I began aloud. “ ‘Arcadia’s surprise blockbuster,
A Perfect Day,
along with the usual showing from their stable of best-selling authors has put Arcadia’s quarterly profit percentage back on top of the publishing heap.’ ”
“I just spoke with my mole over at the
Times
. You’re still holding strong at number one. Everyone at Arcadia is happy. I’m sure Allyson must be thrilled with how things are going.”
“I wouldn’t count on it.”
Heather smiled. “That’s hard to believe. I’m sure Allyson’s very proud.”
“Allyson and I are separated,” I said.
Her smile vanished into a look of embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“It’s recent.” Just then an elderly woman wrapped in a shawl stopped a few feet from me. “Good book,” she said and walked off.
“Thank you,” I said after her.
Heather asked, “Have you eaten today?”
“No. But I’m meeting a friend at Starbucks.” I glanced down at my watch. “I’m already late.”
“Then I’ll let you go. I’ll see you at three for the sales meeting. Do you need anything?”
“No. I’m fine. I’ll see you later.”
“Bye-bye.”
Heather turned and walked away. I walked to the café.
The Starbucks was crowded, and I glanced around for Darren but didn’t see him. I ordered a vanilla crème frappuccino and a cranberry scone then looked around for a place to sit. Fortunately a couple near the register vacated a small table for two. I sat down as soon as they left, and began reading the paper that Heather had given me.
I kept my eye on the door, waiting for Darren. A few minutes later a man walked into the café. He glanced around as if he were looking for someone. He looked directly at me then went up to the counter to order. He was short and slender, almost feminine in form. He was bald in front, and what hair he had was long and gray. He wore no color—black-and-white gingham slacks and a black jacket and black turtleneck. He left the counter carrying a drink in its cardboard sleeve and a rolled-up
Newsweek
magazine in his other hand. He looked around for a place to sit but found nothing. Finally he walked up to my table and stood behind the vacant chair across from me.
“Mind if I sit here?”
I looked up. “Sorry, I’m expecting someone.”
The man again glanced around the room then pulled the chair out with his foot and sat down anyway. I looked at him. “I said I’m waiting for someone.”
He said coolly, “I’ll leave when he comes.”
I reminded myself that this was New York and went back to my paper. The man leaned forward slightly. “Are you who I think you are?”
I tilted my newspaper down until I could see him. “That depends a good deal upon who you think I am.”
“The author of that new book everyone’s talking about.”
“I’m Robert Harlan.”
“Cool. Hey, congratulations. I read your book just last week. You must be really proud, your first novel and it’s a blockbuster best-seller.”
I tried to act unaffected but found myself instinctively adopting the tone of voice I used with the press. “I’m one of the lucky ones. Thank you.”
“I’m sure you get sick of people asking you this, but is your book really based on your wife’s last few months with her father?”
“Yes.”
The man looked pleased with the confirmation and sat back in his chair. He took a sip of his drink then looked at me thoughtfully. “I’m a little puzzled why you left a part of that out.”
I thought his comment amusing. “Exactly what part would that be?”
His brow furrowed. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but when your wife’s father was dying you promised him that you would never leave her. But it’s not in the book.”
I looked at him. “How did you know that?”
“Not that the book needed it. Look how well it’s doing. In fact maybe it’s better this way since you have, in fact, left her. It might be kind of embarrassing. Anyway who’s to say that deathbed promises count?” His voice lowered. “But then again you haven’t done that well on the other side of life either. Like the promise you made to little Carson the day she was born. You told yourself that you’d never leave her. Not the way your mother left you—both your mothers for that matter.”
I set down my paper. “Who are you?”
He smiled innocently. “Just another fan, Robert.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond. There was no way he could have known these things. Allyson didn’t even know them. I nervously glanced down at my watch, wondering where Darren was.
“He’s not coming.”
I looked up. “Excuse me.”
“He’s not coming.”
“Who’s not coming?”
“The guy you’re waiting for. Your new agent Darren Scott—a man so big he needs two first names. Mr. Big Shot went to the wrong Starbucks. You’ll still have plenty of time to hear him name-drop over dinner tonight.”
This little man was getting to me. It was like watching a magician play a card trick an inch from your nose that you can’t figure out. Only he was playing with my life. I reacted angrily. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but I don’t have time for your little game.”
The stranger leaned back and raised both hands as if in surrender. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’ll just go back to my reading.” He buried his nose in his magazine. I went back to my paper, though only superficially, as I found myself rereading the same article. After a minute the man said casually, “By the way, you’re right. You don’t have much time.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just that when it’s your time it’s your time.”
“What are you saying?”
“That pain in your chest you’ve been complaining about, the one Dr. Frank said was reflux? Well everyone’s going to be scratching their heads over that one. Of course you could have another physical but don’t bother. They won’t find anything. Like I said, when it’s your time it’s your time.”
As I looked at him, my cell phone rang. I glanced down at the caller ID, then lifted the phone to my ear. “Hello.”
Darren’s voice boomed. “Where are you?”
“At Starbucks. Where are you?”
“Which Starbucks?”
“The one on Union Square,” I said.
“You said to meet you at the Starbucks on Sixth and Twenty-second.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“I have the e-mail in my pocket.”
“I didn’t even know there was a Starbucks on Twenty-second. I meant this one.”
“Well, I’m not a mind reader. Should I come down or do you want to come here?”
I looked down at my watch. “We don’t have time. I’ve got a meeting with my publisher in a half hour. I’ll just catch up with you tonight at dinner.”
“Let’s make sure we’re on the same page,” Darren said. “The NoHo Star, on Lafayette and Bleecker.”
“Right. There’s only one. Eight o’clock.”
“See you then.”
I slid the phone back into my coat pocket. The stranger was again reading his magazine but wore a smug grin. I eyed him for a moment. “Who are you really?”
He set down his magazine. “Who I am is unimportant. Who you are or, more significantly, who you’ve become, is the real matter at hand.” He looked at me intensely. “May I call you Bob?”
Before I could voice my objection, he said, “You’re an important guy, Bob, so as you’re so fond of saying, I’ll just cut to the chase. You seem pretty caught up in this whirlwind of success. You’ve broken some promises, big promises, and you don’t have much time to make up for it.”
I blinked slowly. “What you just said. What do you mean by ‘not much time’?”
“Don’t be obtuse, Bob. The bell has rung, pencils up, please turn your test over. And frankly you better hope they’re grading on a curve, because you haven’t been doing too well of late. Your father-in-law isn’t the only one you broke a promise to. Remember your wedding day, when the preacher said ‘until death do you part’? You went one up and said, not until death, but forever. Remember that? Now Mrs. Forever is nursing a broken heart and wondering if she’ll ever see you again.” His voice slowed. “You have until New Year’s to pack your bags.”
The stranger abruptly stood, pushing his chair back with the motion. “You know, Bob, humans are funny. They all believe that death is some kind of an accident, something that wasn’t really supposed to happen.” His eyes took on darkness as he spoke. “Wake up, Bob. Death is everyone’s destination. Even bestselling authors’.”
His expression lightened. “By the way, your three o’clock meeting with your publisher has been postponed until Monday morning.”
He dropped his magazine on the table. “You should look at this. There’s a great article on Chihuly. Man, I love Chihuly,” he said. He walked toward the door, stopped to hold it open for a woman, then walked out, disappearing in the crowds that flooded the sidewalk. My mind spun like a roulette wheel. Just then my cell phone rang. I slowly answered it.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Robert? This is Heather.”
“Hi.”
“Sandra and some of the salespeople got hung up in another meeting, so the three o’clock meeting has been postponed. Would Monday morning at ten be okay?”
I couldn’t believe this. I didn’t answer.
“Are you there?”
“Sorry. The phone was just cutting out. Monday’s fine.”
“I already called Camille. So you don’t need to tell her.”
“Thanks. Have a good weekend.”
“You too.”
Things were getting more surreal by the moment. I took out my planner and wrote in the meeting. Then I began counting days to January first. According to the stranger I had exactly forty days left to live.
Chapter 43
I
got off the subway at Bleecker and walked up the stairway to the NoHo Star restaurant. Darren was already seated near the back of the restaurant, looking at a menu. He was dressed in a black Armani suit with a narrow, gold tie.
“Sorry I’m late,” I said, sitting down. “I’m still figuring out the subways.”
“I’m glad you came,” he said. “After this afternoon I thought you might just be pulling my chain.”
“No. Honest mistake.”
Darren reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a folded sheet of paper. “Here.”
“What’s this?”
“It’s your email asking me to meet you at the Starbucks on
Twenty-second
.”
I looked at the paper. It did say Twenty-second. “I’m losing my mind,” I said. “This day has been surreal.”
“How so?”
I considered whether or not I should tell him. From what I knew of Darren he wasn’t exactly the type who went in for angels or psychics. I was sure he’d think I was crazy. Still this thing was bothering me and I had to tell someone.
“While I was waiting for you at the Starbucks, this guy sat down at my table. He recognized me and started asking the usual questions. But then he started telling me things about myself. Things he couldn’t possibly have known.”
Darren gazed at me with a look of concern. “What kind of things?”
Just then a waitress walked up to our table. “Are you gentlemen ready to order or do you still need a minute?”
I looked up from Darren’s gaze. “I know what I want. How about you?”
“I’ll have the salmon and a glass of Chardonnay,” Darren said.
“And for you, sir?”
“I’ll have the Mexican salad. And a homemade ginger ale.”
“Very good. I’ll get your drinks.” She walked off.
“He knew what kind of things?”
“Personal things. Intimate details about my past. About my marriage.”
His countenance turned grave. “That’s frightening. This is the dark side of celebrity. There are crazy people out there who get obsessed with celebrities and learn everything they can about them. It might seem harmless, but stalkers are a very real danger.”
“He didn’t seem like a stalker. The thing is, the stuff he knew isn’t anything he could have researched. I mean he knew things not even my wife knows.”
“Like what?”
“He knew that you were at the other Starbucks waiting for me.”
The waitress returned to our table with our drinks. “Here you are, one Chardonnay, one ginger ale. I’ll be back with your meals shortly.”
“Take my advice. If you see him again, notify the police.”
I pulled the paper off my straw and rolled it into a ball while I thought. “So what would you do if you found out that you only had forty days to live?”
He laughed. “Now, there’s a question. I suppose I’d eat, drink and be merry. And run up a credit card bill to match the national debt.” Suddenly his expression turned grave. “Wait, this stalker you met didn’t tell you that you had just forty days to live?”
“No. Of course not. It’s just . . .” I looked at Darren then stopped myself. “It’s just an idea I had for a book.”
He nodded. “Good. Glad you’re thinking about it. That reminds me of a joke. A writer died, and upon arriving at the pearly gates St. Peter gave him the choice of going to heaven or hell. He decided to check out each place first. They first went to hell. There he saw hundreds of writers chained to their desks in a steaming sweatshop. As they worked, a demon whipped and yelled at them. ‘This is horrible, ’ the writer said. ‘I want to see heaven.’
“So St. Peter took him to heaven. There he also saw hundreds of writers chained to their desks in a steaming sweatshop. There an angel whipped them.
“ ‘Wait a minute,’ said the writer. ‘This is just as bad as hell.’
“ ‘No it’s not,’ replied St. Peter. ‘Here, your work gets published.’ ”
Darren finished the joke with a satisfied grin, and I obligingly chuckled. Then Darren opened the leather portfolio that was on the chair next to him. “I brought my contract.” He set a small stack of paper on the table. The contract was nearly as long as the one I had signed with my publisher. I started to look it over but stopped at the beginning of the third page. “This will take me a while.”