out together in the sunny, cold, Iowa afternoon.
“It’s right over here,” I said.
“I know. I told you I peeked.”
She followed me to my truck, which I unlocked and then retrieved her book. I looked at the back inside flap to her photo and bio. I said, “This photo doesn’t do you justice.”
“Oh? Why is that? I was pretty pleased with it.”
“You’re much more beautiful in real life.”
“Thomas, how sweet ! Thank you! You really can be a nice man!”
“I am not a nice man, but sometimes I do nice things.”
I handed over the book and she whipped out a Sharpie from somewhere in her little purse. I guess writers always carry a Sharpie so they can sign the occasional book thrust upon them. I don’t get the whole autograph thingy. A desire for connection? That, I understand.
She wrote more than just her name, I could tell. Then she blew on her writing, closed the book, capped and shoved her Sharpie back into the depths of her purse. She handed the book back with another big smile.
I said, “Thank you.”
“You’re most welcome.”
“Have a nice day.”
“Ta-ta, Thomas!” she said, and walked briskly toward her 4Runner. I watched her walk for a while as she got in and drove slowly away. She waved and winked and I waved back. It was then, when she was out of sight, that I checked out her autograph.
It read: “For Thomas, in memory of all those wonderful nights in Rockbluff , ever yours, Suzanne Highsmith .”
T he snow came first as a rumor, then a whisper, finally, a warning. And I embraced it, taking comfort in the beauty of the first snowfall of the winter, and that I was seeing it with Jan and Ernie Timmons safely ensconced in my house.
They had made it earlier than expected, arriving Tuesday mid-morning, inspired to haste by the previous night’s weather report at their motel. The leaden sky had begun to puff out an occasional snowflake, delighting them both, south-central Georgians.
I gave them a brief tour of Rockbluff , everyone admiring the double-arched limestone bridge over the Whitetail River. We drove by Christ the King church and they both remarked on its architectural beauty and then said how much they looked forward to meeting Carl and Molly Heisler .
Ernie wanted to see Shlop’s Roadhouse, so I drove down that way and turned around in their parking lot, looking lonely with only two pickup trucks parked there. I suggested we grab our lunch right then, service would be faster with so few customers, and Ernie could meet the alluring Bunza Steele, head barmaid and aspiring pro wrestler/med student. Jan shook her head and smiled an exaggerated, threatening smile at my suggestion, so Ernie and I swallowed our disappointment.
“Maybe later tonight, Ern ,” I whispered, “after Jan’s asleep. We can slip away.” An elbow to the ribs from Jan.
“We can pray about it,” he said, fighting off another elbow.
I sighed and turned my big truck back downtown, driving by the high school, Bednarik’s Books, Sole Proprietor, and Holy Grounds Coffee shop.
“How ’bout lunch at The Grain o’ Truth Bar and Grill?” I asked.
“Of course,” Jan exclaimed, “we need to meet your friend Lunatic Mooning!”
“After present company,” Carl said, “the person we are most interested in seeing. I want to see if the man matches the voice on the phone.”
“I forgot you have had conversations with the man, invading my privacy,” I said.
“And a good thing, too,” Ernie laughed. “Now, let’s go eat some Loony Burgers.”
I found myself looking forward to the weather on its way, picking up a bit, the fragments of snow steadily coalescing and turning into a genuine snowstorm. With a bit of wind to go with it. The big, wet flakes stuck to the windshield so I directed some of the heater there and turned on the intermittent wipers. I wanted the Timmons to meet Lunatic, of course, but I was also eager to hurry back to my house so I could watch the woods fill up with snow,
“It’s right over here,” I said.
“I know. I told you I peeked.”
She followed me to my truck, which I unlocked and then retrieved her book. I looked at the back inside flap to her photo and bio. I said, “This photo doesn’t do you justice.”
“Oh? Why is that? I was pretty pleased with it.”
“You’re much more beautiful in real life.”
“Thomas, how sweet ! Thank you! You really can be a nice man!”
“I am not a nice man, but sometimes I do nice things.”
I handed over the book and she whipped out a Sharpie from somewhere in her little purse. I guess writers always carry a Sharpie so they can sign the occasional book thrust upon them. I don’t get the whole autograph thingy. A desire for connection? That, I understand.
She wrote more than just her name, I could tell. Then she blew on her writing, closed the book, capped and shoved her Sharpie back into the depths of her purse. She handed the book back with another big smile.
I said, “Thank you.”
“You’re most welcome.”
“Have a nice day.”
“Ta-ta, Thomas!” she said, and walked briskly toward her 4Runner. I watched her walk for a while as she got in and drove slowly away. She waved and winked and I waved back. It was then, when she was out of sight, that I checked out her autograph.
It read: “For Thomas, in memory of all those wonderful nights in Rockbluff , ever yours, Suzanne Highsmith .”
T he snow came first as a rumor, then a whisper, finally, a warning. And I embraced it, taking comfort in the beauty of the first snowfall of the winter, and that I was seeing it with Jan and Ernie Timmons safely ensconced in my house.
They had made it earlier than expected, arriving Tuesday mid-morning, inspired to haste by the previous night’s weather report at their motel. The leaden sky had begun to puff out an occasional snowflake, delighting them both, south-central Georgians.
I gave them a brief tour of Rockbluff , everyone admiring the double-arched limestone bridge over the Whitetail River. We drove by Christ the King church and they both remarked on its architectural beauty and then said how much they looked forward to meeting Carl and Molly Heisler .
Ernie wanted to see Shlop’s Roadhouse, so I drove down that way and turned around in their parking lot, looking lonely with only two pickup trucks parked there. I suggested we grab our lunch right then, service would be faster with so few customers, and Ernie could meet the alluring Bunza Steele, head barmaid and aspiring pro wrestler/med student. Jan shook her head and smiled an exaggerated, threatening smile at my suggestion, so Ernie and I swallowed our disappointment.
“Maybe later tonight, Ern ,” I whispered, “after Jan’s asleep. We can slip away.” An elbow to the ribs from Jan.
“We can pray about it,” he said, fighting off another elbow.
I sighed and turned my big truck back downtown, driving by the high school, Bednarik’s Books, Sole Proprietor, and Holy Grounds Coffee shop.
“How ’bout lunch at The Grain o’ Truth Bar and Grill?” I asked.
“Of course,” Jan exclaimed, “we need to meet your friend Lunatic Mooning!”
“After present company,” Carl said, “the person we are most interested in seeing. I want to see if the man matches the voice on the phone.”
“I forgot you have had conversations with the man, invading my privacy,” I said.
“And a good thing, too,” Ernie laughed. “Now, let’s go eat some Loony Burgers.”
I found myself looking forward to the weather on its way, picking up a bit, the fragments of snow steadily coalescing and turning into a genuine snowstorm. With a bit of wind to go with it. The big, wet flakes stuck to the windshield so I directed some of the heater there and turned on the intermittent wipers. I wanted the Timmons to meet Lunatic, of course, but I was also eager to hurry back to my house so I could watch the woods fill up with snow,
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