Two from the Heart(28)

I’d met Amy, the red-haired owner of this up-and-coming Los Angeles gallery, by pure chance. I was on my way back to North Carolina, and she was visiting her aging mother. Seated at neighboring café tables, we’d struck up a conversation. She’d asked me what I did, I told her about my project, and one thing, as they say, led to another.

It was so surprising, so serendipitous, that it felt like winning the lottery. But that comparison didn’t really do it justice, because a lottery was only about money. This show, on the other hand, was about having a very old dream—a dream so old I’d almost forgotten it—finally, finally come true.

“It’s pretty incredible, isn’t it?”

I turned to find Jason Kline at my side, a plastic cup of complimentary sparkling wine in each hand. I smiled as I took one from him.

“Yes, that table you made really steals the show,” I said.

He grinned. “That wasn’t what I was talking about,” he said.

“I know.” I stood up on my tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek, and he put his arm around my shoulders. “Thank you for coming,” I said.

He shrugged. “It was only a seven-hour drive. With a U-Haul. And a really big table bouncing around in it.”

“You have only yourself to blame,” I pointed out.

As I’d learned on the night of our epic, amazing, eight-course dinner, Jason built custom furniture out of a workshop in Tucson, Arizona. And so, a month later, when I’d called to tell him about my show, he’d had the brilliant idea to make me a table.

I guess we were both looking for excuses to see each other again—and furniture seemed as good as any.

I didn’t really know what was going on between us, and probably he didn’t either. Right now, our lives were two thousand miles away from each other. But, as I knew better than most, life could change in an instant.

“I’d kind of like to buy the portrait of the dog,” Jason said. “Do you offer a friends and family discount?”

I shrugged. The gallery had priced the pictures so high, I couldn’t even afford my own work. “Who knows?” I said, laughing. “I’m not the boss around here—that’s Amy.”

Jason squeezed me a little tighter. “Well, do you think your boss might let you clock out a little early tonight?”

I looked around at the crowd of well-heeled strangers nodding approvingly at my work. Amy’s assistant had already put little red dots next to many of the portrait titles, which meant my show was actually selling. And the stacks of books? They were getting smaller every minute.

All in all, things were going about as well as they possibly could, which was better than I’d ever dared to imagine.

“I am really hungry,” I said. “Do you know a nice Italian place around here?”

Jason said, “As a matter of fact, I do.”

We squeezed each other’s hands conspiratorially. In a matter of moments, we’d slip out the back door.

Don’t leave your own art opening! Karen would scold me.

Maybe it was a good thing she was back in Iowa, nursing twin boys—but then again, she wouldn’t have expected me to take her advice anyway.

I looked up at Jason, and then nodded toward the emergency exit. He smiled.

I knew that nothing was certain. We’d have to see where things took us. But I knew that I wouldn’t learn the end of our story tonight—and I hoped I wouldn’t, not for a very long time.





WRITE ME A LIFE





James Patterson, Frank Costantini, and Brian Sitts





Chapter 1


Near Wilmington, Mass., 12:15 a.m.


“Wow. I truly suck at this!”

Sorry, but that’s my state of mind. If you were in my situation, you’d probably feel the same way. I’m in the living room sweating out my third novel—or my “third strike,” as my publisher calls it. I guess that’s only fair, considering my first two efforts pretty much ended up in the discount bin.

It’s just past midnight, and I’m tapping away on my IBM Selectric. I realize that makes me look like a caveman with a sharp rock. No argument there. I’ve always been a little behind the times, technology-wise.

So I’m staring at the page. The words aren’t coming. I feel burned out. Washed up. Useless.

I stand up to stretch. Other than another Red Sox pennant, there’s only one thing that can make me feel better. Cuervo. I search the living room for a bottle I haven’t drained yet. Suddenly—

thunka, thunka, thunka, thunka…



It’s a crazy combination of whirring and pounding—coming from somewhere above me. My bookshelves start to rattle. I crouch my way to the front window.

I see a bright spotlight beam swinging across the roof of the Duffys’ house next door. Treetops are bending like straws. The noise gets louder and louder. Closer and closer.


THUNKA, THUNKA, THUNKA!



I’m thinking terrorist attack, tornado, alien abduction… and I know it’s not just the tequila. Whatever it is—it’s real.

I’m squinting out the window, and I see a shape descending from the sky and setting down in the empty field on the other side of my house.

It’s a helicopter! But not one of those chunky traffic choppers. This one is small, sleek, elegant. And now it’s about fifty feet away from me, blowing the lids off my trash cans.