A Perfect Day by Richard Paul Evans Page A

bottle cap from me.
    “Are all escorts as accommodating as you?”
    “I don’t know, but I’ll take that as a compliment. Now buckle your seat belt. The publishers get real upset if we kill their author.”
    We pulled out of the parking terrace and merged in with the traffic leaving the airport. The road from the airport was lined with dogwood trees and flowers. The air was sweet with the fragrance of magnolias. I decided that Allyson would like Birmingham.
    The South had always held a certain romantic if not mystical allure for me. As an aspiring author I had been a fan of Faulkner and Harper Lee, and the ground they walked seemed a bit above the rest of the earth. I was happy to be in the South, and I was reminded of where I was every time Anne opened her mouth.
    “Mr. Harlan, you can lean the seat back if you want to rest.”
    “I’m fine. I’m not tired.” I looked her way. “You can call me Rob.”
    “Thank you. I’m sorry to say I haven’t read your book yet. I’ve had so many authors through lately I’m behind on my reading. But it’s a beautiful book. And it sounds just wonderful. Do you mind me asking how your reviews have been?”
    “They’ve almost all been good.”
    “That’s just wonderful. Have you been writing for a while?”
    “This is my first book.”
    “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