“Yes,” I said. “I’d love to go to dinner with you.”
Jason reached out and slipped the camera strap off my shoulder.
“Smile,” he said.
“But—”
“For my dad?”
“I can’t,” I said. “I hate having my—”
“What did King Tut say when he fell down and hurt himself?” Jason interrupted. “I want my mummy!”
And I laughed—because it was so stupid and because from now on I’d never hear anything about Tutankhamen without remembering Bob Kline. While I was laughing, Jason snapped the picture.
“Perfect,” he said. “Now you can have your story in the book, too.” Seeing my look of surprise, he explained. “Pauline told me all about it when I was here last weekend. Your project sounds amazing.”
“Thank you,” I said, taking the camera back from him. “I can’t tell my best story, though.”
“Why not?”
I shrugged. “I guess because I’m still in the middle of writing it,” I said.
Jason smiled. “Death notwithstanding, I hope this is a good chapter,” he said.
I smiled back at him. “I like the direction it’s going in,” I said.
Chapter 31
A YEAR ago, I never could have imagined the turns my life would take. It was possible that having foresight—like taking advice—was one of my weak points.
But it was a flaw I could live with.
“Anne!” A small, red-haired woman in towering black stilettos interrupted my thoughts. “I’d like you to meet Sasha Delaney. She’s an art critic for LA Weekly.”
I smiled at Amy, my new gallerist, and then I shook the hand of a statuesque young woman. “Thank you so much for coming,” I said.
“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…