disappointed. As ridiculous as it now seemed, I realized that somewhere in my mind I had already constructed a fantasy of myself at the movie premiere, walking up a red carpet flanked by movie stars and accompanied by the sporadic camera pops of the paparazzi. I went back to eating my dinner.
Chapter 22
I t was late Saturday morning, and while I was in the air somewhere over South Dakota, Carson turned off the cartoons and wandered through the house looking for her mother. She found Allyson on our bed looking at a large leather book. The morning sun glanced through the window in a beam that divided the bed in half.
“Whatcha lookin’ at?” Carson asked.
Allyson looked up and smiled. “My Life Book.”
Carson’s nose wrinkled. “Can I look?”
Allyson patted the bed next to her. “Sure. Come on up.”
Carson climbed up on the white, embroidered bedcover then crawled on her elbows until she was shoulder to shoulder with Allyson. She pointed at the first picture she saw: a photograph of a little girl on a horse. “Who’s that?”
“That’s me.”
Carson started laughing. “No. You’re old.”
“I used to be a little girl like you.”
“When?”
Allyson touched Carson’s nose. “When I was a little girl like you.”
Carson pointed at the man next to her in the picture. He was standing in front of the horse holding the horse’s reins. He was a tall man and was wearing a cowboy hat. “Is that a real cowboy?”
“That’s my daddy.”
“You have a daddy?”
The question surprised Allyson. She realized that she hadn’t spoken much of her father since Carson was old enough to comprehend.
“I used to. He was a really great daddy.” She rubbed Carson’s hair. “Do you know what his name is?”
“Daddy?”
“No. I call him that. But his name is Carson. That’s why we named you Carson.”
This made her smile. “Where is your daddy?” “He went to heaven.”
“Can he come see us?”
“I don’t know. But we can’t see him.”
“How come?”
“It’s just that way.”
“Is heaven like book tour?”
Allyson was surprised that Carson knew what a book tour was. Obviously she had been listening in to adult conversations. “I don’t think so. How come?”
“Because we can’t see Daddy either.”
“No. But Daddy will be coming home soon.”
“Will he be home in one hundred days?”
Allyson smiled. “He’ll be home a lot sooner than that. Do you miss him?”
She nodded. “Sometimes when I think about Daddy I feel sad. Do you miss your daddy too?”
Allyson turned to her and smiled, but her eyes moistened. “Every day, sweetheart. Every day.”
Chapter 23
I t was the third day of my second week on book tour, and if I had had illusions of the limousine and champagne lifestyle, they were mostly gone by now, replaced by fatigue and loneliness and the reality of the road. It was Wednesday night. It was two hours before my book signing and I was eating dinner with my escort, a pleasant man named Dick Brown, on the plaza in Kansas City, when Camille called me on my cell. “How are you doing?”
“I want to go home.”
“I know. How was your book signing yesterday?”
“Good. There were a couple dozen people there.”
“And they had the right book?”
“Oh, yeah. Someone got the message, because it was the first thing they said to me when I arrived.”
“Good. My tantrum was efficacious. Well, this should help lift your spirits. We just got news on the New York Times bestseller list.” She paused. “I feel like there should be a drum roll or something. Here it goes. A Perfect Day just hit the list at number fifteen. You are now and forevermore a New York Times bestselling author.”
“Yeah, baby!” I shouted.
“I’ll e-mail the list to you. Where are you headed now?”
“I have a book signing at Rainy Day Books.”
“Oh, one of the classic independents. By the way, Allyson says to remind you that you have a wife.”
“You talked to her
Chapter 22
I t was late Saturday morning, and while I was in the air somewhere over South Dakota, Carson turned off the cartoons and wandered through the house looking for her mother. She found Allyson on our bed looking at a large leather book. The morning sun glanced through the window in a beam that divided the bed in half.
“Whatcha lookin’ at?” Carson asked.
Allyson looked up and smiled. “My Life Book.”
Carson’s nose wrinkled. “Can I look?”
Allyson patted the bed next to her. “Sure. Come on up.”
Carson climbed up on the white, embroidered bedcover then crawled on her elbows until she was shoulder to shoulder with Allyson. She pointed at the first picture she saw: a photograph of a little girl on a horse. “Who’s that?”
“That’s me.”
Carson started laughing. “No. You’re old.”
“I used to be a little girl like you.”
“When?”
Allyson touched Carson’s nose. “When I was a little girl like you.”
Carson pointed at the man next to her in the picture. He was standing in front of the horse holding the horse’s reins. He was a tall man and was wearing a cowboy hat. “Is that a real cowboy?”
“That’s my daddy.”
“You have a daddy?”
The question surprised Allyson. She realized that she hadn’t spoken much of her father since Carson was old enough to comprehend.
“I used to. He was a really great daddy.” She rubbed Carson’s hair. “Do you know what his name is?”
“Daddy?”
“No. I call him that. But his name is Carson. That’s why we named you Carson.”
This made her smile. “Where is your daddy?” “He went to heaven.”
“Can he come see us?”
“I don’t know. But we can’t see him.”
“How come?”
“It’s just that way.”
“Is heaven like book tour?”
Allyson was surprised that Carson knew what a book tour was. Obviously she had been listening in to adult conversations. “I don’t think so. How come?”
“Because we can’t see Daddy either.”
“No. But Daddy will be coming home soon.”
“Will he be home in one hundred days?”
Allyson smiled. “He’ll be home a lot sooner than that. Do you miss him?”
She nodded. “Sometimes when I think about Daddy I feel sad. Do you miss your daddy too?”
Allyson turned to her and smiled, but her eyes moistened. “Every day, sweetheart. Every day.”
Chapter 23
I t was the third day of my second week on book tour, and if I had had illusions of the limousine and champagne lifestyle, they were mostly gone by now, replaced by fatigue and loneliness and the reality of the road. It was Wednesday night. It was two hours before my book signing and I was eating dinner with my escort, a pleasant man named Dick Brown, on the plaza in Kansas City, when Camille called me on my cell. “How are you doing?”
“I want to go home.”
“I know. How was your book signing yesterday?”
“Good. There were a couple dozen people there.”
“And they had the right book?”
“Oh, yeah. Someone got the message, because it was the first thing they said to me when I arrived.”
“Good. My tantrum was efficacious. Well, this should help lift your spirits. We just got news on the New York Times bestseller list.” She paused. “I feel like there should be a drum roll or something. Here it goes. A Perfect Day just hit the list at number fifteen. You are now and forevermore a New York Times bestselling author.”
“Yeah, baby!” I shouted.
“I’ll e-mail the list to you. Where are you headed now?”
“I have a book signing at Rainy Day Books.”
“Oh, one of the classic independents. By the way, Allyson says to remind you that you have a wife.”
“You talked to her
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