might sound a little dramatic, but if your book becomes as big as I think it will, you’re going to find yourself in a new world.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “Maybe more than you can imagine,” Camille said. “What you and Allyson have—your relationship—is a rare thing. It’s like a private garden. It’s delicate and balanced and you’re about to let a million people trample through it.”

  “You’re making this sound awful.”

  Camille’s voice lightened slightly. “Believe me, I’m not trying to ruin the moment, I’m just trying to prepare you for what’s ahead. I have a lot of married friends, but none of them have what I think you and Allyson have. I couldn’t live with myself if I thought I had in some way been a party to its destruction.”

  After some thought I said, “We’ll be okay, Camille. Allyson is everything to me. If it came right down to it, I’d give it all up for her.”

  “That’s what I want to hear,” she said, sounding slightly relieved. “Now that’s off my chest, we can get back to celebrating.”

  “I am very, very excited,” I said. “Thank you so much for making this possible.”

  “You’re welcome. I’m glad you’re excited. But we’ve just begun. The next few months are going to be quite a ride.”

  Chapter 17

  Camille was right. The next months brought a whole new world into our little home, from a trip to New York City to meet with my publisher to publicity photo shoots to flight arrangements for my book tour—a hundred details all leading up to the main event. I felt like a kid again, anxiously counting down the days to Christmas.

  I think it was Bette Midler who said, “The worst part of success is finding someone to be happy for you.” I didn’t have that problem. In my small world everyone was happy. Allyson was ecstatic, as were all three of my brothers. I don’t know how Chuck felt about it. I never told him. I was sure that he would have found some way to deflate me, perhaps reminding me that I wasn’t really a success yet. Like the time I was nominated as Sterling scholar in high school. I came home excited about the nomination, foolishly thinking Chuck would be excited as well. He wasn’t. He asked when I would know if I had really won.

  I continued to work with Stan until the first week of August, in part because I didn’t want to leave him short a man, but mostly just to keep myself from going crazy watching the calendar.

  Allyson gave notice that she would be quitting her job as well. Though she had some mixed feelings about this, ultimately she was glad to be home. On the Saturday morning following her last day of work, a delivery man came to our door carrying a box.

  “I have a package for Robert Mason Harlan.”

  “That’s me.”

  “Sign here, please.”

  The outside of the box read: A Perfect Day. Do not open until October 7.

  I signed for the package, then as he left I shouted, “They came, Al. They’re here.”

  Allyson ran in, followed by Nancy and Carson. “What’s here?” Allyson asked.

  “My book.”

  Her face brightened. Everyone gathered around me while I bent over the box, drawing my pocketknife across its lid. I folded back the flap and lifted out a single book. It was beautiful. It was a medium-sized book with a bright cover, a picture of a beautiful landscape of horse country washed by a morning haze. A Perfect Day was embossed in gold foil, as was my name—all three of them—Robert Mason Harlan. I extended the book at arm’s length. “It’s real,” I said.

  “What a beautiful book,” Nancy said. “I’d buy it just for the cover.”

  “It is beautiful,” Allyson agreed. “Just like the story.”

  I looked at Allyson. “I’ve always wondered what this would feel like.”

  “What does it feel like?” Nancy asked.

  “I was going to say a dream. But now I think it feels more like I’ve just given birth. With a gestation period of four years.”

  Allyson took a copy and carefully opened it.

  “I want one,” Carson said.

  I handed her a copy. “I’ll read it to you in a few years,” I said.

  “May I have one?” Nancy asked.

  “Of course.”

  “I want my copy signed.”

  “How many are there?” Allyson asked.

  I read the side of the box. “Carton holds twenty.”

  “Good. I told Carson’s teachers that I’d get them signed copies.”

  “I ought to send a copy to Stuart,” I said.

  “You should,” Allyson said kindly, “And thank him. If he hadn’t fired you this never would have happened.” Allyson always had a way of putting things in perspective. She turned the book over. “That’s a nice picture of you.”

  “This is a good picture,” Nancy said. “I’d go after you.”

  “Thanks, Nance,” Allyson said.

  “They can look,” Nancy said. “Just not touch.”

  Allyson went back to consigning the books. “You need three for your brothers. I would like one for Aunt Denise and her friend Celeste. One for your father.”

  “Chuck doesn’t need one,” I replied.

  Allyson frowned but said nothing.

  Suddenly Nancy jumped up. “Omigosh, I forgot the pancakes.” She ran out of the room, chased by Carson. For a moment Allyson and I sat quietly looking at the books. Then I said, “Do you know what this is?”

  “My husband’s book.”

  “Much more than that. It’s our passport to our dreams. To a whole new world.”

  “I hope not,” she said.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I like our world just the way it is.” She draped her arms around me, looking me in the eyes. “I’m so proud of you. I knew this would happen someday because no one deserves it more than you. You’re the best man I know.”

  I smiled and then we kissed. Nancy called us for breakfast.

  Chapter 18

  “This is Mick and Angel of The Breakfast Bunch, where you get more of yesterday’s hits and less interruptions. Up next, a flash from the past, Peter, Paul and Mary, ‘Leaving on a Jet Plane.’ ”

  ONE MONTH LATER.

  The radio alarm went off in the middle of my nightmare. I rolled over and hit the snooze button then lay back on my pillow looking up at the dark ceiling.

  In my dream I had come home from the book tour and found my home caged behind thick metal bars. I reached through the bars and rang the doorbell several times, but no one came. A passing neighbor told me that he had seen my family at the church down the street. I ran to it. Inside the church I could see Allyson and Carson praying. I tried to get in, but there were bars on the church’s doors and windows as well. I yelled for them, but they couldn’t hear me. Somehow my voice was gone. r />
  It had been a remarkably lucid dream and it left me shaken. As I stirred, Allyson rolled over into me, laying her face against my shoulder.

  “Is it time?” she asked in a thick voice.

  “Yes.”

  “Can’t you just call in sick?”

  “You really want me to do that?”

  “I don’t want you to go. Who will keep me warm in bed?”

  I pulled her in tighter. I’m sure it seems silly to the well traveled, but in seven years of marriage Allyson and I had never been apart for more than five days. Four weeks was unfathomable. I held her until the snooze expired and the radio again jarred me back to the morning. I leaned over and switched it off then kissed Allyson on the forehead.

  “Do you want me to get up and make you breakfast?” she asked.

  “No. It’s too early.” I climbed out of bed and went to the shower. After I had finished dressing, I set my luggage inside the foyer. As I finished a piece of toast, the taxi driver knocked on the front door. While he took my luggage—one large soft-shelled Samsonite bag and a carry-on bag with rollers—I went back in to Allyson one last time. The room was still dark.

  “Good-bye, honey,” I said softly.

  “I’m going to miss you so much,” she said.

  “I’ll call you every day. I promise.”

  “You better. Did you remember your laptop?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll e-mail you every day. Did you pack your pillow?”

  “Yes.” I put my arms around her. “I have everything I need in my bag except you,” I said.

  She moaned happily. “I love you with all my heart. Don’t ever forget that. Especially when some beautiful woman is telling you how much she loves your book.”

  “The only woman I care about is you.”

  I laid my head against her chest, feeling her warmth and softness and listening to the comforting beat of her heart. Then I sighed and slowly drew back my hand, holding on to hers until I kissed it then let it go.

  “Bye, my love,” she said sleepily.

  I shut her door then went to Carson’s room. She was sleeping soundly. For just a moment I lingered over her, watching her peaceful slumber. I touched her soft cheek and she rubbed it then rolled to her side. I quietly bent over her and kissed her. My heart ached. I would miss my family dearly. Then I went out to the cab and climbed into the backseat. “Salt Lake Airport,” I said.

  The driver shifted his car into reverse. “You got it.”

  I glanced back at my home as we drove away. The excitement of the last weeks gave way to melancholy. Suddenly home was the only place I wanted to be.

  Chapter 19

  I spent eight hours in transit, though it didn’t seem that long. The first steps of adventures are never tedious. For the first time in my life I sat in the first-class section of an airplane. As a guy who had never really left Utah, I suppose I was filled with a sort of gee-whiz, wide-eyed wonderment. The woman I sat next to asked me what I did for employment, and when I told her that I was an author, she seemed impressed. She wrote down the name of my book and had me sign the back of her boarding pass for her to put in it after she purchased it.

  I had a three-hour layover in Cincinnati. As I wandered the terminal, I was amazed to see copies of my book in all the airport bookstores. I couldn’t believe that my book was actually there with all the others. I stopped at each store to sign them. The woman at the counter of the WHSmith acted honored to meet me, like I was a celebrity or something. She put autographed book stickers on my books and moved a stack of them next to the cash register. While I was still in the store, a woman picked up my book, read the jacket then bought it. I watched her furtively from the magazine rack. It was all I could do to not go over and thank her.

  My flight landed in Birmingham at ten minutes past one. I gathered my things and fell into the shuffling line of travelers exiting the plane.

  A woman stood just outside the Jetway holding a copy of my book. She was fifty-something, small and attractive with silver hair, ice blue eyes and a sharp nose.

  “Mr. Harlan?”

  I stepped from the line. “That’s me.”

  She extended her hand. “I’m Anne, your escort,” she said with a melodious southern drawl. “Welcome to Alabama.”

  “Thank you.” We stepped away from the crowd of exiting travelers. “How did you know it was me?”

  She lifted her book. “Your handsome picture is on the cover. Do you have luggage?”

  “I have one bag. One large bag.”

  “Baggage claim is this way.” She led me to the escalators. “How long is your tour?”

  “Twenty-five cities.”

  “My heavens. Where does Birmingham fall on your tour?”

  “This is my first stop.”

  “No wonder you look so fresh. By the end of your tour, you’ll look like the laundry in the bottom of your bag. And you’ll feel like it.” At the bottom of the escalator Anne looked up to check the carousel numbers. “Your suitcase will be over there.”

  She smiled when she saw my bag. “That is rather large. I better get the car and meet you out front. That way we won’t have to drag it out to the parking terrace.”

  “It’s okay. I can follow you.”

  “Then we’re off.”

  We took an elevator downstairs and crossed traffic to the parking garage. The air outside was warm and moist, a mere remnant of a Southern summer. She stopped at the rear of a black Buick sedan and opened the car’s trunk by remote. She went for my bag but I stopped her.

  “This thing weighs more than you do,” I said. I hoisted my bag inside while she opened the car door for me. Then Anne climbed into the driver’s seat.

  “There’s a cooler on the floor in the back,” she said. “I have Coke, bottled water and juice. Help yourself.”

  I reached back and took a bottle of water. I opened it and she immediately reached over to take the bottle cap from me.

  “Are all escorts as accommodating as you?”

  “I don’t know, but I’ll take that as a compliment. Now buckle your seat belt. The publishers get real upset if we kill their author.”

  We pulled out of the parking terrace and merged in with the traffic leaving the airport. The road from the airport was lined with dogwood trees and flowers. The air was sweet with the fragrance of magnolias. I decided that Allyson would like Birmingham.

  The South had always held a certain romantic if not mystical allure for me. As an aspiring author I had been a fan of Faulkner and Harper Lee, and the ground they walked seemed a bit above the rest of the earth. I was happy to be in the South, and I was reminded of where I was every time Anne opened her mouth.

  “Mr. Harlan, you can lean the seat back if you want to rest.”

  “I’m fine. I’m not tired.” I looked her way. “You can call me Rob.”

  “Thank you. I’m sorry to say I haven’t read your book yet. I’ve had so many authors through lately I’m behind on my reading. But it’s a beautiful book. And it sounds just wonderful. Do you mind me asking how your reviews have been?”

  “They’ve almost all been good.”

  “That’s just wonderful. Have you been writing for a while?”

  “This is my first book.”

  “So what gave you the idea for your story?”

  “My wife. It’s her story.”

  “How special. How long have you been married?”

  “Seven years.”

  “Seven years. Isn’t that just wonderful?”

  Anne was big on just wonderful. A half hour later we arrived at the Tutweiler—a boutique hotel in the heart of Birmingham. “You’ll just love this hotel,” she said as she put the car in park. “It’s very quaint.”

  Anne climbed out of the car and the bell captain greeted her. “Welcome back, Ms. Stephens.”

  “Thank you, Emmett. Mr. Harlan has one bag in the trunk.” We walked inside. The attendant at the counter smiled when he saw Anne, slightly tipping his hea
d. “Ms. Stephens.”

  “Hello, Nolan. I have with me a very important author, Mr. Robert Harlan.”

  “Mr. Harlan, welcome to Alabama.” He lost himself to his computer terminal. “Here we are. Mr. Harlan. One single, king-size bed, no smoking. You’ll be staying with us for two nights?”

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “Nolan, is it possible to upgrade Mr. Harlan to a VIP suite?”

  “Just a minute, let me see if it’s available.” Nolan consulted his screen, touched his keyboard and returned. “Yes, ma’am. Two nights in the suite, no extra charge. I see that the charges have all been taken care of.” He handed me a small package. “The small key inside is to the minibar. I’ll have your luggage sent right up.”

  I felt like I had suddenly been upgraded to the first-class section of life. “Thank you.”

  Anne smiled at me. “Get a good night’s rest. We start early with the morning news. I’ll pick you up in the lobby at five-thirty.”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  “Would you like me to call before I come?”

  “No, I’ll just get a wake-up call.”

  “Very well. Good night, Robert.”

  Anne left. Emmett, the bellman, stepped forward with my suitcase. “May I have your key, sir?” I handed him the envelope.

  “This way, please.”

  My room was spacious, with gold-fringed drapery and a large Jacuzzi tub. It seemed too large for just me, and I wished that Allyson were there. I unpacked my clothes, hung them in the closet, then lay down on top of the bed without pulling down the sheets. I checked my watch. Alabama was one hour ahead of Utah. Allyson would be eating dinner. I ordered room service; then I called home.

  “Hello,” she answered.

  “Hi, baby.”

  Her voice brightened. “I was wondering when you’d call. So how’s my author? What’s the road like?”

  “Well, it’s been nothing but airports today. My room is nice. I could get used to this. I just ordered from room service: ribs rubbed Southern style, with grits and crawfish chowder. Does that sound Southern or what?”

  “It sounds fun.”