A Perfect Day

by Richard Paul Evans

  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.

  Chapter 46

  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.

  Chapter 47

  Allyson 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 breas
t. “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.”

  “Is he here?” she whispered.

  “No. He’s on the road promoting his book.”

  Her face fell in disappointment. “Well, you give him my best, dear.”

  Allyson was glad when she was gone. The principal thanked the usual teachers and staff as well as the parents who helped, and the curtain opened to a large papier-mâché stone painted with the words Plymouth Rock. It was a few minutes into the play that Carson came out dressed as a pilgrim girl. She wore a pinafore and a bonnet, which unintentionally became the most memorable part of the production. Her bonnet fell off, and to the delight of the parents, she walked through her lines with one hand holding it to her head. Then it fell to the floor and a little boy dressed as an “Indian” slipped on it. He began crying and a teacher ran out on the stage and carried him off. Then Carson picked the bonnet up again and held it to her head as she delivered her main line, “We have much to be thankful for.”

  Allyson slipped out of the auditorium before the lights came up and anyone else could stop her. She walked around to the back of the stage and found Carson in the center of a great commotion of children pulling off their costumes. When Carson spotted her mother, she ran to her. “Mommy, Mommy! Did you see me, Mommy?”

  “Of course. You were great. I was so proud of you.”

  “My hat fell off. But I put it back on after Tanner slipped on it.”

  “Is he okay?”

  “He’s crying.” She looked around. “Where’s Daddy?”

  Allyson hid her frown. “His airplane broke in New York. But I videotaped everything for him, and when he comes back we can watch it. You know how much he likes to watch you.”

  “Yeah, he doesn’t like to miss me.”

  “No, honey. He hates to miss you. He loves you so much. Do you know what he’d say if he were here?”

  Carson shook her head.

  “He’d say ‘Let’s go get an ice cream cone to celebrate. ’ ”

  She smiled. “Let’s go, Mommy.”

  Chapter 48

  Arcadia closed early for the holiday, and every one I knew in New York had left the city. Maybe even Michael, since—with the exception of my daily computer reminders—I hadn’t heard from him either. I wondered if he’d find me in Utah. I doubted it. I flew back the day before Thanksgiving.

  My flight home was uneventful, as I slept through most of it. I arrived shortly after seven—after dark—feeling as displaced as if I were still on book tour. The thought of going home was there; I missed my family, but the tension of seeing Allyson was just too much. There was no reason to expect anything to be different between us.

  I had put a thousand dollars earnest money down on the new house, but the closing wouldn’t be until January 3. In light of Michael’s forecast, I actually wondered if I would ever occupy the house.

  Shortly before I left New York, I reserved a room over the Internet at the Hotel Monaco in downtown Salt Lake City—the same hotel Camille had stayed in on her visit. I booked the room until January 1. As had become my habit, I reserved the room under an alias. Ernest Hemingway. I did so for privacy. These days I needed privacy about as much as a senior center needs an orthodontist.

  It had snowed twice while I was in New York, leaving Salt Lake City as white and cold as a bowl of ice cream. There was an inversion trapping fog in the Salt Lake basin, and the air was gray as slate and had the musty, thick smell of the Great Salt Lake. The Lake Effect, they call it.

  When I flew out to New York, I had left my car in the airport’s long-term parking lot, and I returned to find it covered with nearly six inches of crusted snow. It looked like an igloo with wheels. It took me nearly fifteen minutes to clear it all off. Then I drove into downtown Salt Lake.

  I was exhausted from the flight and actually looked forward to a night of nothing but HBO and room service. As I completed checking into the hotel, the clerk handed me my key then said, “Mr. Hemingway, I think you have a message.”

  “That’s odd. No one knows that I’m here.”

  “Just a second and I’ll check.” She retrieved the note and handed it to me. “This came in about a half hour ago. It’s addressed to Ernest Hemingway aka Bob.”

  I took the note from her.

  Welcome home, Bob. We need to talk. I know you love the chocolate Cokes at Hires Drive-in on 400 South so I’ll meet you there at ten-fifteen. Your flight was on time, so that should still give you enough time to clear the snow off your car and check in. See you soon,

  Michael

  I looked up at the clerk. “I guess someone did know that I was here.” I took my luggage to my room and lay down on the bed for a moment. Then I drove about a mile to the drive-in. I felt naked. I wondered if there was anything Michael didn’t know about me.

  Chapter 49

  As I expected, Michael was already there. He was seated at a table in the corner of the room, eating fries and reading the Tribune. His eyes followed me until I sat down at the table across from him.

  “Welcome to Utah,” I said.

  “I’ve been here. How was your flight?”

  “I slept through it. How was yours?”

  He smiled at the question. “I took the liberty of ordering you a turkey sandwich with cranberry sauce—being that it’s Thanksgiving tomorrow. And your favorite drink, a chocolate Diet Coke, which must be an oxymoron. I ordered one for myself to see what it tasted like.”

  “How did you know I was staying at the Monaco?”

  “Same way I know everything, Mr. Hemingway. So have you reached any conclusions?”

  “About what?”

  “About me, to begin with.”

  “You tell me. You seem to know everything about me.”

  “So it would seem. But I don’t know everything. There are things that you don’t know about yourself. That’s what makes this exciting.”

  “This is exciting to you?”

  “Sorry. Wrong word. By the way, Carson was great in her play last Monday. Her bonnet fell off, but it just added to the moment if you know what I mean.”

  I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. “Listen, I’ve been thinking about everything and I have reached some conclusions.”

  Michael laced his fingers together and leaned forward, his chin resting on his hands. “I’m so glad. Tell me.”

  “I’ve concluded that this isn’t fair.”

  At first he just looked at me. Then, to my dismay, he started laughing, first to himself then loud enough that even the people on the other side of the restaurant turned to look at us.

  “I’m glad you found that amusing,” I said sarcastically.

  “Bob,” he said, his mouth still bent in a grin. “You really don’t want to talk about fair. Children starving in Ethiopia isn’t fair. A little girl praying every night for her daddy to come home isn’t fair. If I were you, I don’t think I’d get all hung up on ‘fair,’ Bob, because that dog don’t hunt.” He pushed a little back from the table. “Bottom line, when it comes to the scales of justice, you’ve been found wanting.”

  I sat back, cowed by his response. “So here we get to it. That’s what this is all about. I sinned, so God is going to kill me.”

  Michael’s smile vanished. “It doesn’t work that way, Bob. That’s a human-drawn caricature—God striking people with lightning bolts like he’s a hit man. Think it through. If that’s the way it was, then prisons would be empty and good people wouldn’t die. Right?”

  I half nodded. Just then the waitress, a pretty redhead with a name tag that read Nancy, arrived with our order. “Saved by the fries,” Michael said. He looked up at the waitress. “Hello, Nancy.”

  “Hello.”

  He pointed to me. �
��Do you happen to know who this man is?”

  She looked at me then shook her head. “No.”

  “This is Robert Mason Harlan, author of the number one book in America. You have a celebrity in your midst.”

  I wanted to crawl under the table.

  “It’s very nice to meet you,” she said.

  “Likewise,” I replied, flushed with embarrassment.

  “May I get either of you gentlemen anything else?”

  “No, we’re fine,” Michael said. After she left us, Michael grinned. “Now, where were we? Oh yes, death. You have to stop thinking of death as a punishment. It’s not. At least no more than birth. They’re very similar experiences when you think about it—coming from darkness into light through a long, dark tunnel. They’re both portals. You humans just happen to be on this side of the portal, so you view birth as beautiful. You don’t know what’s on the other side of the portal, so you fear it. There’s nothing more frightening to humans than the unknown.” He stopped to take a drink of his chocolate Coke. “But it’s like this chocolate Coke. Sometimes the unknown isn’t bad.”

  I rested my head in my hand. “So how do the powers that be decide when it’s your time?”

  “The powers that be,” Michael laughed. “Actually you’re not far from the truth. But I can’t really answer your question. It’s quite a complex process. But I can tell you that it’s not like a lottery, where things just happen at random. You have to realize that this earth is just another stopping place on the game board.” He paused thoughtfully, looking at his drink. “No, not a game board. It’s actually more like basic training.” He looked back at me. “Your father was a military man, you understand that. Anyway, these decisions were made a long time ago. In fact, you had a part in deciding when and where you were going to enter and exit. You just don’t remember.”

  “That’s hard to believe.”

  “Most spiritual things are hard for mortals to believe. That’s why they act so stupid in the flesh—putting immense value on things that don’t last. There are people on this earth who spend their lives chasing gold, but in heaven it’s used as asphalt for roads.