Two From the Heart

by James Patterson

  “Your show’s wonderful,” Sasha said. “I’d love to talk to you about your process. Although maybe it’d be easier when you’re not swamped by opening-night guests.” She handed me her card.

  “I’d love to,” I said calmly, even though my brain was short-circuiting with excitement.

  “Call me Monday,” Sasha said. “It was so good to meet you. Now I’m going to see if I can get a glass of wine before the throngs drink it all.”

  I gazed around the crowded gallery with a mix of happiness and disbelief. Printed on archival paper and suspended in beechwood frames, my poster-size photographs looked almost monumental on the clean white walls. Next to them, hung casually with thumbtacks, were the much smaller prints I’d made with my portable printer. But to me, the most exciting part of my show was in the center of the gallery, where a long handmade table, polished to a perfect sheen, held stacks of my new book, A Thousand Words.

  In it were pictures of all the people I’d met, with their stories handwritten below their portraits. Here was Pauline on page four, clutching her beloved photo albums; opposite her was the mechanic, leaning against my beloved Beatrice. There was Lucy the dog, gazing up at her girl; next to her, Kate the waitress posed with her Melitta coffeepot, her smile radiant and proud.

  I’d taken a lot of new pictures for the book, too. My neighbor Bill leaned against a shovel in front of my house as he took a break from overseeing its reconstruction. “I was born in the Kentucky hills on the night of a blood moon,” his story began, “in a year so long ago I’m damn near ashamed to admit it.”

  A few pages further on was a photograph of my brother, eating breakfast a few months ago at Barnacle Bill’s; his story about sneaking out one night and witnessing an attempted robbery was definitely one my parents never heard.

  Thanks to all the pictures, I felt surrounded by my friends and family, even though I barely knew anyone in the room.

  I’d met Amy, the red-haired owner of this up-and-coming Los Angeles gallery, by pure chance. I was on my way back to North Carolina, and she was visiting her aging mother. Seated at neighboring café tables, we’d struck up a conversation. She’d asked me what I did, I told her about my project, and one thing, as they say, led to another.

  It was so surprising, so serendipitous, that it felt like winning the lottery. But that comparison didn’t really do it justice, because a lottery was only about money. This show, on the other hand, was about having a very old dream—a dream so old I’d almost forgotten it—finally, finally come true.

  “It’s pretty incredible, isn’t it?”

  I turned to find Jason Kline at my side, a plastic cup of complimentary sparkling wine in each hand. I smiled as I took one from him.

  “Yes, that table you made really steals the show,” I said.

  He grinned. “That wasn’t what I was talking about,” he said.

  “I know.” I stood up on my tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek, and he put his arm around my shoulders. “Thank you for coming,” I said.

  He shrugged. “It was only a seven-hour drive. With a U-Haul. And a really big table bouncing around in it.”

  “You have only yourself to blame,” I pointed out.

  As I’d learned on the night of our epic, amazing, eight-course dinner, Jason built custom furniture out of a workshop in Tucson, Arizona. And so, a month later, when I’d called to tell him about my show, he’d had the brilliant idea to make me a table.

  I guess we were both looking for excuses to see each other again—and furniture seemed as good as any.

  I didn’t really know what was going on between us, and probably he didn’t either. Right now, our lives were two thousand miles away from each other. But, as I knew better than most, life could change in an instant.

  “I’d kind of like to buy the portrait of the dog,” Jason said. “Do you offer a friends and family discount?”

  I shrugged. The gallery had priced the pictures so high, I couldn’t even afford my own work. “Who knows?” I said, laughing. “I’m not the boss around here—that’s Amy.”

  Jason squeezed me a little tighter. “Well, do you think your boss might let you clock out a little early tonight?”

  I looked around at the crowd of well-heeled strangers nodding approvingly at my work. Amy’s assistant had already put little red dots next to many of the portrait titles, which meant my show was actually selling. And the stacks of books? They were getting smaller every minute.

  All in all, things were going about as well as they possibly could, which was better than I’d ever dared to imagine.

  “I am really hungry,” I said. “Do you know a nice Italian place around here?”

  Jason said, “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  We squeezed each other’s hands conspiratorially. In a matter of moments, we’d slip out the back door.

  Don’t leave your own art opening! Karen would scold me.

  Maybe it was a good thing she was back in Iowa, nursing twin boys—but then again, she wouldn’t have expected me to take her advice anyway.

  I looked up at Jason, and then nodded toward the emergency exit. He smiled.

  I knew that nothing was certain. We’d have to see where things took us. But I knew that I wouldn’t learn the end of our story tonight—and I hoped I wouldn’t, not for a very long time.

  WRITE ME A LIFE

  James Patterson, Frank Costantini, and Brian Sitts

  Chapter 1

  Near Wilmington, Mass., 12:15 a.m.

  “Wow. I truly suck at this!”

  Sorry, but that’s my state of mind. If you were in my situation, you’d probably feel the same way. I’m in the living room sweating out my third novel—or my “third strike,” as my publisher calls it. I guess that’s only fair, considering my first two efforts pretty much ended up in the discount bin.

  It’s just past midnight, and I’m tapping away on my IBM Selectric. I realize that makes me look like a caveman with a sharp rock. No argument there. I’ve always been a little behind the times, technology-wise.

  So I’m staring at the page. The words aren’t coming. I feel burned out. Washed up. Useless.

  I stand up to stretch. Other than another Red Sox pennant, there’s only one thing that can make me feel better. Cuervo. I search the living room for a bottle I haven’t drained yet. Suddenly—

  thunka, thunka, thunka, thunka…

  It’s a crazy combination of whirring and pounding—coming from somewhere above me. My bookshelves start to rattle. I crouch my way to the front window.

  I see a bright spotlight beam swinging across the roof of the Duffys’ house next door. Treetops are bending like straws. The noise gets louder and louder. Closer and closer.

  THUNKA, THUNKA, THUNKA!

  I’m thinking terrorist attack, tornado, alien abduction… and I know it’s not just the tequila. Whatever it is—it’s real.

  I’m squinting out the window, and I see a shape descending from the sky and setting down in the empty field on the other side of my house.

  It’s a helicopter! But not one of those chunky traffic choppers. This one is small, sleek, elegant. And now it’s about fifty feet away from me, blowing the lids off my trash cans.

  The rotor blades are still spinning. A guy hops out and ducks against the prop wash. He crosses the driveway and heads straight for my front door. I open it just as he’s coming up my front steps. Whoever it is, he looks like he just stepped off a yacht. Or an ultra-cool helicopter.

  “Mr. Crane? Damian Crane?”

  I’m staring over the guy’s shoulder at the chopper. My eyes are so wide I probably look like Bart Simpson.

  “Right. Yes. That’s me…”

  The white strobe on the belly of the chopper is lighting up the ground in quick, bright blasts. Emergency landing? What else could it be?

  “Everybody okay?” I ask. “Should I call 911?” But the guy is totally calm.

  “No need,” he says. “Everything is fine. Can we talk?”

 
; The chopper engines are powering down. Good thing the neighbors are away. Mrs. Duffy throws a fit when I turn up my Beats on the porch. She’d have a stroke over this. The guy steps inside. Trim. Good-looking. But really pale. He gets right down to business. There’s no mistake. It’s me he’s looking for.

  “Mr. Crane,” he says, “my name is Tyler Bron. I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of me, but… I’m a computer engineer.”

  The name is quasi-familiar. Maybe from the business pages. Or CNN?

  “I founded Bron Aerospace. That’s my company.”

  Now it clicks. Tyler Bron. Bron Aerospace. Right. Shuttle supply missions, satellite communications, air force contracts—the works. That would explain the state-of-the-art transportation. And, by the way, “computer engineer” is underselling it just a bit. Tyler Bron is a certified Steve Jobs–level genius, not to mention a mega-billionaire. And for some reason, he’s standing in my living room.

  “Good to meet you. But please… call me Damian.”

  We shake hands. I toss aside a pile of notebooks and pizza boxes to clear some room for him to sit. Embarrassing. This guy’s pants cost more than my sofa.

  Bron is polite, but a little awkward and nervous. If I were describing him in a book, I’d say, “distracted.” But the big questions are: What does he want with me? Why the hell is he here? He presses his palms together and starts in.

  “First, Mr. Crane… Damian… I need to tell you that I’m a fan. I love everything you’ve ever written.”

  That’s definitely a first for me.

  “Oh—so you’re the one,” I say. I know, I know—obvious joke. But the thing is, it goes right past him. He’s totally sincere—not bullshitting me in the least. He really seems to like my stuff. He starts quoting from Esquire pieces and newspaper profiles I wrote ten years ago—stuff I’d totally forgotten. Then he spills out his problem.

  Turns out, he’s done nothing but work since the day he dropped out of MIT to start his company. He’s been on the job 24/7 since then. No rest. No vacations. No downtime. He’s got more money than he’ll ever need, but it doesn’t mean anything to him anymore. He’s got no time to enjoy it.

  “The truth is, Damian, I’ve been starting to think about everything I don’t have. No family, no friends, no personal relationships.”

  “I’m forty years old,” he says, “and I have zero human connections. None.”

  I’m sitting there listening to his story—and I don’t know what to say. I like the guy. I guess I feel sorry for him in a way, but what does any of this have to do with me? I’m no psychologist. I’m so nervous I blurt out the only comforting thing I can think of.

  “Want a drink?”

  I know I do.

  He shakes his head. Then he leans forward.

  “Damian, as I said… you’re the best writer I know.”

  I’m still trying to absorb that unlikely fact. And now he lands the kicker:

  “I want you to write me a life.”

  Chapter 2

  TIME OUT. Now this is officially getting strange. A guy this rich needs a favor from me?

  “Write you a life? Wait. You mean… you want me to put you in a novel?” That’s not a problem. In my last book, I made my mailman a serial killer.

  He shakes his head again.

  “No. What I want, Damian, is for you to write a whole new existence for me. In the real world. Whatever you create on the page will happen in real life. I have people who can make it happen. Cost is no object. If you agree, my associate can be here in the morning to arrange everything.”

  Maybe I’m dense. This is not really computing in my feeble brain. But Bron is dead serious. And let’s be honest. Look around. What have I got to lose?

  “Hold on,” I say. “For just one minute, let’s pretend that this is even remotely possible. What kind of life would you want?”

  Tyler Bron stands up and smiles, just a little.

  “Surprise me.”

  Chapter 3

  Bam! Bam! Bam!

  Oh, God have mercy. My head is splitting. I’m crumpled on my sofa under a blanket, wondering if last night was some kind of hallucination.

  Bam! Bam! Bam!

  My front door again. Doorbell broken. Must… answer. I run my hands over my belly. Still wearing my Red Sox T-shirt. Briefs? Check. Just need to pull on my jeans. I stand up. Whoa there, cowboy! Dizzy… queasy… shaky. The trifecta.

  BAM! BAM! BAM!

  “Who the f—??! Coming!”

  I lurch across the living room. What the hell time is it? Six a.m.!? Christ.

  I open the front door, hoping it’s a Jehovah’s Witness I can yell at. Instead…

  “Mr. Crane? I’m Daisy DeForest. Tyler Bron’s associate. Mr. Bron said you’d be expecting me.”

  Business suit. Hair pulled back. Thirty-five, maybe. Attractive, if you like the buttoned-up type. But way too intense for this hour of the morning. I rub my eyes, trying hard to focus. Truth is, after last night, I don’t know what to expect.

  “Wow. Okay. I guess he wasn’t kidding.” I mumble my words, trying not to project too much. Right now, my breath would singe her eyebrows.

  “No. He wasn’t. Can we get started? We’ve got a lot to get through.”

  Quite the drill sergeant, this one.

  “Now? Okay. Wait. So… I… what do I need…?”

  “Nothing. Just you. Let’s go.”

  I hold up my index finger in the universal sign for “wait a sec,” and go back in to find my shoes. I pop into the bathroom for a hit of Listerine and smear on some deodorant. When I head back through the living room, my new best friend is already in her car, engine revving. A jet-black Audi RS 7.

  First observation: Daisy does not drive like a daisy. She peels out of my driveway spitting gravel, and before I can blink we’re on I-93, doing 95. She pulls up to within five inches of an eighteen-wheeler’s backside before drafting around it, punching it up to 110 as she passes.

  To be honest, I’m only guessing at the speed, because I’m gripping the handhold for dear life and staring straight ahead. Conversation? Forget it. I’m just trying not to lose the mostly liquid contents of my stomach.

  Somewhere near the New Hampshire border, we fly down an exit ramp and start winding down a back road like it’s Le Mans. I spot a speed limit sign, but it’s just a blur. Now we’re turning into a private roadway. The speed bumps slow her down slightly. We pass a rough granite obelisk with BRON AEROSPACE etched into it. Impressive. Classy. Expensive.

  Up ahead through the trees, I see a building—all glass and steel, with a front that looks like the prow of a sailing ship. Some pricey architect’s wet dream. Daisy cruises into a turnaround right in front of the main entrance and turns off the engine. Guess she can park wherever she damn pleases.

  The lobby goes up ten stories, with skylights that let you see clear into the clouds. Hanging there in the middle of all that open air is some kind of space contraption with antennas and probes and solar panels sticking out in every direction. Looks like a very expensive insect. Daisy sees me looking.

  “The Bron-1. Our first. March 2002,” says Daisy. “Tick, tock. Let’s go.”

  So much for the guided tour. We walk up a floating staircase to the mezzanine level. The whole place is buzzing with young techies. They’re all wearing jeans and T-shirts. Like me, only ten times hipper. In fact, I feel totally out of place. Daisy stands out from the crowd, too—and not just because of how she’s dressed. They’re kids. She’s a grown-up.

  Now we’re in a conference room looking out over the atrium. Daisy pulls some papers from a binder and slides them across the table to me. For the next five minutes, I’m scrawling my name across legal documents. Confidentiality agreement. Indemnification policy. Liability waiver. You name it.

  After every swipe of the pen, Daisy whacks a heavy-duty stamp onto the page. DAISY DEFOREST, PH.D. / ATTY. AT LAW.

  Overachiever.

  And now she’s starting in with the technical stu
ff, reeling off terms I don’t even remotely understand. Firewalls. Encryption codes. Authentication protocols. I’m pretending to pay attention. Truly I am. I’m looking right at her. I’m hearing her words. But she might as well be speaking Inuit.

  Now she’s laying out the ground rules. One: We have no contact with Tyler Bron. Two: Whatever I create, Daisy and her team will make it come to life, no limitations. Three: She handles logistics, transport, communications, everything. All I do is write. My head is spinning. My guts are still churning. Then she slides a sleek new silver laptop across the table. Looks about as thin as a bar coaster.

  “This is the only one of its kind in the world. I had our techs tweak it just for you. It’s got everything you need, and more.”

  This is a problem. She’s talking to a guy who still has a flip phone. I’m embarrassed, but I try not to show it. I stare at the laptop and give Daisy the bad news.

  “Sorry, I can’t write on that thing.”

  “I don’t understand. You use a tablet?”

  “I use a typewriter.”

  This stops her for a second. She wrinkles her nose. I can see her brain whirring, trying to make sense of it.

  “A typewriter. You mean like in All the President’s Men?”

  “No. Not a manual typewriter. A Selectric. Very different.”

  Daisy rubs her brow like she has a headache. And obviously, the headache is me. Not that she cares, but the feeling is definitely mutual. She takes a deep breath and gives me a tight little smile.

  “Okay, then,” she says, “we’ll have to do a workaround for that.”

  The drive back to my house is even faster—if that’s possible. I’m still a little wobbly when I climb out of the car. Daisy leans toward the passenger side window and calls after me: “Mr. Crane! Be ready tomorrow: 5:00 a.m. Packed. With your… machine. In the meantime, start writing.”

  Start writing. Okay. So, I’ve got till 5:00 a.m. to give a guy I just met a fresh start on a life he never had. No problem.