smugly shot out Wuthering Heights —as if Heathcliff or Cathy knew anything of either.
I struggled to keep a straight face. “ The Count of Monté Cristo . Edmond Dantes writes that in closing his letter to Maximilian.”
I forgot to cross the street once I saw Barnes and Noble—it’s like a homing beacon to me. I automatically walked through the doors, forgetting that Alex and I were to part ways. Alexbumped into me when I stopped in the lobby. His face had the same kid-in-a-candy-store expression I imagine my own wore. This is a particularly potent store. We stood in a two-story lobby with a huge chandelier bouncing light off the thousands upon thousands of books lining the walls.
I pulled at Alex’s arm and raced to the escalator. When he laughed I realized what I’d done and dropped it like a stone. Then I felt silly and tried to shake my schoolgirl reaction.
“I’m sorry. You go meet your professor. I’m going to find a table in the back to study. It was great to meet you.” I started to walk away.
“I’ve still got a few minutes.” He turned in the aisle. “Look here—mysteries. Do you read mysteries?”
I smiled. “A few.” I ran my fingers along the books, tapping some of my favorites. I stopped at Perry, traveled to Peters, and landed on Powell. “And here you are.”
“I am. They’ve got a good selection.”
I pulled out a book and grabbed a pen from my bag. “You need to sign some. Can you imagine how thrilled people will be to see your signature?”
“That’s called vandalism,” he quipped, but I could tell he was intrigued.
“Only if I sign your name. If you do, it’s called winning a golden ticket.”
“Fine.”
We picked out a few of his books and he signed them—real notes too. In a copy of Salvation Bound he wrote: Enjoy my favorite passage on p. 187. It really happened. All the best, Alex Powell.
I flipped to page 187 and started reading from the top. It’s a defining moment for Cole. A break in his father’s murderinvestigation rocks him to his core, and we find him inside a church, bereft and questioning everything he’s done and is. A pastor approaches from behind and asks to join him. Cole nods to the pew, but continues to look forward, uncommunicative and sullen.
The pastor sat for a few moments, then turned to Cole. “You’re going to be okay. Trust your heart.”
Cole turned, angry at the intrusion, angry with himself. “What?”
“You have to stop questioning and fighting so much.”
“Who are you? You know nothing about me.”
“I don’t need to.”
“But you’re giving advice, or worse, assurances?”
“I must be right or it wouldn’t anger you so much.”
“Go away.” Cole turned forward, unwilling to give the intruder his time or energy.
“I will, but listen to your heart. That’s where He speaks.”
The pastor leaves the pew and Cole sits there, stunned. I knew that was the scene Alex meant. He had revealed himself and some conflict that had impacted him deeply. I looked up at him; my eyes asked, What happened?
“My father wasn’t murdered in a police-mob conspiracy, but yes, at a very dark time, a young pastor took me on. Just like this. He’s now one of my best friends. He got a kick out of being in my book.”
“Can you tell me more?” I sensed that this was fragile ground.
“Maybe another time.” His crooked, sad smile ended the probing.
He grabbed another book, Three Days Found , and lightened the mood. Enjoy the story, he wrote. It’s my favorite. And if you’re in NY, eat at Patsy’s and bring this. They’ll love it. The description starts on p. 206. Joyfully, Alex Powell.
“Patsy’s?”
“It’s the most amazing Italian restaurant in New York. It was Frank Sinatra’s favorite place and still has that authentic Rat Pack vibe. The food’s amazing and the portions will feed a starving writer or fuel a marathon runner.”
“Which are you?”
“I’m occasionally hungry as both, but I’ve never run
I struggled to keep a straight face. “ The Count of Monté Cristo . Edmond Dantes writes that in closing his letter to Maximilian.”
I forgot to cross the street once I saw Barnes and Noble—it’s like a homing beacon to me. I automatically walked through the doors, forgetting that Alex and I were to part ways. Alexbumped into me when I stopped in the lobby. His face had the same kid-in-a-candy-store expression I imagine my own wore. This is a particularly potent store. We stood in a two-story lobby with a huge chandelier bouncing light off the thousands upon thousands of books lining the walls.
I pulled at Alex’s arm and raced to the escalator. When he laughed I realized what I’d done and dropped it like a stone. Then I felt silly and tried to shake my schoolgirl reaction.
“I’m sorry. You go meet your professor. I’m going to find a table in the back to study. It was great to meet you.” I started to walk away.
“I’ve still got a few minutes.” He turned in the aisle. “Look here—mysteries. Do you read mysteries?”
I smiled. “A few.” I ran my fingers along the books, tapping some of my favorites. I stopped at Perry, traveled to Peters, and landed on Powell. “And here you are.”
“I am. They’ve got a good selection.”
I pulled out a book and grabbed a pen from my bag. “You need to sign some. Can you imagine how thrilled people will be to see your signature?”
“That’s called vandalism,” he quipped, but I could tell he was intrigued.
“Only if I sign your name. If you do, it’s called winning a golden ticket.”
“Fine.”
We picked out a few of his books and he signed them—real notes too. In a copy of Salvation Bound he wrote: Enjoy my favorite passage on p. 187. It really happened. All the best, Alex Powell.
I flipped to page 187 and started reading from the top. It’s a defining moment for Cole. A break in his father’s murderinvestigation rocks him to his core, and we find him inside a church, bereft and questioning everything he’s done and is. A pastor approaches from behind and asks to join him. Cole nods to the pew, but continues to look forward, uncommunicative and sullen.
The pastor sat for a few moments, then turned to Cole. “You’re going to be okay. Trust your heart.”
Cole turned, angry at the intrusion, angry with himself. “What?”
“You have to stop questioning and fighting so much.”
“Who are you? You know nothing about me.”
“I don’t need to.”
“But you’re giving advice, or worse, assurances?”
“I must be right or it wouldn’t anger you so much.”
“Go away.” Cole turned forward, unwilling to give the intruder his time or energy.
“I will, but listen to your heart. That’s where He speaks.”
The pastor leaves the pew and Cole sits there, stunned. I knew that was the scene Alex meant. He had revealed himself and some conflict that had impacted him deeply. I looked up at him; my eyes asked, What happened?
“My father wasn’t murdered in a police-mob conspiracy, but yes, at a very dark time, a young pastor took me on. Just like this. He’s now one of my best friends. He got a kick out of being in my book.”
“Can you tell me more?” I sensed that this was fragile ground.
“Maybe another time.” His crooked, sad smile ended the probing.
He grabbed another book, Three Days Found , and lightened the mood. Enjoy the story, he wrote. It’s my favorite. And if you’re in NY, eat at Patsy’s and bring this. They’ll love it. The description starts on p. 206. Joyfully, Alex Powell.
“Patsy’s?”
“It’s the most amazing Italian restaurant in New York. It was Frank Sinatra’s favorite place and still has that authentic Rat Pack vibe. The food’s amazing and the portions will feed a starving writer or fuel a marathon runner.”
“Which are you?”
“I’m occasionally hungry as both, but I’ve never run
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