by John Hart
After awhile, I retrace my steps and slip under the covers. She’s warm, on her side, and I flatten myself against her. The dream seems more real each time, and each time takes longer to leave me. We walk over green grass, the three of us.
Tell me the story, Daddy.
Which one?
My favorite.
I reach for Vanessa, my hand finding her belly. She sinks deeper under the covers and nestles back against me.
“I hope it’s a girl,” I whisper.
“It is,” she says, and settles her hand upon my own.
I can’t say if she knows this or simply feels it. For me, it is enough. I hear her voice from the dream—my little girl—and I contemplate the vast fortune that will one day be hers. I think for the last time of my father, and of his feelings about women and money. There is poetry in this, an irony that completes the circle, and I wonder if he is restless in that dark and forever grave.
I stay in bed for a few more minutes, but the day beckons and I am restless. I pull on jeans and a sweater, and Bone follows me downstairs. It is cold outside, and I stand on the porch in the predawn light. I take a breath that fills me up and look out across the silent fields. There is a low mist in the hollow places, and the hilltops rise to meet the coming sun.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Nothing happens in a vacuum, and bringing a novel to publication is no exception. It takes time and faith, and the road can be long. To those who walked it with me, I would like to express my sincerest gratitude.
First and foremost, I would like to thank my wife, Katie, a source of constant support and invaluable advice—and the finest eye for fiction that a writer could ask to have looking over his shoulder. I love you, baby. To my agent and good friend, Mickey Choate, who wasn’t scared to take a chance on a new guy—thanks for the faith and for the lessons. And along those lines, many thanks to my editor, Pete Wolverton, the most irreverent man I’ve ever met and the most capable. Let it never be said that you don’t step to the plate. To Katie Gilligan, who is as sharp as a tack—thanks for putting up with me; you’re the best. And a comprehensive and sincere thank-you to everyone at St. Martin’s Press, St. Martin’s Minotaur, and Thomas Dunne Books who worked so diligently to make this book possible.
To everyone who read the manuscript at its worst and still calls me a friend, my most profound gratitude. And to the following people, whose goodwill was so evident: Nancy and Bill Stanback, Kay and Norde Wilson, John and Annie Hart, Mary Hart, Charlotte and Doug Scudder, Sterling Hart, Ken Peck, Annie P. Hart, John and Megan Stan-back, Anne Stanback, Charlotte Kinlock, Mark Stanback, Nancy Popkin, Joy Hart, John Betts, Boyd Miller, Stan and Ashley Dunham, Sanders Cockman, Sean Scapelatto, George Guise, Linda Parker, Darby Henley, Debbie Bernhardt Gray and Allison Wilson, and David and Jennifer Wilson. Special thanks to Clint and Jody Robins, who were always there, and to Mark Witte, a friend of the written word, who had a very fine idea. Thanks as well to James Randolph, attorney and friend, who took the time to make sure I’d not forgotten too much about the law, and to Erick Ellsweig, who knows why. If I have failed to mention anyone, the fault is purely mine. Rest assured that I know who you are and that you have my thanks as well.
There are others whom I have encountered along the way—people whose paths I never imagined I would cross—who have helped to make the whole experience more than I ever hoped it could be. My warmest gratitude to Mark Bozek and Russell Nuce, who bought the movie rights, and to the wonderful authors who have been kind enough to read this book and share their thoughts on it: Pat Conroy, Martin Clark, Steve Hamilton, Thomas Perry, Mark Childress, and Sheri Reynolds. What a privilege this has been for me.
Finally, an extra-special thanks to Saylor and Sophie, my daughters, for hanging the moon.
