Dill handed him a tissue. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell Lydia about…this.”
Dr. Blankenship dabbed his eyes. “Funny thing is, she wouldn’t tease either of us for crying individually. But the two of us, sitting by the side of the road, both crying simultaneously? Over her, no less? We’d never hear the end of it.”
“This can never leave this car,” Dill said.
“Hell no.”
They sat for a moment, composing themselves.
“I officially declare this meeting of the Lydia Fan Club adjourned,” Dr. Blankenship said. “Let’s hit the road. You better grab that whole bag of candy cane truffles from the backseat. I think we need them in our emotionally fragile state.”
“You won’t lose your dentist license for encouraging me to eat candy?”
“This’ll be another of our secrets.”
They drove in the winter gloaming. Here and there, a house off the side of the highway lit up in a glowing motley of Christmas lights. Dill withdrew into his thoughts. It felt like wrapping himself in a wet wool blanket. Did you see your dad? Did you see what he’s becoming? You better start performing your own mental and physical inventory of sanity more frequently and consciously. Madness seems to sneak right up on the Early men. You can never let down your guard. You can never stop being vigilant. You’re never safe from yourself. Your own blood will poison you.
Dill glimpsed a billboard with a father and son on it as it flashed past. He spoke before his preoccupied brain could stop his mouth. “I really wish you were my dad.”
Dr. Blankenship was quiet for a moment and then glanced over at Dill. “I would be proud if you were my son.”
“When are you guys telling me where we’re heading?” Travis asked.
“Nashville. The rest is a surprise,” Lydia said, exchanging a knowing glance and smile with Dill.
“But my birthday was weeks ago. Christmas too.”
“Irrelevant,” Lydia said.
“What’s in Nashville?”
“Non-Christmas, nonbirthday surprise.”
“Give me a hint.”
“Dill, help me here. What’s something wizardy that will shut him up?”
“Oh man. Asking the wrong person. Uh…hey, Travis, if you keep asking questions…you’ll break some sort of important spell. And you’ll spend the rest of your life diarrheaing yourself.”
“That works. Travis, you were born to a wizard family, and adopted by a normal family. But a very powerful sorcerer enchanted you so that if you ask more than…oh…say, three questions on your birthday, you’ll have horrific diarrhea.”
“It’s not my birthday, remember?”
“There’s a one-month window on the spell. And we’re a half hour from the next rest stop.”
They neared Nashville. Lydia’s GPS squawked directions to the airport.
“The airport…,” Travis started to say, with a questioning lilt in his voice.
Lydia raised a finger in warning. “Diarrhea.”
“…is a very cool place for airplanes to take off and land,” Travis finished.
They took the exit to the airport and approached the terminal.
“We’re right on time,” Lydia said, looking at her phone.
“On time on time or the Lydia version of on time?” Dill asked.
“No, genuinely on time.” Lydia pulled into a parking lot where cars waited to pick up people at the terminal.
They waited several minutes. Travis started to say something.
“Dude, trust me. You will not want to have diarrheaed yourself for this surprise,” Lydia said, cutting him off. “You’ll want to be at your most diarrhea-free for this surprise.”
Her phone rang. “Lydia Blankenship,” she answered. That was odd. That wasn’t how she normally answered the phone.
“Okay…okay…so you’ve got your bags. Okay, great. We’re in a light-blue Toyota Prius. Lots of stickers. Okay, great. Okay, see you in a minute. Bye.” Lydia hung up.
“And so it begins.” She started the car and drove to the terminal. They sat and waited. Travis stared ahead.
“Travis, look at that man over there in the coat and maroon sweater,” Dill said.
“Where?”
Dill pointed. “Over there. The guy with the—”
“Fisherman’s cap,” Lydia said, pointing. “Bushy white beard, glasses, portly. Holding a Cinnabon box.”
“Who does that look like?” Dill asked.
Travis laughed. “Oh wow, it totally looks like G. M. Pennington.”
He studied the man for a second more. His heart rate doubled. “No way,” he whispered. Lydia and Dill grinned. “It is G. M. Pennington! And he’s walking toward us!” Travis squealed. He bounced up and down in his seat. He frantically reached for his phone to text Amelia, and realized that he’d left it at home again by accident. She won’t believe this. She’s going to die.
“Calm down,” Lydia said. “Show a little dignity. You’re about to meet your hero.”
She got out and walked toward Mr. Pennington, extending her hand. “Mr. Pennington, Lydia Blankenship. Good to meet you. This way.”
He gave her a jolly grunt and tipped his cap. “Mademoiselle. I’ll follow where you lead.”
She led Mr. Pennington to her car. “Sorry, we don’t have something fancier.”
He waved off her apology. “I would gladly ride in such an ecologically righteous conveyance over the finest limousine any day. Limousines are for sociopathic oligarchs.”
“Mr. Pennington, I think we’ll get along fine. Dill, get in the backseat,” Lydia said. “Bestselling authors get automatic shotgun.”
Dill got out and shook his hand. “Sir, Dillard Early. Pleased to meet you.”
“The pleasure is mine,” he said, sitting. “And please, all of you, call me Gary. My real name is Gary Mark Kozlowski, but who wants to read a fantasy novel by a Polish serial killer, right?” He chuckled. “But I’m told that one of you probably already knows my real name. You must be Travis.”
Travis sat paralyzed, his mouth agape, looking like he’d seen an angel. Which was, frankly, how he felt. “Me, sir. Gary,” he squeaked.
“Sir Gary? I accept my knighthood, Mister Travis. Pleasure to meet you.” He offered his hand and Travis took it, trembling.
“Gary,” Lydia said, “how long is your layover?”
“Three hours.”
“What do you want to do or see?”
He stroked his beard. “I judge a city by its ice cream. And there’s no conversation better than the kind you can have over ice cream. So lead on, friends. Transport me to your finest ice cream.”
“Done,” Lydia said. “I know a place.” They sped away.
“How—” Travis started to ask before he cut himself off.
“It’s okay, Travis. You can start asking questions now. The spell is lifted.” Lydia looked over at Gary. “Don’t ask.”
“How?” Travis asked.
“I’ll start,” Lydia said. “I wanted to make this happen for you before I left for college, so I called my friend Dahlia, whose mom is the editor of Chic. She put me in touch with her mom’s literary agent. Her mom’s literary agent knew Mr. Pennington’s agent. I got his schedule and found out he was stopping over in Nashville on his flight home to Santa Fe from meeting with his publisher about the upcoming Deathstorm release.”
“But,” Gary said, “that’s not the whole story. Lydia clearly did her homework and discovered an obscure interview I did before any of you were born, in which I talked about what a special place I have in my heart for my rural fans who dream of a bigger world than the one they inhabit. And I know this because Miss Lydia had at the ready for my agent the population statistics for…” He snapped his fingers.
“Forrestville,” Lydia said.
“Ah, yes. Forrestville. And my agent would be in big trouble if I weren’t at least given the opportunity to spend some time with one of my small-town readers who made the trip all this way. So we changed my flight to the red-eye so I’d be able to spend some real time with you.”
“I can’t even tell you both what this means to me,” Travis said. He wanted to cry. This was already the best night of his life.
“My pleasure,” Lydia said. “I had to go big.”
They arrived at Five Points Creamery and got in line.