A Perfect Day by Richard Paul Evans

hand, holding on to hers until I kissed it then let it go.
    “Bye, my love,” she said sleepily.
    I shut her door then went to Carson’s room. She was sleeping soundly. For just a moment I lingered over her, watching her peaceful slumber. I touched her soft cheek and she rubbed it then rolled to her side. I quietly bent over her and kissed her. My heart ached. I would miss my family dearly. Then I went out to the cab and climbed into the backseat. “Salt Lake Airport,” I said.
    The driver shifted his car into reverse. “You got it.”
    I glanced back at my home as we drove away. The excitement of the last weeks gave way to melancholy. Suddenly home was the only place I wanted to be.

Chapter 19
    I spent eight hours in transit, though it didn’t seem that long. The first steps of adventures are never tedious. For the first time in my life I sat in the first-class section of an airplane. As a guy who had never really left Utah, I suppose I was filled with a sort of gee-whiz, wide-eyed wonderment. The woman I sat next to asked me what I did for employment, and when I told her that I was an author, she seemed impressed. She wrote down the name of my book and had me sign the back of her boarding pass for her to put in it after she purchased it.
    I had a three-hour layover in Cincinnati. As I wandered the terminal, I was amazed to see copies of my book in all the airport bookstores. I couldn’t believe that my book was actually there with all the others. I stopped at each store to sign them. The woman at the counter of the WHSmith acted honored to meet me, like I was a celebrity or something. She put autographed book stickers on my books and moved a stack of them next to the cash register. While I was still in the store, a woman picked up my book, read the jacket then bought it. I watched her furtively from the magazine rack. It was all I could do to not go over and thank her.
    My flight landed in Birmingham at ten minutes past one. I gathered my things and fell into the shuffling line of travelers exiting the plane.
    A woman stood just outside the Jetway holding a copy of my book. She was fifty-something, small and attractive with silver hair, ice blue eyes and a sharp nose.
    “Mr. Harlan?”
    I stepped from the line. “That’s me.”
    She extended her hand. “I’m Anne, your escort,” she said with a melodious southern drawl. “Welcome to Alabama.”
    “Thank you.” We stepped away from the crowd of exiting travelers. “How did you know it was me?”
    She lifted her book. “Your handsome picture is on the cover. Do you have luggage?”
    “I have one bag. One large bag.”
    “Baggage claim is this way.” She led me to the escalators. “How long is your tour?”
    “Twenty-five cities.”
    “My heavens. Where does Birmingham fall on your tour?”
    “This is my first stop.”
    “No wonder you look so fresh. By the end of your tour, you’ll look like the laundry in the bottom of your bag. And you’ll feel like it.” At the bottom of the escalator Anne looked up to check the carousel numbers. “Your suitcase will be over there.”
     
    She smiled when she saw my bag. “That is rather large. I better get the car and meet you out front. That way we won’t have to drag it out to the parking terrace.”
    “It’s okay. I can follow you.”
    “Then we’re off.”
    We took an elevator downstairs and crossed traffic to the parking garage. The air outside was warm and moist, a mere remnant of a Southern summer. She stopped at the rear of a black Buick sedan and opened the car’s trunk by remote. She went for my bag but I stopped her.
    “This thing weighs more than you do,” I said. I hoisted my bag inside while she opened the car door for me. Then Anne climbed into the driver’s seat.
    “There’s a cooler on the floor in the back,” she said. “I have Coke, bottled water and juice. Help yourself.”
    I reached back and took a bottle of water. I opened it and she immediately reached over to take the