Then, two days before Christmas, my dad came home.
He called from the airport, and showed up at the house that night with a full beard and a bag of gifts like Santa except without the laughs. It was all very civil, very polite, and completely jarring. Mom stayed on her side of the couch, he stayed on his. At the end of the world’s most awkward conversation, he said goodbye, hugged me and Annie, and started back for his hotel.
I wanted to say, “Dad, wait.”
I wanted to ask him what really happened with Paula. I wanted to hear his side of the story. There had to be a reason for what he’d done, right?
Someday I want to hear it.
“You coming downstairs?” Mom asked. “Your sister’s making hot cocoa and she wants to watch Elf.”
I glanced up from the computer. “Maybe in a while.” It was Christmas Eve, and I was not much in the holiday spirit despite a prediction of scattered flurries tonight and Death Cab for Cutie on the radio doing their version of “Baby Please Come Home.”
I looked down at the online application for next fall’s admission to UCLA. It was only half finished, and I didn’t have the strength to seek out one more letter of recommendation. I knew I had to finish it, though. It was time to move forward, to aim past it and punch through. I thought maybe California was far enough away to get a new start.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” Mom said. “This came for you.”
I looked at the envelope she’d dropped on my desk. There was no return address. I looked at the blurry postmark. It looked like Fiji.
I tore it open.
It was a Christmas card from the Hotel Schoeneweiss, showing a huge crowd of men and women in Santa suits trying to climb a wooden pole in the annual ClauWau competition in Zermatt. Inside was blank, except for two lines of block print at the bottom.
NEW LOCATION FOR THE HOTEL. ONLY ONE GUEST SO FAR. SHE HAS ASKED TO SEE YOU NEXT TIME YOU ARE IN THE ISLANDS.
It was initialed with the letters ES.
I tucked it in my desk along with my passport, slid the drawer shut, and went downstairs to the smell of hot cocoa, to join Annie and my mom.
Acknowledgments
Countless thanks are due to my agent, Phyllis Westberg, for standing by me over the years, and Margaret Raymo, editor extraordinaire at Houghton Mifflin. Also at Houghton, I want to thank Betsy Groban, senior vice president and publisher, and Rachel Wasdyke, publicity manager, neither of whom have been anything less than wonderful from the very beginning—plus, you throw a great party, guys. Across the pond, thanks also to the charming Ali Dougal, commissioning editor at Egmont, for her light editorial touch and a delicious lunch on a cold November day in London.
To that end, I must finally thank my wife, Christina, and my children, who followed me across the U.K., France, Switzerland, and Italy to research this book, giving me inspiration to face the blank page and the courage to walk through doorways that I never would have entered alone. The bottom line here is that you’re quite simply the best part of me. I love you, dudes.
About the Author
JOE SCHREIBER is the New York Times best-selling author of adult novels Death Troopers, Chasing the Dead, and Eat the Dark, as well as his first young adult novel, Au Revoir, Crazy European Chick. He lives in Pennsylvania. Visit his blog at www.scaryparent.blogspot.com.
Perry's Killer Playlist Page 16
