“So what gave you the idea for your story?”
“My wife. It’s her story.”
“How special. How long have you been married?”
“Seven years.”
“Seven years. Isn’t that just wonderful?”
Anne was big on
just wonderful
. A half hour later we arrived at the Tutweiler—a boutique hotel in the heart of Birmingham. “You’ll just love this hotel,” she said as she put the car in park. “It’s very quaint.”
Anne climbed out of the car and the bell captain greeted her. “Welcome back, Ms. Stephens.”
“Thank you, Emmett. Mr. Harlan has one bag in the trunk.” We walked inside. The attendant at the counter smiled when he saw Anne, slightly tipping his head. “Ms. Stephens.”
“Hello, Nolan. I have with me a very important author, Mr. Robert Harlan.”
“Mr. Harlan, welcome to Alabama.” He lost himself to his computer terminal. “Here we are. Mr. Harlan. One single, king-size bed, no smoking. You’ll be staying with us for two nights?”
“That’s right,” I said.
“Nolan, is it possible to upgrade Mr. Harlan to a VIP suite?”
“Just a minute, let me see if it’s available.” Nolan consulted his screen, touched his keyboard and returned. “Yes, ma’am. Two nights in the suite, no extra charge. I see that the charges have all been taken care of.” He handed me a small package. “The small key inside is to the minibar. I’ll have your luggage sent right up.”
I felt like I had suddenly been upgraded to the first-class section of life. “Thank you.”
Anne smiled at me. “Get a good night’s rest. We start early with the morning news. I’ll pick you up in the lobby at five-thirty.”
“I’ll be ready.”
“Would you like me to call before I come?”
“No, I’ll just get a wake-up call.”
“Very well. Good night, Robert.”
Anne left. Emmett, the bellman, stepped forward with my suitcase. “May I have your key, sir?” I handed him the envelope.
“This way, please.”
My room was spacious, with gold-fringed drapery and a large Jacuzzi tub. It seemed too large for just me, and I wished that Allyson were there. I unpacked my clothes, hung them in the closet, then lay down on top of the bed without pulling down the sheets. I checked my watch. Alabama was one hour ahead of Utah. Allyson would be eating dinner. I ordered room service; then I called home.
“Hello,” she answered.
“Hi, baby.”
Her voice brightened. “I was wondering when you’d call. So how’s my author? What’s the road like?”
“Well, it’s been nothing but airports today. My room is nice. I could get used to this. I just ordered from room service: ribs rubbed Southern style, with grits and crawfish chowder. Does that sound Southern or what?”
“It sounds fun.”
“I have a big soft bed, cable television. Everything but you.”
“If you’re a good boy, maybe I’ll come next time.”
“Then life would be perfect. How’s Carson?”
“She’s good. But every time she saw an airplane today, she asked if you were on it. I think this is going to be hard on her.”
“I guess that makes two of us. On the way here I stopped in the airport bookstore in Cincinnati and they had my book. It was kind of awesome seeing it there next to Grisham and Clancy.”
“I know what you mean. I saw it today at Wal-Mart. There was a woman looking at it and I had to tell her that it was my husband’s book. She bought it of course.”
I laughed. “I have my first book signing and my first television interview tomorrow.”
“Are you nervous?”
“A little.”
We talked for ten more minutes; then Allyson asked, “What time is it in Alabama?”
“We’re an hour ahead.”
“I better let you go so you can get some rest before your big day.”
“I’ll call tomorrow.”
“I’ll be waiting. Check your e-mail. I sent you a good night kiss.”
Chapter 20
T
he next morning I was dressed and downstairs by five-twenty-five. Anne met me in the hotel’s lobby. In spite of the hour she was as perky as she had been at the airport. I think some people just naturally have caffeine in their veins. “Good morning, Robert.”
“Good morning. How do I look?”
She straightened my collar. “Cute as a button.”
Her Buick was parked at the front curb, watched over by the bellman. Anne handed him a couple of dollars and he opened the door for her while I walked around and let myself in.
We made it to the TV station with time to spare. Anne signed the visitor book for both of us at the front counter, and an intern led us back to the green room to await my segment. As we walked, Anne said to me, “This is going to be a wonderful interview. The woman interviewing you is named Jana Driggs. She is their most popular morning host. Her producer told me that she read your book and loved it.”
“All right,” I said. “Good start.”
“Here we are.”
The green room was small and rectangular in shape. There was a vanity mirror surrounded by lightbulbs (a good third of them burned out) and two couches, both threadbare in places. In the middle of the room was a coffee table with a box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts and bottles of apple juice. “Would you like a doughnut?” Anne said.
“No, thank you.”
She helped herself to one. About a half hour later a heavyset man wearing a coffee-stained T-shirt and a headset came into the room looking for me. “You’re Mr. Harlan?”
“Yes, sir.”
“They’re ready for you. Let me mic you up.” He clipped a gator-clamp microphone to my lapel, the wire leading down to a small metal box with a glowing red diode. He handed me the box. “If you’ll slide this under your shirt then into your back pocket, we’ll be in business.”
I did as he instructed, and he led me over to a sofa and coffee table off the side of the main news set, while the morning anchors were still on air giving their reports. He whispered, “Ms. Driggs will be interviewing you right after the next commercial break. She’s the redhead on camera right now.”
I could see her on a monitor built into the wall behind the set. She wore a bright blue business suit and was reading the news from a TelePrompTer. When they finished the segment, they broke to a commercial and a cameraman shouted, “We’re out.” The woman stood and unclipped her microphone, and two of the three cameras spun around to face the corner where I sat. She smiled at me as she walked between the cameras. In one hand she carried a newspaper article. “Mr. Harlan, I’m Jana Driggs,” she said, reaching out to shake my hand.
I stood and took her hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”
She sat down in the chair opposite me. She lifted the microphone from the coffee table and attached it as naturally as if she were buttoning her shirt. “May I call you Robert?”
“Please.”
“I don’t mean to gush, but I read your book and I just loved it. I was crying like a baby when I finished it. It was refreshing to read something from the heart.”
The cameraman said, “Thirty seconds, Jana.”
She leaned over and touched me. “I found myself wondering if it really was a man who wrote this. My husband could learn a thing or two from you.”
The cameraman counted down, “Five, four, three . . .” He finished the count with hand signals. Jana’s face brightened as she looked into the camera. “Welcome back to
Good Morning Birmingham
. We have in our studio today Robert Mason Harlan, author of a new book from Arcadia Publishing,
A Perfect Day.
It is the touching story of a woman who finds out that her father has cancer, and the last few months they spend together. The cover says it’s a tender story of love, renewal and the bonds that transcend life.” She turned toward me. “Thank you for joining us here today, Robert.”
“Thank you. My pleasure.”
She suddenly lifted the folded newspaper that had been in her lap. “A review in
The Baltimore Sun
says your book is ‘trite, poorly written and an unabashed yank of emotional strings.’ ” She looked at me. “Ouch. How does that make you feel when you read a review like this?”
I couldn’t have been more blindsided by her question. “. . . Actually most of the reviews about my book have been favorable . . .”
“Would you agree that your book is emotionally manipulative?”
“I . . . I just wrote a story that I thought was meaningful.”
“This story is based on your wife’s last few months with her father. Do you feel a little exploitative writing about an experience that had to be tremendously personal to her?”
“My wife is glad that I wrote it. I don’t think that we share nearly enough of these kinds of stories with each other.”
She nodded, as if counting time. “Are you working on something else right now?”
“My book just came out, so right now I’m still focused on this novel.”
She looked directly at the camera. “The book is
A Perfect Day
from Arcadia Publishing and you can meet Robert Harlan in person tonight at the Books-A-Million bookstore at Fashion Mall at seven p.m. Pick up a copy and a box of hankies. Robert, thanks for joining us.”
“And you’re off,” said the cameraman. She immediately stood, unclipping her microphone as she did. “That was great, Robert. Thanks for being on the show.”
I stared at her in disbelief.
“Would you mind signing my book on the way out? Carl . . .”
“Yes, Ms. Driggs?”
“Take this,” she said, handing him her microphone. “And would you fetch my book and give it to Mr. Harlan to sign?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Jana walked back to the main news set. The same man took my microphone and I walked to the studio door where Anne was waiting. “I couldn’t hear. How did it go?”
“Think Custer.”
She frowned. “I’m sorry. I won’t make any more predictions.”
In the parking lot I asked, “What’s next?”
“We have two radio station interviews. One’s a country station, the other a Christian station. Then if you want I’ll take you to breakfast.”
The next two interviews went reasonably well, though neither interviewer had read my book and the host at the country station was more interested in talking about how to get a book published than what my book was about. When we were off the air, she confided in me that she was working on a book.
I was glad to get back to my hotel room. I exercised in the hotel fitness center then took a nap. I had a short call-in interview with a radio station in Tennessee. A few minutes afterward Heather, my publicist, called to check up on me. I told her about my morning show disaster, and she profusely apologized.
After we hung up, I logged on to the Internet and checked my e-mails then caught up on my diary. I was nearly a week behind on my writing and it took me more than an hour to catch up.
I ate dinner alone in my room then watched television until Anne arrived at a quarter to seven to take me to my book signing.
On the way to the store Anne asked, “Are you ready for your first signing?”
“I guess. How does it work?”
“They’ll have a podium set up and you’ll speak for a few minutes. Then everyone will line up to get their books signed. You just thank them for coming and sign their books. I called the store this afternoon and they had plenty of books in.”
We walked into the store. A woman was standing near the front to greet us. She stepped forward as we entered. “Hi, Anne.”
“Good evening, Becky. I’ve brought Mr. Harlan with me.”
She stepped forward. “It’s a pleasure having you in our store, Mr. Harlan. My name is Becky. We have the signing set up on the second floor. Can I get you something from the café?”
“Nothing right now,” I said. “Thank you.”
“Then we’ll get started.”
We walked up the stairs. There was an open section of floor with maybe fifty chairs facing a table and a podium with a small sound system. There were a couple people seated in the chairs near the back, but they didn’t appear especially interested in our entrance. Anne and I sat down behind the table and Becky stood by our side. After a moment I said, “It doesn’t look like anyone came.”
Becky frowned. “I’ll make an announcement on the store’s PA system to let people know that you’re here.”
A few minutes later her voice resonated throughout the store. “Books-A-Million is pleased to welcome author Robert Mason Harlan in our store today signing his new book
A Perfect Day
. Mr. Harlan will be signing on the second floor. His book will be fifteen percent off while he is in the store.”
When Becky returned, the seats were still empty. The announcement only increased my embarassment, as people looked over to see me sitting there alone. I wanted to crawl under the table. Not that anyone would have noticed.
Becky cleared her throat. “Under the circumstances I think we’ll forgo the talk,” she said. I could tell she was embarrassed for me. A minute later she said, “Let me know if you need anything.” She left us. A half hour later Anne said, “I need to use the powder room. Will you be okay if I leave for a minute?”
“I think I can handle these crowds by myself.”
“Can I get you anything? A water or coffee?”
“No. I’m okay.”
She walked away. A minute later a man who had hovered near my table suddenly stepped up, his hands firmly thrust into the front pockets of his jeans. “You an arthur?”
“Yes,” I said, resisting the urge to correct him.
“This here your book?”
“Yes, sir.”
“They free?”
“Only if you steal them.”
The man looked at me blankly.
“No. The bookstore is selling them.”
The man nodded, as if just grasping the concept. He picked up a copy then turned it around to look at the picture of me on the back. “You famous then?”
If you have to tell someone you’re famous, you’re not.
“No. Sorry.”