A Perfect Day by Richard Paul Evans Page B

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